The scene opens in at the tip of the Belukha Mountains in Russia. A frosty -18°F, Tony can be seen sitting in a heavy, blue winter coat, black gloves, and a knitted winter New England Patriots hat. The camera man, wait...

Santos: Is your camera working?

The camera man nods his head.

Santos: How? It's colder than Egyptian Snow Pharaoh's vagina up here.

Camera Man: I'm shooting this with a potato, Santos. Potatoes can't break.

Santos: Well, fuck me, then! Are you cold?

The camera man stops acknowledging Tony as he turns his focus to the potato lens. Tony pats his knit hat with his hands, then fluffs the long hair of his that happens to be sticking out of said hat. Tony blinks a few times, then focuses on the potato camera.

Santos: Fine. Ladies and gentlemen of the XWF! Welcome to fucking hell on earth... if hell froze over. We're in the lovely mother country of the former Soviet Union... Russia! Why am I here, you may ask? Well, the reasons are twofold:

Firstly, I'm here to utilize this fine land of nothing as my own personal freezer. My own way to prepare for the rough conditions that will soon envelop me from December through February. Since I live in that Haitian/Latin American sauna, Miami, I need to avoid getting soft. I need to be ready for rough climate during my winter travels in the XWF, and, considering that I'm moderately wealthy and in no way financially supportive of my young son, I can make trips like this happen!

Secondly, I really like using areas and scenery that don't necessarily make logical sense to be associated with in order to add to the dramatic effect of my diatribes. Is it working?

Don't answer that... it's working. Well, it's working if potatoes actually record video... dude, are you sure that thing's doing anything?

The camera man man keeps his eye on the camera, seemingly frozen to the surface by these wretched conditions.

Santos: Fine, then, assuming that this "camera" is really a camera and actually working, then, you're with me on this. You've dealt with me for a good seven months and have yet to place my head in the guillotine, so I think I'm okay.

Anyways, I'm here to address a man by the name of Sid Feder. A man who calls himself 3x Better Sid Feder. After cashing his 24/7 briefcase in and stealing the European Title from Luca, which was rightfully mine in certainly a matter of minutes, he came to me with an offer. An offer to join him in his return to the XWF. An offer to raise hell on this company and its many rejects and unworthy champions.

And I must say, I was flattered. Sure, I wasn't entirely happy to lose out on my opportunity to take the title that most definitely was mine for the taking, and shit, considering how badly I'd waited to face off with Luca, how long I had to wait to get that chance, I wanted that match to end with either myself or Luca taking the fall by the other's hands. But, I truly was flattered. Sid's a hell of a competitor, and sure, his father is a cranky shitbag with an inflated sense of self, but Sid's, well, also kind of a shitbag. But he's a shitbag that I can relate to. A young, cocky asshole with a chip on his shoulder and a need to leave everyone lying beneath his victorious feet, I see a lot of myself in this man. A lot..

So Sid and I got to talking after Lethal Lottery. We talked in the back, we talked over the phone, and I even proposed a nice morning of coffee and figs, but he sadly turned that invitation down. I told him that I was enticed by his offer. I had to mull it over, but I was enticed. The possibilities were endless with us together. Side by side, we'd recruit two other members and relive the Four Horseman days of yore. It all sounded fantastic. Almost too good to be true...

Then, I remembered...

He's friends with Peter Gilmour. He has an almost unhealthy obsession with that fat skinny man, to the point where I wouldn't doubt they've taken to having champion on champion suck my dick sessions. Sid's pearly whites ever so gently sliding up and down Gilmour's schlong as Peter checks out his reflection in his championship belt. Sid takes Peter's load, then they swap Pete's bodily fluids in a romantic smooch that's 4x better than Luca Arzegotti. A romantic embrace that Sid had longed for. A dream partnership for two 14-year-old boys who like to sit and call people cunts because it's edgy and totally not PC.

I can't have Peter Gilmour around. I can't have Sid forcing Gilly in to our group. That would be the death knell of any respectability existing within our group, and the death knell of our shots at finding success in this land led by fucking King Theo Pryce.

Then there's that whole pesky European Title. That belt that should be mine. That belt that I've been working hard for seven months for, which I now deserve. I want that belt. I need that belt. And I need to wrench it from the hands of our champion, Sid Feder. Is he unworthy? Absolutely not. The man used a briefcase that he earned in last year's Lethal Lottery, a tournament that I couldn't win, even with all of the bullshit opportunities that were thrown in to my lap.

No, no, he's not unworthy by a long shot...

He just doesn't deserve it. Not with Tony Santos around. No way in hell.

So, Sid, consider this my answer to you. Consider this my response, and two days early, at that!

No.

Good luck making a killer stable with the illustrious Peter Gilmour. Hell, throw Barney... er, Allison, Green in your corner. A group of true LEGENDS. ICONS...

Laughing stocks.

Now get on your knees and tell me you love me. See you on Monday night.

The scene fades to black as Tony realizes that the camera man is dead.

September 2013 and May 2019 Star of the Month
1x Hart Champion
1x Television Champion
1x Xtreme Champion