Voice Over: ~It seems like these days I'm the only insomniac. The only man out there driven by impatience. Impatience that in the end cost Johnson his leg...~
The haunting, echoing voice over plays over a screen of darkness. Nothing to look at, visible. All masked in the darkness as slowly light begins take a shape of the moon shining through a large window, peaking through the shades as it slowly becomes visible amongst the large bed resting in the center of the room, clothing upon the floor and dresser's placed about the room it's a bedroom. To our site slowly a grizzled man lay staring strait up at the ceiling. The twinkle of his open eye an alert of his apparent status...
~The price we pay to play the game costs us everything. Everything. Our livelihood, our family, our sanity. The breaking point reaches closer with every tick of the cheshire cat clock...~
Slowly our camera switches to a view of those old fashion "Cat" Clocks, the one with the moving eyes and tails. Consistently going "tick, tock, tick, tock" as it counts the man's life away in the later hour. The man abruptly sits up, his face and incredible upper body revealed by the bit of moon light. It's non other then Logan Treasure. His chest raises and lowers as he stares out the window and stares at the clock. Tick, Tock. Tick, Tock.
~But the chase of the game never leaves~
Logan runs a hand through his scraggly beard as the woman laying next to him, lightly turns to face her husband. Her face hidden in the darkness as she asks aloud.
Logan's Wife: "Mmm...Logan? What's wrong?"
Logan just stares at that clock, the sound just ringing in his ears, not responding to his wife. He reaches a hand to Logan's shoulder, and begins to shake him a bit.
"LOGAN! What's wrong?! Answer me!...Please.."
Logan quietly turns to his wife and nods as grit's his teeth, and slowly slides out from under the sheets, showing he's only adorned in some plaid boxers. He quickly grabs at some clothing by his side of the bed. Specifically some loose blue jeans, a non descript black T-shirt, socks, and his Doc Martin boots. With in a minute or so he's standing, looking back to his wife, about to speak...
Suddenly he's interrupted. Tick, Tock. Tick, Tock. He growls to himself, his face going deeper into a savage, menacing growl as he eyes the clock as he yells loudly and runs at it, grabbing it as he throws it upon his floor, his wife curling up by the sudden violent act as Logan SLAMS his foot into it continuously, the song of the Cheshire Cat Clock slowly dying but the bell ringing with each stomp, his face appearing like the same one that appears as he steps into the wrestling ring, as soon as it begins and ends. Abruptly it stops, left with silence as he pants a bit, raising his boot out of the shatters of the clock and looks to his love. His voice gruff, very irritated. Yet oddly enough, a bit content, driven.
"..I'm going out."
Logan quickly storms out of the doorless room, leaving not a chance for his wife to respond, even nod her head. We slowly collapse once again into darkness. The echoing voice of Logan Treasure once again returning.
~What drives me to chase endlessly after it? After belts, glory, pride? Is it for the taste of the blood, sweat and tears? Accomplishment? The feeling of meaning? It's many things, all of which will drive you to madness, just as it's done to Raven Starr among others.~
Our scene quietly re opens with an outside shot of the "Treasure Chest" warehouse area, where his wrestling ring is kept. We get a view from inside, which resides in complete darkness aside from some of the moonlight shining in to show the mat's surrounding the wrestling ring. The sound of key's rubbing against key's is heard even from the inside as slowly a light emerges from an opened door way. Slowly stepping in is the tall silhouette of Logan Treasure. His pace quick as he lightly throws his keys upon the concrete floor as he shuts the door behind him, the warehouse plunging back into darkness. Slowly ti awakens to light with the flip of a switch, the overhead light's coming on to light it up brightly. The sturdy ring is one many fans of the Kansas City native have become accustomed to. Light Red, White, and Light Blue ring ropes, matching sequin turnbuckles, and a non descript black ring apron. Slowly our Logan zooms out as Logan slowly stalks up to it, standing before a ring apron as he grabs a hold of the middle rope and pulls himself up with ease onto the apron. He quickly and seamlessly walks through the middle rope as he stands before the rope's. He lightly falls back against them, they bend to his shape as he extends him arm among the fall. He stretches them along the ropes as he falls back and sling shots off of it, his footing still excellent. He slowly stands amongst the middle of the ring, his tired, yet very hateful, impatient eyes focused upon the lense of the camera.
"Men like me don't need introductions. We don't need to go on endlessly about our past accolades, how we are the next big thing or next champion. It's a waste of our oxygen. With every breath we are thinking only of what lies in this goddamn moment. In this moment I'm standing in the my wrestling ring, staring at a twenty something bitch who want's my goddamn thoughts on some fucking canadian redneck. Some shameless man with a room littered with titles that in this day carry nothing of meaning, of defining exposure. But what about a few moments ago? A few moments ago I destroyed a fucking clock because I couldn't rest, I couldn't sleep because it was watching me, watching my every movement."
Logan lightly passes the length of the ring, from ring rope to ring ropes, and across the center.
"Just like you people at home. Watching me with eyes filled with sleep, of a long day settling in to your minds and body, fatigue. And you ponder what next, a bit of anxiousness creeping up your spine. You demand a name. Fine you fuckers, you want a name, here's a name. Logan Treasure. Yes, Treasure is my actual last name, and yes I am that asshole that managed Drake and Morris in TWF. But what does that mean to what's going on right now , or even to Prime, and our match? It means shit. Nothing but shit. Because to Saturday Prime will get his and thirty nine other titles wiped across my wrestling ring. Your damn strait it is mine. It's not the f**kjob Critical. It's not the gimp side kick to Somer's Sebastian Black, it's not Prime or Brujah's, it's mine."
Logan lets out a deep breath. His face conveying anger, hate, pent up rage. He strides with his long lets over to a turnbuckle and slams his arms atop the top red turnbuckle, resting them there with his back facing the camera. Silence echoes upon the walls, his breath shattering it lightly as he turns about to face the camera again.
"Prime, after months of being held back by the god damn pen pushers, from being allowed to run how I want to run with the dogs, how I want to continue the chase, the chase for that one feeling that nothing, not rules, not injuries, not management will hold me back from, no one. The feeling of standing above everyone's slain carcasses. The death, quick and painless unless you manage to survive. It leaves you with a story to tell your grandchildren about, how the time a brown haired guy from Missouri tore your ACL, or how he crushed your ribs. Prime, I'm going to let you rant, to squabble, to discuss with your faction over what I just laid on the table. To revel in what you've so called "accomplished" as you taunt me, attempt to throw back everything I just said back in my face. But it won't matter, because you'll know that anything you dare to speak to me about, dare to sacrifice will be a lie. You'll be lying to the fact that the man you stare at upon your television screen and are most likely bored to death of will conquer. It's about time someone shut your god damn mouth and forced you to wrestle. Not brawl, not "wrestle" with men like Lincoln Downs, not to rampage. Real wrestling with a man who couldn't give a flying shit of Ruthless Aggression was ringside or if you even cared to defend yourself."
Slowly we fade to black. The last words of Logan's voice over whispering upon the screen...
~I'll pay any price, any to play the game. What about you?~