Failure is not an option

The calm words appear upon the bottom of your television screens in standard Arial font. Slowly the eerie, echoing voice of Logan is heard over the darkness, the words slowly fading from the screen.

~People seem to do their damnedest when ousted, outmatched, outclassed, to prove what they just shown incorrect, fatal, wrong.~

Slowly the darkness fades from the screen lightly to what appears old movie reel footage. Their be not a sound. It appears to be the beginning of pro wrestling, showing some of the earliest matches.

~Some people do it in fear. Denial. They tremble at the thought of being wrong, of failure. Humanity was born with the thought of a superiority complex in mind. The strong survive. Other's do it in spite.~

Slowly the footage picks up, gazing through era's of wrestling, passing through the 60's and 70's, flashing through the 80's like a horrible nightmare.

~But Prime.~

Slowly the footage sinks into the early to mid 90's. Slowly showing some clips from the very early career of the Canadian wrestler, Prime among others. It begins to sink into the late 90's now, taking on a more Prime focus, showing him land win's with the Game Over, losses, beat downs...

~Prime does this out of neither fear or spite. None so fit him...~

Slowly it begins to sink into the three years chronicling Prime's greatest accomplishment and almost downfalls. Numerous appointments of victory, numerous defeats, and a long clip of him being plowed through a table by the Simply Thrilling Dudes. Slowly it stops upon a picture of Prime, giving his happy little grin.

~He does this out of ignorance.~

The voice of Logan fades off as the picture fades to darkness, the similar black screen which these words abruptly appear on your television screens.

Failure is a choice.

Slowly the darkness slinks off else where, sliding to an image of Logan quietly resting in what appears to be nowhere. He stands atop a high hill in the midst of plains and fields of crops. It appears late evening, as it slowly slinks into night. Standing high atop in the fading sun is non other then Logan Treasure. His back facing the camera as he appears to be donned in a black polo T-shirt, some fine khaki's, and his Doc Martin boots. The irony of the phrase "King of the Hill" comes delightfully into play as the camera lightly hovers to Logan's left side. His faced it's usual grim, menacing grizzly self. His hair appears much more kept and tamed, smoothed back. His beard trimmed. He views over the empty kingdom as he slowly coughs and turns to the camera, grunting.

    "Since that fateful Monday night my mind has been focused like the razor edge of a foot long Australian hunting knife. Honed to perfection, well thought out, methodical. Yet what this inanimate object and myself share in common is not design, not purpose, but it's potential that could be realized with a swift strike. You see, carnage is a delight, one that even Ruthless Aggression as made their own. But any man could do as they did. Any person in any given moment could end your life with a snap of his fingers. Ignorance, a firm established feeling, a followed pattern that's molded your whole grasp on life. And those fuck faces need it to be shaken up. Just like Prime."

Logan rolls his shoulders out slightly, popping his knuckles idly.

    "Prime, I'll give you the credit you so rightfully deserve. Your words are suprisingly more so then I'd even thought you were capable of aside from the ranting of a pissed of Canadian with a bunch of belts. But I'll never call you right. First off, old nemesis? Yes I did German suplex once along time ago, because you weren't carrying out the purpose my pupils god damn deserved. I figure a smack on the head maybe would piss you off enough to mutilate Tommy and Russell. But that's the past. But you seem to not understand the meaning of the death of Felix the cat. It was not a fear, a worry. It was anxiousness. Time has been a haunting specter since my return to the ring that just won't fucking let off. I've come back to the wrestling world with a subtle note as the end of Synphony of Disorder and the near defeat of Todd Clayborne. I've been waiting for it to be my time to strike Prime. My time to step back into the squared circle and finally get what I fucking want. I don't give a damn who would get in my way to stop my selfish ambition. That world title you ranted endlessly upon which I'll never hold in my grasp. To stand above Irwin, Black, Critical, Stevens, and if so you stand in my way, you."

Logan lightly rolls his neck out, a loud crack sounding along with it.

    "You call me envious. Maybe in my younger years I could of been. You were a champion, a good one at that, rememberable. Yet in this era, I've realized that your nothing but an old boy who's career is slowly reaching the end of it's time span. Prime's tank no matter how full you say it is nearing the end, with no stop for a refuel. You hinted at it yourself. You have children expected in nine months. And after months of failure and minimal success in the tag team division you need something to make you feel like a man again instead of some pussy following around Brujah. You need that title so you can attempt and prove once again to all those f**ks in the back and those fans watching in idle boredom in the stands that you are great, even when they know it's not true. You see Prime? I couldn't give a rat's ass if I'm remembered. When I win that title, I know I'm the best. I'm the best because in the ring I've begun to prove it time and time again. I've brought Jared Blazer, a man who in a mere two years has overshadowed your entire ten year legacy, to his knee's in crippled defeat. I've pushed Steve Somers beyond his limit's, beyond what he could take. And back then morals, principal stood in the way of that win while your student Tony failed to do so. But I'm sure your telling yourself right now you could actually beat him. I'm sure that's what your thinking right now. Just like how you thought you could beat those countless others."

Logan quietly stares off into the far distance as he continues to speak.

    "You ranted endlessly of the fact I shall never hold that Outlaw World Title belt, and if I did, it would mean nothing as you'd come back with your second chance at me. But guess what Prime? In life, their is no time to spare second chances on you. This is you last chance, this tournament. And you know damn well know if you can't win now, you'll never win it ever. And so that's why your busting our your best mind games, your best talk to get in this American's head. Myself, to poke around inside, to see, to make me believe you know what I'm thinking, know how I work, how I could ever pay the price to play the game and expect to win. It's simple. I'll admit it now. I'll do anything to win that title, and I'm damn proud to admit that you son of a bitch. I've made the solid choice to not fail, but to survive, to make your old and worn arms and hands slamming against the mat as your leg's begin to break. To make you say you've had enough of me. You know how much I'm going to fucking enjoy making you scream, putting an end to every word you've chosen to speak about me as I scratch your name off the list, and place your body bag along the wall next to Dick Johnson's."

Logan grunts as he slowly turns his back from viewing over the vast pastures below the hill as he faces the camera, the sun gone. The sky only illuminated by the dim light overhead as stars begin to spread out.

    "I could stay up here Prime, and rant for hours on just as you did in you filth of ignorance. You idea that your great and that Brujah will be the second coming of you. But you best wake up. We live in this moment, not in that ten years you commemorate with a room because you don't have the balls to admit that your best days are gone, that maybe on your best days you  could of beaten me, hell maybe even won the tournament. So you hide quietly in your room with your titles, sipping your beer at those opportunities that lie ahead. Like telling your kids that you were once a 39 time champion, that you were one of the fucking best. But you'll always leave out that little detail. When they ask why you didn't get that Outlaw Title that the man on TV's wearing around his waist. Then Prime, then what do you say? Because you no longer have your belts, your ideals, your false beliefs to hide behind safely. You'll be exposed to what the world learned long ago..."

    Fade to Black