Our scene opens in humble surroundings. The quiet, still night accentuates the quiet background. The woods, far out lands of what you could imagine as maybe the suburbs, or a little past it. The place where white men run and hide with their shotguns from the black people. Or something. The camera lenses quickly focuses upon the 2 story house, quietly residing alone. We cut quickly to it's porch. Made of a fine wooden oak, with a nice lil swing in front next to the door inside. Resting on that swing is a man. That man is a familiar man. Clad in a the cold weather with a dark brown leather bomber jacket, a black shirt beneath it, jeans, and some wolverine work boots.
This man is Logan Treasure. This man was a TWF Generation Champion. This man was an Outlaw World Champion. This man was screwed . This man is an asshole. His face, a bit scruffy. His face covered with a thickening beard. His hair scraggly but beautiful, like an a lion's untamed mane. His eyes seem to be empty of that greed he bore once ago. But filled with a low flame, slowly burning from the inside. And a sense of idle death. He looks off into the distance, finally breaking the silence once held by him for many of months.
"Am I but a man? Of coarse the fuck I'm not. I'm Logan Treasure. Or am I? Amongst this few words of psychobable, you can ask yourself mr. camera man "Why do you say this, you look, sound and seem like Logan to me." Well camera man, let me explain something. A man isn't defined by his look. He's only defined by two things. His balls and his credo. You see, with these months off, I can only wonder, am I Logan Treasure? To understand who I am, or who he is, we'd have to take a look from start to finish."
Logan gives a small grin, empty of a soul it seems as he continues to stare off.
"Logan Treasure was a man with so little to lose except a stain on his pride. He was a technical wrestling effecianiado amongst a bunch of inferior posers. He had disregard for everything around him. Logan Treasure was about money, breaking bones, and wrestling. Then, Logan Treasure became about breaking bones, belts, and the humiliation of others. Of coarse we all know how he came to Outlaw. Insane, pushed to the edge. Questioning of his own self abilities after a loss to Todd Clayborne. Desperate man did even more so desperate things. And he got what he wanted, and became the one of the things he's always secretly hated. He became the management's pet. Logan was no longer about being the Systematic Assassin. He was too busy shooting his load into Cannon Storm's mouth. Yes, I think we've all had that experience. We all have, from Kakuma to soon enough, Joey Average."
Logan gives a little snicker as he rubs his chin, pondering more. He continues on.
"So here sits a man, who you can call Logan Treasure, and he'll respond. Whether with a nod, a hello, a middle finger or maybe a swift right jab to the solar plexus. Either way, you know it's him. You know it's him when you hear his trademark music blast through the arena and out your television. You know it's him when even you admire such a sadistic, sad man. So did I answer my own fucking question? I think I did, son. I'm Logan Treasure. The original, the one, the only systematic assassin. A crowned king technical. Your judge and your executioner. Screw the jury. Biased bastards never helped anyone."
Logan alas stands up from the swing, his posture firm as he stands up. His well carried body lifts as he heaves in for a deep breath, and slowly unleashes as air appears in the air like a snarling dragon. He pops his knuckles idly as he turns to the camera, a malevolent grin upon his face as he rolls his neck. He appears calm...deadly calm.
"A reputation can spread only so far. The tales of your deeds and acts can hold only so much truth. So let it be known, to all who dare hear my voice. To the men in the hallowed and disgraceful halls of the Bunkhouse, where Mike Irwin fell to a weed head and where the last of Cannon Storm's "Systematic Assassin" were buried in it's grave, and pissed upon. Let it be known that I am Logan Treasure. You may of heard my name, but you know nothing. Words can't describe who I am. They can only weave you a pretty lil story you can tell your grandchildren when your old and crippled like Johnny Hawke. Let it be known that it doesn't matter who you are, how big you are, how great you are, you are a target to the most sublime of hunters. The deadliest marksmen. And the best wrestler, grappler, brawler, and biggest dick head you've met since 4th grade gym class. I am Logan Treasure. Suspension or not, it's due time that the sons of Outlaw Wrestling FINALLY shut the hell up and..."
The words hang there, a big arrogant smirk coming across his face. He knows fully well what word is needed to complete this sentence. His pause makes sure everyone else knows too.
Fade to Black