"Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."
Our scene opens with the sounds of boots tapping along concrete flooring. Slowly the camera awakens like the blossoming flower as we slowly see the image of Logan Treasure, adorned in a white T-shirt, dark blue jeans and his usual Doc Martin boots. His quizzical face looking off toward empty space as he rubs his thick bearded chin. His hands slowly pass atop a well furnished steel folding chair. Despite its furnishings it appears old, bashed in, and a bit blood stained. Of coarse the single most notable feature of it would be the portrait of Jack Bladz circa November 2k2 upon it, the seat dented in. Logan slowly takes a seat as he looks at the ground, eyes his boot as he looks up to the camera, beginning to speak.
Logan: "As we near ever closer to the day in which Danny counts his cash and make's sure the peons keep on buying his ppv view, it becomes ever apparent that he's firmly gripped himself in "destiny" and "reality". You see as I've come to observe my "employer" he firmly believes that he is well liked and respectable, that he knows what he's doing and nothing can stop him from accomplishing the ultimate ascendance of TWF. But look at you Danny? Sure you have your Buck Rogers who makes sure all your little numbers are correct and makes sure to keep that "brilliance" shining by handing out those scripts to the commentators as if to make me out as the republican America's public enemy number one. But in the end does it matter? Do the fans really care about what Nick Page's old "rambling" has to say or Shawna Johnson's inconsistent approval of the male wrestlers. Sure they are doing their jobs, but they aren't your messengers Danny. Look at the ratings since your arrival. If you so damn concerned about those then frankly I think your reading them upside. That's right, we're dropping. With such enticing feuds as..."
Logan coughs as he grabs a nearby water bottle, chugging down a good drink as he stands up, slowly twirling the chair idly with his hand as he slams it down. He eyes the large "Highspots.com" wrestling ring behind him and then back at the camera as he pops his knuckles idly.
"But enough shooting today. I'm sure all the fans are scratching their heads in confusion after that. But ever onward. Fire Within approaches ever closer and I'm daunted with the task of facing the Symphony of Destruction. To the obvious it appears like I'm screwed. Street Fight, Handicap match, unsactioned. Frankly they could kill me and get away with it with out a single thing happening to them. Because in reality it never happened in TWF. But I ask all those with some intelligence to look deeper. I could beat both of these guys with my arm tied behind my back, blindfolded and still suffering from a herniated disc. Ok, a little bit too big of a boast. But Danny, are you that stupid to actually think I'm going to lose? Do you not think I can't "rise up" to the occasion as I've done some many times in the past? Blazer was nearly defeated by a "no name face". I made the LEGENDARY Kakuma tap. I never gave up to the Sharpshooter. And I'm still standing after receiving the aggression from Ruthless Aggression. And here I stand Danny, Jack, and lest we forget Jason. We can't forget Jason now can we?"
Logan slowly backpedals to the wrestling ring. His face conveying non chalantness, apathy as he stares about his emptied warehouse esque room. He yawns as he takes another long sip from his water as he looks to the camera, peering into it's soul
"Such an illustrious and rich history we have Jackie? And it goes back well over to my big league wrestling debut. You decided to beat up on pour little Gerald Browser. I show up as his tag partner and I seem to "help" you and your friend, to get that thought into the idea of "Hey, this fella is with us! Hot diggity!" And like that you and your friend were out on the mat as if you were steam rolled. And all it took was two moves. Two moves. And then we continued that little confrontation to what was it...Rising Fury? Ahh, fond memories of the Jail Break match? Don't you? You were in too much pain to tap that you passed out. Not only that but I humiliated you amidst the greatest wrestling fans in the world next to America, the Japanese. Fast forward during the week where I'm currently disputing my leave of REV to go onto brighter things. In a matter of two weeks I had shown up and pretty much did all I needed to do, because I was in Japan. You stroll around with t his plea of sorrow on your face, just begging me to join forces with you. Oh and don't tell me you don't remember that. You just begged me to screw over Chris Quinn in that match. I did you and myself a favor. I let Quinn for Crusher and your pickings and left REV to never return again. And where are we now?"
Logan slowly turns around, sliding under the bottom ring rope to pull himself up to his feet in the center of the finely furnished wrestling ring. He tugs tightly on the ropes, showing that they are indeed strong, showing very little give. He pats the turnbuckles, his fast tapping upon the tough padding as he rests in the corner.
"Currently you joined forces with under achiever friend Jason Syxx and a curiously man named Zyn. Now apparently "Zyn" is dead as you call or for lack of better terms he's currently residing in Tampa with his wife and damned happy to no longer be forced to manage two worthless pieces of flesh. Call my claims false but hey, go ask Danny. You just simply can't give a dead man 50 grand and call it a release of contract. Well you can but then of course your obviously need to get committed. But in the end we continue to follow this fine path that's been set before us. No matter the circumstances, the match stipulations, your partners, my lack of partners, you will always lose to me. Maybe I didn't make this clear enough? Wait...I did. You will never be able to beat me, to even scratch me as bad as you dream. And it will drive you crazy till the end of your days. Just like how it drives Hugo Marinez crazy that's he was stripped of his heritage all so an undeserving man could take a title. How it drives Steve Diamond crazy that he will never show up on TWF television again. How it drives Tommy Drake and Russell Morris crazy about how their livelihood in the big league's is being held onto by golden thread that's slowly beginning to break. That's how it feels Jack and you know it. Look at yourself? Who in the right mind would take you serious? Perform all your "ruthless and evil" acts. "Kill" that 14 year old. Smoke your weed. Pretend that anything you say has justification. In the end just like Syxx, just like Danny, your living a lie. Syxx is just like you and as I elaborated on earlier, Danny ole buddy ole pal, you just can't seem to grasp the idea that if you knew anything about what's really happening around the TWF water coolers then you'd realize that selective advancement based on progress no one else except you have seen is not the way to go around hiring or raising talent."
Logan looks out into the empty distance of his warehouse wrestling room that's attached to his gym as he just gives a small grin as he pats the firm blue ring ropes and just eyes out, his thirty year old face showing that menichal style.
"When I step into the ring Sunday, I step in alone. Gene's off at XWA, Justin left, and Masajun Hahn is too busy to fly over seas. For the first time in well over three months I finally can get back to what I and I alone do best. Don't you three understand the hell I've had to live with? To be stuck at my house, watching... to be idle like a stone atop a mountain of cliffs. The fear that I never may wrestle as good as I did again. To see that I fall horrible in performance is a failure to myself. That leads to my anger. That anger that fueled me. To destroy those bitches who think they know what wrestlings about. Thinking that in their head, they've got it all figured out. The hate that consumes as I watch Steve Somers ascend the ranks. As I watch the god damn mother fucker Tyler Wells call me a cripple! Those all build up slowly inside of me. The months of building these emotions is over. No longer do I fear my rusty talents. No longer does anger fuel me. No longer do I hate those who dare to speak their shit as they no fully well they can hide behind their words since "Logan's out on injury." All that is for the release. MY FEAR! MY ANGER! MY HATRED! All of it will wash over you fuckers! Danny, Jack, Jason, Tyler, Somers, Blazer and all those who WANT MY ATTENTION!
Logan finally calms, the frustrated and angered expression slowly clearing his face as that is left is a little grin. He pops his knuckles as he gives his sinister chuckle. It echo's amongst the concrete floor and steel walls with eerie resonance.
longer will it be my fear, my anger, my hatred. It will your
fear, your anger, your hatred. And your pain. That's right.
You will feel it all as you slowly step into the ring with me. Showing
that cocky new breed grin across your faces as prepare to lock up. With
each suplex I deliver you fear being able to get back up again.
With every knee I slam into your rips as you gringe in pain you anger
at the thought of a man with a herniated disc destroying you. With your
face dug into the ring as you slowly feel me creep up to lock in The
Finishing Touch you hate me for me, how I walk, how I talk,
and how all your words of self confidence were meant to nothing as you
know the end is near and you can't do a damn thing about it. And then as
you slam your hand against the mat as you tap out, the pain crawls
up you as you lost. Your leg and arm shattered. Your body wounded. Your
pride laid to waste. And most important that lingering thought in your
head..."I lost..." as it slowly haunts you as I grin at my handiwork and
move onto the next. When I'm done with him, I'll go onto the next. And
the next after that. And the next after that. Until alas it's over. Until
they've all felt my fear, my anger, my hatred.... and my pain."
Fade to Black