Our scene slowly awakens in a darkened room. The glittering sunset showing through to send away the darkness as it empties in from the large Picture Window the words reading "Treasure Chest" in slowly aging text. A shadowy figure, his back turned the camera seen. The room is quiet without a sound except for the steady breathing of the man. His arms near the center of his frame, between his legs and out infront of him is the shadow of a weapon, a sledgehammer to be specific. Slowly a voice is heard. His head turning to his left to show the outline of his face lightly, showing his grizzled features and slowly aging face.
Man: "A wise man told me along time ago that the driven never sleep. That they push on. And ever forward. Not once do they care to glance behind them. To not look back at the blood that was stained, the failure. Those men who dare to do not look back are brave. If not stupid. So torn are they by their regrets that they fall to the ghost of insanity. Consumed by this they slowly begin to fall apart, memory by memory, limb by limb."
His deep voice echoes throughout the room as slowly he turns his head to face the window again, the hammer slowly idly moving in his hands as he slowly lowers it upon the floor, making a brief sound of impact as steel meets tiling and he appears to press his hands up on it as if a balancing tool. As light seeps in just a bit more what he's wearing becomes more visible. He's adorned in a bulky crimson hoodie, and some dark blue jeans and some nice boots. He turns his head to the right, his head twisting upon the fulcrum of his neck making a loud "snap" sound as he grits his teeth, his eyes faintly closing as he grits his teeth and his facial expression calms.
"I am a man of regrets. And that's ballsy of me to admit. I regret forcing anyone who takes pleasure in Jack Bladz's work to see his demise. I regret not finishing what Justin Morris started with me when I had the chance. The list could go on for hours of trivial matters. Things I cannot fix now or anytime soon. But one thing stands out in my mind. I regret not destroying those powerful antagonists that stood in my way three months back. To fall in a blaze of glory so to speak as I would fall from the companies cracks, dragging Jared and Steve with me. To make sure that Justin Morris wouldn't of got ahead of a superior skilled technician. The arrival of the greatest wrestler to grace the Titans' fair coliseum."
Slowly the man turns toward a nearby wall, the faint shape of a light switch showing as with a quick flick of his index finger the room burst to life, revealing the white opaque colors, the gray carpeting to the man's left. To show off the black leather seating off the nearby weight equipment. The man slowly turns around to face the camera's ever beautiful glance to reveal himself in full similar to a contestant on Mr. Personality. It is Logan Treasure, his trimmed beard showing no spots of gray. His slicked back brown hair slowly reflecting the overhead lights. His hands rest carefully as his palms rest upon the handle end of his fabled crimson sledgehammer. He coughs as he stares deeply into the camera, his blue eyes reflecting that glowing fire. No smirk fall upon his face.
"The disposal of Jack Bladz and Jason Syxx has oddly enough put me in the good graces of some unlikely people. Surely not the man I just one upped at Fire Within by bringing in former clientele of his? It couldn't of been Nick Page either, who somehow finds the ability to define my character, my character based on the simple destruction of two sick and twisted individuals. Has the meaning of "righteous" been slowly twisted and perverted by the Pat Robertson's, Triple Six's and Nick Page's of the decades?"
Logan stares deeply into the camera, as if to address or command each and every viewer or watches him and his powerful presence upon his soap box. His silence answers his question.
"I tried to be the hero. The good guy. My methods unusual yes, but the villains were slain in the end. But as you can clearly see heroes display qualities I lost long ago. I lost them because of what I received in return for exemplifying them. Mercy, caring, fairness, this list could easily go on for the duration of this promo. But you see I have so many things to address and so little time. To come clear upon this point I was never cut to be the hero. Maybe back in 1995 when I was busy playing the part of a patriotic hero to all in Louisiana Wrestling Championship. But look at me now. Look at me dead in the eyes when I say this too."
Logan glares deeply. A small, sinister grin creeps over his face as he rolls his shoulders a bit and speaks in a very cold, menacing voice.
"If I had the chance to go back and relive the life of the hero, I wouldn't. I regret ever caring for those ideals. Where did that get me? It got me enough money to pay off my piss pour apartment and maybe put in a little money and maybe begin to consider saving up for a wedding ring. But even that would take me 5 year to afford. These days I'm happy. I revel in the pain I cause. In the torment, the confusion I cause. The systematic order of decimation I've perfect. Do you think I was called The Systematic Assassin for just my ring skills? If so then I must say you are as naive as Somers."
Logan lightly raises his right hand off of the sledgehammer as he places his left palm upon his knuckles and the sound of a resounding crack echoes through the quiet room as he flutters his eyes and gives a small smile and looks to the camera again. Slowly grabbing the bottom of the handle for his weapon with his left hand as he throws it upward toward his elbow and catches it near the top of the head of the hammer as he slowly begins to pace, his boots making a "clomp" sound each time he makes a step with his foot.
"And finally it has come time to address you Mr.Clayborne. That's right. I know your were watching my ever quiver of my lip as I stood upon my soap box as you rest in your New Orleans home, quietly in bed alone. Or maybe your watching it from one of the various spas located throughout your house as one of your unknown mistresses or "personal trainers" as we may call them as you relax, enjoying the finer things. Todd never before since your re-emergence into the world of pro wrestling have you had the chance to step into the ring with a competitor as or more fierce, athletic or skilled as you. And you my friend have wrestled among the famous for the entirety of your career. Grappling with Blazer, teaming under Mayhem Inc. and facing Somers in a classic UWA Black Dawn main event. Do the memories flood to your mind in likeness to the crimson masks your worn through out your career?"
Logan gives a small little smile to the camera, displaying that hint of evil glowing in his eyes as he continues his slow pace, his left hand rubbing atop his bloodied sledgehammer.
"You see Clayborne, you are the pennical of the good guy to the ignorant. The people. Your the North American champion, you have a well decorated history, the women find you handsome, you have money and most of all you stand for ideals of a "good, decent human being". Your a winner? Now who doesn't like a winner?"
Logan stops, giving oddly enough a warmer smile, a bit toothy for him as he presents that facade of care. It quickly fades to a more serious, malicious mood.
"But as I see it, is Todd Clayborne really a winner? Sure he's enjoyed the glory, the fame, the life. But for a man so clean as him, surely we've missed out on the darker days. Those days he tries to "purposelessly" block out from his slowly recovering memory. Now Todd, do your remember how many women you've encountered through out your career? You seem to be a man who thinks with his dick rather then his head. Lets see. We have Summer Kensington, who as all men with the exception of Piper drew you in like a fish hooked so snugly upon the reel. No harm done right? Just a little fun in the bedroom? Then we have dear old Misty, you faithful secretary? Do you remember by chance Anjel, the mother of your bastard child? Don't you realize how your facade of "glory, money, and fame" has only hid your dirty laundry so long? The darker life of Todd Clayborne could be a compelling documentary."
Logan gives a small little grin, his pace slowly stopping as his feet are planted right into the tiling as he looks at the camera, idling tossing the sledgehammer into the air and falling back into his grip. Upwards then slowly falling back down. Up and down.
"But one comes so specifically to mind. A person who by mere ignorance your crumpled their soul. Your latest ex-wife, Savannah Roberts, formerly known as Savannah Clayborne. And yet as you present yourself upon the television screens of millions you express not even a care. Not even a second thought. Chalk it up to that "lost memory" of yours. Go ahead and "relive" your life. But why bother when you abandoned her? She didn't leave you Todd. You left her."
Logan shows a sigh of empathy almost. Whether for poor Savannah or Todd it isn't truly sure. He peers down to the tiling, as if hiding his head in shame before he brings it back up to the camera. His facing changing form sorrow to non chalant in a matter of seconds.
"The brighter your picture becomes Todd, the darker the negative. I could rant about your forgotten past for eons and still get nowhere. What is the closure to all of this? What do these lost loves add up to? Regrets. Here you are, ever driven forward. Shining like an unstoppable beacon of light. And yet even I can see it in your eyes. The more you remember about yourself, the more you regret, the more you begin to crack. And that might friend will begin to influence your business. And like a plague it will slowly spread into all consumption of your life. Until finally when your in the ring your too focused on all the people you hurt in the past that you can't move past it. And before you know it your swept off your feat and pinned to the mat. With that creeping feeling on your conscious. Do you think you can actually walk out of your next title defense the champion?"
Logan pops his neck idly as he stares deeply into the camera, his mood quite serious as his eyebrows cock up at the end of his question.
"Frankly Todd with or without the regrets, memories, and your skills you won't walk out of Rising with that North American title around your waist. All the luck in the world can save you Sunday but it makes no difference. You've been marked Todd. From this point forward your are the hunted, not the hunter. And oh no, its not just for that tittle that hugs your waist so nicely as the fans see it. It is because you represent everything I am not. Because of your presence being here upon my return to find Mr. Money here spreading his smile across the fans as if some role model. Despite all your skill your tainted name is unfit to carry that prestigious belt. As Sunday's sunset approaches quicker then you might think are you ready to step into the ring with the assassin Clayborne? The man who "killed" Zyn? The man who everyone knows defeated Jared Blazer. Todd, when the witty banter and talk is done...Will you Shut up and wrestle?"
Fade to Black