Hardcore Series: Let It Go Too!
Jan 28, 2014 19:57:47 GMT -5
Speede, Mr. Jack Happy, and 1 more like this
Post by Logan on Jan 28, 2014 19:57:47 GMT -5
Continued from Let It Go!
Note: This televised promo was produced and written by Logan for the sole entertainment of WCF's fans. Hired actors portray different roles, the promo itself is mostly scripted, special effects along with cutting edge CGI are also on display, and no one is ever seriously hurt... or killed.
Roy Speede: What happened to Catherine?
The Father of Treachery stepped back, spooked like a shocked Christopher Walken. He even empathized every word of his next sentence.
Logan: To understand... your Mother, Catherine... you must first understand, your Father.
Tis was somewhere within the 1970's. The Who snorted up sound effects and blared for more than just background music, it was overwhelming.
"You are forgiven!"
The Mother of Treachery, Logan's Mother, held him inside her womb. Her belly aching and full while The Who blurted on.
"You are forgiven!"
She was glued to a stretcher, her flesh pouring sweat and staining the sheets.
DR. Fatel: Hold on a minute, Mary.
The Doctor hovered along Logan's impregnated Mother, pushing her body down the hall and into direct emergency.
"You are forgiven!"
DR. Fatel: She's not going to make it! Hurry up with those fluids, we might still be able to save the baby!
Track marks from heroin abuse covered the veins in her tiny arms. The bump in her belly like a tumor to her tiny frame. It looked unusual, as if her swelled stomach did not belong, nearly bigger than her; herself. The stretcher rolled into it's destination. A small private room with a curtain that would hide her child bearing agony, the last room she would ever see.
DR. Fatel: Try and relax, Mary. We need you to take deep breaths. Jesus Christ...
He screamed to the nurses surrounding him.
DR. Fatel: Give her some morphine.
A nurse intruded his demand.
Nurse: She's too full of heroin. It might overdose her.
DR. Fatel: The pain alone may kill her. Her hips are too small. JUST DO IT!
Mary: Call him...
A healthy does poured in Mary's blood stream, mixing itself with the other poison that flowed within.
"You are forgiven!"
DR. Fatel: A C-Section, Mary. Do we have your permission?
The words barely rolled from her numb lips.
Mary: Call him... Logan.
Her eyes rolled backwards and shown pearly whites. Her last image was that of the ceiling light blazing down brightly into her pupils, holding out hope that it wasn't a bulb, that maybe the light was a path to Heaven.
Nurse: Heart rate dropping!
"You are forgiven..."
DR. Fatel: We must save the baby!
The nurse splashed rubbing alcohol over her belly like she was putting out a fire. The scalpel stuck her swelled belly, releasing a goodish mixture of red and yellow. Within a few brutal minutes a one minute old Logan emerged from the torn stomach of his Mother, kicking, screaming, and clawing within DR. Fatel's hands. He was underweight, small, skin wrinkled from the poison of heroin.
DR. Fatel: We need him in a incubator immediately.
One minute old Logan, a baby already withdrawn from the heroin abuse his Mother inflicted upon him, swung his little arms aimlessly into Fatel's face, stricken by helpless addiction.
He kneeled down beside his Mother's grave. He never knew her. Only had a single picture of her, only one; one that he always carried in his front pocket.
Tommy: It's time to go, Logan.
His adopted Mother, Tommy, knelt down beside the six year old Logan. She had decided to tell him of the truth. Be honest with him from the get go. His Mother was a heroin addict and a prostitute. He would never know of his Father, only the woman who wombed him during the last year of her drugged out haze.
Tiny Logan: Did she like me?
She never seen him. Died before he was cut from her stomach. Tommy clinched her jaw and lied through her teeth. She had never met Logan's Mother, but telling him the truth seemed too hard to bear.
Tommy: She loved you very much. Gave you your name, Logan.
He took the photograph from his jean pocket, it was a picture of Mary smiling, old and faded as it may be, he could still make out his Mother's wonderful beauty. He never met her, never spoke a word to her. She was a fairy tale.
Tiny Logan: Will she ever come back?
With pure emotion, she pulled Logan into her stomach and hugged him. The sudden surprise of her actions forced the photograph of his Mother to fall from his hand and onto the gravestone.
Tommy: You'll see her again.
Her long red hair draped down over Logan's brunette flat top as she held him with every loving muscle in her body. She picked Logan up into her arms, carrying him away from his Mother's resting place - his only photograph of her left behind on her stone.
Tommy: One day...
Six years had passed since then. Logan was twelve years old, still a child, yet ready to blossom into a teenager. He sat beside Tommy's side while she strangled and coughed out the cancer from her lungs.
Tiny Logan: You'll get better.
She knew time was bleak. Maybe tomorrow. Others were surprised when someone died, but when you were the one on the death bed, you knew. The chill existed that very day and you know it'd be your last shiver. She turned her fragile face to the grown Logan, her hair still lush, long, and red.
Tiny Logan: We'll go fishin' again. You just wait, Momma.
By this point she had raised him since an infant, gaining twelve years of his trust, enough to call her Mother.
Tommy: We will, Logan. Just remember this...
Her voice was as weak as her brittle frame. The cancer had withered her away. He leaned in with his right ear toward her mouth.
Tommy: I'll always love you.
Tommy died later that day, right there with Logan at her side. If it weren't for his presence, maybe she would have gone sooner, but she held on to him enough to share one last day of life. She really did love him.
Tiny Logan: Momma...?
She gave no response when he placed his hand onto hers and tried to wake her.
Tiny Logan: Momma?
He laid beside her dead body, placing his head on her shoulder as they had done many times before during mornings of cartoons. This time she didn't kiss his forehead. He held her hand into his while she grew cold and lifeless, falling to sleep forever.
Teenage Logan: You are forgiven.
Thirteen year old Logan stood over Mary's grave, Tommy's right next to it. It's by chance they ended up this way. He was nothing more these days than a runaway foster child. A man entered his domain, kneeling down beside Mary's headstone and placing a handful of flowers over it. Who was this man? Who knew this mythical Mother Mary besides Logan himself?
Teenage Logan: You knew her?
He straightened out his tie, looking over to the teenage Logan.
DR. Fatel: For a little bit. She was my first patient.
Teenage Logan: Patient?
DR. Fatel: Yes. I'll never forget her...
The Doctor felt like he had failed her. It was the first person that had ever died in his care, the first person he had ever seen die, Logan's Mother. Logan, however, just at thirteen, had seen more death than a kid should. It would make him bitter down the road. Make him feel nothing for no one. However, now, he was not yet shut off.
DR. Fatel: Were you related to her?
Teenage Logan: She was my Mother.
The Doctor jerked his head towards Logan. The last time he seen Logan; Logan was a wrinkled heroin addicted infant.
DR. Fatel: My God.
Teenage Logan: You... you knew her?
DR. Fatel: I.. well, I did.
Teenage Logan: Tell me about her.
His throat took a deep swallow when Logan asked him that. He remembered every detail about that night, the first patient that ever died in his care.
DR. Fatel: Your name is Logan isn't it?
Teenage Logan: How'd you know... did she tell you?
DR. Fatel: She did. I carried her last words. Her last words were your name.
The teenagers eyes fell down over 'Mary' engraved into a tombstone.
Teenage Logan: I heard about you. James Fatel.
The Doctor seemed surprised. However, Tommy had told Logan about this man, told him that Fatel was responsible for his Mother's death.
Teenage Logan: You killed her.
DR. Fatel: No...
Teenage Logan: I been waiting for this day. No more appropriate it is that you stumbled here onto my Momma's grave, and onto me. Tommy would call a day like this fate.
DR. Fatel: Tommy?
Before the Doctor could properly have his questioning answered, the teenager of treachery withdrew an old rusty knife from his leather boot and engaged it into Fatel's throat. A red mist imprisoned itself from the Doctor's throat and splattered Mary's engraved name.
Teenage Logan: She'd be proud of me. Damn proud. You bleed real good, Doc.
Between the gushing of his ripped open throat and inaudible sounds, the Doctor's pouring neck fell onto Mary's tombstone. Logan squatted over him and watched him bleed. While he watched that Doctor bleed, he felt every sense of warmness get covered with a thick blanket of ice. No more emotion. No more caring. He was finally free of the world.
Note: This televised promo was produced and written by Logan for the sole entertainment of WCF's fans. Hired actors portray different roles, the promo itself is mostly scripted, special effects along with cutting edge CGI are also on display, and no one is ever seriously hurt... or killed.
Roy Speede: What happened to Catherine?
The Father of Treachery stepped back, spooked like a shocked Christopher Walken. He even empathized every word of his next sentence.
Logan: To understand... your Mother, Catherine... you must first understand, your Father.
Tis was somewhere within the 1970's. The Who snorted up sound effects and blared for more than just background music, it was overwhelming.
"You are forgiven!"
The Mother of Treachery, Logan's Mother, held him inside her womb. Her belly aching and full while The Who blurted on.
"You are forgiven!"
She was glued to a stretcher, her flesh pouring sweat and staining the sheets.
DR. Fatel: Hold on a minute, Mary.
The Doctor hovered along Logan's impregnated Mother, pushing her body down the hall and into direct emergency.
"You are forgiven!"
DR. Fatel: She's not going to make it! Hurry up with those fluids, we might still be able to save the baby!
Track marks from heroin abuse covered the veins in her tiny arms. The bump in her belly like a tumor to her tiny frame. It looked unusual, as if her swelled stomach did not belong, nearly bigger than her; herself. The stretcher rolled into it's destination. A small private room with a curtain that would hide her child bearing agony, the last room she would ever see.
DR. Fatel: Try and relax, Mary. We need you to take deep breaths. Jesus Christ...
He screamed to the nurses surrounding him.
DR. Fatel: Give her some morphine.
A nurse intruded his demand.
Nurse: She's too full of heroin. It might overdose her.
DR. Fatel: The pain alone may kill her. Her hips are too small. JUST DO IT!
Mary: Call him...
A healthy does poured in Mary's blood stream, mixing itself with the other poison that flowed within.
"You are forgiven!"
DR. Fatel: A C-Section, Mary. Do we have your permission?
The words barely rolled from her numb lips.
Mary: Call him... Logan.
Her eyes rolled backwards and shown pearly whites. Her last image was that of the ceiling light blazing down brightly into her pupils, holding out hope that it wasn't a bulb, that maybe the light was a path to Heaven.
Nurse: Heart rate dropping!
"You are forgiven..."
DR. Fatel: We must save the baby!
The nurse splashed rubbing alcohol over her belly like she was putting out a fire. The scalpel stuck her swelled belly, releasing a goodish mixture of red and yellow. Within a few brutal minutes a one minute old Logan emerged from the torn stomach of his Mother, kicking, screaming, and clawing within DR. Fatel's hands. He was underweight, small, skin wrinkled from the poison of heroin.
DR. Fatel: We need him in a incubator immediately.
One minute old Logan, a baby already withdrawn from the heroin abuse his Mother inflicted upon him, swung his little arms aimlessly into Fatel's face, stricken by helpless addiction.
LET IT GO TOO!
He kneeled down beside his Mother's grave. He never knew her. Only had a single picture of her, only one; one that he always carried in his front pocket.
Tommy: It's time to go, Logan.
His adopted Mother, Tommy, knelt down beside the six year old Logan. She had decided to tell him of the truth. Be honest with him from the get go. His Mother was a heroin addict and a prostitute. He would never know of his Father, only the woman who wombed him during the last year of her drugged out haze.
Tiny Logan: Did she like me?
She never seen him. Died before he was cut from her stomach. Tommy clinched her jaw and lied through her teeth. She had never met Logan's Mother, but telling him the truth seemed too hard to bear.
Tommy: She loved you very much. Gave you your name, Logan.
He took the photograph from his jean pocket, it was a picture of Mary smiling, old and faded as it may be, he could still make out his Mother's wonderful beauty. He never met her, never spoke a word to her. She was a fairy tale.
Tiny Logan: Will she ever come back?
With pure emotion, she pulled Logan into her stomach and hugged him. The sudden surprise of her actions forced the photograph of his Mother to fall from his hand and onto the gravestone.
Tommy: You'll see her again.
Her long red hair draped down over Logan's brunette flat top as she held him with every loving muscle in her body. She picked Logan up into her arms, carrying him away from his Mother's resting place - his only photograph of her left behind on her stone.
Tommy: One day...
Six years had passed since then. Logan was twelve years old, still a child, yet ready to blossom into a teenager. He sat beside Tommy's side while she strangled and coughed out the cancer from her lungs.
Tiny Logan: You'll get better.
She knew time was bleak. Maybe tomorrow. Others were surprised when someone died, but when you were the one on the death bed, you knew. The chill existed that very day and you know it'd be your last shiver. She turned her fragile face to the grown Logan, her hair still lush, long, and red.
Tiny Logan: We'll go fishin' again. You just wait, Momma.
By this point she had raised him since an infant, gaining twelve years of his trust, enough to call her Mother.
Tommy: We will, Logan. Just remember this...
Her voice was as weak as her brittle frame. The cancer had withered her away. He leaned in with his right ear toward her mouth.
Tommy: I'll always love you.
Tommy died later that day, right there with Logan at her side. If it weren't for his presence, maybe she would have gone sooner, but she held on to him enough to share one last day of life. She really did love him.
Tiny Logan: Momma...?
She gave no response when he placed his hand onto hers and tried to wake her.
Tiny Logan: Momma?
He laid beside her dead body, placing his head on her shoulder as they had done many times before during mornings of cartoons. This time she didn't kiss his forehead. He held her hand into his while she grew cold and lifeless, falling to sleep forever.
A YEAR LATER
Teenage Logan: You are forgiven.
Thirteen year old Logan stood over Mary's grave, Tommy's right next to it. It's by chance they ended up this way. He was nothing more these days than a runaway foster child. A man entered his domain, kneeling down beside Mary's headstone and placing a handful of flowers over it. Who was this man? Who knew this mythical Mother Mary besides Logan himself?
Teenage Logan: You knew her?
He straightened out his tie, looking over to the teenage Logan.
DR. Fatel: For a little bit. She was my first patient.
Teenage Logan: Patient?
DR. Fatel: Yes. I'll never forget her...
The Doctor felt like he had failed her. It was the first person that had ever died in his care, the first person he had ever seen die, Logan's Mother. Logan, however, just at thirteen, had seen more death than a kid should. It would make him bitter down the road. Make him feel nothing for no one. However, now, he was not yet shut off.
DR. Fatel: Were you related to her?
Teenage Logan: She was my Mother.
The Doctor jerked his head towards Logan. The last time he seen Logan; Logan was a wrinkled heroin addicted infant.
DR. Fatel: My God.
Teenage Logan: You... you knew her?
DR. Fatel: I.. well, I did.
Teenage Logan: Tell me about her.
His throat took a deep swallow when Logan asked him that. He remembered every detail about that night, the first patient that ever died in his care.
DR. Fatel: Your name is Logan isn't it?
Teenage Logan: How'd you know... did she tell you?
DR. Fatel: She did. I carried her last words. Her last words were your name.
The teenagers eyes fell down over 'Mary' engraved into a tombstone.
Teenage Logan: I heard about you. James Fatel.
The Doctor seemed surprised. However, Tommy had told Logan about this man, told him that Fatel was responsible for his Mother's death.
Teenage Logan: You killed her.
DR. Fatel: No...
Teenage Logan: I been waiting for this day. No more appropriate it is that you stumbled here onto my Momma's grave, and onto me. Tommy would call a day like this fate.
DR. Fatel: Tommy?
Before the Doctor could properly have his questioning answered, the teenager of treachery withdrew an old rusty knife from his leather boot and engaged it into Fatel's throat. A red mist imprisoned itself from the Doctor's throat and splattered Mary's engraved name.
Teenage Logan: She'd be proud of me. Damn proud. You bleed real good, Doc.
Between the gushing of his ripped open throat and inaudible sounds, the Doctor's pouring neck fell onto Mary's tombstone. Logan squatted over him and watched him bleed. While he watched that Doctor bleed, he felt every sense of warmness get covered with a thick blanket of ice. No more emotion. No more caring. He was finally free of the world.
