Post by Dr. Remus Micayle on Feb 16, 2014 4:15:23 GMT -5
Potential threat detected.
- Logan (?l?-g?n): John or James ( Tah-gah-jute ) c1725–80, leader of the Cayuga tribe. Joshua, 1908–1988, U.S. playwright, director, and producer. A mountain in Canada, in the Mount Elias Mountains: second highest peak in North America. 19,850 feet (6050 meters). A city in N Utah. A male given name. First Known Use: 1730.
Proven solution found.
- Hot Dog (?hät-?do?g): A frankfurter heated and served in a long split roll. A person (such as an athlete) who performs or plays in a way that is meant to attract attention: a person who hotdogs First known use: 1895.
Application of solution in progress.
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Scene: Original San Antonio Hot Dog House, San Antonio, Texas, USA (Wednesday, 0900hrs, 14th January 2014)
Hot Dog Vendor: Ahoy! Good morning ole’ fella! How are you doing this fine morning?Micayle carefully looks around the restaurant. Given the time on a weekday, business has yet to pick up for the store. All the tables have already been set, and the entire cutlery arranged neatly near the condiment stand, but the only two living souls in the place at this very point in time are currently conversing. And one of them hasn’t said a single thing yet.
Turning his glance back to the man, Micayle analyses his features quietly. A plump, nondescript man with grey hair and happy smile creases at the corner of his eyebrows. His apron was yellow with age, and had numerous stains on them, some that he recognized, and some that he didn’t. In short, he looked like your stereotypical cook. Except that he wasn’t wearing a chef hat. The man in question wore an expression of confusion on his face as Micayle continued to stay quiet.
Hot Dog Vendor: Hi? Can I help you? Maybe you would like a hot dog?
Oh yes, that’s why he’s here. Micayle’s face breaks into an icy-thin smile, as he concentrates on the conversation. Dressed smartly in a green suit-and-tie, Micayle’s dressing is impeccable as always.
Micayle: Sorry about that, my mind was somewhere else. Hi, I’m here today because I heard so many great things about your restaurant. The Original San Antonio Hot Dog House, one of the best in the country, is it not?
The man’s chest puffs up in pride.
Hot Dog Vendor: Ha! Best in the world probably, if you asked me! I’m the owner of this place, and expanded it over the last past few decades. It was a small cart on the corner of the street all those years ago, but somehow one way or another, we managed to progress to this beautiful store. It’s not the biggest place, but hey, at least we are shielded from the elements!
The Scientist continues to hold his fake smile.
Micayle: Marvellous. May I have your speciality then?
The man grunts in acknowledgement, and gestures towards the counter seats. He then hustles backstage, as Micayle slowly sits himself down on a bar stool. Glimpsing down, the United States champion spots a menu, and slowly studies it.
1) Naked dog
2) Chicago style dog
3) Reuben dog
…
The list goes on for a long while. It seems that this place is truly a haven for sausage lovers. Every type of hot dog sandwich is available, from the classic New York style with sauerkraut and brown mustard to the Smoked Corn dog, a popular favourite amongst immigrant workers. There was even an option for the customer to create his own hot dog! Micayle snorts in slight bemusement at the long list.
Hot Dog Vendor: Here you go! Our house special! The Logan dog!
Wait, what? His attention perked, Micayle looks up from the menu he was perusing mere seconds ago. In front of his stood the vendor, smiling and holding up a plate where a fresh, smoking bun laid. The man put the plate down in front of Micayle, his eyes wide with expectation. On his part, Micayle’s eyes never left those of the vendor.
Micayle: I’m sorry sir, but what did you call this hot dog again?
The man chortles.
Hot Dog Vendor: Ha ha ha! We get that a lot! This is one of the most popular dogs on the menu. It’s the Logan dog! With double melted aged cheddar, crispy prime back bacon, ripened tomatoes, pickled gherkins, and a signature sauce created to resemble he man himself, this item here has received rave reviews ever since it’s incorporation!
Interesting… Micayle decides to probe into the matter more.
Micayle: And by any chance… who inspired this dog?
The man’s smile grew even wider, if that’s even possible.
Hot Dog Vendor: It’s this man by the name of Logan, obviously. He was a professional wrestler in a company based in Reading, Pennsylvania, and I remember the day I first laid eyes on the man almost as if it was yesterday. He stood rather tall, only slightly shorter than you, and had this crazy obsession with this one black pimp! He was so obsessed with him that he even dressed like a girl to impress him. Best show I ever watched! His craziness inspired this dog, ha ha!
Jackpot.
Hot Dog Vendor: Try it! I swear, it’s good!
The man seems so genuine. Throwing caution to the wind, Micayle decides to indulge him, and consume the dog. Grabbing the hot dog up, taking care to avoid the heat, Micayle takes a deep whiff of the food item. Satisfied with the aroma of the dog, the Scientist shrugs, and takes a bite into the bun…
And chews…
And chews…
Micayle looks up at the man, and gives him a smile. He chews one last time.
And immediately spits it out with a venomous snarl! The hot dog vendor lets out a slight shout in protest, but even that was immediately silenced by the action that came soon after.
"BAM!”
The sickening sound of cartilage breaking echoes loudly around the room, as Micayle strikes with a hard fist. Blood is pouring profusely from the broken nose of the vendor and all over the floor as he crumples to the ground, groaning in agony and pleading for the United States Champion to stop his relentless assault. Micayle, on his part, is not letting up. Brutal kicks pepper the defenseless body of the vendor as Micayle continues to let out his anger on the man. Finally, just as his eyes roll back into his head, the now-unconscious vendor lets out one last pain-filled sob. Only then, did Micayle stop.
Micayle glances down at the vendor for several seconds, silent and unmoving. He looks back up at the counter and crinkles his nose at the unpleasant smell of the sausage he was offered earlier. Shaking his head in pity, the Scientist turns his back on the motionless owner and strides out of the store. A million thoughts are running through his mind, but one comes to the foremost of his brain.
Hot dogs are disgusting.
America does not need such repellence to be on its shores.
And it’s all Logan’s fault.
If it weren’t for the Face of Treachery, he would not have even consumed the revolting meat in the first place. He had never eaten a hot dog in his life, not until today, and he was thankful for his folks for inculcating a great diet in to his upbringing. Curious as to what could have led to Logan being so addicted to sausages, Micayle had decided to travel to San Antonio’s best-known hot dog place to sample the food item, and check out the craze.
What a disappointment that was. Now that he has tasted of the foul substance that sustains the former Hardcore champion, his mind was made up.
Whatever punishment he had delivered to the hot dog vendor would be laughable as compared to what Logan will be experiencing on Sunday. That’ll teach the wrestler to propagate the consumption of such filth to the general American populace.
That’s a promise he intends to keep.
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Scene: The Alamo, San Antonio, Texas, USA (Saturday, 1700hrs, 15th January 2014)
The Alamo is quite possibly the most famous building in Texas, and for good reason as well. Affectionately named the “Shrine Of Texas Liberty” by the locals, this former Roman Catholic mission and fortress compound was the site of the infamous Battle of the Alamo in 1836. Though the cries of war and gunfire have long since passed, this museum is a national landmark that stands for all that is American. Numerous citizens of the United States of America make a pilgrimage to this very building every year to reaffirm their loyalties to this great country.
It only seems fitting that the WCF United States Champion should pay homage to this shrine of patriotism when he is in the vicinity.
After all, he stands for all that is right and correct in this very country.
Micayle steps out of the vehicle he was in, dressed smartly in a bespoke made-to-measure satin suit. His treasured championship is draped over his left shoulder, as he slowly takes off the valuable Rayban sunglasses he was donning at the moment. Behind him, stands a video production team, all of who are sweating profusely in the humid environment. They fidget uncomfortably in the slight heat, before nodding towards WCF interviewer Hank Brown, who is luckily dressed for the heat, clothed in a casual t-shirt and bermudas. The veteran journalist nods back to them in acknowledgement, before approaching the United States champion somewhat respectfully.
Hank Brown: Hey, Doctor Micayle. The team is ready when you are.
The Second Coming Of Darwin Himself does not respond immediately. His eyes are still fixed on the majestic site of the Alamo.
Brown: Doctor?
Micayle shakes his head from side to side; a motion so minute that it is almost imperceptible.
Micayle: I heard you. Just give me a minute over here.
He continues to observe the Mission San Antonio de Valero, staring at it in reverence for several more seconds, before finally turning away from it. He lets out a soft sigh as he diverts his attention back to Hank.
Micayle: Okay Hank, I’m ready for the video shoot. Are we ready to go?
Brown: Almost. We just need to get aligned and get in to frame. Then we are ready to film your promo. Just wondering… why are we here downtown again? We could have done a phone interview instead.
The Scientist nods, albeit somewhat condescendingly.
Micayle: Fabulous. Let’s get this interview filmed and edited so that we can send it straight to WCF.com. I wouldn’t bother explaining it to you in detail, Hank. Suffice it to say that I’m in a rather… patriotic mood as of late, and wish to have it at a locale more fitting of my current state of mind. Lets just leave it at that, shall we?
Brown: Understood. Guys, you heard the man, let’s go!
The director of the video production team gives the thumbs-up sign and quickly gathers his bearings. As Micayle and Brown take center stage, he quickly orientates the camera so that the two of them are placed perfectly in frame. The sound guy as well as the cameraman waits patiently. Finally, after tinkering for about twenty seconds, he sticks his head back out and delivers another thumbs-up sign to the duo. Hank Brown clears his throat and stretches his neck gently, obviously preparing to do his best. The director sticks out a gnarly hand in the air.
Director: We’re rolling in THREE, TWO, ONE…
He cuts his hand back down in a swishing motion.
Director: … ACTION!
Hank Brown immediately bursts into a wide grin, his stout stature and perky on-camera attitude giving him a pompous - yet highly professional - aura.
Brown: Good afternoon WCF Galaxy, it’s me again, Hank Brown. Today, as you can see, we are here in beautiful San Antonio, Texas, where Slam is going to be held tomorrow! With me right now is none other than our very own WCF United States Champion… DOCTOR REMUS MICAYLE!
Micayle, who has been positioned off-screen by the cameraman earlier, slowly walks in to frame, his height and formal attire creating a significant contrast with Brown’s pudgy physique and otherwise-blithe dressing. His championship glitters brightly in the late afternoon light.
Micayle: Good day.
Brown: Now, Doctor Micayle, first things first, you have a match tomorrow with one of WCF’s finest competitors, Logan. You have faced him in a triple threat match not too long ago, and more importantly than that, you have defeated him. What do you have to say about tomorrow’s singles bout with him?
The dying rays of the sun illuminate the background, creating an overexposed effect on to the screen, which gave the impression of Micayle looking like an angel with a halo of light around his head.
Micayle: Truth to be told, I have nothing revolutionary to say about the match tomorrow Hank. As you have already mentioned, I have squared off with Logan in the past. Now, I don’t claim to know him inside out, but one thing is for certain. I have stepped in the ring with him, and have witnessed his potential for destruction and pain. I have seen his blows and endured a few of attacks, negligible as they may be. Logan is a war machine, and is one person whom you can never count out. After all, he’s a cunning drug addict, who could spring from his stoned mood to an ecstatic high in any given minute.
He glances to Hank, before returning his glance back to the camera.
Micayle: But that you already know. His credentials speak for themselves, and as far as history goes, Logan is a man whom is fully capable of defeating close to anyone on the active roster. He just lost his title, and will be looking to bounce back from defeat the only way he know how… by delivering a good match the very next time he is in the ring.
The Scientist holds up a hand.
Micayle: And that’s where the compliments end. Because unfortunately for Mister Logan, I am once again his opponent this week. We met in the ring just mere weeks ago, and we all know how that ended, don’t we? Logan, unconscious on the mat after The Formula was taught to his obtuse, pinquid, hot-dog propagating body.
Micayle: Logan, if you ever manage to wake up from your cocaine-spiced sausages and return to the world of the living, listen up. Listen hard, and listen close, because I am not about give you the spiel on why your psychological and physical attacks will fail against me a second time.
He puts down his hand, and closes his eyes.
Micayle: I’ll be making a very calculated guess right now. I foresee… myself walking away tomorrow night with the same result as last time. My hand raised in victory as your crumpled body lies on the canvas, broken and beaten for the second time running. And why? Because of the fact that I am simply better as compared to you. Not just as a wrestler, not just as a champion, not even just as a man. I am superior as a human being.
Micayle opens his eyes and refocuses his attention onto the camera.
Micayle: I am a man of science. Now, I am not about to brag about my academic achievements, because frankly, not many people on this continent can claim to better my credentials. Instead, lets talk about… our physical gifts, shall we?
He blinks his eyes slowly, before continuing on his rampage.
Micayle: You are approximately six feet four inches short, and have to lug about a rough two hundred and fifty pounds of sheer unsaturated bulk. On the other hand, I stand at six feet five inches, and weigh in at exactly two hundred and forty-two pounds of pure muscle. Not withstanding the years of wear-and-tear that your body has taken over the past decade, I have the physical advantage. Lie to the fans and yourself about your washboard abdominals and cut biceps, but I am a professional. We both know that those so-called muscles you possess are nothing but for show. Your strikes won’t hurt me. This, on the other hand…
Micayle flexes a bicep. Even though he is wearing a suit, the muscle tenses up and visibly pops up for the camera to zoom in on.
Micayle: … is one hundred percent real and effective, and the blows powered by this baby will certainly hurt. As you’ll soon find out yet again, I suppose. I can talk all day about how you will fall to a true wrestler such as yours truly, but I don’t really have to. The last time we met in combat was evident enough, wasn’t it? You tried to keep me down, but you couldn’t. Strikes and ground-and-pound battles are all part of my arsenal, and when a little mouse like you tries to step in MY playground, I fear I have little choice but to show you how things are done in the squared circle.
Micayle: Now, you can try to talk yourself into believing you could have won the match, and protest that when we last met, it was a Triple Threat match, and how it was not a legitimate contest between two equal foes. To that, I say bollocks. You have been here long enough to understand that no matter the number of opponents you are fighting against, if one is determined and talented enough, he or she is able to overcome the odds and emerge victorious. Don’t believe me? Just look at Jonny Fly.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh.
Micayle: But ahhh… what can I expect from a Virginian like yourself? You people are all the same - an embarrassment to the United States. You can’t fight the science, Logan. Your destiny has already been planned out ever since your birth. On one hand you have the reigning WCF United States champion - a humble, handsome, and street-smart academic who’s undefeated in singles competition ever since his entry into the federation, you have a hobbling, out-of-form, crystal meth addict former title holder who just recovered from second-degree burns the previous week. The math practically spells itself out. I’ll destroy your… what do you call it?
The Doctor grins. It’s a scary sight, really.
Micayle: Ah yes. I’ll destroy your boudle ass from the center of the ring to Hicksville, Virginia in twenty minutes flat, all day, every day. And judging by your pasty skin, unruly hair, and cross-eyed features, I’m about thirty years too late. Someone probably said that to your mother all those years ago.
An audible gasp comes out of Brown. The Scientist briefly looks at him, shooting him a look of derision, before speaking yet again.
Micayle: I’ve beaten you Logan before, so you can - and should - resign to your fate. It’s going to happen again, and again, and again, until Seth Lerch decides that enough is enough and give me a better opponent around here. Times have changed, my friend, and you are no longer the top dog. A new era has dawned on this company, and I am at the center of it. I would recommend you to treasure that championship opportunity you are getting at the pay-per-view, because if your recent in-ring form is by indication… you won’t be getting a world title shot any time soon after that. It’s 2014, not 2004. Your time is up old-timer.
Micayle: My diagnosis for you? Simple. Just SHUT UP and bring your sallow self to whatever retirement home you purchased with your meager savings back in Connector City. Go there, and never come back.
Micayle laughs musically as he finishes that final statement, walking out of frame smugly. Hank Brown, his mouth agape at his sudden departure and crude mockery of Logan’s signature catchphrase, quickly reasserts himself and addresses the camera.
Brown: Ahem! Interesting words we heard from Doctor Remus Micayle tonight. Will his words come true, or will the Face of Treachery rise above the odds and triumph over one of WCF’s most successful new wrestlers in recent times? Find out on Slam this week, live from the AT&T Center! Once again, I’m WCF’s favourite son, Hank Brown. See you tomorrow night!
