Post by Logan on Mar 6, 2014 22:38:15 GMT -5
For a time, when the ill hearted man of treachery had thought no compassion or empathy existed for another human being; a frisky devil skipped along onto his path and evoked a feeling he hadn't felt in years... love, admiration... feelings. Her name was Lilith. She came as she had left. Like your favorite colored rogue balloon floated by, landed in your lap, and then took flight to vanish back to the clouds and out of reach. He had never admitted it before, but no one had ever done that to him, had never made him feel so inspired and young one week and broken down the next - not in a long time. Was it some kind of love? The way she upped and turned on him so easily shook him to the core. He never seen it coming. It reminded Logan that despite the thousand and one tricks and victims he had played over the years, that somewhere deep down Lilith had shown him that he was still human after all. However, now she was gone, just another memory, but memories as genuine as the ones they shared were hard to forget, and really... that's all he wanted to do - forget. Logan popped a handful of Xanax into his mouth and let them slide down his throat with a lubricating gulp of iced water. The medication suppressed his demons; demons that wanted to break free and take full command of the 'Logan vessel'. He hadn't realized the camera was on him.
Logan: James Fatel, you and I find ourselves in the ring once again. The last time I was defending my very own Hardcore Championship. This time we're fighting, and I'm fighting for the right to reclaim a title that should have never left my waist. You see, James, I got stupid. Hell. I am stupid. I let the impossible happen. I let someone get under my skin, and to be honest I haven't been myself lately. It's usually the other way around. You yourself should know that. You haven't been the same since our last bout. You've changed and taken a stroll down the mentally unstable path that just about every boudle in WCF ever has. Maybe it's the WCF itself that makes everyone fall off their rocker. However, Fatel, crazy or not, you're still going to face the same scenario like last time. Connector City does not discriminate against the nuts. You're welcome in either way. Do you want your ticket? But, you know, who am I to call you crazy? Am I crazy? Hell. Maybe I am. I really don't know anymore. I don't want to be fuckin' bonkers. Maybe we're all nuts. I mean... we'd have to be to be doing this wouldn't we?
He thought back to some of his closet friends and allies over the past fourteen years. Nearly all of them, like Lilith, had simply vanished save for some of the few current generation/era performers, and nearly all of them had great potential to be diagnosed with some sort of mental dysfunction. The most nutjobs of the nutjobs had all exited rather abruptly. Maybe they finally broke. Whatever happened to Jack of Blades? Had the weight of his own sadistic nature and a lack for humanity crushed him? A man that Logan himself called a best friend, and yet, just like that... poof. It made it difficult for Logan to live and function in the moment of WCF. He was like a ghost, a insane brain thread away from snapping and disappearing with the rest of his old friends of the forgotten. Why had Logan been the one to endure? He had lost it on more than one occasion. That was a known fact. Anyone who ever imagined Serpents and transformed their identity into one of another was on the official 'lost it' list. Not these days, well, not so dramatically. Now Logan had found himself in a routine. He felt like literally it was now or never, that if he continued down this route of losing or scraping by wins over brand new WCF faces - that'd it would only be a matter of time before he joined WCF's forgotten, and within a few years you'd hear... 'Logan Who?' He had no one but himself to blame for that of course. It didn't matter what he had done in the past, because for Logan, the great success he had achieved was growing deeper and deeper into the past. This place was his life. He had to make a stand for himself; win or go down trying.
Logan: Torture. A few weeks ago on Slam I explained my reasons for attacking you during your Hall of Fame speech. I did it because, still to the day... I simply do not like you. I have never disliked a person like I ever have with you. I may have won a War and a World Championship in 2006, and that was supposed to be my year... but you stole it from me. I hated you before then. I hated you the very first day you walked in. We both know you paid off the referee during Showdown 2006. That's just not me coming up with excuses. That was THE match. And it ended worse than a Montreal Screwjob. That was my moment and you stole it. I feel like you've taken so much from me and others. You never deserved a Hall of Fame spot. Hell. No one in WCF's Hall of Fame but me should even be in there. And now you want to claim a return spot in War? And what was it you said, you want ME to... get better? What? Me of all people aren't deserving of the almighty Tort? You've wasted the last few years of your rare WCF appearances wrestling fucks. People that 'hate you so much'. I hated you before it was even fuckin' cool to hate you. D-Day? Jay Price? And then Corey Black? What'd you beat CD a few hundred times before you finally said... hey, I'll let him have one, why not. Fuck that. And fuck all of them. It was me, not them, that should've been the one to take you down. Don't you understand, Torture? Defeating you, being the one who did, was the gasoline for my hatred. You're nothing to me now. You're all used up. Your cherry was popped. I don't want nothing to do with your jobber slut boudle ass now. Kicking your ass at your Hall of Fame speech? I did that out of disgust for WCF ever inducting you into the Hall. Don't get me wrong. I will always hate you. But my desire to rip your jaw from your skull has diminished quite a bit. You want me to get better? I have to prove myself? Where the fuck have you been? YOU need to prove yourself to ME.
The hate flown through his body. It had been eight years since Logan and Torture broke WCF attendance history in the match to end all matches, and yet, even now he still felt bitter about it. Of course, none of these boudle fucks today had a clue what any of this even meant. They weren't there to see the collective twenty two promos Torture and Logan cut against one another in the same week leading up to the Ultimate Showdown. A PPV that lived up to it's name if one ever did. It was one of the only few times that he had ever left every single piece of himself on the line, and then some, and didn't walk away the victor. Ultimate Showdown 2006 will never be forgotten, and even if Logan was to beat Torture now... he wasn't sure if he'd find peace. Not after what D-Day and Corey Black had done to Torture. People that had match after match after match with the bastard before they could ever finally get it down. Logan only got his one match with Torture, and even then, the WCF could barely handle that shit. Could that magic between the two ever be recreated?
Catsy: Evening, good shit.
Logan: Catsy? What are you doing here?
The Great Catsy, the mechanical yet classy robot covered horribly in the skin of a dead cat had abruptly entered Logan's privacy. He was bipedal, waddling in, sporting his dirty and milk stained tuxedo, and pawing up onto a table to give Logan his direct 'cattention'.
Catsy: I have come to make a formal complaint.
Logan: About?
Catsy: Bobby Cairo.
Logan: Why are you coming to me and not Seth Lerch or someone else more uh, for that type of thing.
Catsy: I didn't know who else to turn to. You see, good shit, Mr. Cairo has been using his Facebook account as a way to mock yours truly.
Logan: What did he say?
Catsy: I don't have all the details, and well, this is only rumors. But I think he wants a piece of the Catsy. Why you ask? I haven't a clue, good shit. Why the man would want to dabble in the waters of an American Hero, a fellow that has murdered others, and may murder again at the swat of my paw... I'll never know.
Logan: Maybe he's suicidal.
Catsy: Indeed, good shit. So, if the oily chap is listening, and I'd assume he is; hear me out. You might think you're thick, you may think you're an unbreakable piece of iron. And you can tuck your tail between your cunt and retire every single belt you want to, but nobody, Cairo, and I really mean nobody talks back to the Cat. If you keep up your petty Facebook drama, good shit, you can sincerely count on my fist entering your anal cavity and ripping out Odin Balfore' penis along with your spine.
The Great Catsy downed his champagne glass of milk and slammed it down on the table. Logan had never seen the Catsy so upset before, it surprised him to say the least.
Logan: That's cherry oak, Catsy.
Catsy: When did you get so classy? To hell with your table, good shit. You know I'm good for it. I'll buy you three new ones just like it.
Logan: You live under a trailer.
The robotic cat nervously tugged at his collar, letting out an awkward chuckle.
Catsy: I have a new job, you see.
Logan: And what's that?
Catsy: Official Bobby Cairo ass kicker! That's what! GOOD SHIT! He doesn't know what litter box he just crawled into.
Logan: Take it easy.
Catsy: The hell I will.
The Great Catsy stumbled forward, catching himself on the table.
Catsy: ... hell I will.
Logan: Lay off the milk, man. You know how you get when you have too much.
Catsy: I had it all, Logan. I was living in some rock stars mansion that didn't even know I resided there because he had three other mansions he hardly ever lived in. I had his water fountain converted into a milk fountain... a milk fountain, Logan. Oh how low the Great Catsy has fallen. Now I stay under a trailer and bully the local cats for scraps. And what happened to us? You, I, the Boudlebot, and Roy Speede were thicker than Buttermilk.
Logan: I don't know... Catsy.
In his milk induced drunken state, the Catsy staggered a bit more before continuing.
Catsy: That Lilith happened. That's what happened.
Logan: Erm..
Catsy: She tore us apart and then she tore you apart. When we were on top, we pulled our resources, set up a rescue mission while she was in that 'Sarah Terror' coma. And for what? To have it all undone? For that witch to be the one who magically undid our efforts and be the one who woke the sleeping beauty? To hell with everyone, Logan. You see what they've done, good shit. We've been hosed. Held down. Walked on. No more, good shit. Not me. I refuse to let anyone else drop another piece of bullshit in MY litter box. From now on we work with no one, we work for no one but ourselves. No more complications. No more women. No more falling in love.
Despite the fact that Catsy was a one foot tall robot with a rotting dead cats hyde glued over his frame, and despite the fact that Catsy could drink milk and get drunk off of it... the Catsy had a point. He kind of made sense. Lilith was a diamond in the rough. One of a kind. But he should've known better to ever trust a woman, or anyone really for that matter. He hardly trusted himself. How could he have ever let himself be so gullible? What he had with her wasn't sexual. It was a true admiration, a working creative partnership. There was a spark there. Once. It was long gone now. Burned out with Lilith's betrayal.
Logan: Maybe you're right, Catsy. From now on I'm never again making the mistake of getting interested in anyone else's life. I'll only get used in the end or it'll just make my own life more complicated. We fight for ourselves, Catsy, and just ourselves. We fight for legacy. I... I fight to be remembered one day when our bones are dust, when this is no more, to go down as the greatest WCF superstar that ever lived.
Catsy: Begin that journey, good shit. We could have it all. Never again will anyone ever get in your way.
Logan: It's time to get back what we lost.
Catsy: The Hardcore Championship.
Logan: Get back on our journey.
Catsy: Get... back to you.
Outside of the gangs warehouse in Mesa, Arizona, the weather proved to be more pleasant than what most others were getting over the States. Blankets and blankets of snow covering and covering forcing folks to shake fists skyward at the clouds, or maybe God, or maybe the weatherman who falsely predicted a mere inch. The inside of the warehouse was a disaster even in it's prime, functioning at all gears. The Boudlebot had never been much of a housekeeper. The last adventure within this junkyard of a warehouse displayed the handy man abilities of the B-Bot, when he used a dead mouse and a beer can to repair the gangs helicopter. And it worked too, and off they went to drop a mustard bomb on FPV's house. Those days, only months ago, seemed like an eternity. Logan approached the heavy steel doors, the Catsy waddling by his side, his head barely reaching the knee of Logan. Logan's hand reached out and brushed off dirt from the sign hanging down over the metal door, revealing the words 'B-Bot Shack'. His fist pounded on the door but no one came to answer his knocks.
Logan: Maybe he moved.
Catsy: Him? Never. Where would he go?
The Great Catsy pawed ahead and leapt up onto the door handle, pulling it down and effectively causing the door to cringe on it's hinges and push open. The Catsy hopped down from the handle and waddled into the darkness.
Catsy: Boudlebot?
He meowed out into the run down warehouse.
Logan: I don't think he's here.
Catsy: Nonsense, good shit. He's always here... oh no...
With much panic, the Catsy shuffled to a heap of scrap metal. He frantically ripped the shards of metal and broken rebar from his good friend, his good shit, the Boudle Bot. The Bot was a statue. Unable to move. He stood frozen in time, one of his eyes half light, glowing only slightly when a barely audible tone came from his speakers.
Boudlebot: ..C-C.. Catsy..
Staying strong for his friend and for himself, the Great Catsy fought back a heart felt meow.
Catsy: Who did this to you? It was Bobby Cairo wasn't it?! I'll kill him!
Logan: Catsy!
Sensing the Catsy on the verge of losing control to rage, Logan rushed to his side while the Great Catsy fell to his paws and drove a fist full of fur into the concrete floor.
Catsy: It was that oily bastard, Cairo. I just know it, good shit. He's out to get me. He might be coming after you next, Logan. Slowly one by one he'll take away everything I hold dear in my life until we're forced into that final showdown. You want a fight? I'm a street fighting son of a bitch, Bobby Cairo. YOU HEAR ME?
Logan: Actually... I think he just got rained on. He looks a little rusty.
Catsy: What?! Don't josh me, good shit.
Logan: No really. Maybe this will work.
From his back pocket, Logan withdrew a bottle of mustard. This came to no ones surprise, really. Logan then proceeded to shoot a few squirts of the yellow substance onto Boudlebot, whom slowly but surely regained signs of life.
Boudlebot: Sh... sh... sh..
The Boudlebot's eye bulbs turned from a dim yellow to a bright red, he rocked his arms, knocking off the wreckage of metal that covered him.
Boudlebot: Sh.. sh... SHUT UP! BOUDLE!
Catsy: He's back!
The Catsy ran into Boudlebot, stretching his paws over his steel exterior to resemble that of a hug between two robots. The Boudlebot pushed past Catsy, rolling on his wheels over to a work bench. This hurt the Catsy a little at first, as he fell back, but then he remembered to be strong for Boudlebot, and he pushed himself back onto his paws and put on a grim face, taking interest in whatever the Boudlebot was doing.
Logan: What happened, Boudlebot?
Boudlebot: What happened?!
Busy at his work bench, the B-Bot hot glued a dead mouse to a Sponge Bob Walkie Talkie.
Boudlebot: I got caught in the rain.
Logan: See, Catsy? Just a little rain.
Catsy: Rain that Bobby Cairo prayed for.
A sigh pushed from Logan's lungs.
Catsy: However... he can wait, good shit. Because this journey does not begin with him. It begins with Fatel, Armstrong, Wild. The stepping stones.
Logan: You're right. I don't know much about Zack Wild, to be honest. Would it be smart to study up on the opponents? Give yourself some type of advantage? Sure, but not when you're me. Same can be said for Seifer Black Armstrong. I could really give two shits about these guys, and I've already defeated James Fatel before. Hell. Drove the man half insane. Defeat does that to us sometimes. I don't know if they even know what they're getting into. You see, guys, these last few weeks have been a roller coaster ride. If we keep it up at this pace we're going to forgotten land, and I can't let that happen. I'm not here to cling onto old glory days. I'm here to make new glory days, and for me, it's a rebirth this Sunday. I'm not going to give you guys nothing but my all, and that includes three tickets, yes three tickets to the greatest place a boudle can ever go... Connector City. I'm not going to claim to be the best thing you three boudles have ever seen, because quite frankly, even though in this company I've done more than any of you three can ever dream of doing... I'm still here to prove myself. You're in my way, Zack. You hear me, Armstrong? Fatel? You're the fence I have to jump to get to Oblivion. And speaking of which, it's nice to know that after I beat Oblivion for the Hardcore title... he got a title rematch not two weeks later, and then another one once again. Did I get my rematch? No. I have to fight for a fuckin' title rematch. And that's good with me. I know you're the special referee, Oblivion, and honestly that doesn't matter. I don't care if I have to cut off your fuckin' hand and use it to slap the mat three times, because I will if that's what it takes for you to count a pinfall. Can you even c-c-c-count you stuttering soft bitch? We both know your Hardcore title win was bullshit. I was wrestling injured for the last month. Shit. I had just DEFENDED the belt a week before. You haven't defended shit yet and you called me a transitional champion? Go fuck yourself, Oblivion. I became Hardcore champion and defended that Hardcore championship in a WCF era without rules, a true WCF Hardcore era. Shit. By default that makes me the most hardcore of Hardcore champions ever. You hear me, Oblivion? Doesn't matter if you have it out for me. It's not going to matter if you're the referee. I'm throwing these Wild soft Armstrong-Fucknut-Fatel bitches straight to the side, straight to Connector City, and then shoving a ticket up your tight stuttering ass and taking back MY Hardcore title!
The Boudlebot nodded, turning to look at Logan.
Boudlebot: The gang isn't complete... not yet, Logan.
The Bot handed Logan the Sponge Bob Walkie Talkie which he had glued a mouse to, somehow repairing it. Logan took the walkie talkie into his hands, dusted it off, and brought it to his lips.
Logan: This is Daddy Treachery. Come in. Over.
A long pause of silence fell over the radio when Logan clicked off, and then... finally..
Roy Speede: Seed of Treachery reporting for duty. Over.
He grinned to hear his Son's response. He looked over to Catsy and Boudlebot.
Logan: Let's clean this place up.
Catsy and Boudlebot both nodded.
Logan: James Fatel, you and I find ourselves in the ring once again. The last time I was defending my very own Hardcore Championship. This time we're fighting, and I'm fighting for the right to reclaim a title that should have never left my waist. You see, James, I got stupid. Hell. I am stupid. I let the impossible happen. I let someone get under my skin, and to be honest I haven't been myself lately. It's usually the other way around. You yourself should know that. You haven't been the same since our last bout. You've changed and taken a stroll down the mentally unstable path that just about every boudle in WCF ever has. Maybe it's the WCF itself that makes everyone fall off their rocker. However, Fatel, crazy or not, you're still going to face the same scenario like last time. Connector City does not discriminate against the nuts. You're welcome in either way. Do you want your ticket? But, you know, who am I to call you crazy? Am I crazy? Hell. Maybe I am. I really don't know anymore. I don't want to be fuckin' bonkers. Maybe we're all nuts. I mean... we'd have to be to be doing this wouldn't we?
He thought back to some of his closet friends and allies over the past fourteen years. Nearly all of them, like Lilith, had simply vanished save for some of the few current generation/era performers, and nearly all of them had great potential to be diagnosed with some sort of mental dysfunction. The most nutjobs of the nutjobs had all exited rather abruptly. Maybe they finally broke. Whatever happened to Jack of Blades? Had the weight of his own sadistic nature and a lack for humanity crushed him? A man that Logan himself called a best friend, and yet, just like that... poof. It made it difficult for Logan to live and function in the moment of WCF. He was like a ghost, a insane brain thread away from snapping and disappearing with the rest of his old friends of the forgotten. Why had Logan been the one to endure? He had lost it on more than one occasion. That was a known fact. Anyone who ever imagined Serpents and transformed their identity into one of another was on the official 'lost it' list. Not these days, well, not so dramatically. Now Logan had found himself in a routine. He felt like literally it was now or never, that if he continued down this route of losing or scraping by wins over brand new WCF faces - that'd it would only be a matter of time before he joined WCF's forgotten, and within a few years you'd hear... 'Logan Who?' He had no one but himself to blame for that of course. It didn't matter what he had done in the past, because for Logan, the great success he had achieved was growing deeper and deeper into the past. This place was his life. He had to make a stand for himself; win or go down trying.
Logan: Torture. A few weeks ago on Slam I explained my reasons for attacking you during your Hall of Fame speech. I did it because, still to the day... I simply do not like you. I have never disliked a person like I ever have with you. I may have won a War and a World Championship in 2006, and that was supposed to be my year... but you stole it from me. I hated you before then. I hated you the very first day you walked in. We both know you paid off the referee during Showdown 2006. That's just not me coming up with excuses. That was THE match. And it ended worse than a Montreal Screwjob. That was my moment and you stole it. I feel like you've taken so much from me and others. You never deserved a Hall of Fame spot. Hell. No one in WCF's Hall of Fame but me should even be in there. And now you want to claim a return spot in War? And what was it you said, you want ME to... get better? What? Me of all people aren't deserving of the almighty Tort? You've wasted the last few years of your rare WCF appearances wrestling fucks. People that 'hate you so much'. I hated you before it was even fuckin' cool to hate you. D-Day? Jay Price? And then Corey Black? What'd you beat CD a few hundred times before you finally said... hey, I'll let him have one, why not. Fuck that. And fuck all of them. It was me, not them, that should've been the one to take you down. Don't you understand, Torture? Defeating you, being the one who did, was the gasoline for my hatred. You're nothing to me now. You're all used up. Your cherry was popped. I don't want nothing to do with your jobber slut boudle ass now. Kicking your ass at your Hall of Fame speech? I did that out of disgust for WCF ever inducting you into the Hall. Don't get me wrong. I will always hate you. But my desire to rip your jaw from your skull has diminished quite a bit. You want me to get better? I have to prove myself? Where the fuck have you been? YOU need to prove yourself to ME.
The hate flown through his body. It had been eight years since Logan and Torture broke WCF attendance history in the match to end all matches, and yet, even now he still felt bitter about it. Of course, none of these boudle fucks today had a clue what any of this even meant. They weren't there to see the collective twenty two promos Torture and Logan cut against one another in the same week leading up to the Ultimate Showdown. A PPV that lived up to it's name if one ever did. It was one of the only few times that he had ever left every single piece of himself on the line, and then some, and didn't walk away the victor. Ultimate Showdown 2006 will never be forgotten, and even if Logan was to beat Torture now... he wasn't sure if he'd find peace. Not after what D-Day and Corey Black had done to Torture. People that had match after match after match with the bastard before they could ever finally get it down. Logan only got his one match with Torture, and even then, the WCF could barely handle that shit. Could that magic between the two ever be recreated?
Catsy: Evening, good shit.
Logan: Catsy? What are you doing here?
The Great Catsy, the mechanical yet classy robot covered horribly in the skin of a dead cat had abruptly entered Logan's privacy. He was bipedal, waddling in, sporting his dirty and milk stained tuxedo, and pawing up onto a table to give Logan his direct 'cattention'.
Catsy: I have come to make a formal complaint.
Logan: About?
Catsy: Bobby Cairo.
Logan: Why are you coming to me and not Seth Lerch or someone else more uh, for that type of thing.
Catsy: I didn't know who else to turn to. You see, good shit, Mr. Cairo has been using his Facebook account as a way to mock yours truly.
Logan: What did he say?
Catsy: I don't have all the details, and well, this is only rumors. But I think he wants a piece of the Catsy. Why you ask? I haven't a clue, good shit. Why the man would want to dabble in the waters of an American Hero, a fellow that has murdered others, and may murder again at the swat of my paw... I'll never know.
Logan: Maybe he's suicidal.
Catsy: Indeed, good shit. So, if the oily chap is listening, and I'd assume he is; hear me out. You might think you're thick, you may think you're an unbreakable piece of iron. And you can tuck your tail between your cunt and retire every single belt you want to, but nobody, Cairo, and I really mean nobody talks back to the Cat. If you keep up your petty Facebook drama, good shit, you can sincerely count on my fist entering your anal cavity and ripping out Odin Balfore' penis along with your spine.
The Great Catsy downed his champagne glass of milk and slammed it down on the table. Logan had never seen the Catsy so upset before, it surprised him to say the least.
Logan: That's cherry oak, Catsy.
Catsy: When did you get so classy? To hell with your table, good shit. You know I'm good for it. I'll buy you three new ones just like it.
Logan: You live under a trailer.
The robotic cat nervously tugged at his collar, letting out an awkward chuckle.
Catsy: I have a new job, you see.
Logan: And what's that?
Catsy: Official Bobby Cairo ass kicker! That's what! GOOD SHIT! He doesn't know what litter box he just crawled into.
Logan: Take it easy.
Catsy: The hell I will.
The Great Catsy stumbled forward, catching himself on the table.
Catsy: ... hell I will.
Logan: Lay off the milk, man. You know how you get when you have too much.
Catsy: I had it all, Logan. I was living in some rock stars mansion that didn't even know I resided there because he had three other mansions he hardly ever lived in. I had his water fountain converted into a milk fountain... a milk fountain, Logan. Oh how low the Great Catsy has fallen. Now I stay under a trailer and bully the local cats for scraps. And what happened to us? You, I, the Boudlebot, and Roy Speede were thicker than Buttermilk.
Logan: I don't know... Catsy.
In his milk induced drunken state, the Catsy staggered a bit more before continuing.
Catsy: That Lilith happened. That's what happened.
Logan: Erm..
Catsy: She tore us apart and then she tore you apart. When we were on top, we pulled our resources, set up a rescue mission while she was in that 'Sarah Terror' coma. And for what? To have it all undone? For that witch to be the one who magically undid our efforts and be the one who woke the sleeping beauty? To hell with everyone, Logan. You see what they've done, good shit. We've been hosed. Held down. Walked on. No more, good shit. Not me. I refuse to let anyone else drop another piece of bullshit in MY litter box. From now on we work with no one, we work for no one but ourselves. No more complications. No more women. No more falling in love.
Despite the fact that Catsy was a one foot tall robot with a rotting dead cats hyde glued over his frame, and despite the fact that Catsy could drink milk and get drunk off of it... the Catsy had a point. He kind of made sense. Lilith was a diamond in the rough. One of a kind. But he should've known better to ever trust a woman, or anyone really for that matter. He hardly trusted himself. How could he have ever let himself be so gullible? What he had with her wasn't sexual. It was a true admiration, a working creative partnership. There was a spark there. Once. It was long gone now. Burned out with Lilith's betrayal.
Logan: Maybe you're right, Catsy. From now on I'm never again making the mistake of getting interested in anyone else's life. I'll only get used in the end or it'll just make my own life more complicated. We fight for ourselves, Catsy, and just ourselves. We fight for legacy. I... I fight to be remembered one day when our bones are dust, when this is no more, to go down as the greatest WCF superstar that ever lived.
Catsy: Begin that journey, good shit. We could have it all. Never again will anyone ever get in your way.
Logan: It's time to get back what we lost.
Catsy: The Hardcore Championship.
Logan: Get back on our journey.
Catsy: Get... back to you.
BACK TO YOU
Outside of the gangs warehouse in Mesa, Arizona, the weather proved to be more pleasant than what most others were getting over the States. Blankets and blankets of snow covering and covering forcing folks to shake fists skyward at the clouds, or maybe God, or maybe the weatherman who falsely predicted a mere inch. The inside of the warehouse was a disaster even in it's prime, functioning at all gears. The Boudlebot had never been much of a housekeeper. The last adventure within this junkyard of a warehouse displayed the handy man abilities of the B-Bot, when he used a dead mouse and a beer can to repair the gangs helicopter. And it worked too, and off they went to drop a mustard bomb on FPV's house. Those days, only months ago, seemed like an eternity. Logan approached the heavy steel doors, the Catsy waddling by his side, his head barely reaching the knee of Logan. Logan's hand reached out and brushed off dirt from the sign hanging down over the metal door, revealing the words 'B-Bot Shack'. His fist pounded on the door but no one came to answer his knocks.
Logan: Maybe he moved.
Catsy: Him? Never. Where would he go?
The Great Catsy pawed ahead and leapt up onto the door handle, pulling it down and effectively causing the door to cringe on it's hinges and push open. The Catsy hopped down from the handle and waddled into the darkness.
Catsy: Boudlebot?
He meowed out into the run down warehouse.
Logan: I don't think he's here.
Catsy: Nonsense, good shit. He's always here... oh no...
With much panic, the Catsy shuffled to a heap of scrap metal. He frantically ripped the shards of metal and broken rebar from his good friend, his good shit, the Boudle Bot. The Bot was a statue. Unable to move. He stood frozen in time, one of his eyes half light, glowing only slightly when a barely audible tone came from his speakers.
Boudlebot: ..C-C.. Catsy..
Staying strong for his friend and for himself, the Great Catsy fought back a heart felt meow.
Catsy: Who did this to you? It was Bobby Cairo wasn't it?! I'll kill him!
Logan: Catsy!
Sensing the Catsy on the verge of losing control to rage, Logan rushed to his side while the Great Catsy fell to his paws and drove a fist full of fur into the concrete floor.
Catsy: It was that oily bastard, Cairo. I just know it, good shit. He's out to get me. He might be coming after you next, Logan. Slowly one by one he'll take away everything I hold dear in my life until we're forced into that final showdown. You want a fight? I'm a street fighting son of a bitch, Bobby Cairo. YOU HEAR ME?
Logan: Actually... I think he just got rained on. He looks a little rusty.
Catsy: What?! Don't josh me, good shit.
Logan: No really. Maybe this will work.
From his back pocket, Logan withdrew a bottle of mustard. This came to no ones surprise, really. Logan then proceeded to shoot a few squirts of the yellow substance onto Boudlebot, whom slowly but surely regained signs of life.
Boudlebot: Sh... sh... sh..
The Boudlebot's eye bulbs turned from a dim yellow to a bright red, he rocked his arms, knocking off the wreckage of metal that covered him.
Boudlebot: Sh.. sh... SHUT UP! BOUDLE!
Catsy: He's back!
The Catsy ran into Boudlebot, stretching his paws over his steel exterior to resemble that of a hug between two robots. The Boudlebot pushed past Catsy, rolling on his wheels over to a work bench. This hurt the Catsy a little at first, as he fell back, but then he remembered to be strong for Boudlebot, and he pushed himself back onto his paws and put on a grim face, taking interest in whatever the Boudlebot was doing.
Logan: What happened, Boudlebot?
Boudlebot: What happened?!
Busy at his work bench, the B-Bot hot glued a dead mouse to a Sponge Bob Walkie Talkie.
Boudlebot: I got caught in the rain.
Logan: See, Catsy? Just a little rain.
Catsy: Rain that Bobby Cairo prayed for.
A sigh pushed from Logan's lungs.
Catsy: However... he can wait, good shit. Because this journey does not begin with him. It begins with Fatel, Armstrong, Wild. The stepping stones.
Logan: You're right. I don't know much about Zack Wild, to be honest. Would it be smart to study up on the opponents? Give yourself some type of advantage? Sure, but not when you're me. Same can be said for Seifer Black Armstrong. I could really give two shits about these guys, and I've already defeated James Fatel before. Hell. Drove the man half insane. Defeat does that to us sometimes. I don't know if they even know what they're getting into. You see, guys, these last few weeks have been a roller coaster ride. If we keep it up at this pace we're going to forgotten land, and I can't let that happen. I'm not here to cling onto old glory days. I'm here to make new glory days, and for me, it's a rebirth this Sunday. I'm not going to give you guys nothing but my all, and that includes three tickets, yes three tickets to the greatest place a boudle can ever go... Connector City. I'm not going to claim to be the best thing you three boudles have ever seen, because quite frankly, even though in this company I've done more than any of you three can ever dream of doing... I'm still here to prove myself. You're in my way, Zack. You hear me, Armstrong? Fatel? You're the fence I have to jump to get to Oblivion. And speaking of which, it's nice to know that after I beat Oblivion for the Hardcore title... he got a title rematch not two weeks later, and then another one once again. Did I get my rematch? No. I have to fight for a fuckin' title rematch. And that's good with me. I know you're the special referee, Oblivion, and honestly that doesn't matter. I don't care if I have to cut off your fuckin' hand and use it to slap the mat three times, because I will if that's what it takes for you to count a pinfall. Can you even c-c-c-count you stuttering soft bitch? We both know your Hardcore title win was bullshit. I was wrestling injured for the last month. Shit. I had just DEFENDED the belt a week before. You haven't defended shit yet and you called me a transitional champion? Go fuck yourself, Oblivion. I became Hardcore champion and defended that Hardcore championship in a WCF era without rules, a true WCF Hardcore era. Shit. By default that makes me the most hardcore of Hardcore champions ever. You hear me, Oblivion? Doesn't matter if you have it out for me. It's not going to matter if you're the referee. I'm throwing these Wild soft Armstrong-Fucknut-Fatel bitches straight to the side, straight to Connector City, and then shoving a ticket up your tight stuttering ass and taking back MY Hardcore title!
The Boudlebot nodded, turning to look at Logan.
Boudlebot: The gang isn't complete... not yet, Logan.
The Bot handed Logan the Sponge Bob Walkie Talkie which he had glued a mouse to, somehow repairing it. Logan took the walkie talkie into his hands, dusted it off, and brought it to his lips.
Logan: This is Daddy Treachery. Come in. Over.
A long pause of silence fell over the radio when Logan clicked off, and then... finally..
Roy Speede: Seed of Treachery reporting for duty. Over.
He grinned to hear his Son's response. He looked over to Catsy and Boudlebot.
Logan: Let's clean this place up.
Catsy and Boudlebot both nodded.
