Post by Logan on Jan 31, 2016 4:23:08 GMT -5
I hadn’t slept in years. Nights rolled by like days and nights like days with no real difference. There was no set schedule when I might go down and close my eyes. My brain needed rest, so when nothing over the counter gave it any peace I found myself sitting in a Doctor’s office begging for a prescription to turn me off. And I got it. That night before swallowing down the yellow pill, I rested at the edge of my bed with Fifteen strong in my head.
Logan: Am I supposed to know who Adam Spencers and Johnny Rabid are? I do. They’re a couple of assholes.
And then sleep came at last, easier than it ever had. Television sets throughout the world occupied with the programming’s of The Walking Dead and various sets of production are far too over the hill to notice a lone channel that brings forth a black screen and a white Logan logo. Do visionaries exist; do they engulf an afternoon of attention into a program that won every award in every possible category in an alternate reality Emmy’s show? Who knew, the show had to go on either way, it always went on, and IT WILL go on, fellow troopers. The screen very quickly revealed a pleasant sight and what more pleasant of a sight could my face be. Oh, of course I addressed the camera, cranking my head to a tilt and burning a hole into the lens with my eyes, just usual tactics of course. Wasn’t I just sleeping a second ago? The difference between television or a ‘dreamvision’ felt mysterious.
Logan: Babygurls, Loganvisionaries, Trashcans all shapes, stinks, and sizes -
A dramatic fitting pause temporarily cuts my words short for proper effect. I felt as if it wasn’t me behind the voice, as if I was only going through motions and years catchphrases to sell shirts and hype Fifteen.
Logan: - … welcome; welcome to an actual good promo, nothing like the mess we’ve witnessed from the likes of Rabid or Adams. A promo that doesn’t drag on with speeches of how old Gravedigger is.. wait… I did that, but I did it differently. This is the boudleedition. Easy on the eyes. A true heart warmer.
Quite certainly viewers, if any, were sure to mouth the said words, ‘boudledition’, with great confusion, given if they cared enough in the first place to actually feel confused.
Logan: We have very special guests today and I’m not being dramatic or exaggerating in the least, VERY special guests. Go on; get a shot of this contender, this contestant of WCF’s Fifteen match!
The camera follows the direction of my finger which points to a man in ragged clothes, presumably a homeless citizen of Mesa, idly and with no emotion whatsoever holding a sign to his chest in both hands that sloppily reads in black sharpie magic, ‘Johnny Rabid’.
Logan: Oh yeah, betcha trashcan ass that this promo offers the brightest and freshest of WCF assholes. And hey.. HEY.
I snapped my fingers very directly to grasp the attention of the camera back onto myself, which had wondered.
Logan: That’s not the only one, babygurl, no-no we’ve got a room full of boudles! Who do we have? You hold that camera steady and stop looking at my crotch and I’ll tell you. We have… Spencer Adams…
Very respectively and so matter-of-factly I took a moment to shed a small clap of appreciation. It was all sarcasm.
Logan: Not only just those but we’re going to have a ring full of boudles! A matter of fact, so many that we don’t even really have a clue. However, we’ve narrowed some of them down.
Johnny Rabid or whether the bum holding the ‘Johnny Rabid’ sign quietly raised his hand.
Logan: Well, lookie here. You didn’t seem as shy last Sunday on Slam when you attacked me from behind. Can I help your stinking ass with something, Rabid?
Bum Rabid:: When do I get paid?
Logan: Of course. That’s all your worried about isn’t it? Getting paid?
Bum Rabid:: That’s why you asked me to-
Logan: SHUT UP!
Bum Rabid:: We are getting paid aren’t –
Logan: SHUT UP!
Bum Rabid:: But I nee-
Logan: SHUT UP!
And finally the fellow cooperated, filling the room with an awkward silence.
Bum Rabid:: …
Logan: Go on, Johnny Rabid. Did you have something to say?
Bum Rabid:: Yes.
Logan: Oh?
Bum Rabid:: You’re not going to tell me to shut up?
Logan: Are you kidding me? No way.
He was very hesitant to speak at first but he did eventually.
Bum Rabid:: Okay. I haven’t eaten anything in over two days, and while I hate to rush you, I would really like to know when we will be rec-
Logan: SHUT UP!
The bum took a long moment to stare at me with frustration before slamming his sign down onto the floor and marching out of the locker room.
Logan: Quitting already, Rabid? Yeah, you do that. You walk out just like you will at Fifteen, defeated, having finally faced real talent like myself.
Many of the other contestants began shuffling their feet and appeared to be weary of continuing.
Logan: Hey! HEY! Don’t let that guy get you down, boudles. You still have a chance. You might just be able to come out of this thing as the runner-up, and hey.. that’s not bad. You aren’t going to be the WCF number one contender like I will, but at least you’ll be able to say, ‘If it wasn’t for Logan I would have won that thing.’ That’s something isn’t it? Right, Spencer Adams?
The bum version of Spencer Adam opened his eyes and he broke an afternoon nap. He pushed himself from the wall he was resting on, gripping the sign in his hands, and trying his best to pay a little attention.
Bum Adams:: Right.. right.
He answered idly; unfortunately unaware of anything that was going on.
Logan: Guy like you, ‘cuse me, boudle like you probably thinks he has a lot coming into this match doesn’t he? Never won the big one before, finally looking for his big break. Hey guess what buddy? I’m sorry. Mr. WCF is in this match. Maybe next time.
Bum Adams:: Match? Uh, oh yeah.
Adam the bummed quietly mouthed the words ‘match?’ to a bum colleague standing next to him.
Logan: Who the fuck you talking to? How many homeless bastards showed up for this? You probably think that this will be easy breezy don’t you, that you shouldn’t need to worry about the star of Fifteen.
Bum Adams:: Yup, yup.
Logan: I like you, Adams.
Bum Adams:: I like you.
Logan: Come here..
Bum Adams:: Huh?
Logan: Give me a hug.
With a little grin, bum Spencer Adams approached, his garbage-like arms extended. However, once he got within hugging distance, I changed my demeanor, appearing disgusted.
Logan: What’re you doing?
A much surprised Bum Adams responded.
Bum Adams:: I’m giving you a hu-
Logan: SHUT UP! Why?
Bum Adams:: You asked me t-
Logan: SHUT UP! I did not.
The bum version of Steve Orbit volunteered a hand.
Bum Orbit:: Did too.
Logan: You put that damn hand down, Orbit. What the hell are you doing here anyway? I already made fun of your sorry ass in my last promo. You got murdered, boudle, you didn’t make it to the second one.
Bum Adams:: Do you still want to hug?
Lpgan: No. What’s wrong with you bums, you’re all high and freaked out off trashcan fumes. None of you are winning Fifteen so stop talking about it, and on one here is getting a hug. Period.
Bum Adams:: If we’re not going to hug then could you at least tell me when we’re getting paid?
Logan: Paid?
Bum Adams:: Ye-
Logan: SHUT UP!
Big sigh came from Bum Adams.
Logan: None of you boudles are getting paid.
Now, I had officially turned a room full of hungry bums into a room full of angry bums.
Logan: HEY! Who are you looking at like that, Spencer Adams? Does it look like we’re in the middle of a Final Destination match -
The bums (with no pun intended) bum rushed me. I pushed the cameraman into the onslaught of approaching hungry bums, escaping out of the room by the skin of my teeth, leaving the cameraman’s fate in question. Screen faded. The gigantic bold letters of Logan filled television screens over and throughout the world once more to anyone suicidal or bored enough or without cable to commit the slightest of interest for a viewing. The letters transcend into the bottom right hand corner of the screen, resizing to a smaller font and then remaining still. Other than the small white Logan logo, the rest of the screen remained black, failing further to provide any fulfillment or enjoyment to the already small group of amused lacking watchers. And then with the entire dramatic intentions one could imagine, a my face appeared in bold heroic fashion; neck cocked just slightly, gaze strong and true, lips stamped shut, and eyes locked onto the tiny audience of hopeful new fans of 2016… Logan fans. I took a brief moment that lasted a few seconds, exhaling focused air before wetting my lips and addressing the camera.
Logan: Many of you may know me…
My eyes strongly glued into those of the potential watchers.
Logan: And some of you may not. And for those who do not, for those certain people who have been hiding in the lice infested bushes of Johnny Rabid’s armpits; my name is the name that’ll soon be hung up on the walls of your children’s rooms, the name that will be inked upon your skin, a name that is synonymous with great, and that name ladies and gentlemen… is LOGAN!
A proper nod of acknowledgment filled the screen.
Logan: The true star of Fifteen and the star of your hearts. Your girlfriends will soon ignore you; they’ll be spending Sunday nights getting warm and uncomfortable under the blankets waiting for me to come on Slam. And they will see me. And they will begin asking you to act a certain way. And after a while you’ll be asked to change your name to Logan. And I can’t help that, no, I can’t, but that’s how it is. That’s who I am. That’s my business. But it’s not just the girls that will be affected. Everyone is in danger. More importantly, WCF is in danger.
More nodding is displayed in furious manner.
Logan: Because of this girlfriend stealing face and these world champion wrestling abilities, Fifteen is in very immediate danger of becoming the best show next to Ash vs Evil Dead in the history of television!
It’s hard not to imagine that quite a few viewers eyes rolled over such a bold statement.
Logan: And that’s a promise, no, that’s a damn fact. It’s a matter of living like breathing. You have too; you have to tune in every Sunday to watch me. Quite frankly, the WCF NEEDS me. Soon that will be realized like Johnny Rabid needs a bar a soap, you will need me. I’ll be here for you and I will never leave you. Do you think you’re going to see Spencer Adams in two months if even one month now that I’m back around? No, absolutely not. He’s the type of guy that goes nowhere but down in this business. With just a matter of time you’ll see less and less of him and before you know it your television sets will be stink-free, and you just might even catch that bum looking bastard taking your money and handing you change at a McDonalds drive-through! He has no future here, especially now that I am here – the legend of WCF – the only true legend. Everyone else that made it is just Hall of Fame filler so I’m not discriminated against. I am the only true WCF legend.
I paused merely before catching back up.
Logan: But enough about me, what about you? How many of you have grown tired with watching generic robot talking hacks clogging up the show every week. H’m? I know I am. These so called superstars have no class, no style. It’s like they cloned a bunch of boring wrestlers, shoved them down a retards throat, and out he shit Fifteen. I’m the only reason this show is going to get any views. Do you think anyone cares about watching Creeping Death get retired… again? Do you think anyone really expects a Bonnie Blue to win such a high profile match now that I’m in it? Don’t get your hopes up ladies, that Bonnie Blue was better off when she was a man. Did that make sense? I don’t know. Nothing about Bonnie ever made a lick of sense to me.
Just at the bottom of the screen flashed a small caption that reads, ‘applause’.
Logan: I’m giving the WCF a little cure, a shot, an ass-whooping-entertaining filled syringe that can only come from the greatest wrestler in WCF history – the Face of Treachery! Would you like this shot now? Roll up your sleeve.
The following is a scripted promo produced by Logan for WCF’s entertainment. Characters are portrayed by actors and no one is ever seriously hurt or killed. Maybe.
Once upon a time in Connector City… Bonnie Blue (an actor portraying her of course, not the actual character) jogged past the newspaper stand, oblivious to the latest bold front page headliner, “Logan kills again! Too bad it wasn’t Torture this time!”, her attention was more focused on the motivating music that blared from her Ipod and into her eardrums. This nightly jog had become too routine to make her feel any immediate danger. She felt safe. Within her mind – she’d never be that person who got robbed, she’d never be that person read about in the Sunday paper that was abducted and murdered. Her own personal little world was far too comfortable to take the threat of a Connector City serial killer seriously. Much to her surprise, however, another individual’s fantasy would soon transform her reality. Rhymed footsteps slapped the concrete behind her. She softened the volume of her Ipod, her ears keening in on the approaching presence. Then – suddenly – a calm warm voice spoke out.
Logan: Hi.
Another fellow night jogger, she assumed, glancing over at the source of the voice, which, was a built tall guy in sweatpants and a black hoody - me. With the Ipod headphones still plugged in her ears, she opted to pretend not to hear me. However, I persisted, keeping pace by her side.
Logan: I like your shoes.
She nodded briefly, acknowledging the compliment of her red sneakers before picking up speed in an attempt to lose me. Had I made an impression on ole’ Bonnie Blue? She looked a little spooked.
Something I said next planted her feet into the pavement – halting all movement.
Logan: Bonnie, have you talked to your Mother lately? Assuming you can even speak with people from the future in our current time.
The unsettling question forced her into turning to face me. The question was odd – odd – because she wasn’t sure if I might be a friend trying to scare her given that I knew her name, or maybe play a prank on her, and because the question in itself, if it was a joke for that matter, did not sound playful by any means. Matter of fact, the question offended her. She stared, trying to see my face through the black hoody that shadowed it.
Bonnie Blue: No.
Logan: Your Mother, we should talk about her.
The night sky failed to give her eyes any reading of my face. Now slightly frustrated and confused, her voice shed some temper.
Bonnie Blue: I’m sorry. Do I know you?
Logan: NO!
The rage filled shout echoed the empty street – a street she now just nervously realized was empty.
Logan: Your Mother knows me, Bonnie… she does.
I finally quit approaching her, stopping just feet away, this slightly calmed a bit of tension on her part. Still, however, she could not make out exactly who I was.
Bonnie Blue: How do you know my Mother? Who are yo –
Anxiously, I interrupted her.
Logan: We were only properly introduced a few hours ago.
Quickly continuing after a brief pause, her ears are forced to listen, and her mouth to be kept closed.
Logan: She’s incredible. I think her piss could even power my automobile.
She looked puzzled, that slightly turned me on, but not in a sexual sense.
Bonnie Blue: What?
Logan: Well, duh, it was all that gasoline she drank, gallons of it! I made her drink it. I told her that if she could down three gallons, piss into an old lawnmower AND start it.. then I would let her go. And you know what? The lawnmower actually started! Fired to life! Right on the first pull!
Bonnie Blue: Is this some kind of joke?
She didn’t know what else to say about the terrifying story.
Logan: Yes, actually, it is.
Oh – how she sighed with relief. She laughed, awkwardly, finding the amusement disturbing.
Bonnie Blue: My Mother put you up to this, right? Gosh. She has such a dry sense of humor.
Somewhere inside that black hollow hoody she could tell that I was probably smirking.
Logan: No. She is dead. I beat her to death. Then… I fucked her.
Some joke. Deep down, however, she could not help but feel the need to take me serious enough to call her Mother, just to reassure herself that this was a joke played on her by her Mother, or, she had just happened to stumble across a weirdo tonight. She punched in the digit on her cellphone, speed dialing her Mother’s number. A silent ring with a faint light glowed and screamed inside my pants pocket. Oops. Horror struck her face – even moreso – when I playfully answered the phone with sarcastic sneer.
Logan: Hello, Bonnie. It’s Logan!
Panic. She had to get away. Her feet moved too fast. She tripped over herself.
Logan: You should be thanking me, Bonnie. Your Mother isn’t going to be able to witness her Daughters lackluster performance this Sunday.
Her eyes soon rolled back into her skull, fainting, as she felt the leather of my glove covered hands around her wrists, dragging her body somewhere dark to hide disturbing acts. The next day Momma Blue, the obvious Mother of Bonnie Blue, sat frozen in her chair – reading the newspaper article laid out before her. Her boy toy, Doc Henry, lovingly at her side. Both of their eyes engulfed with tears as the paper read…
Late last night, the deceased body of a young woman was found (later to be identified as Bonnie Blue) inside the abandoned apartment complex of Boudle Springs. A half-eaten hotdog was found at the crime scene leading many to believe that Bonnie Blue was another innocent victim of the Logan killings that have haunted Connector City the last three months. The police refused to release any additional details. Our condolences respectably go out to the family of Bonnie Blue.
Her face implanted itself into Doc’s chest. His hand soothingly patted over her back.
Doc Henry: They’ll get this bastard, Momma Blue. Former pimp now detective, Steve Orbit, already told me they had a big lead. He said your cell phone was found with Bonnie AND that her cell phone was missing! Remember? A few days ago you recalled your cellphone being stolen during the time that you were in the subway? Momma Blue, they have surveillance videos. And, if he still has her cell phone.. they can GPS it or something! They can find this guy. They can.
She continued weeping, knowing rather or not they did catch me, her daughter would be lost forever. Meanwhile, over at the police station, also known as jobber land.
Detective Orbit: Chief! Chief!
Frantically, detective Orbit spilled into the Chief’s office.
Chief: Damnit, Steve!
The Chief was busy looking over surveillance videos of a subway, the detective’s excitement nearly pushed the Chief into a heart attack.
Chief: What is it? Jonny Fly bullying you again, boy?
Three simple words shook the entire station.
Detective Orbit: We’ve found him.
And the Chief almost finally had that heart attack. Everyone shifted their heads from desks, focusing attention on the conversation between detective Orbit and the Chief.
Chief: L-l-ogan?
Detective Orbit: Yes! We tracked the cell phone, and, assuming he kept it – GPS marked him right NEXT DOOR.
As if a fire had just erupted inside the building, every officer, staff, and employee of Connector City’s law enforcement jumped from their feet and tried to chaotically exit the room at once. People rushed down the hall, running into locker rooms, strapping on bullet proof jackets, loading their arms with pistols, shotguns, and whatever else that could make a bang. A group was quickly assembled, surrounding the apartment building next to the police station that I was believed to be residing. A GPS tracker held in Steve Orbit’s hands, he directed the SWAT-like trio of men through the building, reaching a door, kicking it down and, surprisingly, there I sat.
Logan: Hi, Steve Orbit. Couldn’t count you out this time could I?
Detective Orbit: Your days are numbered, hotdog boy.
The room was a complete mess. Photographs of ex-victims sloppily pasted onto walls, mirrors, even floors, scribbles of red colored crude written messages decorated over the room, half eaten hotdogs scattering the carpets surface. And, amongst the pigsty, there I sat. There I simply sat, casually seated at the edge of a bed. The cell phone that led the police to me grasped in my hand. Dressed like a mad man; a white coat turned red, dirty from blood, blonde hair just as dirty going in every which place but straight, face completely emotionless. I simply stared ahead not even acknowledging the police men as they busted through the door, rushed me, and clubbed me down like a Torture piñata. Days had passed. Just outside a steel door, outside the room that housed a bed ridden strap jacketed self, Orbit and a public defender spoke.
Attorney: Why do you have my client restrained like this?
Detective Orbit: Are you serious? He killed two prisoners and a guard over a fuckin’ hotdog!
The lawyer peeked through the small opening into my cell.
Attorney: Erm… has he said anything yet?
Orbit joined the lawyer’s side, also looking over at me
Detective Orbit: Not one word.
Orbit paused.
Detective Orbit: Monstrous – isn’t he?
The defense attorney nodded in agreement.
Attorney: I’m going to need to look over the case files.
He had a case to prepare, after all.
Attorney: Have you gone over the victims with my client?
Orbit nodded, before signaling the attorney to follow him into another room.
Detective Orbit: Yes, we spent hours in interrogation with him, shoving photographs of victims under his nose, pimp slapping him, keeping him in the hot seat, but, it never did any good. Even dangling a hotdog over his mouth got no response. No emotion. No expression.
The attorney shook his head.
Detective Orbit: Here you are.
The detective pulled open a steel cabinet drawer, reaching in and grabbing an arm load of files. He dropped them on a table, the weight of the files making a clunk upon impact. Carefully, he individually sorted through them, the lawyer looked on in disgust.
Detective Orbit: Violet Orbit, his first known victim, well, the first we’re aware of.
Attorney: Violet Orbit?
Detective Orbit: Yes… my Mother.
Attorney: I’m so sorry.
The detective continued on somehow maintaining a straight face.
Detective Orbit: He took his time with her. All of her organs were missing, took them for trophies, we assume. She was ripped open from her belly button to her neck. That wasn’t what killed her, though, no.. he force fed her gun powder first. Made her consume all sorts of chemicals; acid, oil, bleach, even human feces THEN we believe, that he ripped her open, and maybe even ate her liver, heart, lungs, bladder, whatever was empowering. Yes, he directed an ultimate form of expression with Violet. Killed her in more ways than one. Took everything from her. Her pride, dignity, her life, her beating heart. Ripped her open and ate her alive.
The lawyer cringed.
Connector City channel six reports: After months of thrilling court sessions and surprising twists, the jury finally reached a verdict this afternoon on what was named ‘The Trial of The Century’. Judge Davis sentenced Connector City’s serial killer to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
The killers alias; Logan, and Hotdog Boy, which was a name dubbed by the public for his signature trademark of leaving half eaten hotdogs at crime scenes - identity still remains a mystery. He did not utter a single word during the entire trial nor did he show any remorse at all during the testimony of the victims’ relatives and close friends. Logan, who was charged with the murder of eight women, six men, and three children, has become the only serial killer in Connector City history to not receive the death penalty due to plea of insanity. Most of the public was outraged by the judge’s sentence. Even more so with the fact that he’ll serve the first ten of his two hundred year sentence as a patient in Blades hospital. The doctors of Blades believe that this will be a great opportunity to help understand the mind of a killer. Logan is expected to arrive at the hospital sometime tomorrow morning.
Enter Katherine Phoenix. People questioned her sanity for wanting to intern at Blades Hospital, the most looneist of bins in Connector City. She was called suicidal. It hadn't been the first time she'd heard those words, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Maybe she was just as nuts as the guys behind the bars, volunteering in such a dismal, gloomy place. One patient would be laughing, loudly, as if they were watching America's Funniest Home Videos on repeat, and the next hiding in the corner, crying about spiders or something equally heinous. Oh, they were so strange. She loved it, really. Loved it to a strange extent. It almost scared the girl, fresh out of college and into the real world. No, this was not some college course where everything was watched carefully and no one got hurt. No, this was real life, and these were real criminals - the crazy kind, the ones you couldn't easily reason with over anything because they had no real reason for doing what they did, except they liked to do it. Katherine’s kitten heels tapped against the concrete floor as she looked from one cell to the other, surveying the scene as best she could and then shaking her head a bit, heading back to her office. Her lip pursed a bit, looking into one empty cell, the door standing open. There was a clamor down the hallway, a few guards making some noise and then appearing into view, holding the newest patient addition to the cell block. Katherine’s eyes narrowed, watching as I didn't seem to struggle or fight like most did, instead walking along with a peculiar looking smile on my face, almost happy to be there. She made a face. I'd be an interesting case, indeed. One of the other interns stopped beside her, the brunette's glasses coming off as they hauled me into my cell, locking it up tight. I did nothing, really, but stand there.
Katherine Phoenix: Who’s this one?
Intern: Ain't sure, really. No one knows who he really is. But he calls himself Logan.
Katherine frowned and looked towards me, watching me mill about in my cell as the other girl wandered off. A brand new patient, a brand new intern. She smiled a bit, unconsciously mostly, before sauntering off towards her office to dig up my file. She wanted this one, just not sure why at all. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and whistled a bit, heading inside the little closet they'd given her for an office, closing the door behind her and peeling her coat off, tossing it onto the chair opposite her desk and heading to a file cabinet, at least before something on her desk caught her eye. She frowned a bit, closing the drawer and heading over to her desk, looking at the small flower than laid on her desk on top of a cream colored patient file. She walked around the desk, peeling open a drawer and taking out a chocolate bar she'd hid inside earlier, breaking off a piece and tossing it in her mouth before opening the file. There I was, staring back at her. Katherine looked it over, reading my stats and looking at the face of a serial killer with interest, flipping to the next page and looking over the name and details of the first crime. The packet inside the folder seemed to be endless, naming one right after the other horrendous things that I had done, all with some strange sense of sick, dark humor to them that made Katherine a little uncomfortable to say the least. The end of the papers came at last, but not nearly soon enough for her. She swallowed hard, scratching at her head a bit nervously and taking a deep breath, one final block of chocolate in her mouth, she stood up and looked at the mirror she'd hung up. Her hands smoothed down her black locks, pushing her hair back into its bun that sat on the back of her head. Her coat on once again, she headed out the door and back towards the new patient. I was still doing nothing extraordinary, sitting there like I had done nothing. She crossed her arms and peered into the cell, content to watch me like an animal at the zoo for now.
I sat on the hard wooden bench within the cell, idly acknowledging the flat surface; I shifted my bottom to adjust. The eight by eight plain empty block walled room was all I had for now. No more murderous nights, hotdogs, or women to play with – no more – just an orange jump suit, and a thin pillow with a sheet to match. Within an entire week, I’d only be allowed to have two showers, a single hour of outside life – which consisted of standing inside a small locked cage in the courtyard, and if on good behavior, an evening of television every other Friday. This was my new life. Seemingly, it didn’t bother me. I had turned himself in – more or less. Did I want to be here? Deep down, was I thriving? No one had a clue. I had not uttered a single word since being captured. Become mute. And, still, after months of police investigations, profiling, and therapy visits, my motivations, much like my identity, remained mysterious. They intended to break me when they placed me in Blades, they needed to, had to, before transferring me back into a life sentence of prison. I was very aware of this. Chocolate breath leaked in from the door of the cell. The presence of a young black haired ‘cutie’ peering in through the tiny plexiglass panel encased in the door proved to be a nice surprise. Even the Doctor Name tag on her coat was a nice surprise. She looked like a classy dressed up call girl, playing doctor. My eyes shifted unto that of hers, observing her as she observed me. Her face was soft, like baby skin. Her flesh could rip open like butter, cut easily, and give way to a rich flow of blood. I could imagine her now, in my hands, blade pushed in her chocolate stained mouth, her eyes exploding in her head, clinging to life, gasping, dying. M’mm.
Her presence had turned me on. I felt an urge strongly rising. I wanted to make her my pet, keep her under the bed and play with her just awhile every night before going to sleep. She looked lonely, like she needed a good fuck. One of those girls that enjoyed a single life and put careers before relationships. She had more than likely slept with a few people to earn that little lab coat. And, there she was, standing proud in her whore-tainted coat, staring at me like a freak show circus display. I happily returned the favor, my nothingness eyes penetrating hers, like a freak in the mirror staring back at her. Naughty, naughty, little Katherine, yes, come into my cell, you know you want to, you want to play. Don’t you? I want to play, too. Go on, Ms. Doctor, keep staring, you love it. You like the robotic foot that was blown off my leg in a life outside of Connector City to a fuck named Jay Price, want to feel it against your fingertips. You’re a foot girl aren’t you? Yes, go on, get yourself a good view. Take the files home with you, carry them to bed, snuggle up, pour yourself a glass of wine.. yes, feel disgusted with yourself when you lick my photographs and rub down below. M’m. Doctor, you deserve a little of the right attention. I blinked, finally, ending the staring contest. My eyes darted down on the floor, where they soon remained.
Logan: Ahem.
The silence broke with the simple clearing of a throat. I hoped for a social visit; to hear her voice, just as much as she wanted to hear mine. I hadn’t spoken for anyone in months. She’d work.
Logan: Do you know where we are?
Katherine Phoenix: Blades Hospital.
Logan: And where is Blades Hospital located?
Katherine Phoenix: Connector City…
She looked a little puzzled.
Logan: And what’s outside of Connector City?
She had no answer. That’s because nothing at all existed outside of Connector City. She didn’t know it herself but she didn’t exist either, I was the only one in this hell that was real.
Logan: This place… I come here to Connector City sometimes when I can’t sleep. It helps me relax. But sometimes, like now, I get stuck… mere minutes in the real world feel like months here. Maybe I fell asleep. Do you think I’m sleeping right now, Doctor?
Katherine Phoenix: This is the real world, Logan. What else would there be?
Logan: Another place where I don’t kill my wrestling opponents or their relatives.
Katherine Phoenix: What if the other world you think is real is the one you’re actually dreaming in?
Logan: No. I know what’s real. This isn’t.
Katherine Phoenix: And why did you murder those people?
Logan: To brain fuck any of my Fifteen friends who might watch this.
Katherine Phoenix: There aren’t any cameras in here.
Logan: Do you know how many times I’ve degraded Steve Orbit’s own Mother in promos? I’ve lost count, but it never gets dull.
Katherine Phoenix: Detective Orbit?
Logan: Yes… that guy. You know in the real world you aren’t even half as smart as you are now. Katherine, a Doctor, ha!
Katherine Phoenix: In this… ‘real world’… how does murdering people here affect that?
Logan: It’s a symbolic gesture of saying fuck you more or less to everyone at Fifteen. Some people sit in front of a camera and talk directly to them, and that’s fine… I do that as well, but to get at your opponent this way? That’s entertainment my dear. It takes someone with a brain to do that, and let me tell you, Katherine, they all certainly lack one. I do have hopes for Bonnie Blue however. Even if the nut thinks she’s from the future.
Katherine Phoenix: Bonnie Blue, the woman you murdered?
Logan: Yes, that’d be her.
Katherine Phoenix: What did it feel like?
Logan: What?
Katherine Phoenix: To kill her?
Logan: I wouldn’t know but things might turn out differently this Sunday so ask me after then.
Katherine Phoenix: What’s so important about this Sunday?
Logan: Everything. The whole redemption point I made clear in my last promo hinges on my victory or defeat at Fifteen. Bonnie, Adams, Rabid, Orbit, Digger, none of them in this match get what I’m going through. They may feel the need to win but for me – I cannot lose. It would undo everything. It simply is not an option.
Katherine Phoenix: And in this ‘real’ world, what happens if you do win?
Logan: I get the next foot forward in the right direction. For years I’ve been taking a step back and back until for a moment I thought I had really tarnished my legacy. Maybe I did. This is about rebuilding it. Taking everything back that I have lost. Does someone like Johnny Rabid really think he can stop me?
She looked over the files searching for the name but never found it.
Katherine Phoenix: And he is?
Logan: An up and comer. Someone looking for their big match. Johnny just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Look, I’m not going to bullshit you lady, the guy has some talent, just like most of everyone else in the match – Gravedigger excluded – so it’d be a nice fairytale ending for him to win this big one, but this isn’t his tale… it’s mine, and in my fairytale I fuckin’ win! Simple as that. I look at the talent on the roster these days and I can hardly tell anybody apart. Sit Spencer Adams and Johnny Rabid next to one another for example. They’re clones. It’s like a gigantic circus of generic wrestlers who have somehow made it into a main event match. These are the type of people at WCF’s forefront these days, but no longer, not after I’m done with WCF. I will be the one who decides who is special and who isn’t. WCF will be mine again. Now shut up and let me out of this damn cell.
Katherine Phoenix: I cannot. You’re a killer.
Logan: I do whatever it takes to win.
Katherine Phoenix: Was it fun killing them?
Logan: And you think I’m the freak?
Katherine Phoenix: It’s uh… for research..
Logan: I’ve never killed anybody.
Katherine Phoenix: But you would to win this match of yours?
I had never thought about that before.
Logan: Yes. It’s that important to me, to risk spending the rest of my life in a cell in hopes that maybe I’d have my WCF back. Have you ever wanted something so badly that it makes your stomach fill with butterflies at every thought?
Katherine Phoenix: … yes.
Logan: That’s what Final Destination is to me and the next match after when I win.
Katherine Phoenix: And if you lose?
Logan: Then I’ll accept that WCF is no longer mine for the taking. My redemption would be over and a very lonely life would follow. Nobody wants that. Certainly not me. But with this win, Katherine, the World Champion becomes at my beck and call. Rather that’s Wade Moor or Jayson Price, probably Wade, I mean let’s be honest… his world will begin to revolve around me until he longer has that title. And with that championship I can rebuild WCF to my own liking. I rebuild everything. Do you think any of the people in this Fifteen match are going to be remembered when WCF has Thirty? No. Only me. The last fifteen years I built a legacy that people today who barely even know me are forced to recognize, with Fifteen and onwards I can build a legacy that people will come to know even after I’m long gone. Everything will be compared to Logan and every moment I had. That is what I want for myself in WCF, and that’s why no one – no Rabid or Orbit – is going to take that away from me. This place is what it is today because of me. Where is my damn respect? It’s nowhere to be found. I need to reinsert WCF with the understanding that I am the top guy and will always be the one you’re measured against. If Bonnie Blue truly is from the future, she herself must know this. Why is she hiding it from me and everyone else? Why can’t you just spill the beans, Bonnie, and let everyone know that I end up as WCF’s true one and only legend. You’re going have to drop a mountain on me to hold me down. And even then, I would break the rock with my fists, and scale to the top of it. Are you listening to me, Katherine? Who will stop me? WHO?
I pushed my face into the plexiglass. It frightened her.
Logan: Now let me out of this fuckin’ cell. I’ve had enough Connector City, it’s time to go back home and treat my good friends at Fifteen to an ass whooping they’ll never forget.
Katherine Phoenix: I cannot do that.
Logan: What do you mean you cannot do that? This is Connector City. My world. You do what I say!
Katherine Phoenix: You’ll hurt me… I don’t trust you yet.
Logan: Does that really matter? You aren’t even real.
Katherine: Like I said before, Logan, you need to accept that this could very well be the real world and this WCF you speak of is the fantasy you dream of. You’ve killed many people in Connector City. They will never ever let you out. You’re going to stay in this cell until the very day you perish. There is no Fifteen. No WCF. Now please, take your medication.
Logan: Haha… oh… how my brain betrays me.
Katherine Phoenix: It’ll make you feel better.
Logan: Hahaha! Hehehe! Oh! Will it? HAHA!
She shook her head. Maybe she expected to find a different type of nuts when she talked to me, but this made her realize all the patients in Blades Hospital were the same. Nothing was different about me. All the killers here had bizarre reasoning for why they did it. Even me. Wait… what am I saying..? She sealed the outer door to my cell shut, muffling my laughter.
Logan: Am I supposed to know who Adam Spencers and Johnny Rabid are? I do. They’re a couple of assholes.
And then sleep came at last, easier than it ever had. Television sets throughout the world occupied with the programming’s of The Walking Dead and various sets of production are far too over the hill to notice a lone channel that brings forth a black screen and a white Logan logo. Do visionaries exist; do they engulf an afternoon of attention into a program that won every award in every possible category in an alternate reality Emmy’s show? Who knew, the show had to go on either way, it always went on, and IT WILL go on, fellow troopers. The screen very quickly revealed a pleasant sight and what more pleasant of a sight could my face be. Oh, of course I addressed the camera, cranking my head to a tilt and burning a hole into the lens with my eyes, just usual tactics of course. Wasn’t I just sleeping a second ago? The difference between television or a ‘dreamvision’ felt mysterious.
Logan: Babygurls, Loganvisionaries, Trashcans all shapes, stinks, and sizes -
A dramatic fitting pause temporarily cuts my words short for proper effect. I felt as if it wasn’t me behind the voice, as if I was only going through motions and years catchphrases to sell shirts and hype Fifteen.
Logan: - … welcome; welcome to an actual good promo, nothing like the mess we’ve witnessed from the likes of Rabid or Adams. A promo that doesn’t drag on with speeches of how old Gravedigger is.. wait… I did that, but I did it differently. This is the boudleedition. Easy on the eyes. A true heart warmer.
Quite certainly viewers, if any, were sure to mouth the said words, ‘boudledition’, with great confusion, given if they cared enough in the first place to actually feel confused.
Logan: We have very special guests today and I’m not being dramatic or exaggerating in the least, VERY special guests. Go on; get a shot of this contender, this contestant of WCF’s Fifteen match!
The camera follows the direction of my finger which points to a man in ragged clothes, presumably a homeless citizen of Mesa, idly and with no emotion whatsoever holding a sign to his chest in both hands that sloppily reads in black sharpie magic, ‘Johnny Rabid’.
Logan: Oh yeah, betcha trashcan ass that this promo offers the brightest and freshest of WCF assholes. And hey.. HEY.
I snapped my fingers very directly to grasp the attention of the camera back onto myself, which had wondered.
Logan: That’s not the only one, babygurl, no-no we’ve got a room full of boudles! Who do we have? You hold that camera steady and stop looking at my crotch and I’ll tell you. We have… Spencer Adams…
Very respectively and so matter-of-factly I took a moment to shed a small clap of appreciation. It was all sarcasm.
Logan: Not only just those but we’re going to have a ring full of boudles! A matter of fact, so many that we don’t even really have a clue. However, we’ve narrowed some of them down.
Johnny Rabid or whether the bum holding the ‘Johnny Rabid’ sign quietly raised his hand.
Logan: Well, lookie here. You didn’t seem as shy last Sunday on Slam when you attacked me from behind. Can I help your stinking ass with something, Rabid?
Bum Rabid:: When do I get paid?
Logan: Of course. That’s all your worried about isn’t it? Getting paid?
Bum Rabid:: That’s why you asked me to-
Logan: SHUT UP!
Bum Rabid:: We are getting paid aren’t –
Logan: SHUT UP!
Bum Rabid:: But I nee-
Logan: SHUT UP!
And finally the fellow cooperated, filling the room with an awkward silence.
Bum Rabid:: …
Logan: Go on, Johnny Rabid. Did you have something to say?
Bum Rabid:: Yes.
Logan: Oh?
Bum Rabid:: You’re not going to tell me to shut up?
Logan: Are you kidding me? No way.
He was very hesitant to speak at first but he did eventually.
Bum Rabid:: Okay. I haven’t eaten anything in over two days, and while I hate to rush you, I would really like to know when we will be rec-
Logan: SHUT UP!
The bum took a long moment to stare at me with frustration before slamming his sign down onto the floor and marching out of the locker room.
Logan: Quitting already, Rabid? Yeah, you do that. You walk out just like you will at Fifteen, defeated, having finally faced real talent like myself.
Many of the other contestants began shuffling their feet and appeared to be weary of continuing.
Logan: Hey! HEY! Don’t let that guy get you down, boudles. You still have a chance. You might just be able to come out of this thing as the runner-up, and hey.. that’s not bad. You aren’t going to be the WCF number one contender like I will, but at least you’ll be able to say, ‘If it wasn’t for Logan I would have won that thing.’ That’s something isn’t it? Right, Spencer Adams?
The bum version of Spencer Adam opened his eyes and he broke an afternoon nap. He pushed himself from the wall he was resting on, gripping the sign in his hands, and trying his best to pay a little attention.
Bum Adams:: Right.. right.
He answered idly; unfortunately unaware of anything that was going on.
Logan: Guy like you, ‘cuse me, boudle like you probably thinks he has a lot coming into this match doesn’t he? Never won the big one before, finally looking for his big break. Hey guess what buddy? I’m sorry. Mr. WCF is in this match. Maybe next time.
Bum Adams:: Match? Uh, oh yeah.
Adam the bummed quietly mouthed the words ‘match?’ to a bum colleague standing next to him.
Logan: Who the fuck you talking to? How many homeless bastards showed up for this? You probably think that this will be easy breezy don’t you, that you shouldn’t need to worry about the star of Fifteen.
Bum Adams:: Yup, yup.
Logan: I like you, Adams.
Bum Adams:: I like you.
Logan: Come here..
Bum Adams:: Huh?
Logan: Give me a hug.
With a little grin, bum Spencer Adams approached, his garbage-like arms extended. However, once he got within hugging distance, I changed my demeanor, appearing disgusted.
Logan: What’re you doing?
A much surprised Bum Adams responded.
Bum Adams:: I’m giving you a hu-
Logan: SHUT UP! Why?
Bum Adams:: You asked me t-
Logan: SHUT UP! I did not.
The bum version of Steve Orbit volunteered a hand.
Bum Orbit:: Did too.
Logan: You put that damn hand down, Orbit. What the hell are you doing here anyway? I already made fun of your sorry ass in my last promo. You got murdered, boudle, you didn’t make it to the second one.
Bum Adams:: Do you still want to hug?
Lpgan: No. What’s wrong with you bums, you’re all high and freaked out off trashcan fumes. None of you are winning Fifteen so stop talking about it, and on one here is getting a hug. Period.
Bum Adams:: If we’re not going to hug then could you at least tell me when we’re getting paid?
Logan: Paid?
Bum Adams:: Ye-
Logan: SHUT UP!
Big sigh came from Bum Adams.
Logan: None of you boudles are getting paid.
Now, I had officially turned a room full of hungry bums into a room full of angry bums.
Logan: HEY! Who are you looking at like that, Spencer Adams? Does it look like we’re in the middle of a Final Destination match -
The bums (with no pun intended) bum rushed me. I pushed the cameraman into the onslaught of approaching hungry bums, escaping out of the room by the skin of my teeth, leaving the cameraman’s fate in question. Screen faded. The gigantic bold letters of Logan filled television screens over and throughout the world once more to anyone suicidal or bored enough or without cable to commit the slightest of interest for a viewing. The letters transcend into the bottom right hand corner of the screen, resizing to a smaller font and then remaining still. Other than the small white Logan logo, the rest of the screen remained black, failing further to provide any fulfillment or enjoyment to the already small group of amused lacking watchers. And then with the entire dramatic intentions one could imagine, a my face appeared in bold heroic fashion; neck cocked just slightly, gaze strong and true, lips stamped shut, and eyes locked onto the tiny audience of hopeful new fans of 2016… Logan fans. I took a brief moment that lasted a few seconds, exhaling focused air before wetting my lips and addressing the camera.
Logan: Many of you may know me…
My eyes strongly glued into those of the potential watchers.
Logan: And some of you may not. And for those who do not, for those certain people who have been hiding in the lice infested bushes of Johnny Rabid’s armpits; my name is the name that’ll soon be hung up on the walls of your children’s rooms, the name that will be inked upon your skin, a name that is synonymous with great, and that name ladies and gentlemen… is LOGAN!
A proper nod of acknowledgment filled the screen.
Logan: The true star of Fifteen and the star of your hearts. Your girlfriends will soon ignore you; they’ll be spending Sunday nights getting warm and uncomfortable under the blankets waiting for me to come on Slam. And they will see me. And they will begin asking you to act a certain way. And after a while you’ll be asked to change your name to Logan. And I can’t help that, no, I can’t, but that’s how it is. That’s who I am. That’s my business. But it’s not just the girls that will be affected. Everyone is in danger. More importantly, WCF is in danger.
More nodding is displayed in furious manner.
Logan: Because of this girlfriend stealing face and these world champion wrestling abilities, Fifteen is in very immediate danger of becoming the best show next to Ash vs Evil Dead in the history of television!
It’s hard not to imagine that quite a few viewers eyes rolled over such a bold statement.
Logan: And that’s a promise, no, that’s a damn fact. It’s a matter of living like breathing. You have too; you have to tune in every Sunday to watch me. Quite frankly, the WCF NEEDS me. Soon that will be realized like Johnny Rabid needs a bar a soap, you will need me. I’ll be here for you and I will never leave you. Do you think you’re going to see Spencer Adams in two months if even one month now that I’m back around? No, absolutely not. He’s the type of guy that goes nowhere but down in this business. With just a matter of time you’ll see less and less of him and before you know it your television sets will be stink-free, and you just might even catch that bum looking bastard taking your money and handing you change at a McDonalds drive-through! He has no future here, especially now that I am here – the legend of WCF – the only true legend. Everyone else that made it is just Hall of Fame filler so I’m not discriminated against. I am the only true WCF legend.
I paused merely before catching back up.
Logan: But enough about me, what about you? How many of you have grown tired with watching generic robot talking hacks clogging up the show every week. H’m? I know I am. These so called superstars have no class, no style. It’s like they cloned a bunch of boring wrestlers, shoved them down a retards throat, and out he shit Fifteen. I’m the only reason this show is going to get any views. Do you think anyone cares about watching Creeping Death get retired… again? Do you think anyone really expects a Bonnie Blue to win such a high profile match now that I’m in it? Don’t get your hopes up ladies, that Bonnie Blue was better off when she was a man. Did that make sense? I don’t know. Nothing about Bonnie ever made a lick of sense to me.
Just at the bottom of the screen flashed a small caption that reads, ‘applause’.
Logan: I’m giving the WCF a little cure, a shot, an ass-whooping-entertaining filled syringe that can only come from the greatest wrestler in WCF history – the Face of Treachery! Would you like this shot now? Roll up your sleeve.
The following is a scripted promo produced by Logan for WCF’s entertainment. Characters are portrayed by actors and no one is ever seriously hurt or killed. Maybe.
Once upon a time in Connector City… Bonnie Blue (an actor portraying her of course, not the actual character) jogged past the newspaper stand, oblivious to the latest bold front page headliner, “Logan kills again! Too bad it wasn’t Torture this time!”, her attention was more focused on the motivating music that blared from her Ipod and into her eardrums. This nightly jog had become too routine to make her feel any immediate danger. She felt safe. Within her mind – she’d never be that person who got robbed, she’d never be that person read about in the Sunday paper that was abducted and murdered. Her own personal little world was far too comfortable to take the threat of a Connector City serial killer seriously. Much to her surprise, however, another individual’s fantasy would soon transform her reality. Rhymed footsteps slapped the concrete behind her. She softened the volume of her Ipod, her ears keening in on the approaching presence. Then – suddenly – a calm warm voice spoke out.
Logan: Hi.
Another fellow night jogger, she assumed, glancing over at the source of the voice, which, was a built tall guy in sweatpants and a black hoody - me. With the Ipod headphones still plugged in her ears, she opted to pretend not to hear me. However, I persisted, keeping pace by her side.
Logan: I like your shoes.
She nodded briefly, acknowledging the compliment of her red sneakers before picking up speed in an attempt to lose me. Had I made an impression on ole’ Bonnie Blue? She looked a little spooked.
Something I said next planted her feet into the pavement – halting all movement.
Logan: Bonnie, have you talked to your Mother lately? Assuming you can even speak with people from the future in our current time.
The unsettling question forced her into turning to face me. The question was odd – odd – because she wasn’t sure if I might be a friend trying to scare her given that I knew her name, or maybe play a prank on her, and because the question in itself, if it was a joke for that matter, did not sound playful by any means. Matter of fact, the question offended her. She stared, trying to see my face through the black hoody that shadowed it.
Bonnie Blue: No.
Logan: Your Mother, we should talk about her.
The night sky failed to give her eyes any reading of my face. Now slightly frustrated and confused, her voice shed some temper.
Bonnie Blue: I’m sorry. Do I know you?
Logan: NO!
The rage filled shout echoed the empty street – a street she now just nervously realized was empty.
Logan: Your Mother knows me, Bonnie… she does.
I finally quit approaching her, stopping just feet away, this slightly calmed a bit of tension on her part. Still, however, she could not make out exactly who I was.
Bonnie Blue: How do you know my Mother? Who are yo –
Anxiously, I interrupted her.
Logan: We were only properly introduced a few hours ago.
Quickly continuing after a brief pause, her ears are forced to listen, and her mouth to be kept closed.
Logan: She’s incredible. I think her piss could even power my automobile.
She looked puzzled, that slightly turned me on, but not in a sexual sense.
Bonnie Blue: What?
Logan: Well, duh, it was all that gasoline she drank, gallons of it! I made her drink it. I told her that if she could down three gallons, piss into an old lawnmower AND start it.. then I would let her go. And you know what? The lawnmower actually started! Fired to life! Right on the first pull!
Bonnie Blue: Is this some kind of joke?
She didn’t know what else to say about the terrifying story.
Logan: Yes, actually, it is.
Oh – how she sighed with relief. She laughed, awkwardly, finding the amusement disturbing.
Bonnie Blue: My Mother put you up to this, right? Gosh. She has such a dry sense of humor.
Somewhere inside that black hollow hoody she could tell that I was probably smirking.
Logan: No. She is dead. I beat her to death. Then… I fucked her.
Some joke. Deep down, however, she could not help but feel the need to take me serious enough to call her Mother, just to reassure herself that this was a joke played on her by her Mother, or, she had just happened to stumble across a weirdo tonight. She punched in the digit on her cellphone, speed dialing her Mother’s number. A silent ring with a faint light glowed and screamed inside my pants pocket. Oops. Horror struck her face – even moreso – when I playfully answered the phone with sarcastic sneer.
Logan: Hello, Bonnie. It’s Logan!
Panic. She had to get away. Her feet moved too fast. She tripped over herself.
Logan: You should be thanking me, Bonnie. Your Mother isn’t going to be able to witness her Daughters lackluster performance this Sunday.
Her eyes soon rolled back into her skull, fainting, as she felt the leather of my glove covered hands around her wrists, dragging her body somewhere dark to hide disturbing acts. The next day Momma Blue, the obvious Mother of Bonnie Blue, sat frozen in her chair – reading the newspaper article laid out before her. Her boy toy, Doc Henry, lovingly at her side. Both of their eyes engulfed with tears as the paper read…
Late last night, the deceased body of a young woman was found (later to be identified as Bonnie Blue) inside the abandoned apartment complex of Boudle Springs. A half-eaten hotdog was found at the crime scene leading many to believe that Bonnie Blue was another innocent victim of the Logan killings that have haunted Connector City the last three months. The police refused to release any additional details. Our condolences respectably go out to the family of Bonnie Blue.
Her face implanted itself into Doc’s chest. His hand soothingly patted over her back.
Doc Henry: They’ll get this bastard, Momma Blue. Former pimp now detective, Steve Orbit, already told me they had a big lead. He said your cell phone was found with Bonnie AND that her cell phone was missing! Remember? A few days ago you recalled your cellphone being stolen during the time that you were in the subway? Momma Blue, they have surveillance videos. And, if he still has her cell phone.. they can GPS it or something! They can find this guy. They can.
She continued weeping, knowing rather or not they did catch me, her daughter would be lost forever. Meanwhile, over at the police station, also known as jobber land.
Detective Orbit: Chief! Chief!
Frantically, detective Orbit spilled into the Chief’s office.
Chief: Damnit, Steve!
The Chief was busy looking over surveillance videos of a subway, the detective’s excitement nearly pushed the Chief into a heart attack.
Chief: What is it? Jonny Fly bullying you again, boy?
Three simple words shook the entire station.
Detective Orbit: We’ve found him.
And the Chief almost finally had that heart attack. Everyone shifted their heads from desks, focusing attention on the conversation between detective Orbit and the Chief.
Chief: L-l-ogan?
Detective Orbit: Yes! We tracked the cell phone, and, assuming he kept it – GPS marked him right NEXT DOOR.
As if a fire had just erupted inside the building, every officer, staff, and employee of Connector City’s law enforcement jumped from their feet and tried to chaotically exit the room at once. People rushed down the hall, running into locker rooms, strapping on bullet proof jackets, loading their arms with pistols, shotguns, and whatever else that could make a bang. A group was quickly assembled, surrounding the apartment building next to the police station that I was believed to be residing. A GPS tracker held in Steve Orbit’s hands, he directed the SWAT-like trio of men through the building, reaching a door, kicking it down and, surprisingly, there I sat.
Logan: Hi, Steve Orbit. Couldn’t count you out this time could I?
Detective Orbit: Your days are numbered, hotdog boy.
The room was a complete mess. Photographs of ex-victims sloppily pasted onto walls, mirrors, even floors, scribbles of red colored crude written messages decorated over the room, half eaten hotdogs scattering the carpets surface. And, amongst the pigsty, there I sat. There I simply sat, casually seated at the edge of a bed. The cell phone that led the police to me grasped in my hand. Dressed like a mad man; a white coat turned red, dirty from blood, blonde hair just as dirty going in every which place but straight, face completely emotionless. I simply stared ahead not even acknowledging the police men as they busted through the door, rushed me, and clubbed me down like a Torture piñata. Days had passed. Just outside a steel door, outside the room that housed a bed ridden strap jacketed self, Orbit and a public defender spoke.
Attorney: Why do you have my client restrained like this?
Detective Orbit: Are you serious? He killed two prisoners and a guard over a fuckin’ hotdog!
The lawyer peeked through the small opening into my cell.
Attorney: Erm… has he said anything yet?
Orbit joined the lawyer’s side, also looking over at me
Detective Orbit: Not one word.
Orbit paused.
Detective Orbit: Monstrous – isn’t he?
The defense attorney nodded in agreement.
Attorney: I’m going to need to look over the case files.
He had a case to prepare, after all.
Attorney: Have you gone over the victims with my client?
Orbit nodded, before signaling the attorney to follow him into another room.
Detective Orbit: Yes, we spent hours in interrogation with him, shoving photographs of victims under his nose, pimp slapping him, keeping him in the hot seat, but, it never did any good. Even dangling a hotdog over his mouth got no response. No emotion. No expression.
The attorney shook his head.
Detective Orbit: Here you are.
The detective pulled open a steel cabinet drawer, reaching in and grabbing an arm load of files. He dropped them on a table, the weight of the files making a clunk upon impact. Carefully, he individually sorted through them, the lawyer looked on in disgust.
Detective Orbit: Violet Orbit, his first known victim, well, the first we’re aware of.
Attorney: Violet Orbit?
Detective Orbit: Yes… my Mother.
Attorney: I’m so sorry.
The detective continued on somehow maintaining a straight face.
Detective Orbit: He took his time with her. All of her organs were missing, took them for trophies, we assume. She was ripped open from her belly button to her neck. That wasn’t what killed her, though, no.. he force fed her gun powder first. Made her consume all sorts of chemicals; acid, oil, bleach, even human feces THEN we believe, that he ripped her open, and maybe even ate her liver, heart, lungs, bladder, whatever was empowering. Yes, he directed an ultimate form of expression with Violet. Killed her in more ways than one. Took everything from her. Her pride, dignity, her life, her beating heart. Ripped her open and ate her alive.
The lawyer cringed.
Connector City channel six reports: After months of thrilling court sessions and surprising twists, the jury finally reached a verdict this afternoon on what was named ‘The Trial of The Century’. Judge Davis sentenced Connector City’s serial killer to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
The killers alias; Logan, and Hotdog Boy, which was a name dubbed by the public for his signature trademark of leaving half eaten hotdogs at crime scenes - identity still remains a mystery. He did not utter a single word during the entire trial nor did he show any remorse at all during the testimony of the victims’ relatives and close friends. Logan, who was charged with the murder of eight women, six men, and three children, has become the only serial killer in Connector City history to not receive the death penalty due to plea of insanity. Most of the public was outraged by the judge’s sentence. Even more so with the fact that he’ll serve the first ten of his two hundred year sentence as a patient in Blades hospital. The doctors of Blades believe that this will be a great opportunity to help understand the mind of a killer. Logan is expected to arrive at the hospital sometime tomorrow morning.
Enter Katherine Phoenix. People questioned her sanity for wanting to intern at Blades Hospital, the most looneist of bins in Connector City. She was called suicidal. It hadn't been the first time she'd heard those words, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Maybe she was just as nuts as the guys behind the bars, volunteering in such a dismal, gloomy place. One patient would be laughing, loudly, as if they were watching America's Funniest Home Videos on repeat, and the next hiding in the corner, crying about spiders or something equally heinous. Oh, they were so strange. She loved it, really. Loved it to a strange extent. It almost scared the girl, fresh out of college and into the real world. No, this was not some college course where everything was watched carefully and no one got hurt. No, this was real life, and these were real criminals - the crazy kind, the ones you couldn't easily reason with over anything because they had no real reason for doing what they did, except they liked to do it. Katherine’s kitten heels tapped against the concrete floor as she looked from one cell to the other, surveying the scene as best she could and then shaking her head a bit, heading back to her office. Her lip pursed a bit, looking into one empty cell, the door standing open. There was a clamor down the hallway, a few guards making some noise and then appearing into view, holding the newest patient addition to the cell block. Katherine’s eyes narrowed, watching as I didn't seem to struggle or fight like most did, instead walking along with a peculiar looking smile on my face, almost happy to be there. She made a face. I'd be an interesting case, indeed. One of the other interns stopped beside her, the brunette's glasses coming off as they hauled me into my cell, locking it up tight. I did nothing, really, but stand there.
Katherine Phoenix: Who’s this one?
Intern: Ain't sure, really. No one knows who he really is. But he calls himself Logan.
Katherine frowned and looked towards me, watching me mill about in my cell as the other girl wandered off. A brand new patient, a brand new intern. She smiled a bit, unconsciously mostly, before sauntering off towards her office to dig up my file. She wanted this one, just not sure why at all. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and whistled a bit, heading inside the little closet they'd given her for an office, closing the door behind her and peeling her coat off, tossing it onto the chair opposite her desk and heading to a file cabinet, at least before something on her desk caught her eye. She frowned a bit, closing the drawer and heading over to her desk, looking at the small flower than laid on her desk on top of a cream colored patient file. She walked around the desk, peeling open a drawer and taking out a chocolate bar she'd hid inside earlier, breaking off a piece and tossing it in her mouth before opening the file. There I was, staring back at her. Katherine looked it over, reading my stats and looking at the face of a serial killer with interest, flipping to the next page and looking over the name and details of the first crime. The packet inside the folder seemed to be endless, naming one right after the other horrendous things that I had done, all with some strange sense of sick, dark humor to them that made Katherine a little uncomfortable to say the least. The end of the papers came at last, but not nearly soon enough for her. She swallowed hard, scratching at her head a bit nervously and taking a deep breath, one final block of chocolate in her mouth, she stood up and looked at the mirror she'd hung up. Her hands smoothed down her black locks, pushing her hair back into its bun that sat on the back of her head. Her coat on once again, she headed out the door and back towards the new patient. I was still doing nothing extraordinary, sitting there like I had done nothing. She crossed her arms and peered into the cell, content to watch me like an animal at the zoo for now.
I sat on the hard wooden bench within the cell, idly acknowledging the flat surface; I shifted my bottom to adjust. The eight by eight plain empty block walled room was all I had for now. No more murderous nights, hotdogs, or women to play with – no more – just an orange jump suit, and a thin pillow with a sheet to match. Within an entire week, I’d only be allowed to have two showers, a single hour of outside life – which consisted of standing inside a small locked cage in the courtyard, and if on good behavior, an evening of television every other Friday. This was my new life. Seemingly, it didn’t bother me. I had turned himself in – more or less. Did I want to be here? Deep down, was I thriving? No one had a clue. I had not uttered a single word since being captured. Become mute. And, still, after months of police investigations, profiling, and therapy visits, my motivations, much like my identity, remained mysterious. They intended to break me when they placed me in Blades, they needed to, had to, before transferring me back into a life sentence of prison. I was very aware of this. Chocolate breath leaked in from the door of the cell. The presence of a young black haired ‘cutie’ peering in through the tiny plexiglass panel encased in the door proved to be a nice surprise. Even the Doctor Name tag on her coat was a nice surprise. She looked like a classy dressed up call girl, playing doctor. My eyes shifted unto that of hers, observing her as she observed me. Her face was soft, like baby skin. Her flesh could rip open like butter, cut easily, and give way to a rich flow of blood. I could imagine her now, in my hands, blade pushed in her chocolate stained mouth, her eyes exploding in her head, clinging to life, gasping, dying. M’mm.
Her presence had turned me on. I felt an urge strongly rising. I wanted to make her my pet, keep her under the bed and play with her just awhile every night before going to sleep. She looked lonely, like she needed a good fuck. One of those girls that enjoyed a single life and put careers before relationships. She had more than likely slept with a few people to earn that little lab coat. And, there she was, standing proud in her whore-tainted coat, staring at me like a freak show circus display. I happily returned the favor, my nothingness eyes penetrating hers, like a freak in the mirror staring back at her. Naughty, naughty, little Katherine, yes, come into my cell, you know you want to, you want to play. Don’t you? I want to play, too. Go on, Ms. Doctor, keep staring, you love it. You like the robotic foot that was blown off my leg in a life outside of Connector City to a fuck named Jay Price, want to feel it against your fingertips. You’re a foot girl aren’t you? Yes, go on, get yourself a good view. Take the files home with you, carry them to bed, snuggle up, pour yourself a glass of wine.. yes, feel disgusted with yourself when you lick my photographs and rub down below. M’m. Doctor, you deserve a little of the right attention. I blinked, finally, ending the staring contest. My eyes darted down on the floor, where they soon remained.
Logan: Ahem.
The silence broke with the simple clearing of a throat. I hoped for a social visit; to hear her voice, just as much as she wanted to hear mine. I hadn’t spoken for anyone in months. She’d work.
Logan: Do you know where we are?
Katherine Phoenix: Blades Hospital.
Logan: And where is Blades Hospital located?
Katherine Phoenix: Connector City…
She looked a little puzzled.
Logan: And what’s outside of Connector City?
She had no answer. That’s because nothing at all existed outside of Connector City. She didn’t know it herself but she didn’t exist either, I was the only one in this hell that was real.
Logan: This place… I come here to Connector City sometimes when I can’t sleep. It helps me relax. But sometimes, like now, I get stuck… mere minutes in the real world feel like months here. Maybe I fell asleep. Do you think I’m sleeping right now, Doctor?
Katherine Phoenix: This is the real world, Logan. What else would there be?
Logan: Another place where I don’t kill my wrestling opponents or their relatives.
Katherine Phoenix: What if the other world you think is real is the one you’re actually dreaming in?
Logan: No. I know what’s real. This isn’t.
Katherine Phoenix: And why did you murder those people?
Logan: To brain fuck any of my Fifteen friends who might watch this.
Katherine Phoenix: There aren’t any cameras in here.
Logan: Do you know how many times I’ve degraded Steve Orbit’s own Mother in promos? I’ve lost count, but it never gets dull.
Katherine Phoenix: Detective Orbit?
Logan: Yes… that guy. You know in the real world you aren’t even half as smart as you are now. Katherine, a Doctor, ha!
Katherine Phoenix: In this… ‘real world’… how does murdering people here affect that?
Logan: It’s a symbolic gesture of saying fuck you more or less to everyone at Fifteen. Some people sit in front of a camera and talk directly to them, and that’s fine… I do that as well, but to get at your opponent this way? That’s entertainment my dear. It takes someone with a brain to do that, and let me tell you, Katherine, they all certainly lack one. I do have hopes for Bonnie Blue however. Even if the nut thinks she’s from the future.
Katherine Phoenix: Bonnie Blue, the woman you murdered?
Logan: Yes, that’d be her.
Katherine Phoenix: What did it feel like?
Logan: What?
Katherine Phoenix: To kill her?
Logan: I wouldn’t know but things might turn out differently this Sunday so ask me after then.
Katherine Phoenix: What’s so important about this Sunday?
Logan: Everything. The whole redemption point I made clear in my last promo hinges on my victory or defeat at Fifteen. Bonnie, Adams, Rabid, Orbit, Digger, none of them in this match get what I’m going through. They may feel the need to win but for me – I cannot lose. It would undo everything. It simply is not an option.
Katherine Phoenix: And in this ‘real’ world, what happens if you do win?
Logan: I get the next foot forward in the right direction. For years I’ve been taking a step back and back until for a moment I thought I had really tarnished my legacy. Maybe I did. This is about rebuilding it. Taking everything back that I have lost. Does someone like Johnny Rabid really think he can stop me?
She looked over the files searching for the name but never found it.
Katherine Phoenix: And he is?
Logan: An up and comer. Someone looking for their big match. Johnny just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Look, I’m not going to bullshit you lady, the guy has some talent, just like most of everyone else in the match – Gravedigger excluded – so it’d be a nice fairytale ending for him to win this big one, but this isn’t his tale… it’s mine, and in my fairytale I fuckin’ win! Simple as that. I look at the talent on the roster these days and I can hardly tell anybody apart. Sit Spencer Adams and Johnny Rabid next to one another for example. They’re clones. It’s like a gigantic circus of generic wrestlers who have somehow made it into a main event match. These are the type of people at WCF’s forefront these days, but no longer, not after I’m done with WCF. I will be the one who decides who is special and who isn’t. WCF will be mine again. Now shut up and let me out of this damn cell.
Katherine Phoenix: I cannot. You’re a killer.
Logan: I do whatever it takes to win.
Katherine Phoenix: Was it fun killing them?
Logan: And you think I’m the freak?
Katherine Phoenix: It’s uh… for research..
Logan: I’ve never killed anybody.
Katherine Phoenix: But you would to win this match of yours?
I had never thought about that before.
Logan: Yes. It’s that important to me, to risk spending the rest of my life in a cell in hopes that maybe I’d have my WCF back. Have you ever wanted something so badly that it makes your stomach fill with butterflies at every thought?
Katherine Phoenix: … yes.
Logan: That’s what Final Destination is to me and the next match after when I win.
Katherine Phoenix: And if you lose?
Logan: Then I’ll accept that WCF is no longer mine for the taking. My redemption would be over and a very lonely life would follow. Nobody wants that. Certainly not me. But with this win, Katherine, the World Champion becomes at my beck and call. Rather that’s Wade Moor or Jayson Price, probably Wade, I mean let’s be honest… his world will begin to revolve around me until he longer has that title. And with that championship I can rebuild WCF to my own liking. I rebuild everything. Do you think any of the people in this Fifteen match are going to be remembered when WCF has Thirty? No. Only me. The last fifteen years I built a legacy that people today who barely even know me are forced to recognize, with Fifteen and onwards I can build a legacy that people will come to know even after I’m long gone. Everything will be compared to Logan and every moment I had. That is what I want for myself in WCF, and that’s why no one – no Rabid or Orbit – is going to take that away from me. This place is what it is today because of me. Where is my damn respect? It’s nowhere to be found. I need to reinsert WCF with the understanding that I am the top guy and will always be the one you’re measured against. If Bonnie Blue truly is from the future, she herself must know this. Why is she hiding it from me and everyone else? Why can’t you just spill the beans, Bonnie, and let everyone know that I end up as WCF’s true one and only legend. You’re going have to drop a mountain on me to hold me down. And even then, I would break the rock with my fists, and scale to the top of it. Are you listening to me, Katherine? Who will stop me? WHO?
I pushed my face into the plexiglass. It frightened her.
Logan: Now let me out of this fuckin’ cell. I’ve had enough Connector City, it’s time to go back home and treat my good friends at Fifteen to an ass whooping they’ll never forget.
Katherine Phoenix: I cannot do that.
Logan: What do you mean you cannot do that? This is Connector City. My world. You do what I say!
Katherine Phoenix: You’ll hurt me… I don’t trust you yet.
Logan: Does that really matter? You aren’t even real.
Katherine: Like I said before, Logan, you need to accept that this could very well be the real world and this WCF you speak of is the fantasy you dream of. You’ve killed many people in Connector City. They will never ever let you out. You’re going to stay in this cell until the very day you perish. There is no Fifteen. No WCF. Now please, take your medication.
Logan: Haha… oh… how my brain betrays me.
Katherine Phoenix: It’ll make you feel better.
Logan: Hahaha! Hehehe! Oh! Will it? HAHA!
She shook her head. Maybe she expected to find a different type of nuts when she talked to me, but this made her realize all the patients in Blades Hospital were the same. Nothing was different about me. All the killers here had bizarre reasoning for why they did it. Even me. Wait… what am I saying..? She sealed the outer door to my cell shut, muffling my laughter.
