Post by Logan on Aug 9, 2017 12:38:13 GMT -5
Chapter 1
Eyes bulged,
Emotions soared,
They rejected the true Lord,
His waist covered with the world,
They still rejected the true Lord,
Many fled and bled their feelings,
Upon a message board,
No longer accepted,
Only rejected,
By the envious hoards.
Lord Logan Saladin, The Rejection
Within the deep absence of WCF that has lacked a shred of entertainment since my last presence a year and ‘loose chaffed Lilith’ change ago, I had became a poet, and according to a recent review done by myself; the world’s greatest living one. Not that I needed the self-assurance. Genius such as mine and perhaps only mine, I have yet to meet an equal, could have the fluids sweated from every pore and bottled into a brilliant wine that could also substitute as a popular perfume to battle the ranks of industry for generations to follow. My poems were also featured among an article in The World’s Greatest Poet: Lord Saladin. The title spoke for itself. My association with poetry succeeded from unmatched talent built from wrestling. If I was indeed the world’s greatest wrestler than I must be wrestling’s greatest promo, which I was, so it was not impossible to also think that since promos and poems shared a similarity that I also could and would become the world’s greatest poet.
Logan: Shooting myself in the face was quite possibly the best therapy I could ever find. Therefore, perhaps, and only the slightest perhaps, I deem myself the world’s greatest therapist as well.
The Doctor paid me little mind. He, too, had spent the last three days awake with a mind swimming in an intoxicated state that rotted his gut with – by now – at least a bucket of Jack Daniels. Never mind liters, ounces, shots, or gallons. We could only recall our measure by the bucket at this point. And I suspected over those last three days we’d drunken enough to fill three or four.
Logan: I once shot a man for paying me no mind.
I fidgeted with the upper strap on the black leather patch hiding my hollow eye socket.
Logan: However…
That was all my slurred vocals allowed. Drifting into blackout, a memory I would not recall, but of another memory – the day I, no, the day WCF murdered my music. I had just finished a disgraceful bout with an opponent who hardly equaled the same intelligence of common house mice. There was a first time for everything I suppose, and that night after many years failing his dealings with me, Oblivion finally received his golden ticket. It’s not like I hadn’t defended the belt against the brainless quack a week prior, for I did, and I was nothing if not a fighting champion, and I surely was. I cannot nail any acknowledgements on Oblivion’s part for sealing the deal. He never arose to any occasion of genius that it may take to unman me and unstrap my belt. The victory of Oblivion was not his, nor mine. It was that of the very company that I helped to shape. It’s not a mystery that seventy percent of the roster vanished after my coming out briefcase party, and the only surprising feature of said mystery is that they were… surprised. You might as well give a dog a bone. He’s going to gnaw it, lick the morrow from its depths. When most of WCF’s employees vanished after the unmanning of Joey Flash, I detected no prior whispers or rumblings as to rather or not this dog would have a chew. Only when and then that I slurped out the morrow did the fits begin. Logan did this. Logan that. Enter witch-hunt. Enter infamous Mexico Incident. An incident I myself was completely innocent of, for what is a dog supposed to do when presented a bone; a bone that he damn well earned. Since the WCF as a whole failed to accept my success, neither could I, and if you weren’t in WCF for success then what business did you seek by even being there? My answer was simple; splatter my brains on a locker wall to destroy any further brutalizing thoughts of this betraying company and its cold hearted inhabitants.
Chapter 2
Alone at last!
To reflect the past,
Oh how this may hardly last,
The shout of a blast could only weaken my grasp,
For the killing gun decayed a final laugh,
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Lord Logan Saladin, Prelude to Maddening Sleep
The very last anguish recalled the taste of gunpowder shattering the roof in my mouth, spraying shards of fleshly bone upwards through nostrils and chunks downwards onto a crazed spasm tongue. This bullet point required bare minimum presentation. Discharge a firearm into your own face if you’re one for details. However, details I will give, since I myself have eaten thirty eight caliber and live to speak on it – if only I – given my unique abilities to survive where countless others have perished in the act of suicide. Such too strong for a trivial send off. Where I expected the bullet to enter, it did not, and my brain was left unscathed. The exit nonetheless surprised the function of vision once it ripped through an eye socket and left a splatter of pupil matter upon my left cheek. The gunshot apparently summoned one nearby, who found heroism to kick in my locker door, and then disgust once they witnessed my stunned carcass leaning over a bench with half an eyeball hanging from socket.
: Are you okay?
Could hardly remember his name or this event though it felt the mere breath of his words were enough wind to blow the eyeball from cheek. It hit the tile with a splat.
Logan: Are you the Devil?
: No.
Too bad. I reached for the gun to fire off another round. My new found lack of vision made it difficult to discover.
Logan: Shoot me once more would you? I’d like to meet him.
Whatever dialogue followed after lapped off a foreign tongue, for I had little control of this dying state, and yet I loved it.
Logan: Could you direct me, or my hand, to a gun? My foot is even capable. I possess strong toes.
The blackness hit stealing my conscious with it. The precise memory that succeeded crippling onto damp tile brought my only eye locked to the studying eyes of a man I had never before met. His clothes not belonging to any era I had witnessed. Breaking from this man’s stare, I also discovered the surroundings proved uncertain; walls made of cobblestone caked together by hay and mud, floors and furniture smelled sweet of dark cherry wood. Upon further inspection, I too was clad in unusual attire fitted from a past century.
Logan: Who are you?
He presented his name with a graceful bow before my feet.
George Manson: Your loyal servant, George Manson, my Lord.
This was either an elaborate prank played on me after recovery, or I had accidentally discovered the feat of time travel via a bullet to the mouth, or maybe death found me and this was a form of afterlife. Either way it was enough of a surprising jolt to spark my feet and stretch upright.
Logan: Where am I?
George Manson: Why your estate, destined to stand forever on the land of my Lord; Lord Saladin.
Logan: And where is this ‘Lord Saladin’?
I had questions for this Saladin fellow.
George Manson: I am currently engaged in conversation with Lord Saladin.
Scratching the edge of skin that pressed into a fresh discovered eye patch beneath my left socket, I studied his hands for a cell, which he did not have.
Logan: Bluetooth?
Other than wax and enormous hairs, his ears were empty.
Logan: Where have you got the phone? I need to have a word with this Saladin.
His confusion equaled great as mine after his response.
George Manson: You are Lord Saladin, my Lord. What is this…
He fumbled the newly acquired word from his lips.
George Manson: … phone… my Lord seeks.
Logan: Enough bullshit.
George Manson: Quite well, my Lord.
And as if I had priory commanded him with a phrase of ‘enough bullshit’ a hundred times, he scurried from my presence to leave me be. At the very least he was well trained, whomever that savage may be. I stepped to the towering double doors, similarly reeking of cherry like the floors, and pushed it open to a world this one eye had never once witnessed. Lime green grass that dared to glow under UV, sky free of population simply offering sights of the bluest sky – one where one may dream to build a machine that would populate just to explore, pair of wild horses romp in a playful dance – never baring the hind of man, a crow, tolerant to my presence perch upon a near fence, his offensive squawk within my ears – the path under my feet, a soothing feel of river stone, branching off into a Y among many arches of… my.. land? The announcement of a Godly voice rocking the heavens disrupted my world. He named himself the Doctor, despite the fact that this stunning vocal fell from the lips of a tiger.
The Doctor: He’s flat lining!
My head screwed to the side, eyes locked on a talking tiger.
The Doctor (a tiger, what was I seeing?): Clear!
My chest rocked for no other reason known to me than to cause sounds of heart beats within my drums. The Doctor, or tiger, dropped his rear into my river stone walk.
The Doctor: He’s back. Logan, can you hear me?!
My head still screwed, I replied to the tiger.
Logan: Yes… I can hear you… talking tiger. Could you perhaps break this to the point and tell me if I’m dead?
The Doctor: Still with us. He’s slipping into a coma.
Logan: This is a coma? I’m in a coma right now?
From the distance, bickering off dancing chunks of tree bark, sounded a new voice – a pair of them. One sounded familiar to that of Seth Lerch, and the other to Lilith.
Seth Lerch: They won’t let us inside. They say he died.
Lilith: WHAT?
Seth Lerch: They brought him back.
Lilith: I have to see him. Move.
Seth Lerch: He’s not there.
Lilith: Like hell, boudle.
Seth Lerch: I’m having him moved to a private facility to get the best care. He’s fell into a coma, Lilith, and the doctors don’t think he’ll come out of it... maybe not for years…
Lilith: No.
One of the trees began sobbing.
Seth Lerch: Until he does wake up, Lilith, and he will… I don’t want a soul knowing of his location. He as a lot of enemies right now. Most of WCF wouldn’t mind seeing him dead. And there is plenty of demented souls in WCF that would not think twice of pulling the plug.
Lilith: But my Logan… I must.
Seth Lerch: I know you two are close, well, maybe you’re closer to him than he is to you… in the stalker type of sense, but either way I can’t risk. You will not know his location. It’s for his own protection, and also, if you want to continue to work for WCF you will NOT speak of this to anyone. This is getting buried. Hidden. No one must not know about the condition of Logan.
Lilith: … okay.
The two trees broke from their roots to wrap branches on another for what resembled a hug. Was I really in a coma or just dead and imagining this, or had I finally gave to complete insanity with zero left to control it with? Or was I… as the talking abominations suggested… in a coma?
Eyes bulged,
Emotions soared,
They rejected the true Lord,
His waist covered with the world,
They still rejected the true Lord,
Many fled and bled their feelings,
Upon a message board,
No longer accepted,
Only rejected,
By the envious hoards.
Lord Logan Saladin, The Rejection
Within the deep absence of WCF that has lacked a shred of entertainment since my last presence a year and ‘loose chaffed Lilith’ change ago, I had became a poet, and according to a recent review done by myself; the world’s greatest living one. Not that I needed the self-assurance. Genius such as mine and perhaps only mine, I have yet to meet an equal, could have the fluids sweated from every pore and bottled into a brilliant wine that could also substitute as a popular perfume to battle the ranks of industry for generations to follow. My poems were also featured among an article in The World’s Greatest Poet: Lord Saladin. The title spoke for itself. My association with poetry succeeded from unmatched talent built from wrestling. If I was indeed the world’s greatest wrestler than I must be wrestling’s greatest promo, which I was, so it was not impossible to also think that since promos and poems shared a similarity that I also could and would become the world’s greatest poet.
Logan: Shooting myself in the face was quite possibly the best therapy I could ever find. Therefore, perhaps, and only the slightest perhaps, I deem myself the world’s greatest therapist as well.
The Doctor paid me little mind. He, too, had spent the last three days awake with a mind swimming in an intoxicated state that rotted his gut with – by now – at least a bucket of Jack Daniels. Never mind liters, ounces, shots, or gallons. We could only recall our measure by the bucket at this point. And I suspected over those last three days we’d drunken enough to fill three or four.
Logan: I once shot a man for paying me no mind.
I fidgeted with the upper strap on the black leather patch hiding my hollow eye socket.
Logan: However…
That was all my slurred vocals allowed. Drifting into blackout, a memory I would not recall, but of another memory – the day I, no, the day WCF murdered my music. I had just finished a disgraceful bout with an opponent who hardly equaled the same intelligence of common house mice. There was a first time for everything I suppose, and that night after many years failing his dealings with me, Oblivion finally received his golden ticket. It’s not like I hadn’t defended the belt against the brainless quack a week prior, for I did, and I was nothing if not a fighting champion, and I surely was. I cannot nail any acknowledgements on Oblivion’s part for sealing the deal. He never arose to any occasion of genius that it may take to unman me and unstrap my belt. The victory of Oblivion was not his, nor mine. It was that of the very company that I helped to shape. It’s not a mystery that seventy percent of the roster vanished after my coming out briefcase party, and the only surprising feature of said mystery is that they were… surprised. You might as well give a dog a bone. He’s going to gnaw it, lick the morrow from its depths. When most of WCF’s employees vanished after the unmanning of Joey Flash, I detected no prior whispers or rumblings as to rather or not this dog would have a chew. Only when and then that I slurped out the morrow did the fits begin. Logan did this. Logan that. Enter witch-hunt. Enter infamous Mexico Incident. An incident I myself was completely innocent of, for what is a dog supposed to do when presented a bone; a bone that he damn well earned. Since the WCF as a whole failed to accept my success, neither could I, and if you weren’t in WCF for success then what business did you seek by even being there? My answer was simple; splatter my brains on a locker wall to destroy any further brutalizing thoughts of this betraying company and its cold hearted inhabitants.
Chapter 2
Alone at last!
To reflect the past,
Oh how this may hardly last,
The shout of a blast could only weaken my grasp,
For the killing gun decayed a final laugh,
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Lord Logan Saladin, Prelude to Maddening Sleep
The very last anguish recalled the taste of gunpowder shattering the roof in my mouth, spraying shards of fleshly bone upwards through nostrils and chunks downwards onto a crazed spasm tongue. This bullet point required bare minimum presentation. Discharge a firearm into your own face if you’re one for details. However, details I will give, since I myself have eaten thirty eight caliber and live to speak on it – if only I – given my unique abilities to survive where countless others have perished in the act of suicide. Such too strong for a trivial send off. Where I expected the bullet to enter, it did not, and my brain was left unscathed. The exit nonetheless surprised the function of vision once it ripped through an eye socket and left a splatter of pupil matter upon my left cheek. The gunshot apparently summoned one nearby, who found heroism to kick in my locker door, and then disgust once they witnessed my stunned carcass leaning over a bench with half an eyeball hanging from socket.
: Are you okay?Could hardly remember his name or this event though it felt the mere breath of his words were enough wind to blow the eyeball from cheek. It hit the tile with a splat.
Logan: Are you the Devil?
: No.Too bad. I reached for the gun to fire off another round. My new found lack of vision made it difficult to discover.
Logan: Shoot me once more would you? I’d like to meet him.
Whatever dialogue followed after lapped off a foreign tongue, for I had little control of this dying state, and yet I loved it.
Logan: Could you direct me, or my hand, to a gun? My foot is even capable. I possess strong toes.
The blackness hit stealing my conscious with it. The precise memory that succeeded crippling onto damp tile brought my only eye locked to the studying eyes of a man I had never before met. His clothes not belonging to any era I had witnessed. Breaking from this man’s stare, I also discovered the surroundings proved uncertain; walls made of cobblestone caked together by hay and mud, floors and furniture smelled sweet of dark cherry wood. Upon further inspection, I too was clad in unusual attire fitted from a past century.
Logan: Who are you?
He presented his name with a graceful bow before my feet.
George Manson: Your loyal servant, George Manson, my Lord.
This was either an elaborate prank played on me after recovery, or I had accidentally discovered the feat of time travel via a bullet to the mouth, or maybe death found me and this was a form of afterlife. Either way it was enough of a surprising jolt to spark my feet and stretch upright.
Logan: Where am I?
George Manson: Why your estate, destined to stand forever on the land of my Lord; Lord Saladin.
Logan: And where is this ‘Lord Saladin’?
I had questions for this Saladin fellow.
George Manson: I am currently engaged in conversation with Lord Saladin.
Scratching the edge of skin that pressed into a fresh discovered eye patch beneath my left socket, I studied his hands for a cell, which he did not have.
Logan: Bluetooth?
Other than wax and enormous hairs, his ears were empty.
Logan: Where have you got the phone? I need to have a word with this Saladin.
His confusion equaled great as mine after his response.
George Manson: You are Lord Saladin, my Lord. What is this…
He fumbled the newly acquired word from his lips.
George Manson: … phone… my Lord seeks.
Logan: Enough bullshit.
George Manson: Quite well, my Lord.
And as if I had priory commanded him with a phrase of ‘enough bullshit’ a hundred times, he scurried from my presence to leave me be. At the very least he was well trained, whomever that savage may be. I stepped to the towering double doors, similarly reeking of cherry like the floors, and pushed it open to a world this one eye had never once witnessed. Lime green grass that dared to glow under UV, sky free of population simply offering sights of the bluest sky – one where one may dream to build a machine that would populate just to explore, pair of wild horses romp in a playful dance – never baring the hind of man, a crow, tolerant to my presence perch upon a near fence, his offensive squawk within my ears – the path under my feet, a soothing feel of river stone, branching off into a Y among many arches of… my.. land? The announcement of a Godly voice rocking the heavens disrupted my world. He named himself the Doctor, despite the fact that this stunning vocal fell from the lips of a tiger.
The Doctor: He’s flat lining!
My head screwed to the side, eyes locked on a talking tiger.
The Doctor (a tiger, what was I seeing?): Clear!
My chest rocked for no other reason known to me than to cause sounds of heart beats within my drums. The Doctor, or tiger, dropped his rear into my river stone walk.
The Doctor: He’s back. Logan, can you hear me?!
My head still screwed, I replied to the tiger.
Logan: Yes… I can hear you… talking tiger. Could you perhaps break this to the point and tell me if I’m dead?
The Doctor: Still with us. He’s slipping into a coma.
Logan: This is a coma? I’m in a coma right now?
From the distance, bickering off dancing chunks of tree bark, sounded a new voice – a pair of them. One sounded familiar to that of Seth Lerch, and the other to Lilith.
Seth Lerch: They won’t let us inside. They say he died.
Lilith: WHAT?
Seth Lerch: They brought him back.
Lilith: I have to see him. Move.
Seth Lerch: He’s not there.
Lilith: Like hell, boudle.
Seth Lerch: I’m having him moved to a private facility to get the best care. He’s fell into a coma, Lilith, and the doctors don’t think he’ll come out of it... maybe not for years…
Lilith: No.
One of the trees began sobbing.
Seth Lerch: Until he does wake up, Lilith, and he will… I don’t want a soul knowing of his location. He as a lot of enemies right now. Most of WCF wouldn’t mind seeing him dead. And there is plenty of demented souls in WCF that would not think twice of pulling the plug.
Lilith: But my Logan… I must.
Seth Lerch: I know you two are close, well, maybe you’re closer to him than he is to you… in the stalker type of sense, but either way I can’t risk. You will not know his location. It’s for his own protection, and also, if you want to continue to work for WCF you will NOT speak of this to anyone. This is getting buried. Hidden. No one must not know about the condition of Logan.
Lilith: … okay.
The two trees broke from their roots to wrap branches on another for what resembled a hug. Was I really in a coma or just dead and imagining this, or had I finally gave to complete insanity with zero left to control it with? Or was I… as the talking abominations suggested… in a coma?
