Light The Fuse!

[Logan]

Light The Fuse!
Own Worst Enemy

Madison Square Garden, the most famous arena in the world. It's three in the morning and only one man can be seen, wondering the home outskirts of the first Ali/Frazier, the home bred star of Sunday's event, Logan. The only lonesome soul in the Gardens backyard, arguably the only participate who has became lonely for such a publicized show. His slow swagger following the outside edge of MSG can demonstrate to any ones eyes that the man had been victimized. Haunted by his own name, internally butchered for his past doings, old trials of endurance and accomplishments felt 'so called', they've become material for blood thirsty leaches to feed on, a nice gravestone of honor for the next guy to piss on to become a bastard. The light to his mentally locked up dark room seemed so hard to find, just a dim glow in a distance far, far, far away. The terrain for his personal redeeming hike would prove to be rough, one of the most difficult paths of his life, but screaming, crawling, and kicking that journey would end. It'd have to. The thought of his memory being tainted was agonizing. Torture kicking anymore dirt over his coffin of legacy was the thought, and that thought had to be forgotten.. in every bodies minds. There was only way to go about doing that, it was what powered the light, the only way to free men from becoming political apes, holding the one responsible, defeating Torture, the one way, the only way to get there was the War. A War for another War. A War for the future of the Wrestling Championship Federation. With an understanding of it all, can someone really carry that much weight on their shoulders without collapsing? Could one man be the core of change? Would it take a coming of others? Seemingly troubled with more questions than answers, Logan found the historic place he'd be performing in within the week to grasp a solution for himself. His legs moved along heavily with the slow walk, aware of the camera but speaking quietly to himself.

Logan: Troubling as it as all of this feels really good. Something has been found by me, a something to believe in. Something.. that even after all these years of experience, is ready to march into the unknown, ready to discover things all over again. It's not exactly rare, this couldn't have really went unnoticed by myself and in a way that's only selfish to myself, I can say that I kind of seen this coming. I knew there'd be a new day for me, another chance to rise above and lead a new image to others. This time has come. Metaphorically speaking, the near burnt out fire lost in the corner of this circus has been rediscovered and lighten, but it's created a new flame not familiar to others. A burning heat that's ready to scorch the ruined lies and bring about the truth. I'm ready to expose everything. We, us, the WCF.. it doesn't have to be this way. We shouldn't look to just an individual, one man, to discover how our hopes and dreams will play out. The WCF doesn't need Torture to revolve. The rise of our popularity shouldn't depend on how well our curtain jerker political hand job skills compare to his. Just look at me, you'd expect myself to be the true puppet master around these parts with the decade career of matches and record holding achievements and rewards, but no, I didn't let myself fall from grace, I wasn't raised in the era of political pull matters. I came kicking and screaming with the birth of this company, back when someone could just come in, prove their worth, and get acknowledged for it. This era you must at least wait a year before a main event spot, you have to have kissed the ass of Torture more than a dozen times for him to quietly approve backstage to the higher ups that he thinks you're ready for a quick one hit wonder moment, and then.. if you're lucky, you'll headline a major event back to back. After that, though, you'll find yourself back in the dirty bottom barrel and you'll step aside for the next ass kisser of the political age. If I had debuted into WCF within the last year and someone told me that within the next six years I'd be a four time world champion.. I'd laugh. This era of WCF refuses to breed superstars and deservingly thrust them into legendary status for their talents, with Torture above us all in these idiot ape land, there's just no room for you. Change is on the horizon, eventually, it has to come. Torture's era will end and with it a new WCF will begin. I'm here, willing, to lead our company into a corrupt free environment. A place that makes it impossible for one man to continuously deny others dreams, a place that isn't about one person, a land that can be naturally conquered and taken if you give the provided effort. I'm offering you all a real wrestling community, tyrant free, Torture free. Who wants it?

Tilting his head downward to eye the sidewalk of Madison Square as he strolls along.

Light The Fuse!
The Humorous Dine

Logan: What are you eating?

A blank stare meets Logan crossed the table, this stare comes from Joe Smith with tiny tentacles dancing through his lips. The two, Joe Smith and Logan, appear to be dining inside a Chinese buffet. They're the smoking section, of course. Which is strange due to the fact that either of them didn't take up smoking until entering the restaurant. Joe Smith slurped the tentacle arms into his mouth before replying to the puzzled friend.

Joe Smith: Squid.

Gulping.

Logan: Squid?

Joe Smith: Yeah, ya' know, like Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Logan: Oh.. can I try some?

Like a Wolf protecting his kill, Smith creates a barrier of arms around his plate of food and furrows his brows.

Joe Smith: Well-- I only got enough for me.

Logan: What? Half your plate is full of squid.

Joe Smith: I know what's on my plate!

Logan: Yeah, well, it's a lot of squid and it wouldn't hurt if you lost a few Sponge Bobbers.

Joe Smith: If I wanted to lose any squid I would've put extra squid on my plate, however, I did not. Why didn't I you ask?--

Logan: I didn't ask. I just want to try so--

Joe Smith: When in line at the buffet, the squid tray came before my plate. The needed amount of squid reached my plate requirement.

Logan: Your plate has a requirement?

Joe Smith: Of course! It's a buffet. There is only a certain amount of each you can put on your plate. Are you telling me you don't know the rules?

Logan: Should I?

Joe Smith: Yeah! Because of you, they raise the price on these once cheap Chinese buffets. You're one of those guys that just piles three things of shit on his plate and then doesn't finish it all. So, they dump a bunch of food in the trash and have to make more.

Logan: I always figured they just recycled food that wasn't eaten.

Joe Smith: Since you've came into the playing field they might have to now.

Logan: Honestly wouldn't mind. It'd be like everyone sharing with one another.. like world peace.

Joe Smith: Oh, okay, you want some of my squid then?

Logan: Please!

Taking a piece of squid and slumping on to the dirty floor beneath their table, Joe picks the piece back up and drops it on Logan's plate.

Joe Smith: There, eat up. Eat up for your world peace.

Pushing the plate away, Logan cringes.

Logan: I'll just get a new plate, thank you.

Joe Smith: But you still have food on your plate! This place will charge an additional dollar for buffet before we leave.

Escaping the racket, Logan stands, leaving the table and grabbing a clean plate. The camera stays on Logan, following him. Passing a tray of chocolate puddin, Logan stops and retraces his steps to the chocolate delight. He scoops a wad of puddin' onto his plate with the public spoon. Three feet ahead lies a tray of Chinese donuts, Logan moans. After a shuffling a few of the sugary treats onto his plate he notices a Chinese woman eyeing him, a buffet supervisor. Feeling he's being judged completely on his choice of food, he waddles over to the real traditional Chinese section of the bar where the raw fish and rice roam. She eyes him more intently as he reaches out for the rice spoon, his plate is almost full with donuts and puddin. He knows this. She knows this. He hesitates spooning the rice, he's went too deep into the tray, too much rice is in the spoon, his plate doesn't have enough room. Shooting a glance at her to see if she's watching and.. she is. He freezes, a loaded spoon of rice in his hand, his other hand steadying the heavy packed puddin/donut plate. She lifts her chin ready to strike a nod, a bead of sweet develops on his forehead, he can't drop the load of rice.. there is no room for that much rice. Instead, he shakes some off the rice off the spoon back into the rice tray and in an instant she marches over like a Nazi ready to kill.

Buffet Nazi: You cannot do that!

Trying to acknowledge the poor English flying from her mouth, Logan panics and drops the rice spoon onto the floor before taking off into a sprint away from her. She doesn't follow, no, she mummers Chinese curses and takes the dirty spoon with her into the kitchen. Logan finds his table with Joe Smith and sits. Smith immediately looks at Logan's plate and frowns with disappointment.

Joe Smith: You filled your whole plate with.. chocolate puddin, donuts, and rice..

Before going to dig in, Logan nods.

Joe Smith: What the fuck is wrong with you?

An awkward silence temporally freezes the conversation.

Logan: Give me a break! You have no idea how rough it is out there. Everyone is watching your every move, '--oh, he's getting the puddin, that's way too much, or not enough, what's this guy up to? Is he a terrorist? I'm certainly not getting the puddin now.'

Logan gasps, finishing the mockery. Smith stares at him.

Logan: --And a Chinese Hitler almost forced me into the back for execution.

Joe Smith: Linda? The supervisor lady?

Logan: If that's her alas, yeah.

Joe Smith: She's harmless.

Logan: To other Nazis maybe!

Staring at Logan's glob of chocolate puddin, Smith finds a new way to become disgusted with his friends buffet style.

Joe Smith: Everyone knows you don't get chocolate puddin' at a buffet, you get vanilla.

Logan: Racial thing?

Joe Smith: No. You can't see the hairs in chocolate pudding.

Logan: ..then it's a racial thing.

Joe Smith: You don't have to be black to have black hair.

Logan: Yeah, but, they have like real, real, jet black hair. You rarely meet anyone that isn't black that has black hair.

Joe Smith: Most Italians have black hair.

Logan: Sure, but not black, black.

Joe Smith: What's the difference?

Logan: Well, if Slickie T dropped a hair in the chocolate puddin', I'd more than likely spot it.

Joe Smith: Yeah?

Logan: --but! If a hair of Chris Avery's fell off into the puddin' then it'd be invisible to the naked eye.

More staring from Smith.

Logan: Therefor, your chocolate puddin' theory is racist.

Joe Smith: No it's not.

Logan: Yes it is.

Joe Smith: There is nothing racist about hair and puddin--

Logan: Quite frankly, I'm kind've embarrassed to be seen having lunch with you now. I don't want your racist outlook of life to rub off on me. I can feel your reputation building, you are trying to pull me into some sort of society aren't you?

Joe Smith: What?

Logan: Joe, are you any clans?

Joe Smith: WHAT?

Logan: If we're going to continue to be friends, I need to know this kinda thing.

Joe Smith: I'm never having lunch with you again.

Excusing himself, Smith gets up from the table and leaves the restaurant. Logan remains seated.

Logan: Tired of being criticized for every move I make. What day in age has the Chinese fell into anyway when you can get donuts at one of their establishments? H'm? I expected nothing but rows of raw fish and cat. Oh my.. do you hear how I sound? Joe Smith's deadly racism has already began to peel on me. I hope Avery and I don't bump heads at the War. I'd have no clean idea how to handle that situation. You could walk in a spirited peaceful open minded white man-War entry and walk out an soda and popcorn stained bastard. So, Avery, if you have to be hanging out with some white people and watching this then please listen, for you and I need to carefully prepare for a dreadful situation that can be easily avoided. Okay, so, we're in War, we meet each other in the ring--oh no? No, don't worry. You simply turn around and I lock you in a sleeper. After that I do the superstar flip over your shoulder of a life time and knock out the lights at Connector City. I pin. You don't kick out. The situation is successfully avoided. Or will you be too busy to pay me any mind with someone like Rick Mad? That goofball. I couldn't help but hear earlier, but did that boudle say, excuse me, did Rick Mad, the jobbies of jobbies say he would win the War? Of course, it's possible. But not everyone will be taking a nap in the ring, the Mad fairy isn't going to be able to magically pin his way to victory through sleeping bodies. What shall he do? Survive? Yes, that's what he'll do, that's what he said he'll do. However, saying something and doing something is quite different. In 2002, I said I was going to win the War. M'hm. In 2006, I said I was going to win the War. M'hm. In 2009, I said I was going to win the War. You obviously get where I'm going with this.. right?

Joe Smith: I forgot to tip.

Logan: Woah!

Nearly jumping out of his chair, Logan looks genuinely spooked.

Logan: I was in the middle of something.

Joe Smith: What?

Logan nods at the camera man.

Joe Smith: You're cutting a promo here?

Logan: Uh-- yeah, it was going pretty good.

Joe Smith: Week of the War and that's the best you can come up with? A fuckin' afternoon in a Chinese buffet.

Logan: Ah! It's gone better than I thought. They have characters here.

Logan nods, once again, only this time at the Buffet Nazi peeking at him behind a bar of food.

Joe Smith: Just seems a little misdirected, I mean, the other day you had a little anarchy parade with a group of people and everyone torched a stage and a Torture dummy.

Logan: You want me to burn more Torture dolls? That actually cost money.

Joe Smith: Uh-- okay.. I'm just going to leave my tip and walk away. Enjoy your hairy chocolate puddin'.

After Smith leaves the scene, Logan looks down at his plate of food suspiciously eyeing the puddin', he glances over his shoulder and once again locks eyes with the Buffet Nazi. He slithers down into the booth with paranoid fear.

Light The Fuse!
Full Throttle

The scene opens yet again, Logan casually dressed, standing in the hall ways of Madison Square Garden with a wrestling gear filled bag in each hand. He walks through the hall way catching glimpses of photographed picture frames of historic events that's taken place inside the building. Luckily, Hank Brown, a WCF interviewer has arrived early as well to the Garden. He immediately swarms Logan with a microphone.

Hank Brown: Logan! A little early aren't you?

Logan: It's MGS, baby. Want to be inside this building absolutely long as possible.

Hank Brown: Mind if we do an interview?

Logan: Interview?

Hank Brown Ye--

Logan: SHUT UP!

Snatching the microphone away from Brown and glaring at him.

Logan: I don't need no boudles to help the Face of Treachery speak.

Awkwardly, Brown just stands there.

Logan: Did you hear me?

A hand falls and rests over the shoulder of Hank, Logan peers into his eyes and whispers.

Logan: I don't need.. no boudles..

Nodding, Logan kindly shows his gentleness pinching Hank Brown's cheek.

Logan: Okay?

This time, Brown nods, acknowledging Logan.

Logan: Then carry your ass!

Spinning Brown around, Logan boots his bottom sending Hank out of the cameras view. We hear Hank scramble down the hall. Turning his face inches to the camera, Logan speaks with a head full of confidence.

Logan: ..Seth Lerch! Let's hope you've already made it to the Garden, let's pray you've got one of your little window cleaners to hook up your office television, and let's all wish you're watching. Seth, I'm here. Connector City has arrived to New York City! Can't wait! Can you? Can you sit there, twiddle your thumbs, and wait for a Madison Square Garden ass whooping?! Are you patient? Seth.. you don't have to be patient. I'm going to find you, now, in this building. The War doesn't have to wait for us. The boudle poodles don't have to wait till Sunday to see you cry. It can happen right now. Are you ready to finally pay the consequences? Are you ready to finally account for your actions? Your time has come. No more dodging bullets, no more hiding behind locked doors. You believe this mystery wrestler you've personally vouched can take out me and Hector Rodriguez? Who? How? Some old washed up champion from WCF's past? What are you going to do, wheelchair Hellz Angel down to War? Pump Mace up with viagra and steroids? Dig up AJ Jam and resurrect him with a bolt of lightening? Steve Carr's already in the ring, we don't need anymore senior moments. You find anyone you want, anyone. They aren't going to be enough to handle me let alone Rodriguez. This War belongs to us, not you. I'm not letting you corrupt it this time. So, starting tonight, starting right now, the Connector City parade is touring and I want you to be the mascot.

Turning away from the camera, Logan walks off down the hall way in search for Seth Lerch. The camera man follows behind Logan, filming him banging on several doors in the hall seeking Lerch. Conversing with a tech, Logan discovers Seth's whereabouts. With a rage filled instant, Logan flees down the end of the hall and climbs up a staircase leading to the second floor where Seth Lerch is believed to be. The camera man try their best in keeping up with Logan, but by the time the camera man reaches the second floor they already find a hall door kicked in, the wood frame shattered with splinters scattered. Coming into the door way we find a Sethless room, Logan is standing over Seth's desk reading a letter Hector Rodriguez recently left. It appears Logan had just missed Lerch. Logan reads the letter further, cracking a sly smile every now and then while reading Hector's writing. He sets the letter down back on the desk, scanning his eyes over Seth's office which has already been set up for the MGS event. Making himself comfortable, Logan plops down into the leather chair seated for the desk, he drops his legs over the desk and crosses them. Carelessly searching through the desks slide out cubby, Logan finds a letter written by Seth Lerch.

I've brought you in for specific reasons, however, your main concern at this point should be making sure he doesn't win the War. This just can't possibly happen. I have faith that your talent and skills will prevent my plan from becoming foiled. If you fail and Logan is to be victorious, well, we both know what that means. I'll see you this Sunday-- and, oh, if you happen to run into Bob, the janitor, could you please remind him to polish the United States title before Sunday? It's kept safely in my office closet. Thank you

Finishing the letter and dropping it from his hands, Logan evilly eyes the closet door. Standing from the chair and walking over to the door, Logan springs it open and finds the United States belt neatly hanging off a coat rack in all it's glory. The precious championship, now in the hands of treachery, almost cradling the title like an infant, Logan takes the belt with him and takes a seat back at Seth's desk. The title is placed and laid out over hard wooden desk top. A black sharpie is quickly searched for. Finding one, Logan holds a smirk all the while doodling on the US belt. The first of his artwork becomes the Seth Lerch nameplate, which, he renames, Beth Lerch. Feeling satisfied with just that and not really desiring to ruin a title he help put on the WCF map, Logan ceases any further graffiti of the gold belt and falls back into the chair looking about the room. His eyes find all objects of the office breakable. And breaking is just what he plans to do. The destructive journey begins with him rising to his feet and flipping the table over on it's face. He grabs a name plank and hurls it across the room at a fish tank that explodes on impact. The next object to be destroyed is Seth's expensive dress coat, which he rips the sleeves off of and wears. Now dressed to impressed for this anarchic parade, Logan digs his fingers in the back of bookcase and slams it flat onto the floor. A heavy thud from the bookcases landing can be heard from the floor below. Not feeling his work his entirely done here, Logan hops off his feet catching the blades of the ceiling fan above and yanking it down, plaster and ceiling tears and rips as Logan and the ceiling fan come crashing down to the floor. Logan then lifts the fan into his arms and flings it against the office wall, the blades fans penetrate the thin plaster and the end result becomes a ceiling fan stuck in the side of the wall. Turning, Logan sends his boot through the closet door, yanking his foot away, he finds a decorative basket of polished stones sat on a shelve inside the closet. Grabbing the heavy basket, Logan tosses them through the office window and the stones shatter the glass, flying through and landing on the streets below. Feeling security will soon be on their way for the destruction of a Madison Square Garden room, Logan looks about and nods with satisfaction before exiting the office and fleeing the scene.

Light The Fuse!
Crucified to be Satisfied (Own Worst Enemy II)

Logan: This self assured weight on my shoulders can easily suffocate me if I don't stop to breath. When you start to think past the War, when you've made yourself believe in winning to the fullest, a pressure is created on yourself. It's about my own expectations, not others. The War hasn't become the next huge thing to satisfy me, it's only just became a small stepping stone for something else. I'm not arrogant enough to say it will be that easy, but, keep in mind.. it's not like I haven't won one of these things before. This climb, this obstacle, this War, is the only thing holding me back. Once I win I'll be completely free, the light at the end of my path will shine a lot brighter and I can only hope others will be able to see it. That shining light is WCF's last hope, it's the only faithful thing left to believe in. I believe in it. I think others of this company are beginning to also. That light is one that will shine to it's fullest once Torture is disposed of. I will not tolerate failure at the War, failure will not tolerate me. This is my dream, no, it's more than that.. it's a destiny. I only follow this destiny for one purpose and that's to make sure the WCF is freed from it's puppet master, political power held ways. After that my only purpose in this federation will be to just.. live, peacefully and happily ever after. Don't mistake my belief, I'm not thinking of a Tort free land that will be filled with rainbows and bunnies, no, it's not like that at all. I'm saying that once this power is brought down, once the king is dethroned, everyone of anyone would then be introduced with equal opportunity. Fresh air would be breathed in, a clear slate to begin writing a new chapter in the WCF as we see fit, not the backstage political tyrants. Yes, we the people, a great man said it once and now nothing but a hopeful man says it now. Freeing our home can't be done alone, I can take you there, I can get you there, but it's a group effort once we get there. This isn't impossible. Torture can be defeated, he can be thrown to the dirty ditches and brushed aside, he can disappear, and when he falls.. the fixed era will fall, and we'll rise with a new one. An era that can be whatever we want it to be. This Sunday, my destiny will begin, a destiny to lead WCF into a new era, and once I'm at hells front door I'm fuckin' kicking it down.

The camera pulls away on Logan, walking alone, with hands in his pockets, he slowly disappears into the night.