Post by Logan on Sept 27, 2011 13:56:21 GMT -5
LOGAN: Look at this stomach.
Television screens over and under the WCF nation are filled with the view of amazingly toned washboard abs.
LOGAN: Look at it.
They’re definitely a sight for the viewers, especially the female ones, and even a select few males. Lots of people can only dream to have such a ripped stomach but for Logan that’s a reality. They dream, that being the keyword. The fact is and was however is that best estimates provided a wealth of truth that the viewers were more than likely in a sitting position, especially considering that most people view a television in that manner, and because so they’d have no realistic chance of having similar abs much less the accomplishment of vectoring three Wars, hence why they dreamed.
LOGAN: Yes, your Girlfriends and your Mothers are taking mental photographs for later tonight, well unless they’ve got TiVo.
The shot continues on stiflingly, focusing on nothing but the rock hardiness of his stomach.
LOGAN: Did you see that?
He flexes his abdomen and nearly bumps the camera lens in the process.
LOGAN: That could put an eye out. And, you see, that’s the kind of person that I am, a weapon. My entire body is just a gigantic psychical machine full of little parts designed to take boudles out. Hey, look down, you see that…
The camera follows his direction, settling on a still shot of his bare feet.
LOGAN: You see that toe? That toe is more lethal than the entire scum of bodies that make up WCF’s circus roster. This toe, this single toe alone has what it takes to win the War.
The toe is zoomed in on very steadily.
LOGAN: That toe of treachery has helped support this foot and provide Impact Styles to boudles for several and several of years. You name the name and I can tell you that at one point or another if not very soon, this foot will have been under their jaw. And then there’s this.. arm..
Very much like earlier the camera follows.
LOGAN: The main gun and the primary weapon. This arm has been around many of necks, it’s brought the greatest and latest down on their backs with a first class ticket from Connector City! This arm; THIS ARM!
He aggressively punches a fist into his right arm.
LOGAN: Just by itself should be in the Hall of Fame. So, you tell me…
The camera pulls away revealing his entire presence and surroundings. He is inside his own personal gym-house, which is personal because other than him the gym is empty. Considering that he is in a gym and appears to be a little sweaty, his clothing consists of casual lightweight shorts and nothing else.
LOGAN: Tell me right now, please. Someone let me know why and how I’m not walking out of the War with that WCF championship. Do you or does anyone have a legitimate answer? No. And it’s that simple. I do not care about the other participants or better said boudles that are in the match. It does not and will not affect the outcome, and for the trashcans that haven’t been paying attention, do you know what that is? It’s me, the next War victor. What’s really stopping me? Last year and the year before that I had a great challenge in Slickie T who just happened to turn out and become a hall of famer. There is no denying his immortal place with the greats, he deserved it, but I look around and I don’t see any Slickie T’s.
He turns his back to the camera, idly acknowledging it while bending over and searching through a gym bag.
LOGAN: All I really see is a bunch of one-time hacks that got lucky enough to secure their name in some small piece of WCF history books. Through the great trashy fog of boudles I see Odin Balfore, the latest WCF champion, a guy with high hopes and nothing else. Sure, Odin, go on and beat up on Seth Lerch, go be a tough guy and walk around with your little dumbass raccoon humping your shoulder.
Straightening up with the procession taken from the gym bag and keeping his back to the camera to hide its reveal.
LOGAN: Hey Odin, why don’t you try beating up on me? Are you going to come into the ring with your little sissy-fit and chokeslam me like you did Lerch? You really should have shown that guy a little class, but who are we kidding, you don’t have any class, you’re a guy that’s best friends with a raccoon, and lord knows what goes on between you two behind locked doors.
He takes a deep breath, preparing to turn to the camera.
LOGAN: But… I’m not really here to judge you, Odin. You never technically lost the title so understandably so I’d be a little frustrated as well if it was taken away from me. So, given that you’ve been so angry and upset lately, I have decided to give you a present. Everyone likes presents; they just naturally cheer people up, and Odin this is my gift to you…
A single ticket rests inside the palm of his hand.
Television screens over and under the WCF nation are filled with the view of amazingly toned washboard abs.
LOGAN: Look at it.
They’re definitely a sight for the viewers, especially the female ones, and even a select few males. Lots of people can only dream to have such a ripped stomach but for Logan that’s a reality. They dream, that being the keyword. The fact is and was however is that best estimates provided a wealth of truth that the viewers were more than likely in a sitting position, especially considering that most people view a television in that manner, and because so they’d have no realistic chance of having similar abs much less the accomplishment of vectoring three Wars, hence why they dreamed.
LOGAN: Yes, your Girlfriends and your Mothers are taking mental photographs for later tonight, well unless they’ve got TiVo.
The shot continues on stiflingly, focusing on nothing but the rock hardiness of his stomach.
LOGAN: Did you see that?
He flexes his abdomen and nearly bumps the camera lens in the process.
LOGAN: That could put an eye out. And, you see, that’s the kind of person that I am, a weapon. My entire body is just a gigantic psychical machine full of little parts designed to take boudles out. Hey, look down, you see that…
The camera follows his direction, settling on a still shot of his bare feet.
LOGAN: You see that toe? That toe is more lethal than the entire scum of bodies that make up WCF’s circus roster. This toe, this single toe alone has what it takes to win the War.
The toe is zoomed in on very steadily.
LOGAN: That toe of treachery has helped support this foot and provide Impact Styles to boudles for several and several of years. You name the name and I can tell you that at one point or another if not very soon, this foot will have been under their jaw. And then there’s this.. arm..
Very much like earlier the camera follows.
LOGAN: The main gun and the primary weapon. This arm has been around many of necks, it’s brought the greatest and latest down on their backs with a first class ticket from Connector City! This arm; THIS ARM!
He aggressively punches a fist into his right arm.
LOGAN: Just by itself should be in the Hall of Fame. So, you tell me…
The camera pulls away revealing his entire presence and surroundings. He is inside his own personal gym-house, which is personal because other than him the gym is empty. Considering that he is in a gym and appears to be a little sweaty, his clothing consists of casual lightweight shorts and nothing else.
LOGAN: Tell me right now, please. Someone let me know why and how I’m not walking out of the War with that WCF championship. Do you or does anyone have a legitimate answer? No. And it’s that simple. I do not care about the other participants or better said boudles that are in the match. It does not and will not affect the outcome, and for the trashcans that haven’t been paying attention, do you know what that is? It’s me, the next War victor. What’s really stopping me? Last year and the year before that I had a great challenge in Slickie T who just happened to turn out and become a hall of famer. There is no denying his immortal place with the greats, he deserved it, but I look around and I don’t see any Slickie T’s.
He turns his back to the camera, idly acknowledging it while bending over and searching through a gym bag.
LOGAN: All I really see is a bunch of one-time hacks that got lucky enough to secure their name in some small piece of WCF history books. Through the great trashy fog of boudles I see Odin Balfore, the latest WCF champion, a guy with high hopes and nothing else. Sure, Odin, go on and beat up on Seth Lerch, go be a tough guy and walk around with your little dumbass raccoon humping your shoulder.
Straightening up with the procession taken from the gym bag and keeping his back to the camera to hide its reveal.
LOGAN: Hey Odin, why don’t you try beating up on me? Are you going to come into the ring with your little sissy-fit and chokeslam me like you did Lerch? You really should have shown that guy a little class, but who are we kidding, you don’t have any class, you’re a guy that’s best friends with a raccoon, and lord knows what goes on between you two behind locked doors.
He takes a deep breath, preparing to turn to the camera.
LOGAN: But… I’m not really here to judge you, Odin. You never technically lost the title so understandably so I’d be a little frustrated as well if it was taken away from me. So, given that you’ve been so angry and upset lately, I have decided to give you a present. Everyone likes presents; they just naturally cheer people up, and Odin this is my gift to you…
A single ticket rests inside the palm of his hand.
