What is it that makes a man into a legend? The word is thrown around so often to so many different people, some arguably deserving, others far from it. How do we define a legend, though? What achievements and accomplishments need someone have to qualify for this grand title? If the title is bestowed by one man, is it valid then? Or perhaps two? Some would consider a length of time in one particular field to make someone a legend, regardless of individual achievements. The wrestling business in particular has a tendency for bestowing the title of �legend� on its competitors, often without justifiable reason. Win and loss records seem to hold no baring, nor do numbers of titles held. Many so-called �legends� need not bring about direction-changing shifts in the business, nor cause landmark events forever carved in history. Questionably, the term �legend� is applied to whomever decides to continue their craft into years beyond their age. Well, as the proverb goes; if the cap fits� **Light is the first sensation that filters through. From the grayness of before, it is in stark contrast, a brightness beyond our memory. No cloud will blot this from our sight, will cover the shining face of the sun that beats down upon us. It causes to squint, and blind the eye, to look away, to find some solace from this daystar, that so assaults the eyes. In looking away, our senses can finally come into effect. For the first, sight, finally, truly, without the light that both afflicts and aids. We can say a non-descript building before us, a terminal of sorts. It is grey, battleship like, a concrete monstrosity, a relic from an age both lacking in taste and quality, cracks in the building and mold in the mortar plain to the naked eye. Framing this is the vivid, blue sky, with the lazy movement of people in and out showing the near silence of the place, the lack of urgency, with no where to go, and no time to be there. No one there to catch our eye, all are bland, some with the suits and cases of businessmen, fewer with the casual clothes and decidedly more cases of the tourist. All wander vaguely into the building, through the glistening glass fronted doors, never returning to the world outside. Moving in a steady, sluggish stream are the black cabs, depositing their variously dressed customers for small payments, the open sided tram-like buses, doing similar but for even more minute fares, and just the usual cars, distinct only in the fact none are special, dropping off friends and despised relatives. The second sense then creeps to the fore, hearing. The dull drone of traffic reaches us, where we stand, a few hundred feet from the doors, the trundling noise of a case dragging along the paved pavement, the muted curse of a jostled pedestrian. Few birds wheel in the sky, the harsh cry of a gull the only one of their varied sounds that can reach our ears over the surroundings. Again, there is nothing that this sense presents to interest us, to tell us why we may be here, this decidedly dead terminal of the dull, or soon to be so, at least. Sheepishly, taste provides us with nothing, similarly with our touch. We know we stand free, and able, in the middle of a clearing, and only the fact that we are drawn towards the large, glass doors gives us any thought of what to do. Approaching the doors, our sense of smell only presents the pollution created by the cars, possibly something larger, possibly not. Not a usual calling, indeed. We stand by the door, awaiting something to trigger a plan, a reason in our head. The airport is not the territory one would expect to come to, so out of place, so modern, so.. populated. And yet now we feel it. The tug that says he who called is near. He approaches, or he wants to be approached. The former, we can decide, the urgency lacking, lazy and languid like the place we find ourselves waiting in. Scanning the cars, still nothing presents itself, still a blank sea of equally blank people, gray in interest to match the building we lean against, little justifiable importance to any outside of the tiny sphere of their existence. And yet a sound reaches our ears, slightly discordant. Something to trigger a memory perhaps, a voice recognized, heard before. Something that has spread among the airwaves, reached our ears with whatever message it may have. Of course, we must turn to this noise; greet whomever it may come from. The familiar form it is, it would seem. The first one we see makes this noise, slightly high than one might expect from his relatively tall stature, agitated even, the mirrored glasses glinting the sunlight back from whence it came, a devilish rabbit winking at us from his shirt, and the tartan shorts reaching his knees. His blonde hair is pulled tightly back, as he looks up to the figure beside him, but still, from our vantage, we know him to be The Jackrabbit, the crazed HSW superstar. And beside him, a figure we can recognize all to well. He is tall, standing even over his friend, a head above the crowd about him. In contrast, his long dark hair is loose to his shoulder, meeting and running over the black leather jacket. This in turn covers a t-shirt with a bird, an eagle of some golden variety, a dark black pair of jeans completing this image. It is Talon, friend and foe of the man who looks at him, one half of their Fusion. His face bears a slight scowl, more than just the hideous glare of this light in his eyes, the reason soon apparent as these men approach quickly, the stalk of Talon and the slight, fast hop of his companion.** JACKRABBIT: �Oooooh Tal� does we have to be going on an airplane? I means, I know I have to be going to that place with the wrestlers and the ring� I know we have a biiiig match, our first match in fact!, against Itchy Pod and Al Co-Pop� but do we really really have to get there by airplane? Can�t we perhaps maybe sorta go by boat� or car� or or.. uh.. ice-cream van?� **But Talon just ignores this, grabbing The Jackrabbit�s arm roughly, and yanking him forwards, into the rapidly opening doors.** TALON: 'We have agreed, this a necessity. We must arrive at the event on time, Jay. Now, please. Enter.' **Swiftly we follow, into a whole new world. The terminal within is even quieter, a few shuffling people moving towards check in, across the carpeted floors marking a muted, whispering noise. Natural light barely filters in, the high windows causing most to uselessly hit the far wall, the needed rays almost soaking into the peeling white paint, leaving a passable gloom below. The carpet, although flat, somehow manages to be musty, yet another sensation to unwelcome to us. Staff move around us, a bored expression universally across their face, cheerful name tags doing little to alleviate the general feeling of this place, the dark heaviness of the awfulness of the building and its surroundings weighing down upon us. Yet this quiet, half-noise is almost instantly slice through by the whining, plaintive tones of the Jackrabbit.** THE JACKRABBIT: �Now Tal, listen to me chum. I know you�re very keen and eager to be at this event thingy, and I know how excited you be to get back into the squared circle� and I know that doesn�t make sense �cos all squares are squares, and all circles are circles� but I know you wanna finally get yourself back into action kicking some ass� but Tal, really? Airplane? I forgots about the flying part of being a wrestler� maybe we can take on Al Co-Pop and I-Pod here� in this airport� or, or�?� ** Talon growls something under his breath, tired of this scene that his partner makes, tired of the man�s fear, a fear that he understands and knows about only too well. This empathy shows not in his actions, as he drags The Jackrabbit by the rim of his ear, causing only more kicking and screaming as the pair head to the docking bay. ** *** The scene returns now, the camera catching up with us at the entry gates to the airfield. Two female attendants in smart dress check the passports of the flocking passengers, each jostling to be first in line, like the only thing mattering to them at this moment is the seat they will occupy for the next few meager hours of their lives. The airfield itself is long, a bleak runway of gray tarmac and concrete, stretching out across miles of valuable land just to give room for aircraft to take off. The markings on the runway accompany the traffic control tower in aiding the craft in their flights, from the ground to the air and beyond. The camera pans this scene before turning back to the two attendants checking passports. It focuses in particular on just one of the women, the shorter one, with her auburn hair tied back in a bun and a small pair of gold-framed spectacles on her nose. She is young, and relatively attractive, especially in the smart uniform she is forced to wear on an almost daily basis. Checking the two passports handed before her, she squints slightly at the names printed on them; one would assume this woman has seen all sorts of names in her field of work, but these two in particular seem to have caught her eye. One more check with the computer, and she shrugs, handing back to the two well-used passports and allowing their holders to cross onto the airfield. Still, the woman can�t help but mutter to herself� �Talon and The Jackrabbit?� The camera takes this opportunity to follow the men, seeing from behind that the taller of the two is clad in a long black leather coat, and the other in a black T-shirt and gray tartan long-shorts. The taller has scruffy-looking, but flowing dark hair� his partner, blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. The shorter man, evident as HSW�s own The Jackrabbit from his defining shorts, appears to be trying to pull the other man, his tag team partner Talon , it would seem, back through the entry gates. Talon, however, is both too large and too strong, and prevents his unwilling tag team partner for this Friday�s Shocker event, from escaping. TALON: �When will you learn, Jay, that you have no choice but to board this craft, travel to the arena in Salt Lake City, and compete at Shocker. There is no question in the matter, it is a fact.� THE JACKRABBIT: �No Talon, bad Talon! This isn�t fact, it�s mean and cruel and extremely � erm, evil� The Jackrabbit does not like planes, The Jackrabbit does not like flying, and The Jackrabbit does not like heights!! You know what, when we do get to Shocker, I�m going to beat seven layers of holy shish-kabob out of the Equi-dudes� they�re going to wish they had never forced The Jackrabbit, that�s me!, onto an airplane to go flying really lots of high up in the sky. And the next time they even consider it, I promise to yous, The Jackrabbit will get�� The Jackrabbit is suddenly cut off as Talon pulls him towards the plane, dragging him by the scruff of the neck on his T-shirt, knowing full well that before long the craft will be taking off and if Talon does not make a stand against his partners continued whining, they will never make it to Shocker on time. *** For the third time now, the camera finds itself relocating to a new scene, with little forewarning at all. The cuts are quick, and lacking special effects of fading or anything remotely similar. The scene before the roaming camera is that of many seats, all arranged neatly in a pattern that sees them in two rows of three cushioned chairs, a gap down the middle, apparently for people to walk through. The floor is carpeted, and dotted with small lights, like miniature cat�s eyes trailing from the seats to small doors marked FIRE ESCAPE. Above the seats are compartments, designed to hold luggage of the passengers. Clearly, the camera has now boarded a plane, which by the sounds emanating from the engine located somewhere near the back of the seats, is soon to be taking off. The surface judders as the vehicle begins moving, evident but the swiftly vanishing landscape seen through porthole-sized windows. The camera now roams down the central gap before locating the two particular passengers it had lost earlier as they boarded the flying craft; one slightly less eager than the other. The Jackrabbit and Talon, collectively the tag team unit of Fusion , are sat together somewhere towards the front of the plane. The first-class tickets provided to them by way of Headstrong Wrestling�s corporate body has granted the unlikely duo a nicely-sized table from the back of the seat in front, and plenty of leg room; which The Jackrabbit is now taking advantage of by kicking his legs in a frantic movement clearly designed to portray a certain amount of discomfort. THE JACKRABBIT: �Get me off of this damn thing!!!!!� Talon glances at his friend, his leather-clad arms folded across his sturdy chest. He sighs indignantly, turning his eyes to the window by which he is located� speaking no word to his partner or to anyone else. After completing her mandatory safety drill, the air hostess pushes a trolley from the front of the plane, very soon reaching the unusual pairing of professional wrestlers and greeting them with her usual forced pleasantries. AIR HOSTESS: �Hello sirs, could I offer you any refreshments from our selection of beverages, perhaps?� The poor woman is unprepared for the response that awaits her, and before she knows it, a 6�5�� man in a pair of sunshades and a T-shirt bearing a crazed, red-eyed rabbit is upon her, hugging her slender, exposed leg and wailing like a newborn child. THE JACKRABBIT: �Please strange trolley-lady, you have to help me! This cruel, cruel man�� He gestures now to Talon, sat silently and nonchalantly beside him. �has kidnapped me and is taking me on an airplane� We have to wrestle these dudes, but I don�t like airpl-OW!� Talon has interrupted The Jackrabbit�s babbling with a shift elbow to the kidney. The Jackrabbit looks at him like a scolded dog, then back to the terrified looking air hostess. Talon suddenly glances to the woman, a look in his cold eyes that strongly suggest she move on to the next potential customer. TALON: �Must you keep making such a fool of us both, Jay? Silence now.� The Jackrabbit glances at his friend, but Talon has immediately turned his head, an expressionless face matching his instant silence. �The Enigma� pulls down the blind on the porthole-like window, and turns again, staring directly ahead at the seat in front. The Jackrabbit fidgets for a moment, looking still thoroughly uncomfortable. His fingers pry at the seatbelt, though he seems to dare not take it off. After a moment of looking for something to occupy his mind, and failing in doing so, The Jackrabbit turns to the camera beside him, watching the pair�s every move. He stares into for a moment, lacking his usual laughter or smiles, and begins to talk. His voice, though more hushed and slower than usual, is still as high-pitched as ever. THE JACKRABBIT: �Uh� Heya �Rabbit Fans� t�is me, your one and only, the bread to your butter and the chocolate spread to your broccoli and peas. T�is me, The Jackrabbit, the man who you tune in to see, and don�t because it is a boring Hoju promo playing on your television, and then see moments later when the HS-Dub dudies have fixed the technical problem. Today is, as you can see, not one of my favoritist days� my �friend� Tal here, has abductaped me and plonked me on this here airplane� and he is now flying me alllll the way to some place in some salty lake so we can fight Itchy Pod and Al Co-Pop. I mean, I am really starting to wonder if these Equi-peeps are even worth the hassle of all this� this, flying stuff. For start-offs, Al-Pop seems to be thinking Talon has his own TV show� come on! Geez! Can you really see Tal being on some show, giving out prizes and talking to audiences? Hahahha. That�s crazy talk, Al! If anyone here�and here is like, on this plane� out of the two of us, �cos I don�t know all these other peoples� but if anyone here out of the two of us deserves a TV show, it�s The Jackrabbit� that�s me!� The Jackrabbit, seemingly cheered up by the comical thought of Talon on a reality television show, is now back to talking in his high-pitched, fast-paced ranting voice, his apparent flying woes temporarily forgotten. �I�d be great, of course! �The Jackrabbit Show�! It�d be the star. And Al Co-Pop could be my little sidekick� like, Sideshow Al. He�d basically do what he does, sit around drinking fizzy Fantas and Pepsis. And burping. And I�d entertain the millions upon bazillions of �Rabbit Fans worldwide. Al, my old mess-mate, you�d better be shaping up� I mean, stay the same out-of-shape shape you be now, by all means!� but shape up your ideas, �cos if you spend the rest of your hours before Shocker�� He randomly makes a �zzzzt� noise. ��slurping fizzy pops and wondering around all of America looking for TV dudes and dudettes� well, you�re just gonna be in for a rude wakening up, ain�tchya? Now, onto the other Equi-dude, Itchy Pod. I take it you haven�t seen the doctor about that, by the way? I been asking Tal about it, he says that I�m getting my wires crossed� I explained, of course, that this had nothing to do with my wires, even if I had some� he called me �infuriationing� or somesuch, which was confusing but probably a way of saying he�d never thought of that himself. Now I-pod, he�s spent all his time on that camera babbling on and on and on about me and Tal here, telling everybody and their uncle.. if their uncle is watching, if not then possibly their aunty, cousin, sister, brother or even great grand-parents. He�s telling them all about the history he�s been reading in some book, like freakin� �Jackrabbit and Talon� this is your life!� Itchy, that�s all damn well and good� but let Your Friendly Neighborhood Jackrabbit let you in on a secret, man.� Suddenly The Jackrabbit�s voice slows, and seems a lot deeper than usual. �You don�t know us. You don�t know us at all! No matter how many books you read, or how many sites you visit on your little computer, you will never know, or understand, me. You will never know, or understand, Talon. Don�t even try to, don�t even pretend. You wish to up-close and personal with Fusion� this Friday, you�ll get your chance. And you�ll regret ever even trying.� The Jackrabbit now shakes his head and coughs, not noticing the vague side-glance given to him from Talon beside him. Talon examines his friend for a moment, who seems to be getting a bearing on himself again, and turns to the camera himself this time. TALON: �You consider us �legends�, Ichabod? Legends? We are not what you would call-� THE JACKRABBIT: �Maybe we ARE, legends, eh Tal? I-Pod is right� we�re legendary legends of legendom, come to HS-Dub to come down on the two of them like a ton of bricks and show them both the real meaning of the word. Heheheheahahahhaha! Tomorrow night, kiddies, you will make you know us both as �legends�. We will hoppety hop hop across your little heads like you�re stepping stones to greater things and places and stuff like that, right Tal? Kiddies, in just a few hours time it will crunch-time, and The Jackrabbit will crunch munch you both like a rabbit does a carrot and a Jackrabbit does to a caramel nugget bar. In just a few hours, we will no longer have to chitty chat about you both� we will be too busy giving you The Standing Joke and the Death From Above� oh, and how could I forget� The Jackrabbit will also get The Last Laugh! Arghahahahahahah!� The camera pans in on The Jackrabbit as he tips back his head and lets out an ear-curling laugh that sounds across the plane� the many other passengers peep around their seats to get a look at the man who is causing this noise. Talon, on the other hand, simply peers forward, silent and ominous like he prefers it. The camera zooms in rapidly, as though diving down The Jackrabbit�s throat, the blackness of this uninviting area acting as a fade to black.