Lingering nosily outside the closed doors of the DisOrder dressing room within the GZW2K1 Coliseum, post-Crimson, were a cloud of reporters and interviewers.  There were easily two dozen, balled together within the narrow confines of the corridor.  They were shouting, mumbling, talking amongst themselves, but the word most frequently spoken was simply "Reject".  A moment more passed before big Randy Anderson barged through to the front and began to knock violently at the heavy wooden door.  There was no response whatsoever from inside.  The Unprofessional began to shout inanely and tried to open the door, only to find that it was locked.  Amid this nucleated turmoil, a small and rotund figure with slick blonde hair emerged at the forefront, beside Anderson.

"Moron, step away."  Said an impatient Clancy McClean.

"You'd wanna watch who you're talkin' like that to, man..."  Began an intoxicated Jack Anderson.  It wasn't long before the 52-year-old trailed off and abjured.  He turned and headed back into the thick of the reporters.

"That fucking family."  Muttered McClean to himself, referring more to Anderson's brother-in-law and GZW2K1 President Seth Richards than anyone else.  "Scumbags, the lot of them."  The self-proclaimed Renaissance Man gave the door a light rapping.  There was no response.  "Reject...?"  He asked.  Again there was no response.  "Excelsior...?"  He asked, a little more reluctantly.  To his absolute chagrin, there was still no response.  "Where the hell is he?"  McClean asked himself before giving up and heading back into the now slightly smaller mass of reporters.

"Mr. McClean, sir, an aide to Jackie Lee is on line one."  Came the sharp, unenthusiastic voice of Clancy McClean's personal secretary through his small tabletop intercom.

"I'll take it, Miss Connell."

McClean abruptly hung up on his secretary and pressed the relevant key on the telephone sitting atop his desk.

"McClean.  Go."  Clancy greeted his as-yet nameless caller in his own impersonal way.

"Mr. McClean, I am Huang Tei of Hong Kong Wrestling Federation, calling on behalf of Mr. Jackie Lee."  Tei's calm voice was almost soothing to McClean.  The man was clearly of Asian descent.

"Oh yes?  What can I do for you and Mr. Lee?"

"Well, actually, it concerns the unpleasantries surrounding last edition of Wyldesyde...  Reject no-show Hardcore title match.  Mr. Lee is not happy about this at all and he would like you, as his manager, to organise an official apology."

McClean sighed, giving him the required twelve seconds to come up with an excuse: "Jee...  I'd love to help you on that, Mr. Tei, but I haven't seen or heard from my client in over a month."  He was, of course, exaggerating.  "...Last time I talked to him, he was in a terrible state.  You know he was straight edge, right?"

"Certainly, yes.  Very honourable."

"Sh-yeah.  Anyway, last I heard, he fell off the wagon.  He'd just downed a few litres of Jack Daniel's and was looking all over town for the nearest coke dealer.  God only knows where he was or what he was on in Hong Kong...  It was a miracle he even made it onto the plane."

"I...  See..."  Said Huang Tei slowly, falling right into McClean's trap.  "I can imagine that this would be a difficult time for you..."

McClean sighed perhaps his most insincere sigh ever.  He exhaled deeply.  "I know...  It is.  The kid had it all ahead of him.  He was to be my protégé...  If he'd just stuck to his beliefs and kept off the sauce, he'd be two-thirds of the way to making history and becoming the first mythical CCW Triple Crown Of Thorns Champion...  Alas, it wasn't to be.  I'm sure you know what it's like, dealing with these superstar personalities?  Am I right?"

"Yes, Mr. McClean.  I sympathise with you."  

McClean cracked a grin from ear to ear.  "I really appreciate that, Mr. Tei.  I certainly do apologise on behalf of my client-"  He stopped mid-sentence, exactly as he had planned.  "-Actually..."

"Actually?"  The probably young aide's voice lit up over McClean's speakerphone.

"There might be someone able to get in contact with him.  You see the thing is, 'Ject sort of drifted away from me when I joined up with the DisOrder.  Are you familiar with the DisOrder?"

"Yes.  Paul Spartan and Brian Sabre.  How could I not be?"

"That's them, alright.  You see, the thing is, I was working on finalising a spot for Reject within the Heretics.  I also manage "Buzzing" Electric Sharpe, so it seemed only natural.  They got on so well..."  McClean lied.  He was a fine actor, he told himself.  "...But unfortunately, he jumped the gun.  Reject had just won the GZW Extreme title, which had pretty much sealed the deal with the Heretics, and then Spartan and company showed up.  They tried to persuade him to join them.  As I said, I was ironing out the details of the Heretic situation and so couldn't make it to the ring in time to stop the proceedings.  Before I knew it, Reject was a member of the DisOrder.  It was a terrible shame, seeing such a bright prospect and hot property slip from my strong, father-like arms, but it happened."

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that, Mr. McClean.  I was not aware of the details of the situation and sincerely don't mean to trouble you at an emotional time like this."

"Hey...  It's quite alright.  I'm technically the kid's manager, so I hold myself fully responsible.  I've never been one to shift the blame to others.  If there was anything I could do to reverse any of Reject's antics on previous editions of Wyldesyde, I would.  I hope you know that, and I'm sure Jackie Lee knows that."

"Yes, yes.  I understand."

"I only wish there were something I could do..."  McClean paused for a moment, to give the impression of deep thought.  In reality, he was retrieving a lighter from his breast pocket and he promptly lit up a Cuban cigar.  He exhaled thick rings of smoke in such a way that it would have sounded as though he was sighing or even crying.  "...You could always try Andrew Excelsior, though.  He manages the DisOrder.  If anyone's talked to Reject, it's him..."

"Andrew Excelsior, you say?"

"Yeah...  As I said, I really hate shifting the responsibility to others, but-"  McClean intentionally trailed off.

Huang Tei promptly cut in, just as McClean had hoped he would:  "Really, it's quite alright.  We'll get in touch with Mr. Excelsior, then.  We appreciate all of your help, Mr. McClean."

"Anytime...  Glad to be of service to you folks.  You have a good day, now."

"You too, sir.  God bless."

With Tei's final farewell, McClean hung up the phone.  He'd fallen for it - hook, line and sinker.  It was out of McClean's hands now.  He didn't even need to look for Reject.  His 'antics' would be all over the morning papers and late-night bulletins.  He decided to treat himself to a glass of scotch and to give Electric Sharpe a call.