It had been days since Reject had ridden himself of the cancerous Clancy McClean.  Calculating how many was nearly impossible, but even knowing that the self-proclaimed Renaissance Man was out of his re-growing hair was enough to keep him satisfied.  He knew that McClean had done damage, though.  As he partook in such a mundane a task as parking his cheap imported car in the talent lot at the Trouble Trax, he couldn't help but feel the worse for wear because of it.  Security guards kept one hand on their holsters.  Visitors looked twice, sometimes even three times.  Even as he was stepping out of his vehicle, with free spaces beside it in every direction, he noticed that not a single passing car parked, or even slowed down, near his.  He liked to have a certain edge, a certain degree of immunity.  This, however, was going too far.  The very fabric of that which he had become used to over his years was being ripped and torn at.  This was McClean's doing.  The Philanthropist had strapped a time bomb on Reject, and it felt as though it'd been detonated some time over the past week. 

Reject glanced back at his car.  It was a piece of crap, but he couldn't have cared less.  He had, weeks prior, destroyed the high-class BMW donated to him by his former manager.  At seven-hundred and thirty-six bucks, this was the best he could afford.  He'd gotten it from a used car lot in downtown Atlanta a couple of days ago.  Glancing indifferently back at the old green box in parking space 5G1, he tightened the gym bag's strap over his left shoulder and headed for the pedestrian exit of the enclosed car park. 

As he stepped inside the lift to the second floor gym, he caught a glimpse of his blurry reflection in the ultra-shiny wall.  Just as the doors were but centimetres apart, a loud ping signalled for them to open fully again, and into the lift stepped a Trouble Trax trainer.  They were easy to spot because they all looked the exact same - Same dodgy-looking hair highlights, same buff exterior and utterly dozy facial expression.  Out of courtesy, the only six-time HKWF Hardcore Champion in history took a step back towards the back of the carriage to allow the man in.  The trainer, too, carried a gym bag.  His, however, was a platinum-coloured GZW2K1 one.  Reject's had at one point been the same, but he had mutilated it and personalised it.  Gone was the GZW emblem and glossy sheen.  In their place were shards of clothing and ring apron apparently stuck on with human blood.

"Thanks, Reject."

The bastard.  Reject felt like ripping out the trainer's throat.  His name wasn't Reject... 

"Yeah."  Replied Reject in a tone perhaps as blunt as he'd ever used.

"Say, buddy...  Any chance of an autograph?"  Asked the trainer.  With an unrequited laugh, he added: "You know, while we're here and all..."

Ping!  The electronic doors slid open. 

"Well, this is my stop."  Said Reject as he shoved past the trainer and stepped out onto the second floor of the Trouble Trax.  He doesn't make it five steps until the trainer catches up with him.

"Reject!  I was asking for your autograph, pal...  What happened?"

"Nothing."  Reject began to speed up a little.

"Nothing?  What nothing?"

Reject stopped outside a door on which the words "Men's Changing Rooms" were printed.  The trainer caught up with him once again.  Abruptly, the former Extreme Heavyweight Champion threw down his gym bag, turned to face the trainer, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pinned him up against the door.  As intense as ever, the heavily touted CCW Legend spoke low and heavy into the trainer's right ear.

"Nothing happened, employee...  You don't know me.  You've seen Reject on TV, that does not mean I'm open season for little worms like you to address as casually as you like.  You want an autograph?  You don't fucking get one.  It's that simple...  I don't do autographs for the sake of it..."

The look of horror on the trainer's face turned to one of unbearable amusement in a matter of seconds.

"Are you...  Laughing?"

The young trainer tries to hold back his laughter.  The rage became clearly visible in the facial expression of the number four contender to the GZW World Heavyweight Championship.

"No...  No...  Just, what're you gonna do - Lock me in your bathroom?  Ha-"

Before the trainer can even contain himself laughing, Reject drives his own head stiff into that of the laughing young man.  The laughter instantly stops as the trainer crumples in a seated heap to the floor, being supported only by the wall behind him.  He buried his head in his hands to cover up his bloody nose.  Showing absolutely no compassion, a highly pissed-off Reject slowly dropped to a knee and whispered something in the man's ear.  It took the trainer about thirty seconds to overcome what appeared to be shock, and he simply uttered the word "Sorry...".

Some time later, having worked out for an hour whilst the trainer, whose name, incidentally, was Clarence, hid in the women's changing room, Reject stepped into the underground parking lot.  At a distance, his ugly car stood out like a rebellious lemming.  He sighed to himself.  It was intact.  He'd actually sort of hoped that he'd return to find it stolen, or at least vandalised.  He could've used the excitement.  He could've used anything out of the ordinary.  Sadly, nothing was available.

Electric Sharpe.  Before you say another word, ask yourself do you really want to go down this route.  Mister Klown and Jimmy Williams are one thing, but do you really know what you're getting yourself into?  Do you really want to bang heads with me, "Buzzing"?

Sharpe, you don't know me.  You've never seen a competitor like me.  You've never seen anything like me, Extreme Heavyweight Champion.  Titles are not an issue.  Gold is not an issue.  Awards aren't an issue.  90% of the time, winning isn't even an issue.  I couldn't care less about records, rankings, grades or markings.  I do exactly what I want exactly when I want.  That isn't to prove anything, it's simply because it's the way it has always been.  It was like that before you ever showed up, and it'll surely be like that once the heat becomes too intense for you and you scurry along to Hollywood or back to the comfortably below average British Championship Wrestling Federation.  You haven't got a clue what you're getting yourself into, Human Leech.  Clever insults don't mean a thing to me...  To put it bluntly, if the best you have is your word, I won't even bother with you.  I gave you an honourable discharge at Aftermath 2K4 when I dropped you and Klown from the Zerotron.  I broke the boundaries of what was accepted as 'Extreme'...  I've been doing that for as long as I can remember, Electric.  You've been here, what, half a year and all you can lay claim to in the hardcore realm is your golf club?  Give me a break.  You're the hottest rookie?  Neophyte of the Year?  Irrelevant.  You want to play the extreme game, you leave your little kid's toys at the door.  I don't want to know.  I couldn't give a shit what Clancy McClean graded you.  Once you step into an extreme match, you forfeit ALL of that.

Until you top what I did to you at Aftermath and prove me terribly wrong, or you fuck off with your tail between your legs and follow the premade, boyhood dream that they'll no doubt slap onto you when they think it's time for you to step up and challenge Pimp Bizkit, then you keep your mouth shut.  Don't tell me I'm an attention seeker.  I won't listen.  It's not true.  Nobody cares.  Sharpe, you told me that maybe it's about time you showed me what you can put me through...

I've been thinking the same thing for far too long now...