"Reject, Reject...  A quick word, please?"

Seasoned backstage GZW personality Mickey "Mouse" Greer pleads desperately with the man known only as Reject, who climbs silently out of a cab outside the front gate of the GZW Coliseum.  Mouse scurries towards the six-time HKWF Hardcore Champion who pays him no attention in the slightest.

"Hey, come on buddy...  You'd be doing me a HUGE favour!!!"

"Rat, I suggest you get lost in a hurry."

Reject forcefully pushes past the thirty-two-year-old gossip monger and steps up to the pedestrian gate reserved specifically for GZW employees and talent.  A rotund security guard chews on a donut inside the connecting booth.  The middle-aged man looks Reject up and down a couple of times from behind his tinted dark glass window.  He cracks a rude smile at the Bethlehem, Pennsylvania native's appearance - a black plastic bag mutilated into a tank top with the words "Straight Edge" slit out of the front, a tattered old pair of Levi's, greasy shoulder length hair pulled back in a tight ponytail revealing his undercut, not to mention a small army of piercings and tattoos.  Wolfing down the last of his donut, the security guard barks out at Reject through his small intercom system.

"No fans, muckrake."

Keeping his temper in tow, Reject simply takes a deep breath, fully aware that Mouse still stands behind him with his own camera crew.

"I'm no fan, you miserable waster.  My name is Reject, I'm a CCW employee.  I'm scheduled to appear at tomorrow night's show."

Reject points back at Mouse.

"Even this idiot'll attest to that.  Right, Rat?"

Mouse literally licks his lips as he speaks up, more at Reject than the security guard.

"I don't know, man...  My memory's a little foggy.  I think I'm coming down with something.  You got anything to refresh my memory there, kid?"

"Don't even fucking start this crap with me or you'll find yourself hanging upside down from that gate over there."

"Uh, security?  This fan's threatening me.  I am Mickey Greer, you know.  Maybe you'd like to sort this little muckrake out?"

"With pleasure, Mr. Greer."

With that, the rotund and balding security guard steps out of his booth and approaches Reject.

"Stay away from me, seriously."

The guard laughs it off, retrieving a small night stick from his belt.

"Right, right...  Now this can be as simple or as difficult as you like.  I've got full authorisation to use this under any circumstances where a GZE Employee's safety is in danger."

Reject raises a cynical eyebrow at the impassioned guard before glancing at a smirking Mouse.

"Give me a fucking break, this is bullshit."

"Bullshit?  Perhaps.  But it'll all go away if you just tell me what I want to hear."

Confused, the guard turns his attention to Greer.

"What are you talking about, sir?  You know this guy?"

"Too fucking right, he does.  Now get the fuck out of my way and let me through.  I've got a meeting in there."

"A...  A meeting?  Of what nature?  With who?  It's with Andrew Excelsior, isn't it?  Clancy McClean?  Seth Richards himself?  Just give me something, man..."

"A confidential meeting, Rat.  Go pester someone who doesn't know gives a fuck and even acknowledges a little second rate, toerag journalist like yourself."

Mouse falls silent as the security guard scratches his balding head awkwardly.  Reject steps past the two men and slips in under the gate.  Mouse signals for the guard not to even bother trying to stop him.