Reject sits alone at a table-for-four at the McDonald's restaurant within the GZW2K1 Coliseum.  Oddly enough, a donut of some description with a bite taken out of it sits on the far side of the table, away from Reject's own meal.  The veteran HKWF competitor sips on a large Coke.  It is clear from his sour facial expression that he isn't enjoying the highly fattening beverage whatsoever, yet he persists.  Placing the cardboard cup down on the tacky table in front of him, he reaches for a half-eaten Big Mac and takes a huge bite, chewing the heart-attack-inducing 'meat' almost robotically before swallowing it and taking another sip of his Coke.  He finishes off the burger and takes another gulp of Coke to wash it all down.  And rot his insides.  He grabs a napkin from his tray and wipes around his mouth.

"I know you're there."

Reject doesn't move.  A couple of heads turn and turn back just as quickly after laying eyes on the physical specimen that is the six-time HKWF Hardcore Champion.

"Of course, that's not too hard.  You're always there.  Don't bother zooming out."

Reject drinks down another gulp of his Coke.

"You'll get what you want from me...  When I'm finished."

He still doesn't bother looking in the direction of the camera, instead examining the remains of his meal.

"Look at this garbage.  The packaging cost more child workers' lives than money to produce.  Look at these fucking kids on the French Fries box - jolly, rich, little American kids.  Why not use their own employees as models?  They already exploit them for pretty much everything else.  They may as well come full circle.  Scumbags."

Reject finishes off the coke, savouring the irony of the whole situation.

"Now...  Matters at hand."

Reject wipes his hands in his plain black T-Shirt.

"Where do I start?  There's so much raw information to be raped...  Not that you care, of course.  You'd be satisfied with a shot of me with barbeque sauce on my face.  This past Crimson needs to be addressed, of course.  I'm sure you ate up the impromptu Hell In The Cell...  The masses sure did.  Add to that the backstage assault on the Cursed Angel?  Why did I do it?  For the sake of it?  Because I'm that damned extreme?  No.  To soften him up?  No.  It's common knowledge that I've been unfairly done out of more than my fair share of exposure and opportunity.  The fact that I'm curtain-jerking three back to back shows won't particularly do anything to help that.  In order for one to be heard in this business, one must shout at the top of one's lungs..." 

He fingers through his greasy black hair for a moment.

"Similarly, in order to be seen, one must step up and actually do something worth seeing.  There's a queue as long as you can imagine of Indy workers that would sell their souls to become curtain jerkers, warm-up acts in the big leagues.  These people would give their right arm to show up earliest, be told exactly what kind of match to wrestle, do as they're told and then fuck off home with something barely more than minimum wage.  Although recent line-ups will tend to show otherwise, I do not fall into that category.  Sure, I told those backstage abusers of power that I'd do this and I'd do that, but that was just to get them off my case.  I buttered them up and fed them what they wanted, but I went out there and played by my rules.  That's clear for all to see.  Kid X and the Cursed Angel just happened to be in the clichéd wrong place at the wrong time.  What mightn't be so clear, however is-"

A bathroom door off-screen can be heard swinging open and abruptly shutting closed.  The camera shakes as a man's dirty black hair covers the entire screen, seemingly intentionally.  The man speaks in whispers.

"The fuck is this shit?"

"The evil eye, comrade."

"I can see that.  What the fuck is it doing here?"

"It's job.  For all it's mudslinging and bull shitting, it's operators are simply doing their jobs, no more or less than you or I would.  I know how you feel in that regard, and I'd tend to agree with you, but some time you're going to have to see the media for the limitless resource it can be, Wylder."

"Fuck that.  The enemies we were, I still respected your loathing of all things commercial and materialistic.  Don't bail on it now.  I'll be outside."

Before Reject can say a word, Wylder walks off, unblocking the view.  Interestingly enough, the donut on the far side of the table appears to have had another bite taken out of it.  For the first time, Reject now looks up and faces the camera.  His face littered with scars and piercings, he stares straight at the screen.

"And that was the thing that mightn't be so clear.  Wylder, a known enemy of mine for many years.  A rival for my crown of all things hardcore, extreme and violent."

His face tenses.  He pinches at his forehead for a moment, quickly retrieving a solitary metal barb that was lodged within.  Blood trickles ever so slowly from the slight wound.  He discards the barb and picks up the napkin from earlier, drying up the small amount of blood.  He casually changes the point of conversation from Wylder to his upcoming Fallout: Collision Course opponent.

"That the best you could do, Cursed Angel?  I'll know soon enough.  This week, you showed that the extreme match isn't for you.  Against Reject, not many people get that far.  At Fallout: Collision Course, however, you and I are booked together in singles competition.  Something that'd be a lot kinder on you, I can imagine.  Of the booking committee, however, I ask why this move?  Why try to create something out of nothing only for it to ultimately go to waste?  People will've forgotten all about this rivalry as soon as they start airing HKWF programming, anyway..."

He drags his right hand across his forehead, smearing the now coagulated blood all over it.

"Am I right, Cursed Angel?"

Reject says nothing more, opting to simply turn away and examine the remains of his meal for a second time.