"Yes, fuckwit, I know what a .PDF file is.  I'm looking at it now, you moron, and I'm not happy.  Why is my face smaller than Monarch's?  I specifically asked for mine to be the focal point of the whole T-Shirt, and for the other five to be positioned around it."

Lounging in his office, an irritated Clancy McClean argues with some ultimately unimportant graphic designer over the phone.

"What did you just say?  Don't even try to get fresh with me.  I'm the one that feeds your family.  I put dinner on the table, clothes on their backs.  You play your cards right with this job and you'll get that holiday home in Cancun.  Don't be an idiot, idiot."

The low buzz of his titanium intercom momentarily startles McClean.

"Idiot, hold on a second."

McClean puts his microscopic cell phone on hold before holding down the button on his intercom.

"Speak."

"Mr. McClean, Reject is here to see you."

McClean rolls his eyes, Reject's imminent arrival clearly adding to his frustration.  He sighs.

"Send him in, Miss Connell."

McClean rudely releases the button on his buzzer before his secretary has time to reply.  He puts the phone back up to his ear.

"Idiot, I'm busy.  You sort out those corrections and have the finished design to me first thing tomorrow morning.  I want production to begin right away.  The product is to be on every merchandise stand this side of the equator.  Get to it."

The large wooden door creaks open.  McClean cracks an altogether false smile at the short, bulky Reject, who steps into view and promptly takes a seat at the desk.

"Well if it isn't my favourite CCW Legend.  How are you, 'Ject?  Good showing last night."

"McClean."

"Tell me, what brings you here on a Friday night?"

"What do you think?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I haven't got the first clue.  Care to enlighten me?"

"Last night."

The repressed anger within Reject clearly begins to boil as he continues to speak in short bursts.

"What about it?  You destroyed the College Crew.  Twice.  A great success across the board, if you ask me."

"Across the board?"

Reject falls silent once again.  A perplexed McClean clearly doesn't know how to react.  A terrible awkward silence ensues.

"...You no-showed, McClean."

"What?  I was there..."

Unable to hold in the rage any longer, Reject smashes his fist full force onto McClean's desk, the impact upsetting the assorted, carefully laid out papers and stationery.

"You were there, alright.  For twenty FUCKING minutes.  You arrived in the middle of the show with your new sex-toy Electric Sharpe and left straight afterward after your valiant warrior had failed miserably.  Where the fuck were you for my match, Clancy?"

McClean slowly raises his hands in an effort to calm his client.

"Reject...  Why are you getting so hot and bothered about this?  You clearly told me at Collision Course that you didn't want me at ringside.  What's the problem?"

"I still don't want you at ringside, but that's beside the point.  I want you backstage, waiting on me hand and foot.  I want you there to call the ambulance and the lawyer if I happen to go a little too far with an opponent.  I want you there to call the hearse if I take it a step further again.  You're committed to me, you greedy son of a bitch.  Far too long in my life have I let broken promises slide and allowed people to let me down.  No longer, McClean.  You've got a job.  Do it."

"'Ject, I was there from the get-go.  You saw Sharpe running around backstage with the rest of the Heretics.  I was there too.  You're right in saying that I do have a job, but it doesn't stop with you.  You're the only six-time HKWF Hardcore Champion.  You're the next GZW Extreme Heavyweight Champion.  Bottom line, you can take care of yourself.  Last night I had a different responsibility to fulfil.  Electric Sharpe is the Neophyte of the Year.  It is my duty to manage him.  Last night that may have eaten into my managing of the future CCW Triple Crown of Thorns holder, but worry not, my lad, it was a one time thing.  I just had to break him in, show him the ropes.  That sort of thing..."

"I'm not your lad, McClean.  Get that out of your well-polished mouth this second.  For all intents and purposes, you're my lad.  You're the little lapdog that runs in on hand and knee and cleans up whatever mess I've seen fit to leave behind.  Be that a broken table or a broken neck, that's all you do.  Electric Sharpe has the Heretics, he doesn't need you."

"Of course he doesn't, 'Ject.  You're right."

McClean nervously looks around to try and come up with some way to change the subject.  

  "Anyway..."

His jaw nearly drops when Reject decides to continue. 

"And where the fuck did you disappear to after the show?"

A cold sweat breaks down McClean's forehead as he tugs at his collar.

"Is it hot in here?  Are you hot?  I think it's definitely above room temperature...  I'll have Miss Connell get right on it.

Clancy reaches for the intercom, but Reject forcefully snatches it and yanks it from its resting place on the desk.  Disconnecting several wires in the process, he tosses it aside.

"Don't bother.  You were about to tell me what was so important that you had to ditch your number one guy after his star performance."

"Yes...  Of course.  It's just that Sharpe needed to go to the hospital afterwards...  Monarch was a little preoccupied and Williams was doing that thing with..."

"What the fuck, McClean?  Strap on a pair and fucking cut to the chase."

"...We dropped him off."

"We?"

"Yeah...  I had Davis take a car."

"Isn't that just beautiful.  Where'd you drop him off, then?"

"Eh...  That... place.  You know, Pimp Bizkit runs it...  What is it the sign outside said again?"

Reject raises a condemning eyebrow.  Clancy keeps up the act for a few moments longer before Reject cracks.

"Bizkit's."

"That's the one...  You know it?"

Reject's face turns completely sour.

"Don't fucking bullshit me, McClean.  You want to play trivial pursuit with the Heretics, then do it.  Just don't let it get in my way."

McClean falls completely silent as Reject gets up and swiftly exits the office.