Taylor's reflection stared back at him expressing nothing but apathy.  Physically, the Lone Gunman displayed none of the ill effects surely sustained at the hands of the Heretics' triple-team at the fifth Contest Of Champions.  The man's eyes, however, told a completely different story.  Taylor had tried to hide it, but staring straight into his bedroom mirror, he realised that it wasn't worth the effort.  The beat down had affected him.  He'd tried to write it off before as nothing to write home about.  He believed himself in theory.  He knew that showing any weakness whatsoever would only add to the momentum currently possessed by James Corbin and company.  In spite of this, however, he just wasn't prepared to keep up the charade any longer.

"Fucking catch twenty-two situation..."

Taylor barked at himself.  The fact that there was no response of any description seemed to irritate him to no end.  He scratched absently at what was know a thin beard covering the lower half of his rugged face, his stone eyes darting up and down mechanically as if examining himself.  He was topless, but wore a loose old pair of black Levi's.  A faint smile came across his otherwise sullen face as he was seemed to be impressed at his own lean but well built physique.  The Lone Gunman wasn't a narcissist, but he certainly believed in keeping shape, in never showing any weakness whatsoever.  A light flickered somewhere behind him for a moment before returning to normal.  Taylor sighed.

"What the fuck are you at, boy?!  Get all that bullshit out of your mind right now!"

Startled at the vaguely familiar voice coming from somewhere off screen, Taylor turned around.  He saw nothing but his own finely furnished, if a little dull, bedroom.  Rubbing his temples ever so slightly, he shook his head a little.  Glancing at his bedside clock, he was told that it had just gone three o' clock in the morning.  He looked around the room once more before moving away from the mirror and taking a seat on the foot of his neatly-made double bed.  A tense moment passed before HKWF's Hitman allowed his upper body muscles to relax and he lay back in the centre of his bed.

"It is bullshit.  Monarch...  The Heretics...  Here I am, potentially staring down the biggest match of my career...  And I'm hearing things.  That scumbag overdosed five fucking years ago.  I haven't been in Mexico in nearly a decade.  I'm in the best financial state of my life, but something just isn't right.  Monarch..."

Still laying on the bed, Taylor shifted his weight to his left and rolled over onto his side, facing away from the camera.

"Monarch's all about extremes.  You're either up his ass or he's gunning for you.  There's no room for a happy medium.  It's bullshit based around ego, but I can accept it for what it is.  Of course, Corbin would rather reserve the 'enemy' slots for an international star like Paul Spartan or Brian Sabre over a Light Heavyweight Champion-at-best midcarder like myself, but I'm sure I can change that soon enough.  In order to get his fix, Monarch really needs others to buy into the ideal that he is the glass ceiling, that you can't get any better and you simply can't get anywhere near him.  In order for this to work, he needs to single out obvious threats to the Heretics like myself, try to work them down with two or three associates and firmly draw the proverbial line in the sand, ensuring that everyone knows the Lone Gunman's position, and perhaps more importantly, Monarch's position.  So many have fallen into this trap, this endless cycle.  Monarch's very existence thrives on supposed lesser men playing their inadverted roles to a 'T'..."

Taylor sat up once again.  Exhaustion had obviously begun to set in, evident from the heavy dark bags underneath his otherwise inexpressive eyes.  Regardless of that, he continued.

"...Not me, however.  Monarch, I'm sure you're longing for me to just fold in front of you, to call it a day and feed you your recommended daily allowance of spiel for that superiority complex of yours.  Don't worry, I'm not flattering myself...  I'm well aware that you're only giving me even this much attention because you don't know if, or how, I measure up to your glass ceiling.  If I was one of the long list of CCW competitors past and present that you've humbled in your time, then you wouldn't give me the time of day.  Furthermore, if I was a Kid X or a Kaine proclaiming to be the second coming of Christ, you probably wouldn't even consider me as anything other than expendable.  Fortunately, I don't fit into either of those categories.  I'm of a rare breed, Corbin.  I've been through it all - HKWF, UJW...  Mexico...  Europe...  Sure, I haven't the gold and silverware that you have to show for it, but I've experienced it.  I was there when you were the Lost Boy, before you had the confidence to call yourself the Wrestling Franchise...  I was there when you were me, James...  You were at a pivotal point in your career.  I'm at that point now."

With both hands, Taylor fidgeted at his uncharacteristically untidy hair. 

"But right now, it could go either way.  I'm one of the last bumps in the road to Heretical supremacy in this company.  If you deal with me correctly, not only will you have eliminated me from the equation, but you'll have taken your glass ceiling up another six feet or so.  On the other hand, though...  Let's just say you don't deal with me properly.  Let's say you get cocky, which leads to sloppiness...  Let's just imagine that you see your recent three-on-one attack and subsequent unofficial pinfall, counted by Electric Sharpe, of all people, as enough to put me away..."

Taylor smirked a cynical, somewhat sarcastic smirk.

"...?  Well?  Come on, Monarch...  You've never been known for being naive, don't start now...  You didn't put me away...  You didn't beat me.  You did nothing other than giving yourself a little time.  Time passes, Monarch.  Soon enough, you and I will go at it.  No cronies like Tytan or Sharpe will be involved.  There'll be no talk of safety in numbers or jumping on the bandwagon...  It'll simply be "The Lone Gunman" taking on "The Wrestling Franchise", one on fucking one.  Whether that match takes place at Fallout: Collision Course, next week on a house show, a Crimson months from now or right now, I'll be ready and waiting.  In fact, I've been waiting pretty much my whole career for such a match.  However, I don't plan on simply being the next lemming over the cliff's edge.  Nor do I plan on stealing fifteen minutes of fame off the Monarch name a la Adam Cage only to get it back ten fold afterwards.  No, I plan on going in and besting a true Living Legend within our sport.  I plan on going in and wearing you down until it's an elementary case of one, two, three or until you willingly admit that you can no longer take the vice-like grip of the Silencer and you tap out.  Above all else, Monarch, I plan on breaking the previously endless cycle and shattering your proverbial glass ceiling."

"That's more like it, kid."

Taylor let out a sigh of exhaustion whilst he scanned his empty room for a voice that wasn't really there.