"Everyone falls silent.  What's wrong?  Haven't you got anything to FUCKING TALK ABOUT?!"

John Taylor stood on the roof of the magnificent GZW2K1 Coliseum, overlooking an all but empty parking lot on an uneventful Sunday night.  Taylor had been there a long time.  He wasn't sure, but he guessed that it had been at least two hours, but he couldn't be sure.  Wrapped up warm in a heavy trench coat, Taylor surveyed the scene below.  The last of the production and sound crew were finishing up after the evening's house show.  Taylor's recently showered hair flailed in the wind as he coughed loudly and began to talk to himself.

"...I've been here before.  It would appear that I am currently one of an absolutely microscopic number of GZW competitors that see wrestling as anything more than a day job.  What currently plagues GZW is an epidemic.  This epidemic covers everyone from our World Heavyweight Champion, Pimp Bizkit to the fluke winner of the Contest Of Champions battle royale, James Tanner.  Pimp is the current champion.  He sees this as a bye, a get-out-of-jail-free card which allows him to come and go on GZW airwaves as little as he likes.  Pimp would rather sit around Bizkit's, foaming at the mouth over whatever whore has found her way in off the street that particular night alongside two forty-year-old men, a body-builder and a psychotic British kid than cut a promo.  Of course, he's not alone.  The list of shame is a mile long.  But I hold Pimp Bizkit responsible..."

"The man is a fucking JOKE of a champion...  What has he done since gaining the title in that ridiculous fashion?  Other than corrupting the minds and potential of future stars by bringing them around to his way of thinking, absolutely nothing.  Thanks to Pimp's pathetic parading around and blatant absenteeism, mindless drones like Kaine, Tytan, Tanner, Cleaver and the Williams Brothers see it as acceptable and follow suit.  It's a fucking disgrace.  I should be the fucking World Heavyweight Champion.  As much as Pimp Bizkit fancies himself as being the king of the mountain, I find pleasure in pointing out that he's a little fucking late.  If memory serves me correctly, each and every one of his 'Old Guard' peers reached his heights years ago.  The time of the Old Guard is long gone, yet Pimp seems to be stuck in some sort of time warp."

"Pimp's title reign is basically the equivalent of a college student failing his exams whilst his fellow class men flourished, only for him to come back years later, amongst a new generation and then pass the test.  Granted, it's an honour and an accomplishment, but it's lost a great deal of its importance, its shine.  However, Pimp doesn't seem to have a problem with that.  He's spent the last four years as the little fish in the big pond, he feels he deserves things to go the other way for once..."

Taylor stroked at his goatee for a moment, as if soaking in the atmosphere of the cold arena rooftop in the middle of the night.

"Why do I bother saying all of this?  To expose his incompetence as champion?  Most certainly, but I also see this as me doing Pimp a favour.  As an egomaniac, he always wants to be the centre of attention.  Unfortunately for him, he can't be a lazy, part-time champion and be the constant focal point simultaneously.  Something's got to give.  Ideally, it'll be his World Heavyweight Title belt.  Realistically, that won't happen until I finally get my rematch with him.  Instead, he's lined up to defend against Tonya Glory and James Tanner.  Easy pickings, to put it bluntly.  As much as I despise Pimp and his devaluing of the belt, I acknowledge that he should have no problem whatsoever stepping right through these 'challengers'.  That won't be so bad, though, because all those two matches will do is build a false sense of security up inside the Midcard Killer.  With two consecutive defences under his belt, he'll be on cloud nine.  He'll never see me coming..."

"...But back to the matter at hand - Pimp's wanting to constantly take centre stage.  The worst thing I could do to Pimp is to simply ignore him.  Just looking past him would rile him up so much more than any trash talk possibly could.  However, will I do that?  No.  It's not in my best interests for interest in Pimp to drop below the radar.  As long as Pimp is on all the posters and dirt sheets, he's happy.  He could care less if there were reports about a successful title defence on his part or a reported rumour of him having an affair with one of his sisters, as long as there were reports about him.  The man craves attention, and from my point of view, there's no harm in giving him what he wants.  Some might call it appeasement, I simply call it playing along.  If Pimp wants to believe he's unbeatable, let him.  If he wants to believe he's the greatest of all time, let him, and sit back to see what James Corbin would have to say."

Taylor tidied his hair slightly with his right hand before continuing.

"...You see, for as long as Pimp believes all the bullshit propaganda he generates, then I have no problem.  If he believes he can beat me, I've got no problem in the slightest with it.  All that means to me is that his guard will be down.  Maybe not in the most obvious of ways, but it'll be down nonetheless.  Of course, why bother listen to what I've got to say?  Pimp's got the famous quotes and the strip club...  I'm just a babbling has-been, surely.  Decide for your fucking selves."

Taylor turned his back to the camera and returned to scanning the almost totally vacant carpark.