"I failed?  By whose standards?"

He sat in the driver's seat of his inexpensive black hatchback.  It was pitch dark out, the only visible light, the aluminous green glow of the digital clock on the dashboard, giving the entire scene a hazy glow.  It was fast approaching one in the morning, according to the clock.  As the engine was off, the only noise was from his heavy, unsteady breathing.  He reached his right arm out and pulled down the top view mirror.

John Taylor stared back at him, massaging an apparently sore neck with both of his hands.  Much facial bruising and swelling was visible.

"Only a handful of competitors on this roster could even go toe to toe with James Corbin, and for the most part, that's come from experience.  Tonight was my FIRST meeting with the Wrestling Franchise, and I came within an inch of dethroning The Monarch.  I took the best that the best had to offer, and I withstood it.  I refused to be bunched into the same category already occupied by two-thirds of this roster.  I refused to become just another face in the crowd, another jewel in the Monarch crown.  I refused to stay down.  I refused to be squashed."

He scratched at his goatee subconsciously.

"I have no shame in admitting defeat tonight.  In the end, it could've gone either way.  Tonight, it happened to go Monarch's way.  Be there the proverbial next time, I'd look for an entirely different outcome altogether.  But what's done is done.  It wasn't the end of the world, and I didn't walk away empty-handed.  Whilst the man behind the Monarch is now content to move forward and try to relive the past, he didn't get out entirely unscathed."

"He knows he was able to pin the Lone Gunman tonight.  That's ALL he learned from our match.  And really, what use is that knowledge to him when he's happy to fall into the humdrum of six man tag team matches with Electric Sharpe and Phillip Tytan?  I, on the other hand, walked out of the Coliseum tonight, a massive weight lifted from my shoulder.  I now know for sure that I can 'hang' with the Monarch.  I know that I can go toe to toe with arguably the Greatest Of All Time.  Sure, I lost the match, but does that really matter in the slightest?  Will that in any way affect my contendership to Tonya Glory's World Heavyweight Championship?"

His eyes narrowed cynically.

"No.  I still sit atop the rankings list.  Pretty soon, Glory will have to defend her newly won belt, and I'll be ready and waiting to swoop in and take it."

Taylor took a deep breath and spoke clearly to his own reflection.

"Again I pose the rhetorical question - by whose standards did I truly FAIL tonight?  I took what the Monarch had to dish out.  I sent it right back.  We went at it in a superb technical wrestling match.  In the end, he was able to keep the Lone Gunman's shoulders pinned to the mat for three seconds.  He won.  But really, does that mean the rest of the match just pales in insignificance?  I certainly don't think so."  

"I didn't fail.  If anything, I passed Monarch's initial test with flying colours."

Taylor's reflection raised something of a sceptic eyebrow as if to question his own logic.

" James, you're a man of your word.  You told me you'd play dirty, and you did.  You won the match, give yourself a pat on the back.  Now that you've beaten me on top of practically every other main eventer working for the company at the moment, the Midcard is your oyster.  Enjoy the squashes, the needless six-man-tags...  Enjoy watching Electric Sharpe grow too big for his boots and break free from the reigns held by his mentor.  The man is the number four contender to the World Heavyweight Championship.  According to the GZW Rulebook, that warrants a World title shot.  Now that Pimp has slipped from the comfortable position he's had for the past two months, will Sharpe step up and lobby the command suite for his shot, against placeholder Champion Tonya Glory of all people?"

Taylor cracked a slight, uncomfortable grin.

"This could be Sharpe's time.  He could skip all the fucking around and foreplay and dive right into the main event stardom he quite clearly craves.  At the very least, he could give Glory a run for her money.  Even that would raise his profile to a certain height.  But why do I say this?  Am I trying to create dissention amongst the Heretic ranks?  Am I trying to shine a veritable blue light on the stain that is the makeup of the Heretics?  No, quite frankly because that isn't necessary.  The crisis within the Heretic camp is plain for all to see.  Their leader lost the World Heavyweight Championship.  On his first defence of the belt.  After two months of twiddling his thumbs.  To a woman.  These things don't even need to be pointed out.  The rookie, Electric Sharpe, is higher in the ranks than the supposed figurehead, Pimp Bizkit.  It's an almost laughable situation."

"But before I digress, I'll return to my initial reference to the aforementioned "Buzzing" youngster's recent success, and what effect it'll have on Monarch's quest to cement his legacy.  Give Electric Sharpe two months and he'll be the bee's knees.  A next generation, more agile, tougher Pimp Bizkit.  He's got a 50/50 chance of coming out of Collision Course as the Neophyte Of The Year.  If the Extreme title is to be reinstated, he's sure to be in contention for it.  It's only a matter of time before he's headlining.  Where does that leave the Monarch?  The old mentor watching from the sidelines as the equivalent of his protégée outshines him?  Spiteful, bitter, petty old man who refuses to acknowledge his young companion's success and talent above his own?  Those are but two possibilities, and neither sound particularly desirable, in anyone's book.  My point again falls back to my defeat at the hands of James-"

Three taps on the frosted window startled the Lone Gunman.  He fell completely silent.  A muffled voice was heard from outside the vehicle.

"I know you're in there, pal, the damn light's on!"

Taylor said nothing, but slunk down into his driver's seat chair.  A chubby hand became visible through the frosted glass and began to smudge a clearing.  The bright red face of a man, possibly a security guard, pressed up against the window.

"Buddy, I'm not stupid.  I'm looking right at you."

Taylor let out a disappointed sigh before rolling down the window, letting in a blast of the cool night breeze.

"Is there a problem?"

The man's face came into full view.  He was short, stocky and red in the face from the ridiculously low temperature.

"There could be...  This is private property.  Customers park 'round the front.  This is exclusively V.I.P.  If Mr. Bizkit hasn't asked you here personally, I'm going to have to ask you to move along."

All of a sudden, it became apparent that Taylor was parked in an exclusive area outside Bizkit's.  The thumping bass that was there all along became as clear as day.  Taylor smirked and spoke in a particularly condescending, sarcastic tone that was all but lost on the guard.

"Seriously?  That's a shame...  I was looking forward to speaking to the big guy himself.  I'm an old co-worker of his."

The security guard ran his chubby right hand back through his buzz-cut hair.  It was obvious that he was trying to look intimidating, but his almost comical appearance made him fail by default.

"Sorry, pal, there's nothing I can do for ya.  Co-worker or no co-worker..."

"I see.  Well, I'm sure you've got your procedure to follow.  Listen, you wouldn't give him a message, would you?"

"I don't know...  I'm a busy guy..."

Taylor raised an eyebrow at the plump man as if to try and convince him.  The man reluctantly gave in.

"Alright.  What is it?"

Taylor seemed to genuinely smile as the last few words escaped his lips.

"Tell Pimp Bizkit that his old pal John Taylor stopped by.  The message?  Get in line."

The guard obviously had no idea what the Lone Gunman was talking about, but Taylor didn't seem to care.  He rolled up the window and stuck the key in the ignition.  The engine hummed into action.