A Realistic Representation Of A Wasted Career
A man's heavy, slow breathing was all that could be heard as the camera panned around a relatively bare trophy room. At first glance, no more than a handful of trophies were visible, taking up only a small percentage of the large oak cabinet covering most of the far wall. The room's poor lighting blurred the specific details on each trophy, but at least three appeared to be for high-school amateur wrestling. Sparsely laid out on the shelf below the trophies were several Championship Belts - mostly Indies and Mexican. The one standout belt, however, was the now-defunct GZW2K1 Light Heavyweight title. The camera zoomed in to focus on the name inscribed on the gold plate - "Lone Gunman" John Taylor. The heavy breathing cut out completely.
"What do you want me to say, Corbin?", an off-screen voice asked.
John Taylor, wearing an old white shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a loose pair of black jeans, stepped into view. The man's ambiguously dark hair - was it black or was it brown? - was slicked back, his goatee neatly trimmed.
"This is my career, Monarch", Taylor proclaimed, pointing out his few material achievements. "Nothing on that of your own, I know. Light Heavyweight and Cruiserweight belts, some obsolete high school junk, some Indy Heavyweight titles. GZW Wrestler Of The Month trophy. Not exactly impressive in contrast to CCW's Triple Crown."
Taylor winced before grabbing a dusty stool from beside the trophy cabinet and placing it in the middle of the room.
"But does it have to be?", Taylor pondered as he took a seat and gazed an unsatisfied gaze at his achievements.
"I certainly don't think so. In terms of titles, status and accomplishments, you've got my number. There's absolutely no doubt about that. In fact, you've got the numbers of just about every competitor in Combined Championship Wrestling history on that one. But we're coming from two very different places. You've done it all. You've always been the glass ceiling, the measuring stick. I, on the other hand, am coming from the ass end of nowhere. While you were unifying the top titles of the 'big three' CCW promotions, I was sitting around licking old wounds. I was sitting around wondering what would've happened had I kept it up, had I never left at the end of 2001. I was working the mundane lifestyle of the average American - commute, work, commute, sleep. I worked a safe, secure desk job. I became one of them."
"But really, what would've been waiting for be back in the GZW?"
Taylor scowled, continuing. "That question. That question plagued me for those three years. That question ensured that I'd continue to live like a scolded dog. That question was both my reason for calling it a day and my excuse for not going back. That question, based on what I'd seen happen to underutilised midcarder after underutilised midcarder was a fucking CURSE."
"Why did I fucking let it fly? Why didn't I question the question?", Taylor went on, now deathly serious. "Because I was a fucking quitter? Probably. Because I was a sorry son of a bitch? Sure, why not? Because I was afraid of what the answer might be, that I might have actually been on the verge of making it? Most definitely. I'm not going to argue with you on that, Corbin."
Taylor reached forward to the cabinet and retrieved one of the title belts. "But I don't see all that as common trash-talk fodder, regardless of how strong you feel about it.", reasoned the Lone Gunman, now dusting off the title belt to reveal the letters "XFWF" with the word "World Heavyweight Champion" underneath.
"This belt..."
"In a word, worthless. The promotion which spawned it has long since imploded, the majority of its former workers dropping off the Indy circuit entirely. Up until my run as GZW Light Heavyweight Champion, however, winning this was the defining moment of my career. It really isn't much to show for the sake of boasting and the now mandatory verbal dissections, but it has come to be a realistic representation of a wasted career."
Discarding the title belt and placing it back on the shelf, a bitter Taylor sighed. "How's that for shooting straight from the fucking hip, Monarch? For the first time, John Taylor tells it like it is. But don't think for a second that it was you that managed to tear away the mask, to claw through the disguise... I'm doing that myself. You want proof of that? In retaliation to your latest offering, it would've been a hell of a lot easier for me to simply go through the motions, sifting through your every word and firing back tenfold. I opted not to. Why?"
"Any number of reasons..."
"The most prominent, however, is trying to get the message through the glass ceiling that John Taylor is a legitimate threat to the World Heavyweight Title, that I am not just another midcarder. Regardless of what you might want to think, I am not a Kid Kaos, a Seven or a James Tanner. Nor am I a Spartan, a Monarch or a Sean Fiery. I'm John Taylor. A thirty-three year old veteran of over fifteen years with next to nothing to show for it. That's not because I lack talent, ability or drive. That's not because I'm a middle of the road, wet-behind-the-ears sack of shit. That's not because I'm delusional or out of my element."
"To put it bluntly", Taylor hesitantly went on, "It's because I never truly had my eye on the ball. I allowed myself to fall into the pocket of John Profit and the HKWF administration. I listened to the buzzwords and the empty promises, and I allowed myself to become derailed. What started off as a fruitful career with many future prospects soon became a watered-down version of what could have been, stuck in the perpetual rut of a go-nowhere HKWF contract. I'm reluctant to say this as any number of my thick skulled, ignorant, foaming at the mouth 'peers' are clearly dying for the opportunity to jump on the bandwagon and paint me with the clichéd 'sob story' brush. However, it's the truth and it needs to be aired. If it causes a chain reaction and allows a Jimmy Williams to shift the focus from his latest B-Movie of a 'best of' video montage and onto me, the shell of a once decent man, the quitter... Then so FUCKING BE IT."
"If wasting breath on a supposedly low profile peasant like myself gives these people a false sense of status and security about themselves, then so be it. Let it distract them from what they should truly be aiming for, let THEY be the ones with their eyes off the proverbial ball for once."
Taylor tugged and scratched at his neat goatee, almost unaware that he was doing so as he continued.
"And no, Monarch, I don't think I've made it. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that I KNOW that I HAVEN'T made it... I'm no superstar, I know that. Will I ever be? Who's to say? Perhaps, if I paid your brainless attempt at mudslinging involving "Commissioner" Devotion any heed whatsoever, I could use the ensuing drama to get me over with the fans of today. I'm not that fucking desperate or shallow, though. Perhaps I could see you and raise you your romps with "Queen Strife" Nikita Fortune. That'd be a sure-fire road to notoriety. But that's not what I'm looking for, Monarch."
"Then what do I want?"
"That's really not important at the moment. What is important, however, is that what you could call my career doesn't revolve around you. I wasn't predestined to be made or broken by you. In all likelihood, my career will outlast yours. A year or two down the road, Monarch will be nothing more than a whisper in the wind, an addition to the list already consisting of the names of Firefly, Davis, Deacon Kane and their ilk. A year or two down the road, any involvement with me you may have had, any silencing on your part will become irrelevant. It'll be the battles with Sebastian Covenant, Paul Spartan and Zac Sharp that will go down in history. That's what you want, Monarch. Isn't it?"
"Perhaps then I'll be able to work on making it."