Up, Down.

John Taylor worked out.  He worked out and he thought whilst the radio pumped something altogether irrelevant throughout the large, mostly empty gym.  In between a sprint on the treadmill and a quick set of leg extensions, he stood completely still and thought.  He thought about James Tanner.  He thought of the clichés and the drama.  He thought about the man's inconsistency.  He thought about the man's charisma, more precisely his lack thereof.  He thought and thought and thought, but couldn't come up with an answer for why he was being pit against him at Fallout: Collision Course.

Pimp was the one that lost the title, he reasoned to himself.  Why am I being punished for his shortcomings?

He didn't have an answer.  He rarely did anymore.  Of course, he was in a much more comfortable position than he'd ever been, but it'd come at a price.  Exactly what price he did not know.  He just knew there was something missing, some integral part of who he was or what he stood for.  Or maybe it was that he now actually stood for something.  He used to never do anything like that.  He used to never delve into anything remotely regarding his personal life.  He'd vowed that he never would.  He broke that vow, but he'd never been one to trust in the first place.

Briefly he thought back to the mundane hours spent with the expensive tutor his parents had forked out for him whilst living in Mexico.  He loathed that on so many levels.  The fact that his parents practically sponsored his coming of age always got to him.  It was knowing that whilst, and even before, people like Paul Spartan made names for themselves below the poverty line in various parts of the country, he had lounged around in an upmarket apartment in the city.  He had been a professional wrestler, yes, but it hadn't been nearly the harrowing experience he now wished it had been.  Maybe if he lived a legitimately rough life and had to legitimately fend for himself, then people like Monarch would see him as a legitimate threat to Tonya Glory's World Heavyweight Championship.

"John.", came the unmistakable voice of Weston Bentley from the door of the expansive room.  Taylor didn't respond, knowing full well that Bentley would be the one to make the move and actually approach him.  Taylor strived for moments like that sometimes, even the smallest little things could make him feel just a little big bigger than he actually was.

"John...  Can I get a few words going into Collision Course?", said Weston, now much closer.  Taylor couldn't ignore him for much longer.  Acting on instinct, he bit the bullet.  

"Overdramatic" was the first word.  Taylor followed quickly with words like "Bland, uninteresting, underachieving and dull."  Taylor smirked slightly at his own cynical joke, to which Weston offered a polite smile.  Probably to keep me happy, Taylor suspected.  

"So it's alright with you?", Weston wondered.  Taylor gave a slight nod and moved on to the next machine in his resistance training routine - shoulder press.  Weston followed as Taylor got down to one knee and made sure that the correct weight setting was applied before taking a rigid seat in the large steel frame and beginning a rapid set of fifteen reps.  

"I'll just fire ahead, then..."

Taylor was happy to ignore the respected interviewer as he continued the workout.  Up in one second, down in three.  Up in one, down in three.  Up one, down three.  Up, down.  Up, down.  Up, down.

"AHEM!", Weston coughed purposely.  Taylor didn't stop, but clued in to what Weston would be asking him anyway.

"James Tanner was quite vocal recently concerning the upcoming match between the two of you at Fallout: Col-"

"-lision Course, yeah I know.", interrupted Taylor as he finished his first shoulder press set.  "I say let him.  Let him go on a verbal tirade today, let him go in hiding tomorrow.  Let him resurge next week with another three possible wives.  Let him make the match a pregnancy test match for all I care.  In the grander scheme of things, Tanner means nothing.  He's a stopgap.  A placeholder.  He's keeping a top spot warm for any number of worthy guys just biding their time.  I know the feeling, I went through the entire World Heavyweight Title tournament in his position.  And I don't regret it for a minute.  It's allowed me to see what it's like from both inside and outside - I've been the up-and-comer, the naive upstart gunning for gold.  I've also been the cynical old miser who knows too much to allow some snot nosed child such as Tanner to overtake me..."

Taylor began a second set on the shoulder press.  Up, down.  Up, down.  Up, down.

"What about the World Heavyweight Title match?  Being the number one contender, have you any preference as to who'll walk out of the Staples Centre with the prestigious gold around their waist?"

Taylor burst out laughing.  So much so that he forgot that he was working out.  So much so that he dropped the handles and the weights came crashing down to their stable position.  He began to talk through the laughter, which eventually cut out completely.  

"Excuse me, Weston?  I think the real question is Who walked out with the PRESTIGE already?  The title is a joke at this stage, and that frightens me.  That frightens me, because I know that my opportunity is near.  I also know that, should I win the belt, any number of jealous fucks are waiting to pounce on me and tell me how little the belt means these days.  They'll tell me I'm a piece-of-shit as a champion.  They'll tell me I'm not cut out to be a main eventer.  They'll tell me that I simply don't compare to the likes of Deacon Kane and William Bond...  Real Champions."

"And this frightens you?  Why?"

"This frightens me, Weston, because I see my match with James Tanner as a pointless exercise - a waste of my already limited time.  These shows before my inevitable title shot are few and far between.  Going into the title match, whenever that'll be, I'm looking to have all the critics already silenced.  I don't need Monarch telling me afterwards that he was a much better champion.  I don't need Jimmy Williams telling me afterwards that he would've been a much better champion, had he not underestimated Paul Spartan back in 2003 and failed to make any sort of impact since the restart...  I don't need any of that bullshit, Weston.  I need to be able to simply go out there and do what needs to be done, no catcalls from the back.  No comedic promos about how much I whine and moan...  Nothing."

That was a mouthful, Taylor thought to himself under his rapid breath.  You've said too much.  He took a deep breath before continuing the shoulder press, doing his absolute best to zone Weston out completely.

"Fair enough, John," started Bentley, only to trail off, noticing Taylor not paying him any attention.  "John?"

Up, down.

"John?"

Up, down.

"Dammnit, John...  JOHN?"

Up, down, up, down, up, down. 

"Fine."  Weston turned and headed for the door.  "Have it your way."