"Please hold, sir."

Politely and collected, John Taylor did just that.  He'd been trying to get through to Ramon all day and his patience was running just a little short.  The surprisingly innocent voice of the young prison secretary returned after several moments of silence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Taylor," she began, her overly accentuated sympathy getting under the Lone Gunman's skin, "but Mr. Amador is sleeping."

Sleeping?  Taylor almost laughed at the thought, seeing as how it had just gone four o' clock in the afternoon.  The Entity had clearly seeped its way into the prison's administration.  "Sleeping?", asked a composed Taylor, "at this hour?"

"Yes, sir.  I do apologise, but-", she said, stumbling on what Taylor could only assume were pre-scripted lines.  "...But it is against policy to-"

Having had enough, Taylor abruptly cut her off.  "Whatever.  I don't know exactly who is running around behind the scenes down there, but rest assured that this won't go without repercussion."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

This took Taylor aback.  Maybe she wasn't in on it.  In other cases, he probably would have given her the benefit of the doubt and assumed her to be an innocent worker ant below the lowest rung on the Entity's ladder, but he had already decided that assumption would not be a trait he would be keeping up.

"Play dumb if you must, secretary.  The fact is that this particular inmate illegally and totally without my consent filmed a private conversation between he and I, within your visiting room, might I add, and distributed it for the viewing of the general idiot public."  Taylor was about to mention the Entity by name, but thought the better of it.  "I don't know who or what is pulling the strings in that hellhole of yours, but for keeping that scumbag Amador from me, you people shall be held just as accountable and guilty as he.  My lawyer will be contacting you, sooner rather than later."

The silence and poorly covered-up rapid breathing from the other end of the line painted Taylor a vivid image of the surely Entity-controlled secretary's unease.  He waited a moment before hanging up the cell phone and placing it in the right pocket of his faded black denim jeans.

Leaning back against the white brick wall of his personal dressing room within the Trouble Trax complex, he tried to get his head around the whole ordeal.  Was it really as significant as he thought?  Perhaps his peers saw the tape as merely a worked promo.  Thinking about it again, he thought that quite a likely possibility.  Perhaps he was over exaggerating.  Yeah, that's all it was.  Ramon was nothing but a brain-dead drug addict.  He hadn't the malice in him to try and sabotage Taylor's career and chances at attaining the Lord of the Coliseum crown.

...But maybe the Entity had.

"No, fuck that", he thought aloud.  The Entity probably didn't even exist.  His mind had just blown a number of things out of proportion, each of which falling under the blanket excuse of The Entity.

...But could he actually assume that?  What if the Entity's top priority was to convince John Taylor that it didn't exist?   What if the aim was to get the champion's guard down and allow itself to march in and infect Taylor, to destroy him from the inside out?

Another plausible explanation, certainly.  One that scared him, were the truth to be told.

An abrupt knock on the dressing room door took him away from the borderline nightmarish daydream he'd become so accustomed to and brought him back to reality.

"John...  It's Paul.  Are you nearly ready in there?"

Paul?  It took a moment, but Taylor soon recalled that Paul Terry had scheduled an interview with him.  In addition, the sight of the untouched gym bag on the bench facing him reminded him why, exactly, he was in the Trouble Trax in the first place.  "Come in," came his belated yet toneless response to the interviewer labelled "The Professional".

The door creaked open and in walked the balding Paul Terry.  A camera crew followed, but Taylor paid not one of them any notice.

"John...  I thought you were getting ready for your workout?"

"I was...  I am."

"You've been in here half an hour...  You're still in your street clothes...  You haven't even opened your bag!"

"I know.  Something came up..." Taylor said absently, trailing off.  "...You wanted an interview, anyway?"

"Well, yeah," came Terry's almost timid response. "...But if something came up-"

"It's fine, really.  Go ahead with whatever you wanted to ask me."

"Okay...  It'll just take a minute for us to get set up."

In reality, it took four and a half.  Taylor made a point to count.  In the meantime he had all but given up on his planned trip to the gym downstairs and had begun to count the bricks in the wall.  He had just reached one hundred when Terry spoke up.

"Whenever you're ready, John..."

Taylor gave 'the nod' and the cameras began to roll.

"Good afternoon, GZW fans.  Paul "The Professional" Terry here alongside your World Heavyweight Champion, "The Lone Gunman", Jonathan Taylor.  John, the prelude to Crimson's "At Our Best" and, perhaps more importantly, the Lord of the Coliseum tournament itself, is really heating up.  As the defending champion throughout, you've got to know that every single competitor in this thing is gunning for you, specifically.  No pun intended."

Terry was about to crack a smile at his warm-hearted joke, but opted against it when he saw Taylor's inexpressive reaction to it.  "Paul, you can skip the preamble.  I know what's what.  I've addressed the technicalities already.  I agreed to this interview because I thought you, of all people, would conduct it an approach a little more intensive than the average.  Was I mistaken?"

"Not at all, John.  Diving right in to undeniably the most vocal of the eight participants, so far at least - Sean "Magic" Fiery.  The man has done so much within the GZW, capturing the crown of Lord is all he has left to do.  He's also made it common knowledge that he plans to retire, once and for all, on New Year's Eve next, the monstrous event that will be Aftermath 2K4...  Does knowing that this will be Fiery's last chance at becoming Lord before hanging up the boots tell you anything about the kind of mindset he's in?"

"Of course it does, Paul.  I would've thought it glaringly obvious to anyone with a head on their shoulders that Fiery is really shooting for the triumphant exit.  It's as clear as day that he wants to go out with a bang, and that he wants to go out with the big one firmly under his belt.  He wants the happy ending."  By then sitting on the dressing room bench, Taylor was about to continue until Terry politely butted in, asking "In reality, who doesn't?"

Taylor winced at what he saw as a stupid question.  "Paul, please.  Allow me to elaborate.  Sure, everyone wants things to work out dandily, but the hard truth is that nothing comes for free.  For Fiery to go out on the high note he so desires, he must do so at the expense of seven other men.  He must do so at the expense of my continuous efforts to rebuild the World Heavyweight Championship.  He wants to walk out of the tournament immortal, he has no other option than to do so over the dead bodies of the seven of us.  He must do so at the expense of all that could have been.  My point, Paul, is that for Fiery to go home happy, it'll cost at least seven careers, be they established, accomplished, promising or nothing, that's still seven careers..."

"Let's say, hypothetically, Magic does win the Lord of the Coliseum.  He achieves the destiny of which he speaks.  He spends the month of December as the bee's knees, the be all and end all of whatever.  He drags the World Heavyweight Title by his side, as if it weren't even there.  He's royalty.  Until, of course, he retires.  How'll he go out?  With a bang, predictably.  What'll it be?  The final Final Encounter?  The dream match that never was between he and Justin Sharp?  It doesn't really matter.  Regardless, while he's busy living the high life as the company's top man...  Let's say the seven losers follow the example of the leader of the pack by packing up their shit and walking out.  I know, I'm hardly one to talk on such an issue, but when you promote it so blatantly, it demands addressing.  All of a sudden, the GZW has lost three former World Heavyweight Champions and solidified main eventers in myself, Pimp Bizkit and Nathan Williams.  That's the very fabric of the main event torn to shreds already.  But that doesn't matter, right?  You're the cold bitch of reality, we all knew you'd win...  It was your destiny.  By then, you're immortal.  Untouchable.  Speaking of Untouchables, Kaine'd be out of the picture as well.  What picture, exactly?  The same one as Seven, whatever that is.  As astonishing as it may seem, were Seven and Kaine to walk out, you'd instantly lose two thirds of the top five contenders in the rankings.  That's not to mention the nearly-man, Kid Kaos.  He was always bound to win the gold at some stage, but that doesn't matter anymore.  Your month of immortality comes first, right?  Obviously.  Forget Kid Kaos.  Forget building for the future.  Let's dwell on the past and the satisfaction that comes only from calling yourself Lord to a completely new generation of competitors.  And Jay Jameson?  No way...  He's got a gimmick vaguely resembling the Magic of old...  He won't get a look in.  Bye bye."

Taylor took a succession of deep breaths.  Terry was about to speak up, but Taylor was too quick in going on.

"...So, hypothetically of course, what aftermath would be left behind by the phenomenal Aftermath 2K4 event?  Another vacant World Heavyweight Championship.  The retirement of the company's biggest star and its Lord.  But hey, you're not a selfish guy.  You believe in the future, you just want your time, however belated it may be.  The others can have all the time they want...", Taylor went on, his sarcasm clear.  "...After the Lord's time, of course."

"How, exactly, do you see the company should Magic win and subsequently retire at the turn of the year?"

"In tatters.  In disarray.  Magic would've gotten everything while the getting was good and would be gone.  There'd be no Pimp Bizkit, no T-Rex, no Lone Gunman, no Kid Kaos...  The main event would be comprised of those not yet ready or those wholly undeserving.  The World Heavyweight Championship, although the original intention would've been for it to gather prestige rather than dust, would be worthless.  Nobody would care enough to go through the motions of another tournament to declare a new champion, but were it contested for or awarded any other way, there'd be outrage.  Morale would be low.  Roster size would be low.  The Entity's temporary solution would be one of several standard options - influx of HKWF talent, break period, whatever.  The very saga famed as the GZW's own would be caught in an infinite loop, repeating itself rather than progressing or continuing.  Not a good situation, in anyone's book."

"I suppose not, no."

"Definitely not.  But what the worry?  Sean Fiery, from whatever throne he'd have acquired a month or two into the depression, would pity us.  That's got to account for something."

An awkward silence ensued.  Taylor felt uneasy for perhaps overdoing his attempt at sarcasm, Terry because he didn't quite know how to react.  Neither man said a thing.  Taylor ran both hands back through his greased back hair, pushing it all back from his face.  He took a deep breath.  He begins to speak again, this time a lot more slowly, as if he was mentally verifying each word.

"Sean Fiery...  He slams his opponents for using gimmicks...  He preaches to the choir representing his version of the truth...  His goal, obviously, is to come across as the pure one.  The voice of reason.  The honest man amongst a group of bank robbers dressed up as dead presidents.  Of course, he tries to have his proverbial cake and eat it to, playing both the doctor and the patient.  Get it?  He's a little crazy...  If it conveniently fits into a free timeslot on a Crimson, he just might sledge hammer you.  A real madman.  Whatever, Fiery.  You want to leave the days as the Magic Act behind, fine.  You want to leave the days as one half of the Perfect Tag Team with Nathan Williams behind, fine.  Be remembered as just another grim face in the crowd if you see it fit."

"Sean, there's a reason I don't try to sell myself as a comedian.  It's the same reason that Nathan Williams doesn't sell himself as a cruiserweight.  It's the same reason that Seven doesn't sell himself as an intellectual or much of a talker...  Fiery, when it boils down to it, people have their strengths and their weaknesses.  People have their noteworthy parts and their bland, nondescript, forgettable parts.  I had a go-nowhere ten year run in HKWF that I'd just as soon forget, and as such I've all but discarded the moniker, HKWF's Hitman."

"My point?  Fuck your version of honesty.  You're not intimidating.  Just as you are, everyone else is to concerned with their own business and their own plans of action going into the tournament to even bother walking into the dull, uninspired trap of don't judge me...  I'm an individual...  This is the real me...  If you truly believed that which you spew, you'd have no need to tell the rest of us exactly how little you need from us.  You're going to win this thing?  Fair enough.  Prove it.  Sell yourself for what you're good at.  Leave synthetic sincerity to those to whom it actually concerns.  Pick the sledgehammer back up."

"Well," started a partially dumbstruck Terry.  "That was...  John, another of your potential opponents in "The Dark Angel", Seven, has been vocal as of late, with most of his verbal attacks aimed squarely at you.  What have you to say in regard to the man that considers himself the Lord of the Serengeti?"

Right.  Considers himself.  "Considers himself is the key to Seven, Paul.  From my own personal experience, I can simply dismiss Seven as not good enough.  I've beaten him twice and with relative ease, yet he still persists as an overgrown pest that seems to genuinely consider himself to be something special.  Seven has yet to achieve anything noteworthy in this company, be it a victory or an accomplishment.  Nothing he says is worth the air polluted by it.  His facts and insults are inaccurate and bland.  Despite numerous corrections, he persists in referring to me as a GZW Hall of Famer...  When will it get through that thick, bleached skull of his that there is no such Hall of Fame.  In spite of his ignorance, it is clear that he is referring to GZW's Ring Of Honour, of which I am not an inductee.  Wrong again, Seven.  Really, try and come up with some new material..."

"The DisOrder did NOT hand me the World Heavyweight title, no matter what way you look at it.  As I've made ABUNDANTLY clear before, I was in control both prior and subsequently to the DisOrder's interference.  I had nothing to do with it and it didn't affect me in the slightest.  For all intents and purposes, Seven, that's as far as it goes."

"...And, to be frank, yes.  I can say that I've achieved ONE of my goals in winning the World Heavyweight Title.  I did it myself and even after less than three weeks as champion, I've outdone anything Pimp Bizkit or Tonya Glory ever did by actually successfully defending it.  Now turn your attention to your first, and probably only, opponent, Pimp Bizkit, crawl back into whatever hole you came from and let me get on with becoming the Lord of the Coliseum!"

"...Speaking of Pimp Bizkit, John, he's recently made it very public that he doesn't expect you to be able to progress past the first round of the tournament.  He assumes that it'll be Nathan Williams facing him for what'll technically be the rematch he feels he deserves."

Assumption.

"Is that a fact?"

"Well, yeah."

"To that I offer Pimp a word of advice.  Living Legend, do you remember what happened the last time you took something for granted, the last time you assumed a particular match would take place?  Of course you do - Fallout: Collision Course.  You know all too well what went down, but in the end I walked out with the belt you expected to capture in a cakewalk.  In the upped-ante settings of the Lord of the Coliseum, can you just imagine what I could walk out with should your assumption be wrong?"

On that note, Taylor considered himself finished.  He got up and grabbed the gym bag from the bench he had become nearly acquainted to over the past half hour and promptly left the room.  On his way out, he heard Terry thanking the idiot fans.