"Some say that I'd want to be a miracle worker heading into this upcoming Wyldesyde.  To those people, I pose the simple question - Is that not true of me already?"

Taylor sat there, on some nondescript chair in front of a nondescript black backdrop.  He paused momentarily to allow the impact of the question to sink in.  

"To the sceptics, maybe not.  To those brain-dead, mindless fans, probably not at all.  To anyone willing to listen with even half an open mind, I will elaborate and dissect the task at hand, limb by limb to prove my case.  In order to walk out of the HKWF Coliseum ten days from now with my Combined Championship Wrestling Unified Heavyweight Championship intact, I must simply beat one person.  Who will this one person be?  It doesn't matter, because just knowing that, beyond all the hype surrounding my impending uphill struggle, it's the twenty-odd GZW imports that are poised to do most of the work.  All I've got to do is sit back and watch those participants in the Battle Royale tear each other apart in some petty effort to slingshot themselves into the HKWF main event picture and then come out and beat a tired man.  It's as simple as that.  Add to that the fact that a sizable proportion of the Battle Royale participants, notably including some dead-on favourites, are in addition booked elsewhere on the show.  That could very well mean that my eventual opponent will be wrestling his third match of the evening to my first.  Those aren't good odds for my eventual challenger, yet it's me that's supposed to be sweating about the prospect of facing any one of eighteen or nineteen possible wrestlers?"

"The fact alone that I've beaten a considerable amount of these potential challengers says a lot.  Whilst I am at present faced with the onslaught of eighteen possible opponents, by the end of the night, it'll just be one.  One solitary challenger.  It could be anyone; Sean Fiery trying to prove that I didn't extinguish all of his heat at Crimson's "At Our Best", Seven finally getting his title shot that he oh so deserves, Paul Spartan locking up with the Lone Gunman for the very First time or some little nobody trying to cling onto my success.  It could be anyone, but at the end of the day, it will be someone.  It'll come down to one, beatable human being.  The aura of nervousness that comes hand in hand with a massive mob of possible challengers will be stripped away, leaving just one mortal soul with all the spotlight on him.  Whoever this challenger will be, after his own uphill struggle, it'll be up to him to beat me.  I've got nothing to prove at Wyldesyde, this match will be tossed into disregard the second that Aftermath is upon us, anyway.  My biggest, and probably only concern is the amount of pure scumbags following Seth Raide's lead.  Before boarding the plane from Atlanta, I'd have to ask myself - is it worth it?  Is it really worth me going over to Hong Kong to outclass whoever, only for Len DuBrey or Redrum or Martial Law to come out and cost me the belt, giving Raide a cakewalk at the Pay-Per-View?  He's willingly said before that honour can go out the window, so what the fuck is stopping any of them from practically handing the belt to whoever happens to be lucky enough to be in the ring with me?"

"Nothing.  These people have no morals, no ethics...  Fair enough, I'm not one to judge, but if they don't believe in the rules, who says I've got to play the valiant warrior and follow them?  Who says I even have to show up?  Jackie fucking Lee?  The man wields absolutely no power, he couldn't lay a finger on me without losing job and pension alike.  No, no, he'd be a good boy and he'd stay quiet about the whole thing.  That, however, isn't to say that I'm not going to show up on December the twenty-second.  In fact, it's quite the opposite, but it's still a valid point."

"Again I return to the fact that the HKWF title is not mine to lose, but for others to gain.  I've already proven myself in big match environment after big match environment...  There is little doubt in my mind that I could beat every single one of my possible participants, be it through one way or another.  Sugar-coating is a pointless exercise.  I'll be blunt in saying that there are some of my possible challengers far stronger than I.  Some that are clearly stronger, some faster...  Some with more charisma, some with more psychotic tendencies...  In my case, this is not a major problem.  It is simply a fact of life.  Another fact is that not one of the participants is smarter in that ring than I.  If it takes a fist fight to combat Jimmy Williams, so be it.  I'll willingly sacrifice some 'finesse' for the greater good, that being my retention of the title.  Likewise, if someone needs to be taken out before the match, it'll happen.  Regardless of how little or how often I've faced any of these participants, I see no wild cards.  They all have their weaknesses.  Some just choose to wear it around their necks or on their T-Shirts.  For all their bravado, pretentious charisma and pain, accents, masks, gimmicks, they all become strikingly alike in a very short space of time once they step into the ring with the Lord.  Each becomes very familiar with the mat, and I've become very familiar with that.  Regardless if it's Seven, Sean Fiery, Justin Sharp, Paul Spartan, Darien Blake or anyone else, the iron grip of the Silencer will have the same end result.  Bottom line: Whatever it takes and through whatever means necessary, I'm walking out of Wyldesyde with the HKWF title."

The scene quickly materialised, the misleadingly bright darkness succumbing to the hazy glow of the partially severed lamp overhead.  Taylor sat inside a small, downtrodden room.  A dirty mirror dominated the wall behind him and the dusty oak desk at which he sat could've been fifty years old.  The words "Trabajo Maximum Security Prison", printed on the small ID card hanging from Taylor's neck were indicative of the fact that he was visiting Ramon Amador.  Taylor's hair was greased back, his goatee neat to a point.  Ramon coughed huskily from across what could then be identified as an interrogation table.

"Nice story, Juan."  Came his bitter reaction.  "But when do I get my say?  You, living in the lap of luxury, coming down here to cut a promo?  Hah.  Pig."

Taylor inmate number 201219, the man he had over the past months come to loathe, an icy glare.  "I'm a busy man, Ramon.  I have to keep up appearances, but I also have other, not-so-pleasant duties to take care of...  If I can kill two birds with one stone, I will."

"So, what?  You're here to kill me?  Are you going to shoot me, Lone Gunman?"  Ramon mocked.  

"Not quite..."  Taylor began, realising that Ramon was for once sober.  "You know, you're less of a prick when you're actually out of it..."

"Is that a fact?"  He asked.

Taylor didn't respond.  "Ramon, why the fuck am I down here?  We both know I'm wasting my time..."

"...Yet you came."

"I'm not so sure I had a choice.  Ramon, suing me is preposterous.  I mean-  You have absolutely no case.  I shouldn't even go so far as to give you the time of day."

"...But you are.  Juan, this 'suit is obviously cutting you deep somewhere.  It doesn't have to, amigo.  As it is, this isn't you versus me.  This is your lawyer versus my guys.  This is like a war fought in outer space by tiny little robot rats...  Nobody gets hurt, but there's a change somewhere.  With us, I get a little of your money while you get a little less.  It's no biggie, amigo."

"No biggie?"

Ramon nodded.

"A little of my money?"  Taylor asked.  He answered his own question before Ramon even had the chance to nod.  "You're asking for millions, Ramon.  Five million.  I've barely made that my whole career.  You know that."

"Yes, Juan.  I also know that since your stroke of good luck, you've been given a major promotion on that front...  A new start for you, amigo.  Sell-out Juan 'John' Taylor and his seven figures enjoying a fat pension and caviar until he croaks.  But what about me?  Poor Ramon Amador, the man that 'The Man' crippled and put in prison...  He gets to sit around and watch his fucking hair stop growing.  Think of the other five as severance pay from your old way of life, Juan...  You've been in debt to me since that night in Mexico.  Until now, I've been quiet.  I've been classy about all of this, amigo...  But my guys, they can expose it.  They can have your American fans chanting the exact terms of the lawsuit if you want.  They can get that little career of yours and drag it through the mud.  Like you said about yourself earlier, John - they'll do what it takes.  When blind dishonour and humiliation stands before you, Juan, the shortcut to the payoff seems like the right deal, right?"

Taylor winced.  "You make me sick, Ramon..."

"Challengers?  Challenge me.  Be the one to set yourself apart from the rest.  Make an impact.  Make me stand up and take notice.  Force me to stand up and take notice.  Convince me that it's you in control, convince me that I do have something to worry about and that I'm not set for the cakewalk I foresee.  It's your turn..."