"Immortal.  Unbeatable.  Unstoppable.  Your words, not mine."

John Taylor sat comfortably in his second row, first class window seat aboard an American Airlines jet headed directly for Manchester.  He'd read the on-flight goods catalogue from cover to cover twice and was positively bored.  Earlier he'd considered sleeping, but the abundant, burly presence of a sizable group of wrestling fans back in the second-class section kept him in a state of uneasy awareness.  He'd heard all the stories of how the over excitable idiots would cream their shorts for a picture with or a piece of signed merchandise from their flavour of the month superstar.  It just so happened that Taylor had been flavour of the month for longer than expected, so he could only imagine what cringe-inducing prospects they were ignorantly thinking up back there amidst a round of warm beers and flavourless peanuts, and he knew better than to let his guard down.  He wanted absolutely none of it.  No gawking, no pointing, no cheering, no booing - nothing.  It was just an added convenience that the occupants of the two seats to his left were an elderly couple with a penchant for in-flight snoozing, so he had stayed calm and cushioned throughout.  An announcement about five minutes previously had told Taylor, along with the 700 others on board, that they would be arriving in Manchester in a little under three hours.  Although it wasn't much in the overall context of the transatlantic flight, Taylor wasn't exactly thrilled at the thought of spending another hundred and eighty minutes sitting in luxurious purgatory.

"Can I offer you another drink, sir?"

The deceptively pretty voice of an overly made-up middle aged flight hostess crept in past the gentle snoring of the two pensioners.  For a split second, he condemned her for disturbing the slow, methodical pattern which had kept him occupied for the past few hours.  It wasn't long before the thought of another glass of Bourbon convinced him to get over it.

"Southern Comfort, please."  Taylor requested politely.  The hostess nodded and flashed a smile so false that Taylor almost wretched.  She moved on.  In the time it took for her to get his drink and return, he'd began to get back into the groove of the snoring duet.  

"Here you are, sir."  She whispered as she handed Taylor the short, stubby glass.  

He accepted it graciously and thanked her with an artificial pleasantry of his own; "Thank you very much, Miss."

She moved on once again as Taylor took a sip from the glass and placed it down on the small folding tray in front of him.  He sighed and took another sip which quickly became a long gulp.  He grimaced as he swallowed it.  His grimace turned all the more sour when he noticed the fat man, sporting a grossly undersized "Magic" promotional T-Shirt and a questionable blonde moustache, standing in the aisle to his left, staring at him.  Taylor turned awkwardly to get a good look at the man, as he put his glass gently back down on the tray.  He raised an eyebrow at the man's goofy gaze, but said nothing.  He was waiting for this person to make the first move.  It took the man about twenty seconds before he spoke up, overly loud; "You're him, aren't ya'?"  Taylor just stared straight back at him, not giving away a thing.  He listened cynically as the buffoon tried to elaborate and began to slur his words.  "You aaare him...  I know y'are...  Sayit..."

"Are you...  Lost?"  Taylor fired back in a particularly patronising tone, almost as if he were addressing a small child, overlooking the man's attempted question completely.

The man in the Magic shirt wasn't impressed.  He absolutely reeked of sweat and cheap whiskey, but he still wasn't impressed.  "Man...  You LISTEN to me!!!  I pay your friggin' WAGES, man..."

"Move along, boob..."  Taylor spat, having grown tired of the man already.  The oaf reluctantly did, not without making enough noise to wake up the old man sitting beside Taylor.  Wanting to avoid any possible awkwardness, Taylor picked up the catalogue once again and pretended to thumb through it.  It took the old man the better part of a minute to gather the wherewithal to allow his suspicion to be aroused as to what had awoken him.  He tapped Taylor on the shoulder softly.  Probably so as not to wake his wife, Taylor thought.  The Lone Gunman found great satisfaction in pretending to be disturbed by the old man, placing the catalogue on his lap and turning to face him.  "Can I... help you?"

"What was all of that noise just now?"  Asked the old man in a slow, timid whisper.  He was clearly British.  From his quick glance at what was easily a designer cardigan and expensive glasses, Taylor deduced that the old man and his wife were probably well-to-do.

"Oh...  There was a large man from down at the back", Taylor began.  "...Came up here, started getting rowdy about wrestling or something.  I'd say he was drunk.  Or worse..."

The old man sighed.  "I should've guessed...  These damn wrestling fans, they're a disgrace.  They've been giving me and the wifey trouble since Hartsfield-Jackson this morning.  It's disgusting, really..."

Taylor kept quiet for a moment, almost intrigued that an 'outsider' shared his view on the common fan.  "Is that so?"  He asked, sounding a lot more interested in hearing the man's predictable reply than he actually was.

"Yeah...  They go to these big events in all corners of the world.  Me and the wifey just have the bad luck to always end up on the same flights as them."

"Do you travel regularly, then?"  Taylor asked, more to keep up the idea that he knew nothing about wrestling than to make any sort of conversation.  He realised straight away what a stupid thing it was to say.  

As Taylor had predicted, the old man's spirits promptly lifted and he began to tell Taylor all about his grandchildren in Manchester and that how one of them was going to take over the family business sooner or later.  Taylor tried his hardest not to yawn as the man produced a wallet full of photographs of said grandchildren.  After about ten minutes, Taylor simply couldn't take it any longer:  "Will you excuse me a second?"  

"Uh, sure..."  The old man replied, a little surprised.  Taylor shot up out of his seat, grabbed a sick bag, climbed over the old man and the wifey and moved quickly down the aisle towards the nearest bathroom.

The cab ride to his hotel was an uncomfortable one.  Taylor hadn't quite managed to rinse the taste of regurgitated airport food from his mouth, and so it just sat there, on his teeth, reminding him that this was happening a little too often for his liking.  

"You OK back there, mate?"  Asked the Indian taxi driver enthusiastically.  Taylor didn't feel like responding.  He tried to clean his teeth with the underside of his tongue.  It didn't work.

"...And exactly what fruits has the challenge bore thus far?"

"The constant attention seeker in Bane has ensured that his words of idiocy and pretension keep him back from truly being acknowledged as any sort of legitimate contender.  Bane, humour doesn't suit you.  Try taking up the silent giant shtick of your HKWF equivalents Redrum or Lei Kong, perhaps then you'll be taken a little more seriously.  As is stands now, you've yet to prove yourself as anything.  The only reason you're even on the Wyldesyde card is to serve as cannon fodder for the eventual winner of the battle royale and my eventual challenger.  You must realise that this event is a foregone conclusion.  Tell me you realise that.  Regardless of who makes it past who, John Taylor walks out of the HKWF Coliseum as the HKWF Champion.  No ifs or buts.  That's solid fact.  The Battle Royale, however, isn't exactly predetermined.  The winner isn't clear, and if any previous Royales are to be used as an indication, anyone could win it.  Not in this case, however.  Sure, you're still enjoying the buzz of being the newcomer, but soon enough the gloss will fade and you'll be left as just another card filler.  Your purpose in Hong Kong is a relatively simple one, and it is one shared by others from the Happy Sumo to Darien Blake to Mr. Klown to Jimmy Williams - Enhancement for the eventual winner.  Staying true to the fact that John Taylor will be the eventual winner, the winner of the Battle Royale is therefore, by default, destined to become a loser.  Be it Paul Spartan, be it Vyle, be it Elexia Croix-Fortune, it still applies.  As such, every single Battle Royale participant will leave Hong Kong disappointed, in one way or another.  Your job, Bane, is to soften or cushion this otherwise hard-hitting blow.  Just as Seven got to lay claim to eliminating Pimp Bizkit in the fifth Contest Of Champions but not to actually winning the battle itself, you serve as one of many ringers.  Sure, eliminating Bane isn't as prestigious as eliminating the then-World Heavyweight Champion, but when it's Bane plus Darien Blake plus Odes plus Electric Sharpe, recurring, then it becomes something of noteworthy merit."

"You think I'm wrong?  You think you are genuinely unique, that a separate path is being paved for you, individually?  Prove it.  Telling me that you don't fear me is nothing.  Your opinion isn't worth a grain of fucking salt in this company.  Realise that.  Nobody cares what you have to say...  You don't respect me?  I couldn't give a fucking crap, you'll be training in IGW within a month...  Bane, come up with something original.  Worthwhile.  Achieve something.  Then you can talk about me.  Then you can come challenge your Lord..."

"What has Seven had to say in light of my recent words?  Sweet fuck all, as it happens...  Dark Angel, you persist to yak on about my "Self Imposed Claim to Fame" - Why?  Have I not proved myself enough?  I mean, compared to you, one would almost think that I'm the God of which you speak.  I'm the Lord Of The Coliseum.  I'm the GZW World Heavyweight Champion and the HKWF World Heavyweight Champion.  I've been awarded GZW's Wrestler Of The Month more times than anyone before me.  I was arguably the greatest Light Heavyweight Champion in the division's history.  A little closer to home, I've beaten you twice.  You've yet to beat me even once.  Not to brag, of course...  So what about you?  What has the Dark Angel to show for his efforts?  One of the least impressive win/loss averages in the company?  Elimination from the Lord Of The Coliseum tournament in the first round?  The fact that, even though you're the number two contender to the GZW title, the chances are you won't see any sort of title shot until well into the new year, and that people far below you or not even in the rankings are getting shots before you?  Take your pick.  Seven, this upcoming Wyldesyde marks a brand new opportunity to actually step it up and prove to the world that you were not a wasted investment on the booking committee's part.  For the love of God, take it."

"Next on the agenda is the very personification of incompetence, Pimp Bizkit.  The man that manages, somehow, to talk at great length without actually saying anything.  I think anyone watching this is well aware of the rules of a Battle Royale, and as such know how the match works in practice, there's absolutely no need for you to run through them.  Next you go on to tell the world how you're neither the biggest man in the match nor the quickest.  That sounds eerily familiar...  What was that?  You're relying on your smarts?  I could've sworn I heard that one recently.  But what does it matter - you're the Living Legend!  You've beaten me.  You've been the World Heavyweight Champion.  Yawn.  Pettiness aside, you are realistically one of the biggest threats to my title and as such are one of the few with the best chances of making it past the Battle Royale.  Bravo.  Unfortunately, you've looked the opportunity to exploit that in the eye, and blinked.  You had the chance to get some sort of verbal upper hand, but you blew it.  You'd want to ensure that you don't blow it in the Battle Royale, Pimp.  Best of luck..."

"Moving on to Mister Inconsistency, the Rizin' Star constantly caught somewhere just below the top.  How does it feel, Kid...  What's this, your tenth big shot?  Of course, the others were just practice runs.  You weren't ready, right?  You weren't quite on the ball.  You were just warming yourself up to turn it all around, surely.  Sound familiar?"

"Kaos, you asked me for my pick in the Battle Royale.  To me, it simply doesn't matter who wins.  As I said before, someone will win, and I'll be prepared for whoever it is.  I'm not counting on any one person or select few people to go all the way, and I certainly won't sweat it if any particular person doesn't make it.  Believe it or not, Child, you aren't as unpredictable as you seem to think.  You may have picked up a few new enemies and rivals, but you're the same Kid Kaos that I pinned for my first GZW World Heavyweight Title defence, the same beatable title defence.  Of course, as you say, we're all beatable - Why should John Taylor be any different?  I've lost matches.  I've tapped out.  I've been pinned.  I've been disqualified.  Counted out.  I am every bit as beatable as the next guy.  I've never claimed otherwise.  However, there exists a certain aura of mystique about the Lone Gunman that tends to have you thinking twice.  It is this mentality shared by you and your peers that John Taylor is Immortal, Unbeatable and Unstoppable.  Maybe it's true.  That's not for me to decide.  The fact is, however, that when you people get this idea into your head, it stays put.  You might try to dismiss it or deny it's existence, but you know it's there, urging you to really give the issue a second thought.  As I said, these are your words.  Not mine."