“No way, Sean.  It doesn’t work like that…” 

The unusually urgent, slightly distressed voice of John Taylor could be heard as the lighting within a small room flickered on.  Sure enough, the Lone Gunman stared directly into the camera, absolutely no effort being put into his appearance at all. 

“You can’t have it both ways, you spineless son of a bitch.  I told you.  I forewarned you back in the lead up to the Lord Of The Coliseum tournament…  I told you that accepting a place in the exclusive eight was like crossing a one-way threshold.  It was like putting all your eggs in one basket and taking the gamble of a lifetime – The integrity of your career intact versus the second chance to go for the crown that had before been out of your reach.  What made you think this year would be any different?  You thought that maybe the competition this year was no match, that you’d be a big fish in a small pond?  What, John Taylor couldn’t compare to Deacon Kane or Kandi Fortune?  Well?  By agreeing to participate in the LOTC tournament, you basically threw away the privilege to look down upon ANYONE…  By climbing down from the high chair on which you’ve been perched comfortably since making your return as a less-than-competent special guest referee at Fallout: Return To Glory, you effectively lowered yourself from the high status of Enigma to something considerably less than that.  You became one of them.  One of us.  You feel big enough to address the Public?  By stepping past that curtain to face Jay Jameson you became a member of the public!!!” 

“Sean Fiery, you were Magic.  You were the Desert Storm.  You were the be-all and end-all for many an aspiring youngster.  You had it all – Accomplishments, Moves, Catchphrases – the works.  Above all else, though, you had one of the highest statuses for anyone in the history of the company.  And you had it, consistently, throughout your whole career.  You were one of the few Old Guards that could still go, but the important thing was that you didn’t need to go.  You came back to the company at Return To Glory to cement your legacy and end old feuds.  You made it abundantly clear that titles weren’t important…  Nothing was important other than settling the score with Nathan Williams and maybe Justin Sharp.  Fair enough.  But the selfish prick in you ate through and realised that a dull, predictable match or two between two old-timers with little to no heat left between them wasn’t the way to go out.  Justin Sharp was, right?  Wrong…  He was actually injured at the time, so Mr. Fiery settled for the next best thing – An outlandish attempt at becoming the Lord Of The Coliseum as well as the GZW World Heavyweight Champion…” 

“Right about there is where I draw the line, Sean.” 

“Until then, your business was your business.  What you wanted to do with Nathan Williams was no skin off my nose, as I was busy with my own affairs, dealing with legitimately meaningful and totally necessary matches…  That was when you stepped down from your fucking podium and threw it all away.  The way things were going, you’d have a nice easy ride to Aftermath, burying a few newcomers along the way.  By the time Aftermath reached around, you’d have a nice, cushioned send-off against Justin Sharp, Nathan Williams or James Corbin.  You’d have been remembered forever as one of the true greats, so on and so forth.  You’d be untouchable, your memory left immaculate.  But you just had to step down from the podium, didn’t you?  You had to dive right into the garbage and become a mortal man.  You had to humanise yourself and become just another wrestler.  More importantly, you had to get me involved…” 

“Sean, even before the word go, you proclaimed to the world that you were going to be the Lord Of The Coliseum.  There were no two ways about it, you said.  Risking your record was a big chance to take, but you knew it was worth it, didn’t you?  Of course, it was your destiny.  To bury the superstars of the future so you could have two months tops in the fucking sun, that is.  Tell me I’m lying…” 

“Sean, we all know how the tournament unfolded, and how the main event went down.  No outside interference, no disqualification, no nothing.  A straight-up wrestling match in which the better man straight-up outwrestled the lesser man.  REGARDLESS of your past achievements, that fact alone prevents you from ever judging ME.  You willingly crossed the bridge into the land of the everyday competitor, and by failing to keep your word, you burned it right behind you.  As the old cliché goes, there’s no turning back.  As I told you back then, you chose to make that bed.  Now you’ve got to lie in it…  Before “At Our Best”, you would have had every right to look down on any competitor in GZW - you’d earned it.  Enticed by the prospect of finally adding the big one to your list of accomplishments, however, was your ultimate downfall.” 

“Please realise that I’m not saying you were slaughtered or that I won by a mile.  I’m not saying that.  You went through Jay Jameson and Kid Kaos to reach the final, and you put up more of a fight than anyone in the tournament could have…  For that, you earned yourself the right to look down upon 99% of this roster, to talk down about your Rizin’ Stars, Totally Cools and Dark Angels.  With that said, you FAILED to come through when the heat was really on.  You failed to beat the Lone Gunman…  You gave me your best and I gave you my best.  Don’t even bother disputing that.  I don’t want to hear that you weren’t prepared or that your heart wasn’t in it…  Quite frankly, I don’t want to hear A SINGLE THING from you!!!  You are in absolutely NO position to cast judgement on ME, of all people.  Who the FUCK are you to call me a weasel?  Who the fuck are you to say that destiny screwed you?  Destiny doesn’t come into it, friend.  We wrestled a back and forth match in the home stretch of which I picked it up about ten notches and I pinned you.  It’s as simple as that.  There’s nothing you can do to stop this phenomenon?  Really?  As I said, you’re not dealing with destiny here – you’re dealing with the Lone Gunman.  You knew I was taking part, you heard me say that there was no way I would allow anyone to beat me…  You heard me say that, loud and clear.  Yet, you chose to ignore it.  Don’t blame destiny for this indescribable pain, don’t even blame this weasel…  Blame yourself, Sean.  It’s nobody’s fault but your own.  I would’ve done the exact same thing had it been Kid Kaos, Kaine or Jay Jameson in that final with me.  It could be argued that you had several opportunities to back out and prevent the indescribable pain from ever occurring in the first place, yet with each successive victory in the early rounds, you just showed that you wanted it that way.” 

“The old cliché says that people in glass houses shouldn’t through stones, and that certainly applies to you.  I beat you with a 450 splash.  I pinned your shoulders to the mat, cleanly, for a three-count.  In nobody’s book does that constitute squeezing past an opponent.  Get that idea out of your head before it spreads.  Sean, by losing to me, you forfeited whatever privileges you may have enjoyed previously.  The fact is that I beat you in what was undeniably one of the biggest matches in CCW history.  I beat you and I eliminated you from the competition.  I lapped you.  I surpassed you and everything you’ve ever accomplished.  That leaves you with no room to even try to talk down to or about me.” 

“You want to bullshit the Public with some petty, sore-fucking-loser tripe about me poisoning wrestling?  Quite frankly, you can’t.  As I said, it doesn’t work that way.  After I eliminated you from the Lord Of The Coliseum tournament, I brought you back to reality.  It was the big fucking come down, Sean.  The realisation that maybe, just maybe, going after the crown again wasn’t such a good idea.  You can’t just go back on that, Sean.  The gravity of this whole situation is far too deep for it to be just swept under the carpet, conveniently in time for your official retirement…  After “At Our Best”, you did exactly what you said you wouldn’t do, and that was slink away into secrecy.  I won’t judge you for that, however, as I think it was the right decision to save any future embarrassment, humiliation or disgrace.  By dropping from the radar, you gradually allowed people to forget all of the empty promises you made going into the tournament and you allowed them to forget all about John Taylor’s clear and decisive win over The Desert Storm…  But I haven’t forgotten.  I’ll never forget, Sean.  Any of it.  You waited a few weeks and then resurfaced, thinking the coast was clear.  It wasn’t.  It’s not.  For as long as you keep up your pathetic, ungrounded fucking attempt at propaganda, it’ll never be.” 

“Fiery, I beat you.  It took all I had, but I beat you.  One, two, three.  You may want a photo finish to your spectacular career, but I refuse to allow you try to ignore the truth so.  Your defeat alone is substantial enough to disprove any little self-righteous, holier-than-thou, backseat-driver theory you may have.  Instantaneously.  Nothing you try to say to defame or discredit the Lone Gunman will ever have any merit.  Thank God you’re leaving before my stranglehold on CCW is absolute?  No, thank yourself.  Wake up and smell the fucking coffee, Sean.  There is no God, no Destiny, no Fate…  Every decision we make is our own – Every achievement, every cock-up, everything.  You want to be remembered so bad?  Then stay.  Nobody’s forcing you to retire…  The John Taylor epidemic spreading throughout the class and dignity of professional wrestling is getting to you that much?  Then stay.  Prove it.  Beat me.  Expose me for what you think I am…  No, you don’t want to?  You can’t be bothered now that you’re a family man?  Then leave.  Fuck off.  Why are you even here now?  Why prolong this agony?  Your value to the company ran out months ago, you now serve no purpose.  Don’t let the door knock you on the head and give you severe brain damage on your way out, you ungrateful bastard!” 

“Fiery, allow me to put it like this:  You’re either leaving with your trap firmly shut, humming only a tune of my praises, or you’re not leaving at all.  You want to dispute that I am the deserving Lord of the Coliseum?  Then fucking stay and back it up.  I don’t want to hear your shit on the way out or via audio diary…  I want you to say it to me in the middle of the ring or to say absolutely nothing at all.” 

“What’ll it be?”