He stared, ruefully not even for a split second, at his reflection in the full-length mirror. 

The blood had long since coagulated and formed patches of crust across his bony face.  As temporary scars as they were, John Taylor did wonder if he should be feeling anything other than pleasure and satisfaction.

A thick bandage covered his forehead, a considerable length of it stained red.  His face was bloated, blown up.  His eyes felt blacker than they were, and his nose felt as though it was broken in fifty different places.  It could easily have been.  He rubbed distantly at it, only then realising that his hand-eye co-ordination was a little off-kilter. 

He tried not to let it get to him.  He couldn’t let it get to him.  The events of the last two weeks were all setting him up to go into Aftermath 2K4 in doubt of his own abilities.  He reminded himself of all that he’d accomplished.  He found incredible comfort in the fact that he was recognised across the board as GZW’s Franchise Player.  Soon enough, he’d be CCW’s Franchise Player.  He just needed a little more time. 

Time…

He needed time to balance out many an inequality.  He’d be generous and let Bane derail his own gravy train.  He’d wait for Monarch to be diagnosed with terminal pancreatitis.  He’d finish Pimp Bizkit off, once and for all.  Three inevitabilities.  All that was needed was time.  There was no rush.

“Thanks, James.”  Taylor uttered, totally out of the blue.  He was alone in the rehab room and the audience had long since left the Miami Arena.  Someone was still watching, though.  Listening.  Filming.  Thieving.  He decided he’d continue.  He talked slowly, very conscious of his shortness of breath: “You did a fine job tonight, Monarch.  Certainly one worthy of a round of applause…  Or a brown paper envelope in the alley behind Bizkit’s.  Regardless of whether or not your challenge was a legit personal vendetta or a contracted hit for Pimp Bizkit, you served your purpose.”

“Whether you even took it into consideration beforehand or not, you put me over on Crimson.  You passed the torch.  You guided me through my rites of passage, Monarch.  When I rolled you up and pinned your shoulders to the mat, I joined a very exclusive club of those who can claim a legitimate victory over the G.O.A.T.  Of course, evidence has shown that such an accomplishment can be more trouble than it’s worth.  Do I want to follow down the road Adam Cage so blindly trekked down years ago?  No.  I really, really don’t.  More importantly, I don’t have to.  I’ve literally sidestepped the impending pigeonholing of being labelled “Monarch II”…  Granted, my accomplishments thus far would tend to suggest otherwise, but if anyone were to believe that I am simply following in your footsteps, Corbin, they would be fatally mistaken.  I am not about picking up where some retiree leaves off.  I’m not about keeping any absentee’s spirit alive.  What I am about, however, is the systematic takeover of Combined Championship Wrestling…  From the worker’s side of things, obviously…”

“Monarch, your career is complete as it is.  You don’t need some newer model taking over the Wrestling Franchise legacy, whether it is to take it to new heights or to ram it into the ground.  All truth be told, you will forever want the Wrestling Franchise legacy untouched.  There’s no need to tell me otherwise.  Likewise, I want the Lone Gunman legacy to be placed firmly in my hands.  It’s taken years, but finally that’s the way things are.  Obviously, I don’t want my accomplishments to remain untouched just yet, but in time…”

Taylor was surprised at how clearly his thoughts were coming out.  His left eye was a hazy blur and his right cheekbone had gone numb.  He wiped a putrid combination of blood, sweat and saliva from it.  His eyes narrowed and his what he could move of his face turned to a grimace.

“This…  What is this, Monarch?”

Taylor exhaled deeply, as if he were trying to comprehend something.

“Fine, I know what this is-” He said in disgust, wiping the sticky fluid from his hand on to his tights. “But what does it tell me?  No…  What does it ask of me?  James, like an archaeologist uncovering a new fossil, I have here some evidence.  Some proof.  These bodily fluids hold an answer.  They possess the potential to allow some light finally be shined on the way the Monarch thinks.  This could be phenomenally insightful.  This is a discovery, Corbin.  This vile crap could be the foundation for an unprecedented and never-before-thought-of instalment to the Wrestling Franchise Legacy – Monarch’s psychology.  Never before have you allowed anyone get deep enough with you so as to uncover what it is exactly that makes the Glass Ceiling tick, what keeps him going, what makes him the G.O.A.T. in the ring.  The exposure of the correct mindset for such a prolific and prominent Champion could set a new standard for the next generation of wrestlers…”

“No, I’m not talking about troubles at home.  I’m not talking about a storied or conveniently dramatic childhood.  I’m talking about the line of separation between Monarch and James Corbin inside the ring.  Such a simple concept, but one that has remained untouched for so long.  Monarch, even if Pimp Bizkit paid you ten million dollars to soften me up on Crimson’s “Not So Silent Night”, I’m positive that there’s more to it than that.  As cack a promotion as you proclaim GZW to be, I have no doubt that you’ve been following it in your absence.  I have no doubt that you were watching Crimson two weeks ago in Manchester.  You heard what I said to you.  It wasn’t unprovoked.  It wasn’t ungrounded.  I was simply retaliating to a brash statement you’d made prior to the show – I was merely telling the truth.  Something I said must have really struck a chord with you.  What could it possibly have been?  Your distaste for putting over younger talent?  Your envy at even the slightest possibility that I could someday outshine you?  Maybe it was your penchant for taking the easy way out of our situation and playing the defamation card?  Well?”

“Whatever it was, Monarch, was effective.  That much is as clear as day.  It spurred you into action.  It got you up off widening arse and forced you to retaliate.  Vintage Monarch.  The difference lies in the surrounding situation.  Until now, your outbursts at everyone from Adam Cage to Lord Deacon Kane were mandatory.  You were the Triple Crown Champion or else you were gunning for a particular title or looking to move up in the rankings.  There was always some ultimate goal that left you with no choice but to stand up to whomever it may concern.  On Christmas Eve, that was not the case.  You were comfortably above GZW and its foot soldiers.  Every single one of us, from myself to Vyle to Kid X to Paul Spartan, we were mere lines on a map to you.  You had no need to ever again sink down to our level…  Sure, I mentioned you by name.  I questioned you.  But realistically, it’s like the childhood adage that you are rubber and we are glue.  Anything that any of us say simply bounces off you and sticks to us…  So really, it can’t be a pride thing.  You’ve already publicly slated my word on more than one occasion.  I don’t think it was even too long ago that you told me that my word was of absolutely no merit, in fact.”

“So, then…  Why?”

“What was it that got to you, Monarch?  What was it that grabbed you by the balls and forced you off that high horse of yours?  What convinced you that getting me one-on-one was worth the reinstating of your contract?  Wasn’t your superiority over the Lone Gunman sealed back in September when you pinned me in the middle of the ring live on Crimson?  Didn’t you prove that I wasn’t worth your time?  Did you not make it abundantly clear that, as good as I am, I haven’t got a thing on you?  I could’ve sworn that you said you did…”

“…Of course, there was the one small matter that I was still talking.  Whilst you had won the battle, you’d failed to score the true goal of the exercise, that being to silence yours truly, to wire my jaw shut, as you so eloquently put it back then.  Was that why you came back for seconds?”

Taylor jerked his head upwards and stared directly at the ceiling.  It was a pale shade of cream, nothing particularly strange or startling.

“So, Glass Ceiling.  Let’s look at what you achieved tonight when compared to last time around.  Well, for starters, tonight it was you that wanted the match.  You begged for it.  You allowed yourself be signed up for however many months of purgatory as mentor to the Heretic leftovers, in fact.  Back in September, it was me that laid down the challenge after you told me to.  Tonight, you cut the bullshit for once and came straight out.  You allowed yourself be exposed.  You allowed yourself get worked up, and over what?  A little Brainbuster…?  And as for the matches themselves?  Back in September, it was considerably even, but you got the clear and decisive win.  Tonight, I got the win.  I rolled you up and pinned you to the mat for the three-count on Real Wrestling that had eluded me for so long.  Finally, there is the issue of post-match celebration.  In September, it was non-existent.  Tonight, it got fucked up.  You realised that, shock horror, you’d allowed yourself be pinned by ‘the kid not fit to hold your jock strap’…  How could you possibly save face or, more importantly, try to extinguish the proverbial torch?  By literally stealing the fucking show, of course.  You held up the ring and brought tonight’s event to a close.  Congratulations.  You even got the last word in.  But that was not the Monarch in the ring, stomping desperately at an already injured knee after losing a match.  No, that was just another run-of-the-mill GZW wrestler, a sore loser.  One of any number of such people – Joshua Cleaver, Mr. Klown…  Hey, even me!  We’ve all done it.  We’ve all won - or lost – and seen it fit to vent our frustration or joy upon an unsuspecting opponent or referee.  I don’t know about anyone else, but I personally see that as a MAJOR step-down for you, Monarch…”

“Fair enough, you got the job done tonight.  I won’t be able to walk properly for a day or two, I’ll certainly be softened up going into Aftermath 2K4, but still…  As I said, your involvement goes further than just that.  It has a life of it’s own and it’s a story in itself.  Tonight, Monarch, you effectively pawned in your crown for another shot at playing wrestler.  Welcome to the workforce, James Corbin.”

Taylor eyed his battered reflection up and down in the mirror.  He didn't look it, but he knew that was the happiest man in the Miami Arena.