Not even two showers could cleanse him of the grubbiness and humiliation of defeat.
He'd lost to Pimp Bizkit on Pay-Per-View yet again. This simply wasn't acceptable. His World Heavyweight Championship had been within his grasp but all he'd been able to do was watch it squirm away on the shoulders of the slippery, wormy title-holder.
Even though the win was once again indecisive, it was this loss that hurt John Taylor the most. It hadn't come without its controversy, but Pimp had gotten closer to truly beating the Lone Gunman cleanly. Too close. Far too close.
The fact that Pimp had always relied on at least one outside ally to beat Taylor for him had numbed the embarrassment and humiliation for John since Fallout: Return To Glory. But this time was different. There were no Heretics this time. Pimp was a slow learned, Taylor had deducted many months ago, but the unsettling thought was that he was learning. At this rate, it'd only take another match or two before the Living Legend finally toppled the Lone Gunman, without help and without controversy.
That couldn't happen. It wouldn't. He would see to it that Pimp Bizkit - as both a threat and disgrace to the World Heavyweight Championship - were neutralised.
But that Final Choke...
It was a problem. It was a move Taylor had almost fallen to before and one he had thought he had the better of. One of the two sedatives for him was the fact that Pimp hadn't gotten the smug satisfaction of a Taylor tap-out. Of course, falling into a (temporary) state of unconsciousness was no better. He'd have to do something to disarm the title-holder. Something that would render the Final Choke obsolete.
He got it. He'd break Pimp's arms. Rip them from their sockets with a pliers. No chance of the Court Jester slapping on another sloppy choke in that condition. Actually, no. That wouldn't work. In that condition, Pimp wouldn't defend the title for another six months. It needed to be something bigger. Something more immediate... Like killing him.
Yes, he could do that. He could kill Pimp Bizkit. Shoot him dead in the street. Run him over in a boxy rental car. Choke him for the final time with a length of rope. It all sounded good. Like a retired hitman reminiscing on kills past, a hundred and one ways to neutralise Scott Cheetham zapped through his mind. Like a retired hitman plotting his return to 'the game', he thought of a thousand and one ways to actually carry it out. A dead man would have no right to the title he'd for far too long abused. It'd have to be vacated.
It was tempting. It was a very strong possibility. But it wasn't clean. It wasn't efficient to the sufficient degree. The last thing he wanted was the L.L.P.B. Memorial World Heavyweight Championship, after all. This would take more planning and consideration.
His big problem was the damage caused by the loss. In one hand he had the comfort that he never tapped out. In the other, he had the glimmer of hope that was the notion of the time limit draw. There might have been something to that, actually...
But even that wouldn't suffice in terms of damage control. It'd take them a while, but sooner or later the pigs would realise the significance of Pimp's victory. Before long, all sorts of rumours would be spreading like a cancer. It'd be the aftermath of Aftermath 2K4 all over again if he didn't do something. Fast.
The solution was on the tip of his tongue, but it was clinging for dear life as though it didn't want to be uttered. It was as though this solution - a mere concept - was, like most people in the land of GZW2K1, against him. There were title changes galore at Against The Odds. It pained John to think that he could conceivably considered the weak link in terms of challengers - He was the only one of the four challengers - Jay Jameson excluded as he wasn't technically a 'challenger' - that had failed to claim his preset title. This was unlike him. Very unlike him. Lord John Taylor was always the reliable one. The dependable one. Why, then, was he in this position?
Was his dropping out of the Intercontinental Heavyweight Title race bad karma? No, he reassured himself. He didn't believe in karma or superstitions. He believed in himself and his abilities. If he had fought for the Intercontinental strap, he would've won it. Nobody could logically dispute that. In hindsight, he thought that perhaps he should've just let it all play out and walk out with the guaranteed World Heavyweight title shot - the backup plan he was sure he wouldn't need.
How could he have been so short-sighted? It wasn't the end of the world, but having that title shot on the backburner certainly would've made his immediate tasks - damage control and full-on assault on Pimp Bizkit - considerably simpler. 'Assault', however, didn't necessarily mean another match between the two. As much as he wanted to rip Pimp Bizkit's greasy, self-indulgent face right off, he didn't think he could risk another loss to him, especially given Pimp's trend inching towards that all-important 'clean' victory...
John could work his way into a rematch with little difficulty. That was, of course, assuming that a review of the tapes from Against The Odds disproving Pimp's 'victory' and simply stripping him of the title before then didn't take place. He couldn't bank on that happening. He thought for a moment of who else could be turned to to remove Pimp from 'office'... Bane was probably about to slink into his comfortable little feud with "The Midcard Killer", whose only purpose would be to drag the title even further from Taylor's powerful and able grip. He'd have to stop that as well. He'd delayed it during the Fatal Fourway, but he was left with the gut feeling that a certain commissioner wouldn't commission any longer of a wait. No, that'd be rolling soon. Something had to be done fast to derail it, or at least send it on another detour.
Jay Jameson would be owed a World Heavyweight Title shot as soon as he dropped his Intercontinental title...
There was an idea.
Taylor had heard of Jay singing the Lone Gunman's praises recently.
Suddenly a thought came over him that left a previously non-factor wide
open. There'd be a gaping hole in the window of opportunity to make all of
this go away. All it would take was one little challenge on Taylor's part
- a compromise of sorts. One of
It would work. No doubt about it... But was it worth the effort? Taylor decided that he'd linger over the proposition a little longer. In the meantime he'd have his third shower of the evening.
Hopefully some of that filth would start to wash off...