"He's annoyed, John.  I can see through him.  He's irritated.  Irritated with you."

The husky, gravely voice again.  Taylor grimaced and asked, "With me?"

"With you.  And do you know why he's annoyed at you?"

"I couldn't say" Taylor answered robotically.  The blur - Chester Browne - had that affect on him.  The pair sat somewhere; Taylor couldn't quite make it out.  Chester was a blur, once again.  The room, or whatever it was, was dimly lit, but the silvery blur of Chester's beard stuck out regardless.  There wasn't a sound except Chester's heavy, methodical breathing.  It surprised Taylor when he noticed he didn't even feel as though he himself were breathing.

Encouragingly, Chester said, "Of course you can.  You are the GZW2K1 Heavyweight Champion of the World, John.  You're the Lord Of The Coliseum.  You can say whatever you like...  Think about it for a minute.  Think about him."

"Him?"

"You know..."

He did know.  So why couldn't he just come out and say it?  What force was invisibly eating away at his cultured vocabulary?  It took him a few moments, but he finally uttered the words Browne had been fishing for, "Vernon Vanderbilt."

"Correct!" Browne congratulated, in a tone he knew would be far too condescending for Taylor's liking.  This made the old man chuckle to himself briefly.  "He's the number one contender to your title, John.  Of them all, he's the one closest to your pride and joy.  With the rest - your foot soldiers - at least you've got time.  Not so with Vanderbilt.  He's this close," Chester drew his right thumb and index finger in together to visualise the 'distance' - or lack thereof - and continued, "and we both know that that's too close.  Don't we?"

"It is too close.  He's a problem."

"Now you're getting the hang of this.  But he's not a problem - he's just a factor.  He's just another piece of it all, John.  You know that, don't you?  You know you can handle him..."

"I can handle him," said Taylor, now almost completely zoned out.

"Of course you can.  But it won't be run-of-the-mill, will it?"

"No, it won't."

"No, it'll be tough.  It'll be an uphill struggle.  However..."

Lord John Taylor rapidly began to regain consciousness.  Just as Chester was apparently about to give him the verbal 'key' to ensuring victory over Vernon Vanderbilt, it all slipped away.  It was replaced by the real world far too quickly.  The corporate world.  The commercial world. 

The wrestling world.

A phantom of an old man wasn't going to retain Taylor's title for him at Crimson.  Snap out of it, he told himself.  You are the Lone Gunman - Feared, respected, adored, hated.  You draw crowds and reactions.  You wrestle matches for a living and you win for a living.  You win.  Chester Browne doesn't win matches for you...

"I do!" he exclaimed, both defiantly and boastfully.  There was nobody around, of course, not that it would've been any better if there were.  He added to himself, aloud, "It'd be out of context..."

Taylor shuddered.  He was talking to himself for the first time in far too few years.  Becoming the Lord Of The Coliseum and World Heavyweight Champion and Wrestler Of The Year and whatever else had forced him out of that habit, and now - to his horror - something or somebody was drawing him back in.  There was only one solution in sight, as far as he was concerned...

"You had me right up to 'GET YOUR FEAR ON!', Vernon" Lord John Taylor announced, now seated comfortably inside his designated media room within the GZW2K1 Coliseum.  The cameras were rolling and this would be out on GZW TV within the hour.  This was the only solution, he reminded himself before continuing.

"You argued a good - if a little too self-centred - case for yourself, but that line...  That zinger, or whatever it's supposed to be...  It dragged the whole performance down, really.  All that effort in feeding your ego with mounds and mounds of fresh, unsubstantiated hype, almost making sense - All gone.  It doesn't work, 'V'.  Lose it.  And fast.  Nevertheless, there was more to your latest offering than that cringe-inducing one-liner.  Let's take a look, then - How did it come across?"

Taylor stroked at his heavy goatee in a manner so pretentious that he couldn't help from grinning, "I was a great man, but I've lost what I had?  Is that correct?  I won't be able to figure you out?  I'll be a sitting duck in that ring on Sunday night?  Is that the general gist of what you're trying to get out there?  If so, then you'll have to try harder than that.  I don't know you as well as I know, for argument's sake, Pimp Bizkit - That's a given.  After all, the name of Lord John Taylor is a little better known than that of Vernon Vanderbilt.  Clearly, there's going to be more information out there on me than you.  Gives you the distinct advantage, right?  You can compare the kinds of moves I tend to use this month to those I used last month...  Wrong.  Try as you may - and I know you'll try - you won't simply 'figure out' The Lone Gunman.  Nobody ever does.  It can't be done.  List the various ways you can wrestle a match, but it'll make no difference to me.  I can be whoever or whatever I want to be in the ring, Vernon.  I could be you if I wanted to, and I guarantee I'd be even better than the 'real thing'..."

Raising his right hand in front of his face - obscuring his facial features - he continued, "Just like that, I'm not Lord John Taylor.  Sure, I can be straightforward Lone Gunman at the drop of a hat and you'd be finished before you had the chance to get started, but that wouldn't be any fun.  Not in your case.  You think that at Crimson's "At Our Best" last year, Sean "Magic" Fiery would've expected me to outdo him in terms of his own spontaneity?  You think that the massive Nathan Williams would've expected the comparatively miniscule John Taylor to go at him full force as opposed to the more predictable mat wrestling match that had been seen as my only hope?  Of course not...  Vernon, what you fail to see is that by proclaiming yourself as this eclectic, unpredictable and unknown competitor, you're not so much 'not doing anything new' as you are 're-hashing vintage John Taylor'.  Whatever you try to throw me off, I'll catch it, turn it upside down, spin it on its side and do it ten times better.  Don't forget that.

With physical preparation dealt with, it's time to move onto the mental aspect.  After all, that's what you were trying to hammer home to me in that promo of yours, was it not?  How can you even joke about considering me pyschologically under prepared when you haven't even got your facts - those facts of which I'm supposed to be afraid - straight.  I was a great man?  Thanks, but I'm not that full of myself...  Are you honestly trying to tell me that I used to be better than I am right now?  Never before in my career have I been at this level, Vernon, but I'll humour you anyway..."

And humour he did.  A grin on his face, Taylor pondered, "So when I exactly was I greater than I am now?  Was it last year when I was merely getting my sea legs as regards the main event?  Was it either of the two years before that, during which I never stepped foot in a wrestling ring?  Hmmm...  Maybe it was my initial GZW2K1 run, in 2001...  That Light Heavyweight Championship reign?  Wait, you probably didn't know about that one, did you?  Two months, undefeated....  I only lost the title thanks to what should have been a disqualification, but I lost it.  I fucking lost it.  And not just the forgettable, now defunct title belt.  I lost more than you have now, Vernon.  Was I great when I was appearing on GZW TV blind drunk?  Was I great when I nearly burned the Coliseum down after a drunken statement of rebellion - the destruction of my pissy one-year contract at the time - fell flat on its ass?  Is that greatness?  Is that what you are now?  A dirty fucking alcoholic that was too stubborn to either sit by and wait for destiny to come knocking or get up off his underappreciated ass and grab destiny by the scruff of the neck?

If so, I wouldn't recommend it...  But maybe it goes deeper than that.  Are you talking about nearly a decade of monotony and dullness in HKWF?  No titles...  No accolades...  Just the demeaning prospect of playing 'Best Supporting...' to half the fucking roster?  Is that when I was 'great' and what everybody following in my footsteps should aspire to?  Somehow, I doubt it.  If I'm on the verge of becoming totally and utterly obsolete, then by your expert calculations, you're not doing that much better.  You say I was great, but you are great.  Assuming what I am now isn't 'great', and that my 'peak' was - ridiculously enough - somewhere in the last ten years, then the best you can hope for is either violent alcoholism and depression, monotony to the highest degree or simply not wrestling. 

Take your pick," he offered with a gritty laugh.  "In regards to what I see in Vernon Vanderbilt...  'Youth'?  'Vigour'?  'Hunger'?  No.  More like, 'Gerascophobic', 'Dangerously self-absorbed' and 'Desperate'.  I have no reason to fear age or the fact that I'm eight years your senior.  You, however, are undoubtedly pressurised by the uncertainty of whether or not you'll still be able to compete in eight years.  You only embrace youth because it's a crutch for you to lean on.  It's an excuse - THE excuse - that allows you to coast along with the false promise that 'the best is yet to come', when in reality your 'best' simply doesn't - and won't ever - measure up to the standard I've set.  You call your pretension 'vigour'?  Inaccurate.  The more you tell yourself that you're this key piece to the GZW puzzle, the more you'll believe it.  The more you believe it, the more susceptible you'll be to be torn apart by the truly important ones...

The important ones like Lord John Taylor.  You continue to underestimate me as you've been doing, and in the end you'll be the one played for a fool.  You aren't as important as you think you are, Mr. Showtime...  And as for that hunger of yours?  Nothing but a junkie's desperation.  You aren't hungry for competition and success.  You just crave the attention and the recognition.  You long for it.  You need it, but rest assured that you won't get it from me.

As for the fatal heart punch?" Taylor asked, not sounding as interested as he actually was, "I guess that just remains to be seen.  Stop my heart if you think it'll do any good...  I'll keep on going regardless.  I've been referred to as a robot and a machine far too many times for me to let such a boorish statement on your part simply slip through the proverbial cracks, Vernon.  You take out my heart?  I'll have one on a backup generator just waiting for me.  Break my legs?  My arms will just multiply in power and become unstoppable...  Do you get the idea yet?  As much as you don't think you can be stopped by conventional means, you'll need to go a LOT further than that to even get CLOSE to what it'll take to stop me.  Really, now..."

Pausing for a moment, Taylor concluded, "What have I to fear?"

"Chester?" Taylor asked, really and truly barking in the dark.  He got no response, not that he'd entirely expected one.  Chester wasn't real.  He was merely a figment of his imagination.  He had to be.  Still, though, Taylor imagined that if that were the case, it'd be a lot easier - that is, actually possible - to 'summon' him in his mind.  Chester Browne was always in control.  He'd either come to John Taylor or make John Taylor work hard just to get five minutes with him.  This last time, it'd gotten even worse.  Chester had just left, mid-sentence.  Taylor believed that, whoever or whatever he was - real or imaginary - Chester Browne held the key to ensuring victory over Vernon Vanderbilt.

He repeated the old man's name, once again to no response whatsoever.

He'd just have to wait in blind hope, then...