Coming up to the door of his apartment in the heart of Atlanta, John Taylor felt something less than satisfied.  A no-contest ruling wasn't good enough by any standards.  Vernon Vanderbilt wasn't good enough to get a no-contest ruling with the Lord Of The Coliseum in the first place.

Turning the key in the latch, Taylor decided to himself that the referee's decision ultimately wouldn't suffice.  There would have to be a rematch, of course.  If for no other reason than to silence Vanderbilt.  To the worms, even sharing a no-contest with Lord John Taylor was like winning the World Heavyweight Championship.  That thought disgusted him.

Vernon was not enough of a threat to be allowed freely slither back to his peers and brag that the Lone Gunman didn't get the chance to beat him, Taylor assured himself as he stepped into the pitch-dark apartment.  They'd all planned it together, probably.  This made sense to Taylor.  Not a single worm could beat him, but a mass of them was most certainly misdirecting enough to get the idea in the audience's collective head that Vernon Vanderbilt had given him a run for his proverbial money.

The lights flickered on and welcomed him home; they were the only ones that ever did.  This would've saddened him somewhat if he hadn't brought that on himself.  No, it didn't sadden him in the slightest.  In fact, it brought a smile to his bruised face - It stood testament to his independence.  His loneliness was self-imposed, and the fact that he was still lonely only proof of what a strong will he truly had.  He went through the motions of checking his messages, with the perpetual foregone conclusion ringing true once again, "You have no new messages."

Other than the recent announcement of the main event for the upcoming Crimson show, of course.  Quake, Jon Kellar and himself to decide the Champion Of Champions.  Like so much else in his life, this too had a foregone conclusion.  "Yes, Seth," he gloated to himself as he dropped his gym bag down onto the couch, "another one to add to my collection..."

Shedding his heavy duffel coat, he went and got himself a glass of Bourbon.  With it, he retreated into the living area and took a seat next to his battered old gym bag.  The worms were getting ahead of themselves, he could see that.  It wasn't so much that they were getting too big for their boots as it was that their baseless egos were convincing them that they had boots to begin with.

The triple threat match would be a good start in asserting his absolute power over them all.  He was too important to crawl down to the undercard and convert the veritable subway dwellers to his way of thinking, but luckily enough the undercard's two key ambassadors were coming to him.

Lucky.  Like Vernon Vanderbilt earlier that night.  If The Root hadn't shown his face precisely when he had, that would've been it for The Furnace Of Fabulosity.

Switching on the large TV in front of him and surfing through what might as well have been two million channels of crap, Taylor took a long sip of the hot liquid.  The burning sensation felt particularly nice for some reason.  There was a lot playing on his mind, perhaps that's what accentuated it.

Taylor sometimes speculated that the worms had some unwritten pact amongst themselves.  Whether they liked each other or not, it was as though they all shared one common aspiration - To be the one to truly floor the Lonne Gunman.  To be the one to finish off the man that finished off so many.  It was times like that night at Crimson at which this speculation felt most credible.  That mass brawl.  What could possibly explain it other than a conspiracy against him?  The Root was the ringleader, apparently.  That slimy worm, Amun Ma'at, thinking he had any business sabotaging Taylor's first title defence.  And then the cavalry had come.  Ryder, Jimmy Williams, Bane - Whoever.

They were all the fucking same.  Every one of them.

Not a single one would legitimately stand up to Lord John Taylor.  Nobody had it in them to truly stand out from the crowd and have at the World Heavyweight Champion.  Sure, Vernon Vanderbilt had, technically.  But there was no doubt in Taylor's mind that his challenger had anticipated the run-ins.  That William Black?  That was planned.  It had to be.  It was preset.  The two of them were probably out in some bar right then, catching up on old times or planning how they'd come together in another vein effort to swindle Taylor.

As he finished off his drink he reminded himself that, as Lord Of The Coliseum, it wasn't his place to get down and dirty with the filthy little worms. 

However, he stood by the fact that when they slithered into his ring, his Coliseum, everything would change.  In fact, he cherished the fact.  That was his excuse, his justification for what would happen soon - They'd started it.  The Root had started it, the wormy fuck.  Monarch and Seth Raide had started it, the slimy, lying pieces of shit.  They'd all started it.  What annoyed him the most, however, was that one faceless blur that had come at him from behind.  In the middle of the brawl, no less.  With a razorblade.

Still holding the empty glass, he touched the large gash on his forehead.  It was now sewn up, of course, but the principle wouldn't be undone quite so easily.  Somebody, some random coward, had gotten a dirty blade and left his mark right across the Lone Gunman's face.  It was...

"...Unacceptable?"

Taylor shuddered as he heard that voice.  It had to be in his head, but at the same time, it couldn't be.  He'd be medically cleared; no chance of a concussion, not to mention the fact that he'd only had a glass of Bourbon.  No, this was real.  But how?

"That is the word you're looking for, isn't it?" asked the voice smugly.  Chester Browne and his smug, gravely old voice. 

It was then that the old man stepped into view.  This was the first time since Beaverdam that Taylor had been sure he had been face-to-face with the strange old man, and as such his guard was most definitely up.  He was an old man - Short, greying, weak - but that hadn't stopped two of his men from knocking Taylor out the last time.  How did he get in?

"Through the front door, John."

Eyes wide, Taylor asked, "What?"  Browne was strange enough already.  Adding 'mind reader' to his resume wasn't something Taylor felt necessary.

Matter-of-factly, he said, "You were curious as to how I got on - I could sense it - and so I answered you."

"Chester...  What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well I was hoping for a drink, but perhaps seeing you at anything but ease will suffice.  There's no need to be alarmed, John; I've come alone this time."

Taylor snarled and looked his impromptu visitor up and down.

"Well?" asked Chester, trying to look as uncomfortable as possible leaning in Taylor's doorway, "have I passed your little test?  You want to see if I've got a shovel in my pocket or a henchman or two up my ass?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you had, Browne.  Sit the fuck down, then.  What do you want?"

"I want to see if you're ready to hear the truth yet," announced the old man as he sat down in a gaudy armchair next to the couch.

"No need, I think you'll find I've worked my way comfortably out of that Drought of yours..."

"Have you?"

Nodding toward the gym bag between the two of them, Taylor said, "Strap's in there if you don't believe me."

"Is it?"

Taylor winced.  What was it about this man?  Taylor knew for a fact that his World Heavyweight Championship belt was in his gym bag, so why were Chester's words giving him second thoughts?  To be sure, he checked.  It was there, of course.  He cursed himself for having doubted it.

Chester grinned at his small victory.  "I've still got it, haven't I?  That invisible little edge over you?"

"You've got nothing, Browne.  Now either tell me this truth - quickly - or fuck off."

"The truth - this truth - cannot be simplified.  It's an either/or situation, John.  You hear it all or you don't hear a word."

"Fuck that truth," Taylor said, growing impatient.  "Tell me who had fun with the blade tonight."

Chester shrugged, "How should I know?"

Snarling now, Taylor said, "You really are one of the most irritating people that I've ever come across, Chester.  Now, tell me something."

"Something?"

"Anything.  Why you're here.  Who you are-"

"Who I am isn't important yet, John.  You should know that by now.  You should also know better than to take as Gospel what you've been told by those you've asked..."

"What are you talking about?"

"That story about Beaverdam being a figment of your imagination, of course.  I never existed.  I'm not real.  You were never in Beaverdam..."

"Well the evidence looks-"

"What evidence?" Chester snapped, cutting off Taylor, "The doctor's reports?  Word of mouth?  Not good enough.  Unless you can tell me that you went back to Beaverdam and searched that place from head to toe yourself, then you've got nothing to rely on."

Taylor couldn't tell Chester that he'd gone back down there himself - he hadn't.  Things had come up.  Title shots and contendership matches had gotten in the way of the truth.

"Just as I thought," he said.  "Look at me now, John.  I'm as real as anything you've ever come across.  I'm more real than this monopoly you think you've got going for yourself in GZW.  Your unestablished contenders won't stay unestablished forever, Lord Of The Coliseum.  They'll learn and grow.  Eventually, they'll become bigger and better than you've ever been, just as you have in comparison to the old guard.  Constantly telling yourself that what you have now will last forever is fiction.  I'm so much more real than that.  It's quite amusing, really, that your beliefs are so illogical."

"Illogical?  I thought your job was to tell me how good I am, to tell me what I need to know to become the best...  Isn't the fact that you're doing the complete opposite defying logic?"

Chester laughed cynically, "Am I really doing the complete opposite?  What makes you so certain that what I'm telling you - the truth - isn't simply for your own good?  Telling you that this is your peak and that it gets no better than this would be pointless, because that simply isn't the case.  You've been foolish enough to let Pimp Bizkit's retirement blind you from what I told you in the first place.  You've taken a one-way detour from your true direction in professional wrestling, John.  Just because there's nobody around with the balls to tell you that doesn't make it untrue."

Taylor remained silent.  It'd be hard to admit, but Chester was making sense.

"Your goal as The Lord is to become the best there's ever been.  I've told you that from the start.  Combined Championship Wrestling in its entirety was screened and you alone were selected to lead the franchise into the future.  This attitude of yours, this aspiration to completely engulf your own company in self-promotion will do nothing but hinder that goal.  Your obsession to stamp out these worms and foot-soldiers has sidetracked you.  To become what you must, you need those people around."

Sensing it was now his time for the cynical laugh, Taylor asked, "What?  I need Vernon Vanderbilt and The Root?"

"Indirectly, yes."

"Go on, Chester."

"You don't specifically need Vanderbilt or Ma'at or Jameson or Seven or any of them.  What you need is their ilk.  Without them, there is no hierarchy for you to top.  There is no competition, no challenge - superficial or otherwise.  Similarly, without you, there'd be anarchy as everything would be on one big helplessly even battle ground.  It's all about codependence, John - You need them and they need you.  Your habit of making people disappear - Pimp Bizkit, Sincere, Magic and T-Rex, even Monarch last December - is one you should be looking to break."

"I see," Taylor began, sarcastically.  "You want me to roll over and go easy on them because I need them.  Please..."

"I didn't say that, and you know I didn't.  All I'm telling you is to be smart about how you act.  If you listen to me, you'll be back on track.  If you don't, and you go into Crimson with the sole intention of hurting Jon Kellar and Quake - or Phillip Tytan, for that matter - just to assert your power as Champion Of Champions, you'll be making a big mistake.  This time, it's your decision."

To Taylor's chagrin, the mysterious old man left it at that.  Within seconds he was up and gone.  Taylor barely heard the door shut closed before he realised that his visitor had left.  Immediately, he got up and ran to the door, opening it instantly, to try and get another glimpse of Chester Browne.

But he was long gone.  He wasn't going to make up Lord John Taylor's mind as to how he'd carry himself in future.

It's my decision, Taylor reflected.