John Taylor still hadn't made up his mind as to how he'd go about his offence (or lack thereof, as per Chester Browne's words of advice) in the triple threat Champion Of Champions match when Monarch reared his bloody head on GZW TV.

After listening to what James Corbin had to offer, he didn't exactly feel enlightened.  Why had Monarch spoken up, actually?

Could Jon Kellar not speak for himself?  It certainly seemed that way to Taylor.  Was Kellar - the much-hyped second coming of Union Jack - incapable of 'cutting it' once the pressure was on?  Or, more likely, was Monarch so unsure of Kellar's solo competence that he felt the need to intervene and verbally walk "Human Dynamite", hand in hand, out onto the verbal battlefield?

Probably both.  Miscommunication within the Heretics was nothing new.  As Taylor had once quite eloquently put [something completely different], "Different toilet, same stinking shit."  That their leader had been forced to run to the hills was no excuse for not keeping up with the stable's finest tradition.  And keep up with it they would.  Taylor wouldn't be at all surprised if seemingly reluctant stablemates Kellar and Tytan failed to see the possibility of the two of them ending up in the same ring with him in the upcoming Crimson's main event.

Monarch would tell them though.  He'd tell them what they needed to know and all would be well within the Heretic camp for another show.  Until the Contest Of Champions Battle Royale came along, of course.  Then the green-eyed monsters that are standard for all Heretics, past and present, would rear their grubby little heads and the spineless, directionless mercenaries would tear each other apart.

It was this inconsistency that told Taylor not to listen to a word from Chester Browne's mouth and to go into Crimson with the sole intent of hurting his opponents.

It was in this mentality that Taylor paid a visit to the GZW2K1 Coliseum and one of its many expansive media rooms. 

"For the life of you, Quake - can you actually string a sentence relevant to your upcoming task together?" asked an apparently perplexed John Taylor, moments after being told that the cameras were rolling.  "Hours of TV Championship Tours, for what?  You've been given the opportunity to catapult yourself directly into the biggest match of your GZW career, yet you've got nothing to say about it?  I don't care whether or not Baywatch is still running, or whether "Neanderthal Man" Phillip Tytan is still yanking the 'Indy Legend' chain around you.  Given the position that you're in, you really shouldn't either."

He continued, "What you should be concerned about is the Champion Of Champions match.  Sure, by all means, ready yourself to dispose of Phillip Tytan beforehand, but that should be nothing more than a footnote.  I know your history, Quake.  I know your ability and your style and your, most importantly, your reputation.  It's sad to say that, while your reputation in your stay here thus far has shot on leaps and bounds, the other little pieces to the once admirable Quake puzzle have not.  What happened to Quake being among the most unique wrestling personalities?  What happened to the genuinely humorous humour?  What happened to the relevant trash-talk?  What happened to Quake?

I used to know of a man called Quake.  I'd watch him from afar, competing in 'Indy Leagues' whose names shall never be spoken, and he mattered.  He was important.  He was key to the ongoing success and excitement of whatever company it might have been at the time.  Here was a man who had all of the panache of our current W.C.E.K. Television Champion, without any of the downsides.  That man was The Quake One.  I don't have a clue who this bald bastard with the little title over his shoulder thinks he is...

If the fabled Quake had never signed with GZW2K1, then perhaps I'd be looking upon this match with excitement.  Clearly, that isn't the case.  The Englishman showed up in all of his sloppy glory and all but proclaimed from the underside of Jay Jameson's ass that he's become a shadow of what he once was.  He's lost that spark of immediacy and importance that he once had...  Sad, considering that this could've been the big one for him."

Content, Taylor moved on, "Jon Kellar...  Who the FUCK do you think you are?"  He smiled to himself - He hadn't meant to come across quite so aggressively right away.  "Exactly how far do you expect playing blind man to take you?  You know who I am.  You know exactly what I'm capable of.  By saying anything remotely different, the only one you're fooling is yourself.  Everybody knows Lord John Taylor, and everybody that knows what's good for them appreciates and respects Lord John Taylor.  What are you trying to prove by doing the exact opposite?  That you're original?  That you're edgy?  That you've got a mind of your own?  That you're not just another wormy sheep?  Well?  Spit it out, boy, whatever it is.

Although I'm sure Monarch appreciates your appreciation of him, I suggest you firmly remove that bald head of yours from his wrinkled British behind in time for Crimson...  Right now, you're acting the absolute moron.  I don't deserve to be in a MAIN EVENT with YOU?!  ARE YOU SERIOUS?!  I AM the main event of this company, whilst the furthest you've ever gotten is pissy little Extreme Heavyweight purgatory with Electric Sharpe.  You've yet to go near a main event and you feel you can make a claim such as that?  Come on, Jon, you're not that thick, are you?  Who do you think'll take such a claim as anything other than satire?  Monarch?  No, not at all.  To him you fill the gap left by Electric Sharpe, the Heretic representative in the Extreme division.  That's the extent of it.

You're not important.  You're not even sought after.  Why do you think Monarch recruited you to the Heretics?  Your talent?  Your credibility?  Wrong and wrong.  The only reason you wear a Heretics shirt today is because you're the ONLY person LEFT in the Extreme division!  Reject, Mr. Klown and now Electric Sharpe are gone.  Wylder's back in UJW.  Even Jimmy Williams has moved on, apparently.  You were literally handed that strap to serve as nothing but a sentry.  You're the night watchman.  The guard dog.  Your purpose is to convince the higher-ups that the Extreme division is still alive, which comes down to what's left of the Heretics' craving for gold.  Tytan couldn't cut it with the United States Heavyweight title and has been relegated.  Sharpe and Pimp, the only two half-way solid title holders in the Heretics are out....  And Monarch?

You think he's going to step back into the game for the twenty-seventh time and grab a title just to prove that the Heretics didn't die out with Pimp and Sharpe?  No.  He won't bother.  He's got far too good a thing going for himself right now to risk any of that.  Sheep like Vernon Vanderbilt and Chris Cairns admire the man from afar and young hotheads like The Root throw empty challenges at him.  What more could an attention seeker ask for?  Certainly not a tiring full-time roster placement, that's for sure.  So you see, you mean nothing to them.  To anyone.  If you hadn't jumped at the opportunity to jump aboard, then it would've been someone else.  It would've been Jay Jameson or Quake or Vernon Vanderbilt.  It would've been anyone...  The Heretics just got lucky in that the first guy they found was open to the idea of becoming their executive lapdog."

Smiling now, Taylor said, "Congratulations, lapdog of war.  Feel good that your stablemates have agreed to send you into a losing battle while keeping their hands clean.  You show me no respect on TV, and I'll show you absolute torture in the ring.  Recently I was faced with a crossroads as to how I'd go into the Champion of Champions match, and by simply disregarding me, you've made that choice far too easy..."

Kellar and Quake really had told Taylor exactly what to do at Crimson, and for that he silently thanked them.  What Chester Browne had posed to him was a dilemma, one which - had it not been resolved in time - could've weighed heavily on his mind at Crimson.  No longer would that be a factor.

Crimson was "killing" time.

In spite of coming to such a realisation, however, Taylor ploughed on.  "It amuses me to see that, even 'beyond the grave', Nathan Williams hasn't lost one iota of his baseless arrogance.  Of course, when he's on his website replying to Amanda, Josh and Kimberly, it's not called arrogance.  It's called being a man - champion - of the people.  However, fossil, as fulfilling as the looks on the faces of these invisible fans of yours must be for you, I take pride in pointing out that your empty trash talk doesn't mean shit outside the confines of TheEnforcer.com!  Nobody outside of those O.C. extras cares about your kid or your wife...  Well, actually, I take that back.  Your wife is clearly more widely respected and listened to than yourself, 'seven footer'.  Do accept my humblest apologies on that one.

Given your knack for talking and talking without really saying anything of value, I'd generally let whatever you do say slide, but not today.  It's not that your comments were so psychologically stinging, calculated, well thought-out or even thought-out, period, but rather that they were so ridiculously boorish that they were bordering on comedic.  With that said, answer me this, Enforcer..." 

Adopting as stereotypical American youth accent as he could this side of Dawson's Creek, Taylor asked, "Yeah, this is John from South Dakota...  Like who do you think you're, uhm, convincing?  Isn't it true that you've never actually beaten John Taylor?  Isn't it true that Taylor not only, like, beat you and took your HKWF World Heavyweight title, but went on to, uhm, defend it against you again, only for you to come up short for a second time?  And, dude, who are all these "other John Taylor's"?  Have there really been more than two Lords Of The Coliseum?  By the way, why didn't you, like, win the Lord Of The Coliseum tournament last year?  You were only against Taylor, right?  And, oh yeah, who's Viktor Kovalek, and what the hell is he going to do to stop Taylor?"

The World Heavyweight Champion smirked.  "I'll leave that one up to you, Tyrannosaur."

Taylor only now stopped to take a brief look at his surroundings - the room was similar size to a wrestling ring, the walls covered in assorted GZW promotional material.  A black and white photo of former CCW Triple Crown Heavyweight Champion, James "Monarch" Corbin, sporting his three title belts caught the Lone Gunman's eye.  "Monarch of Wrestling...  Real Wrestling...  And now overprotective father?"

"James, of course I'm not arrogant enough to mock my creator...  For the sole reason that I HAVEN'T GOT ONE!!!  I've been through this with far too many retirees far too many times - Lord John Taylor is self-made.  Nobody came up and handed me the World Heavyweight Championship or the Lord Of The Coliseum.  On top of that, nobody but me fought my way through months of purgatorial midcard bullshit.  You say you've been my creator all this time?  Of course you're wrong, but if it were the case, I would think you'd do a better job than dragging me as far from the main event and as close to the fucking village idiot of GZW2K1, Seven, as is possible.  For a man that prides himself on being the greatest, I've got to say that your job thus far has been a little lacklustre...

But of course that's not the case.  You're just bitter because you've no longer got a faux-protégée worth his salt on the top half of the card...  Pimp Bizkit was there but you lost him.  Electric Sharpe could've been there, but he lost himself.  Even Zachary Sharp bailed before he got the chance to unknowingly rekindle the Monarch flame.  So now you turn to me and act like it's been you the whole time.  You pushing me into action.  You spurring me to rip people apart.  Whatever, Corbin.  Exactly how did you make me who I am in December by bailing out the second I dropped the World Heavyweight Championship?  You didn't.  You bailed because the title was no longer in you reach.  Sure, Pimp would've been an easier opponent, but YOU had become far too feeble to actually get up and challenge your own stablemate's authority.

What keeps you up at night, Monarch, has got nothing to do with me.  And that's not an easy thing to admit.  Anybody else on this roster would salivate over the thought that they in one way or another influenced the great James Corbin's sleeping patterns, but I'm willing to stand up and say that I'm not like them.  This time, I'm tearing the wool from over my own eyes and proclaiming to the world that Monarch is full of shit on this one!"

Taylor gets up and tears the Monarch photograph from the wall.  He held it up in front of him, in clear view of the camera.  "This was a great man.  The Monarch of today is nothing near that.  Today, he is desperate.  He suffers from insomnia not because of concern for what he claims I have degenerated into, but rather concern for HIMSELF...  HE is the one who has slipped into senility!!!  He is the one that has become a walking satire of himself, and he weeps because he knows he is no longer strong enough to save himself from what he has helplessly become.  He clings to me now because he NEEDS me.  As much as he needs Jon Kellar as an expendable midcarder, he cannot survive without having a presence in the main event.  He's shown hesitation - at best - to step into the ring himself, so after months of nothing he has finally turned back to me.  What he has ensured that the general public will see as a legend's concern for wrestling in this day and age is nothing but a front to misdirect you people from what he's really doing...

...CRAWLING BACK ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES!!!  Clearly, he's covered his tracks well.  He pleads a pretty convincing case.  And those questions of his.  Why am I letting myself be controlled by something less than real?  I'm not, James.  I know you're not so short-sighted as to legitimately ask such a question, which is only further evidence that what you're saying is nothing but bull to hide your cowardice and dishonour in turning back to the man you disregarded so many months ago.  Where you get the notion of my faith to this company I don't know.  I'm here for myself alone.  That's how I've always been, in everything I've ever done.  That isn't going to change with a simple analogy, James.  It's not the Corzairs' decision to make, having Lord John Taylor in the prime position of this company.

You know as well as anybody else that, without me, this company would be NOTHING.  Sure, the new generation will be big stars in the future, but without me NOW and for the FORESEEABLE FUTURE, this place would be in ruins.  You'd be a fucking fool to dispute that, Monarch, and even more of one to believe that Corzair holds any sort of power over me.  Don't forget that within me is the kill switch that could tear CCW apart from the inside.  Hypothetically speaking, if I were to walk from Combined Championship Wrestling for once and for all and move on to somewhere else, the entire organisation would be out of business within weeks.  You know that as well, Monarch.  You know it all too well because you were once in my position.  You were once so important, so urgent, so necessary to this company, but you've lost all that...  You want it back so bad, James.  I can see that so clearly.

I can also clearly see through your lies and propaganda as regards my impending 'fading away'.  Again, this is merely a reflection on yourself, so forgive me if I don't exactly take it to heart.  It is you who is bitter about the way you've been treated by them - the way you willing allowed yourself be treated by them - and where you've ended up as a result.  Get back into the game by all means, Monarch, but - for your own sake - Cut the crap..."

With that, John Taylor was content.  He knew he was right.  He knew the right way to turn.  He was ready for Crimson and what was apparently to follow.