"Battle Royales are a game of chance, and anybody that believes otherwise is an imbecile."

Mid-way into a radio interview on Atlanta Sports 42.4, Taylor felt himself really getting into the moment.  It had been a long time since he had truly been challenged both verbally and physically.  Too long, he often told himself.  Not since the Lord Of The Coliseum tournament in November of 2004 had he felt the immediate and urgent strain of more than the usual handful of men biting and gnawing at him.  The lead up was potentially more important, more imperative, than the actual match which, after all, would be little more than a clusterfuck.

"You wanna elaborate on that, champ?" asked Taylor's host for the evening, a deceptively sharp-witted oaf named Fulltime Frankie.

"Is that evening necessary?  One quick look at previous Contest Of Champions winners says it all - Kandi Fortune, Nathan Williams, Kid Kaos, even James Tanner.  What more needs to be said?  It's a question of luck, not skill or strategy.  When James Tanner got his fifteen minutes, every single odds-on favourite had already been eliminated.  It was down to, who, Phillip Tytan, Seven and Tanner?"

"I believe that's about right, although I think Kid Kaos was still in there somewhere..."

"Even still, it just goes to show that there is no fool-proof way of winning one of these things.  The only thing in one's own hands going into such a match is how long you can keep going before a lynch mob of nobodies decide they've had enough and throw you out on your ear.  James Tanner didn't win because he was a better wrestler than anyone in particular...  He won because all of the real threats had been taken out earlier and a friend of his just happened to be on hand with a steel chair.  Only an idiot would claim that that was planned, though.  It couldn't have been.  There are no guarantees in a Contest Of Champions match, especially when it's somebody as fragile as "The Former UWA Co-President".  Tanner and his associate, Peter Gamble, took a gamble and it happened to pay off, but had one person decided that Tanner had overstayed his welcome, he would've been eliminated in a heartbeat and all of his efforts would've been in vein.  As I said, it's a game of chance..." 

"Well if that's the case," Frankie began, "How do you see your own 'chances'?  Technically, we're talking thirty-to-one, but let's forget that for a moment.  You're Lord John Taylor...  You know 'the score' when it comes to these things - How do you think you'll fare?  Who do you think'll be the main threats?"

Taylor paused in thought and then said, "I'll do as well as I want to, Frank.  That's not necessarily saying that victory is in my grasp, as I'm all too familiar with the nature of this particular beast.  Only a fool looks so far into the clouds as to fore claim victory in something like this.  What I will say is that the Contest Of Champions setting is an open forum for me to vent my frustration and anger with certain key members of my roster.  The brawl that overshadowed my recent title defence against Vernon Vanderbilt will pale in comparison to what I'm prepared to do in retaliation.  Not just for the blade to the forehead or the petty little QVC attack, but because of the baseless bragging rights that Vanderbilt has given himself lately."

"I assume you're talking about his claims of having you 'at breaking point' with 'victory' within his grasp?"

"Correct," Taylor said, his tone of voice becoming distinctly more impatient and irritated.  "I don't know about Vernon, but I certainly wouldn't consider being on my belly, screaming and having my legs torn apart at the vice-like grip of an opponent something to be proud of.  But perhaps I'm not giving him enough credit...  He would've escaped from the Silencer, right?  So many people do, of course..."

"Sarcasm, Mr. Taylor?"

"If you like," Taylor responded dryly, decisively closing the lines of playful communication between the two.  "Vernon Vanderbilt did not have me at my limits, whatever he likes to say.  I had that peasant on the mat, kicking and screaming.  I had absolute victory not only in my sights, but literally waiting for me.  The match was over by the time The Root decided to stick his shiny scalp into our business.  The only thing that Vernon can hold onto for buoyancy in his sea of lies and misdirection is the fact that no call was made other than  a no contest ruling.  If that was the case, then I'll refer back to my time in HKWF.  No contest after no contest.  I was up against the best, and whenever I got close, all hell would break loose, the entire roster would fill the ring and the crowd would forget that there ever was a match in the first place.  If Vernon's logic is true, then could a younger John Taylor claim to have had CCW heavyweights of yesteryear like Sebastian Covenant, Lord Deacon Kane in his Corrupt Seed years and even James "Monarch" Corbin 'at breaking point'?  I'm an audacious man, but even I hadn't had the audacity to make such claims.  Now that Vanderbilt's doing it, though, I might just reconsider..."

"So, to reiterate for live radio, as a direct response to Vernon Vanderbilt's question - "Am I not the man who took Lord Taylor to the breaking point and had victory well within my grasp before the infamous locker room clearing brawl that erupted at Crimson?" - What have you to say?"

Taylor replied, "Vernon - Watch the tape.  As a grown, inteelligent man and analytical thinker, watch that tape just one more time.  Make it your highest priority.  Forget your needless research of old Jimmy Williams and Shane Ryder matches for the time being.  What kind of strategist plans ahead without genuinely dealing with his own past?  Can you answer me that?  If you carry on - full speed, straight ahead - and plough through hours and hours of video footage with Mr. Beauregarde perpetually at your side telling you how great your promos are, you'll fail.  No question about it.  You're floating on a lie at the moment.  Your only hope is to go back, watch Taylor/Vanderbilt at Crimson, see exactly who was in control of who when the worms crawled out of the woodwork, and repeat to yourself the question you posed to the world.  If you can do that without cringing, batting one of those eyelashes or simply dropping dead from humiliation, then I'm afraid that there's no hope.  Watch it, realise and admit your error, and the move on.  I'm giving you an out here.  Take it."

"Nice, John.  Nice-"

"Enough!" Taylor demanded, "You're not Clancy R. Beauregarde and I'm certainly not Vernon Vanderbilt.  I don't need anybody to remind me how good I am."

"Uhm, alright," Frankie began awkwardly.  "The world witnessed an interesting interaction between you and GZW2K1 Extreme Heavyweight Champion, Jon Kellar recently.  This is a man who just this past week at Crimson went into the Champion Of Champions match as a sworn enemy...  You forced him to tap out to the Silencer, yet the post-match attack you both endured at the hands of QVC has made the two of you share some sort of connection.  Is that something to watch out for, John?"

"What kind of question is that?  Watch out for what you want to watch out for, Frank.  It's not my job to direct traffic.  Within Jon Kellar there is a glimmer of hope.  A feint sign of potential prosperity.  With Monarch at his side, he'll go nowhere fast.  At least he seems to have a mind of his own, in direct contrast with certain former Heretics.  He's also gotten over his irrational assessment of me being undeserving or over the hill....  The Silencer'll do that to you.  'Human Dynamite' and I had words a few nights ago, and barring any drastic brainwashing on the part of a bitter James Corbin, I don't expect Kellar to go out of his way to 'get' me in the Contest Of Champions unless the time comes that it's absolutely necessary.  However, should such a situation arise in that ring, I will - of course - be ready for it.  Kellar doesn't strike me as a particular stupid man.  As long as he doesn't prove me wrong on that one, he can expect a relatively 'good showing' on the twelfth."

"Okay then, if it's not Kellar that you're concerned about, who is it?  The Root?"

"Am I concerned about The Root, you ask?" he began, "I suppose I should be, what with the fact that he's a known killer and all, but truthfully - No.  Not particularly."

"He thinks of you as an infidel-"

"No, 'a sinner'..."

"Oh well.  It's much of a muchness, surely?"

"No," Taylor sighed, "it really isn't.  It's meaningful.  Very meaningful.  That he refers to everybody on this roster except Lord John Taylor as an 'infidel' speaks volumes.  He's given me the distinction of being a 'sinner'.  As edgy as he apparently is, he knows it'd be pure blasphemy to refer to me as an infidel when it comes to professional wrestling.  He knows that I'm no waster.  I'm educated and experienced.  I'm everything he aspires to be it ten years, and as such he doesn't want to set the time bomb of being called a hypocrite that far down the line.  He knows I don't fear him.  The last thing Amun Ma'at wants to be is just another face in the crowd, just another worm in the dirt ground."

"Do you see him as just another 'worm'?"

"Oh, he's a worm alright.  He's as wormy and slippery as they come.  But he's a smart one.  He thinks.  He knows his own limits - the limits of the worms - but he pushes them.  He pushes them as far as they can go, all in an attempt to pass himself off as something completely different.  And, for the majority of GZW viewers, it works.  He's believable.  He's credible.  He talks trash about everybody on the roster except..."

"You?" the radio personality asked.  It was quite clear that he didn't really believe what he had just said.

"Precisely."

"But earlier today, he said-"

"Nothing," Taylor barked, feeling the spittle flying from his lips.  "He said nothing.  Nothing of value, anyway.  Sure, he'll shoot from the hip when he knows his 'victim' is defenceless, but he's too smart to do anything but beat around the proverbial bush when it comes to me.  He knows that, of everybody, I am the one that could expose his every weakness.  He thinks that by appeasing me - 'Trashing' me without any real substance to his words, more to keep up appearances than to truly do any 'damage' - I'll simply pass him over.  I'll leave him be.  He thinks that I'll be content to just drop his name every once in a while and let him carry on frying those little fish of his..."

"...And is he right?"

"Perhaps he is and perhaps he isn't.  It really depends on how far he's willing to go to stake his claim as being something important to this company of mine.  Empty threats and bland insults slip right off me...  I experience them every single day from every piece of shit in GZW that doesn't know his place and/or when to keep his mouth shut.  If The Root truly wants the best of the Lone Gunman, then all he's got to do is come out and say it.  It won't make a difference to me, but it could make a world of difference for the child's reputation.  It's his move now."

"Very interesting...  Moving right along as we are running on a pretty constricting schedule here - Seven.  Threat to your title or not?"

"What do you think?" Taylor shot right back.

Fulltime Frankie didn't answer.

"Exactly.  I need not even address the buffoon in any great detail.  Perhaps the most poignant revelation to come from his fifty-seven promos and advertisements this week is the fact that not only can he not pronounce words properly, he can't COUNT either!"

"Uh...  Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said.  This idiot is going around hyping up "Taylor vs. Seven, Round 3".  It already fucking happened, you dunce.  Yeah, that was the one where you 'beat' me.  You fucking moron, you-"

"Uh, John?" Frankie began in a whisper.  "You wanna tone down the whole cursing thing?  Primetime hours and that..."

"Haven't you got f[bleep]ing censors-"

"Yeah, forget it.  It's cool.  Our censor guy was in the can.  Do go on."

"You know, I don't even think I'll bother.  Bottom line - I've beaten Seven twice already, cleanly and on my own, and there's no chance I'm walking out of that match without my title belt intact.  If I've got to fend off an army of jobbers set on helping Seven to win, then so be it.  That lummox isn't getting anywhere near the main event at Fallout: Heatwave II.  I'll make sure of that.  I refuse to say another word about him, it gives me headaches to even think about him.  It really does."

"You're the boss.  Before I let you go, I think there's one more thing I need to hear from you on."

"Let me guess..." Taylor said without any excitement in his voice.  Ritually, he rattled off the three letters, "QVC."

"Yes sir.  Or should that be QVJ?"

"It doesn't matter what they call themselves.  Or how they package themselves.  Or how they act like a bunch of people that they simply aren't.  Vyle, for example...  Who was that on Crimson?  What happened to the Apocalypse?  What happened to morbid Vyle.  What happened to him being death incarnate?"

"He doesn't remember, apparently."

"How original of him.  What I'd like to know is when and why he transformed into this pretentious airhead that took up about half of my f[bleep]ing show?  We've already got enough in that mould, we don't need another.  At all.  Ever since he stepped foot into the GZW2K1 Coliseum, Vyle has been inconsistent.  Anti-social and bitter one week, flaky and cookie the next.  This proves nothing other than a lack of self-confidence.  Combined with reams and reams of baseless, needless goading and jabs at just about the entire roster and you've got the making of a waste of my time.  I liked Vyle better when he was so unsure of himself that he wouldn't even dare mention an opponent during a promo or interview.  Right now he's just getting ahead of himself...

He has done nothing that hasn't been done before in the GZW, yet he thinks his past with the NWO gives him some sort of fast-pass?  No.  It doesn't.  When Vyle left, he was struggling to stand toe to toe with Seven.  Just because he bailed for a few months doesn't mean anything has changed.  I don't know if you're supposed to be the leader of your little clique, but it would appear that your hierarchy is just a little off balance.  You haven't done sh[bleep] in GZW.  While you were away thinking up the possible ways to reinvent yourself for the 'modern audience' or whatever the [bleep] you think you're doing, your associates were out winning titles.  You bailed just as the getting got good, and now you'll be the one to pay for it.  Right now, you're nothing.  You're just some punk with a wad of cash making empty threats and barking orders at two men who are, technically, your superiors within GroundZero Wrestling.  It's not exactly believable, and you don't give anybody any reason to take any notice whatsoever.  Maybe that's what your intent was, though?  I mean, what would I know?  I'm just a lowly, boring World Heavyweight Champion, right?  You, Vyle, called me BORING last week on Crimson.  Sure.  Whatever you say," Taylor said with a yawn.

"I hate to do this to you, John, but we're over schedule...  We're gonna have to leave it at that, I'm afraid.  You said a lot tonight, John, you should be proud.  Sure, we ran over time but what does that matter?  You said what was important and kept to the matter at hand.  You stayed focussed and that should really be taken into consideration-"

"As I said," Taylor cut Fulltime Frankie off, grabbing his jacket from the back of the small studio seat, "I don't need anybody to tell me just how good I am..."  Having said that, Taylor got up and left.  Pulling on his coat as he left the radio station complex, he headed straight for the parked limousine that the GZW administration had insisted he utilise ever since the health repercussions from the Beaverdam incident.  As he hopped into the back, he thought back to his time in Hong Kong, and how things as trivial as radio appearances had been so different.  They'd been a treasured rarity as opposed to today's mundane formality...

February 2001
Hong Kong

There they stood in the unpleasant chill outside the run-down shack that housed the local sports radio station; John Taylor, Mychael Lord, "Mr. Hard Knocks" Majick and Masked Demon.  The four of them were out here on this February evening for one reason and one reason only - The prospect of fifteen minutes' airtime on this crappy little radio station to hype up some major new development for HKWF.  Of course, only one of them would actually get to speak - and that would be alongside Fox Giovanni and John Profit - but they hadn't been told that.  The four wrestlers, varying in size from the well-built, large Majick right down to the relatively miniscule cruiserweight, Masked Demon, had made small talk for what seemed like half an hour before the limo finally pulled up.

Profit and Giovanni stepped out from either side of the car.  Well dressed, they approached the wrestlers, all the while whispering discreetly to each other.  They stopped a few feet from the four men - who had now lined up against the radio station's wall - and surveyed them.

"Mychael," Profit said with a snap of his fingers.  "We'll use you tonight."

Lord nodded and stepped forward, as Taylor unexpectedly did likewise.  Taylor called Giovanni aside, away from the group.  "Fox," he whispered, feeling betrayed.  "I thought you said this was going to be my time."

"It is," she reassured him half-heartedly.  "Mr. Profit and I had a long talk on the way over here and we decided that a part of your thing is this aura of mystique you've got going for yourself.  Everyone'll want to know who this lone ranger is when we hit the American shores...  They'll want to know who you are and where you come from.  But we're not going to give it to them that easily, John.  We'll make them work for their meal..."

"So, in short, it's not my time."

"We don't want you to reveal all your cards-"

"You don't want me near a microphone, Fox.  You haven't got faith in me to do anything but wrestle, and you don't even have that much faith in that side of me to begin with!"

"Don't be like this, John.  Let Lord have his night tonight...  Think of your silence tonight as a pre-emptive act of contrition for what you'll do once you're free.  Consider it the calm before the storm that will eventually engulf professional wrestling in the United States.  Think of it as radio silence, John..."

"Radio silence," he said with a sigh.  "Fine."

Promptly, Fox headed inside with Profit and Lord as Taylor, Majick and Masked Demon waited for a cab.  His time was coming.  It wouldn't be all quiet for that much longer.