"My fellow Coliseum Lord, Deacon Kane, once referred to focus as a rookie's mistake..."

Through darkness, Lord John Taylor spoke.

"All the general public can do on the twelfth of June is watch these words of his ring true.  The Contest Of Champions match is full of men with grudges.  Men that think they know it all - They think they know exactly who to target, how to target them and when to take them out.  Regardless of the length of their stay in this sport of ours, be it a year or a decade, this mentality will be the undoing of the vast majority of these men.

"Of course there'll be the children bickering amongst themselves - The Root and Shane Ryder, Jimmy Williams and Jay Jameson, even Phillip Tytan and James "Monarch" Corbin...  But there'll be more than that.  This individual focus is nothing compared to the real target of every other man participating - Me.  Look at every piece of promotional footage over the last week and a half and tell me that the recurring theme is anything other than "The Lone Gunman" and the fact that he is everybody's number one threat.  Like the goalkeeper with both eyes transfixed on just one half of the field or the cameraman filming the ground during an aurora borealis, this mistake will be the one that counts."

He paused, contemplating exactly how to verbally elaborate.

"Vernon Vanderbilt - a prime example - will be out to get me.  He's told that to the world.  Say for example he, through some miracle, manages to eliminate me.  Then what?  Is that his job done?  Will he be left with anything better than an uphill struggle?  No.  All he'll have done is sabotaged his chances of victory.  Without a force like John Taylor around for pest control, he'll be left with twenty-eight headless chickens running around trying to eliminate everybody in sight.  With me gone, there'll be nobody to keep any sort of order.  The GZW hierarchy would be in pieces.  It's a paradox, really.

"If Vanderbilt's - or whomever's - focus is solely on the Lone Gunman, then he'll have lost before even stepping into the ring.  Excessive focus will make him vulnerable to everybody else in there, which will practically neutralise him as a threat to me.  On the flip side, if somebody, somehow, manages to eliminate me, then it'll be chaos.  There'll be no hope for anybody.  The point is that nobody other than Lord John Taylor can feasibly win.  I am the foundation and cornerstone of this roster, and the second I'm taken out of the equation, everything will crumble and implode.  It'd be a disaster.

"Of course, that's not going to happen.  Lord Deacon's words of yesteryear tie into my own assessment that this Battle Royale will be a game of chance.  The best one can hope for in a game such as this is to have one's eyes wide open.  Be prepared for anything and everything.  Roll with what happens.  Take everything that happens at face value and deal with it when the time comes.  There is no other way.  Planning and strategy become obsolete when the positioning of entry is entirely at random.  Weeks of scheming and plotting are turned upside down the second that Monarch comes out in the spot you had lined up for Kid X.  Spontaneity and flexibility are the keys for my success in just over a week's time.  Experience, Deacon Kane told us, proves that to focus on or worry about anything other than the entire match and every single one of its participants is the first - and last - step to failure.

"To say the least, it'll be amusing to stand back and see the sheer volume of worms that slither down that path."

Another pause, this time it was longer.  The silence must be deafening their anticipating little worm ears, he though to himself.

"To tackle this problem, one must be aware of one's surroundings.  One must be prepared for every possible situation and know, in the back of one's mind, that there'll be at least another fifty possibilities that one couldn't even comprehend.  It's tricky, of course, but once you get the hang of it you'll never look back.  I know I never did.

"Like every aspect of life, very little is as it seems when it comes to the claims of professional wrestlers.  Look at Vyle, for example.  Just this morning, he too proclaimed to the world that he is the only man truly focussed on the whole affair.  He's not focussed on it, at all.  All he's doing is trying to confuse the mindless drones that'll be filling the gaps in the Battle Royale.  Sure, he says that he's planning against everybody...  But is that truly the case?

"Seven is an idiot, yes.  But by brushing over and beating down his claims, Vyle, you're making the biggest mistake of all.  You spit upon this moron because he thinks that I'm his only opponent?  Have you not seen the Crimson card?  In big bold letters, right before the Contest Of Champions match, it says that I will be defending my World Heavyweight Championship against that undeserving ingrate.  Big deal, I hear you say.  What's that got to do with anything?  It's got to do with everything, Vyle.  Yes, that same everything that you are so clinically focussed on.  What's the problem, did you just forget that the entire dynamic of the Battle Royale could be switched around in countless combinations as a direct result of the title match?

"Lord John Taylor, at this moment in time, is the GroundZero Wrestling 2K1 World Heavyweight Champion.  Let's say that, during my title defence, something terrible happens.  Another mass brawl.  Another anonymous blade attack.  Another three hours of Seth Raide.  Another QVC appearance.  Anything.  And let's just say that, because of this, Lord John Taylor loses the title to that oaf.

"Of course, that won't affect you, right?  You're not in it, so what's the point in even watching it?  It's of no relevance or importance to you, right?

"WRONG!!!" Taylor snapped.

"Don't you see that if I go into the Contest Of Champions sans my title, things are going to play out a LOT differently?  I'd rip and tear through as many people as it took - No finesse, nothing but elimination on my mind.  It wouldn't be a bit of exercise or entertainment, it would be my life on the line.  It'd be a miserable - yes, Vyle, miserable - fucker clawing and kicking for as long as it took to ensure that the title would be mine again in a matter of weeks.  I'd take no prisoners...  I'd spare nobody.  I wouldn't let anybody sit back and work his way up...  I'd just hurt him and throw him out of the fucking ring.  That could be you, Vyle.  Chances are - whatever happens - it WILL be you.  You and QVC and everyone else unfortunate enough to still be in the ring.

"Adversely, if - that is, when - Seven loses the title match, he's not going to be happy either.  He's going to want to hurt people...  And he doesn't do it for sport or to win Battle Royales.  He does it for practice.  If I mess Seven up enough during the title bout, it won't be eliminations you'll have to worry about, it'll be broken necks and backs from botched powerbombs and chokeslams.  You've been warned, Vyle - You don't actually know as much as you think you do.  You want to make the outlandish claim that YOU, of all people, take in the 'whole pie', then knuckle down and start doing some research.

"If you were truly prepared for anything and anyone in this thing, then you'd have better material to use against former HKWF World Heavyweight Champion, Mychael Lord, than LSD and autism jokes.  Seriously.  And you call what you do 'humour'?  'Comedy'?  Quake is funnier than you, Vyle, and when I was up against him recently, in the flesh, I came to the realisation that he's not all that funny.

"What is laughable, however, is that you still haven't gotten over the 'Indy' claims of people like Phillip Tytan and Jimmy Williams.  I've got just one question - Why not?  Really, what's the big deal?  A couple of lifetime midcarders discredit your old haunts...  Who cares?  Much like that fact that you're not going to draw blood from a stone, you won't hear James Tanner or Seven commending you for winning the WOWC World title or nWo TV title or whatever.  It's a lost cause.  Give it up.  Don't even dignify them by mentioning it in passing.  Forget it.  Start focussing on the present and the future.  Start trying to build yourself up from ground zero here - It's the only way.

"We've established that there are very few workers here that will even acknowledge your past successes.  The same holds true for your baseless proclamation of 'perfection'.  You aren't perfect, Vyle, and you won't last two weeks here unless you give that crap up now.  Get down on your hands and knees, kiss the floor of the GZW Coliseum and then try to work your way up.  Reinvention and voluntary adaptation as a fast-pass to success simply doesn't work here.  Only when you realise that will you be free to progress to become anything worthwhile, long-term.  

"But maybe you wouldn't want that.  Maybe you thrive for the most immediate present.  Maybe you don't care that you'll go nowhere fast with this attitude of yours, and the second that Sweet Cheapshots or the next big-name transplant walks through the doors of the Coliseum, the 'V' side of the QVC star will have well and truly faded.  Then we'll be left with nothing more than a debater that doesn't even get the concept of backing up his unbelievable little statements.

"Oh...  Sorry.  You're a pioneer, aren't you?  You don't need to make sense or argue valid points because you can say 'cock'.  Good boy, Vyle.  No, that's not childish - It's different and innovative.  Keep up the good work, by all means...  Maybe you'll have a match-winning wheelchair joke prepared by the time the battle royale rolls around."

Surprised at himself for having so much to say about Vyle, Taylor remained silent.  His mind began to wander.

It wasn't until June of 2001 that John Taylor was finally told, in specific terms, of his 'destiny'.

For the months proceeding, HKWF administrators John Profit and Fox Giovanni had built his impending move to the United States up as something phenomenal.  It would change his life forever.  It would establish his name as the true wizard of professional wrestling that he apparently was.

He had started to believe it right around the time he received a late-night phone call from Fox Giovanni.

"John?" she asked, sounding as awake and alert as ever.

Having just woke up, the same couldn't be said for Taylor.  He replied, "Fox?  It's two in the morning, what's the-"

"Listen very carefully," she instructed, interrupting him.  "It's happening.  Tonight."

"Tonight?"

"John and I have been in talks with GroundZero Enterprises for the last few hours.  We've got the green light...  There's a dwindling promotion over there called the Extreme Wrestling Order."

"The EWO?  With Tate-"

"Tate Troublesome as Vice-President, yes.  GZE have gone straight to Troublesome, cutting out President Logan Hernandez completely."

Taylor asked, "Is that kosher?"

"Does that really matter, John?  This is big.  The EWO is dying, but it just happens to house quite a few worthwhile 'assets'...  Sincere and our own Corrupt Seed included.  Young talent as well.  GZE and Troublesome are working together and a new addition to Combined Championship Wrestling is just on the horizon."

"A new member federation?" Taylor asked in disbelief.

"CCW is ever-expanding, John, but this one'll be the biggie.  We're talking a national federation with heavy corporate financial backing, established and promising talent and primetime television slots.  GroundZero Wrestling 2K1.  It's going to take the States by storm, John.  And we're going to be a part of it.  We're getting in on the ground floor, John."

"Ground zero," he joked aloud.  He always seemed to crack the worst jokes when in Giovanni's presence.  He didn't know why.

"Yes, but not right away.  We're in, but the impact won't be immediate."

"But you said 'tonight'..."

"Allow me to rephrase that - Our impact won't be immediate.  Yours, on the other hand, will.  You've got a medical first thing tomorrow morning.  Flights're booked."

"What time are we leaving?"

"We're not leaving, John.  You are.  We're sending you in ahead of most of them.  Think of it as sewing seeds.  There's something of a modern day plantation in the works, and you'll be playing an integral role."

"Oh?  What's that?"

"Gunner.  Gunman.  We're sending you in alone so as to neutralise any potential hiccups that might occur down the line.  We need somebody like you...  Someone sly, someone calculating...  Someone without a face.  Someone smart that'll walk right in without giving anything away..."

"-Someone that'll continue to do you and Profit's dirty work."

"No, no, no.  John, this work isn't dirty.  It's clean.  You're no longer working for the good of the Hong Kong Wrestling Federation or John Profit, you're working for yourself.  You'll be clearing the way not just for us, but for your own future.  If you walk into this GZW2K1 without something like this on your mind, you'll be lapped by a dozen up-and-coming kids.  You need to beat them to the punch and erase them.  Make them disappear.  You'll work alone just as the greatest gunmen in the world have for centuries.  You don't need a full troop with heavy artillery to win a war, you know.  Sometimes it just takes one well-placed shot by an expert lone gunman.  In this war of ours, John, you will be that lone gunman.  You will be the Lone Gunman."

"The Lone Gunman?"

"Mmm," Fox said sultrily, "really rolls off your tongue, Gunman.  Your flight is at four.  Get moving and call me when you're at the airport."

"O...K," said the newly titled Lone Gunman, cautiously.

The Lone Gunman.  GZW.

Would these words and letters finally establish him in the world of wrestling?

Mentally back to the present, Taylor continued.  "Jimmy Williams, you delusional moron...  It matters not if your recent words were supposed to, in your own backwards way, 'flatter' me.  What matters is the blatant inaccuracy of your claims.  You beat me?  No.  Not once.  You dominated me 'whenever we stepped into the ring'?  Think again.  In fact, can you genuinely point me out a time that we did step into the ring at any point in the year 2001 that we were both in the ring at the same time?  No, because it didn't happen.  In 2001, as we went through last year during the World Heavyweight Title tournament, you were 'Big Country', brother of T-Rex and mainstay of the lower card.  I was John Taylor, Lone Gunman and Hitman Of HKWF.  Member of the HKWF Alliance.  I was untouchable, Jimmy, certainly out of reach of somebody such as yourself.  Funny that you should say you 'broke my spirit' as well, though...  I sure don't remember that.  Want to remind me?  The only interaction I remember between you and I was a table match on a Metal show last year, the twenty-second of September to be exact.  But, what do I know?  I'm just the World Heavyweight Champion.  I mean, you're you.  You're...  Uh...  What are you, actually?  Care to refresh my memory on that one as well?

"Next time you talk shit about me, get your facts straight beforehand!

"Elsewhere, I've got Quake trying to discredit my win in the Contest Of Champions match?  Boo hoo.  The fact is that Kellar tapped out before you even hit the Aftershock.  Take it up with him and stop wasting my time...

"And," Taylor began, ready to rip into whomever else.

Instead, he fell silent.  He stopped thinking like a critical machine for the first time in too long.  He realised that fretting over the shortcomings of shortcomers was a waste of his valuable time.  There was no point, when there was something much bigger for him to focus on - The fact that he was the World Heavyweight Champion.

It was the same deal going into the Lord Of The Coliseum tournament the year before, as well.  Fuelled on by the piece of gold around his waist, Taylor had turned in a star performance.  A career-defining performance.  As defending Champion throughout that tournament, he had told himself that losing was simply not an option.

Things were different this time.

He was the champion, yes, but he wasn't the 'defending' champion.  This wasn't a matter or urgency, but one of pride.  Integrity.  Taylor's own worth as World Heavyweight Champion.  Below Lord John Taylor were a roster packed of people that claimed he didn't deserve to be where he was.  Of course, these people didn't know what they were talking about, but the fact that they were talking played heavily on his mind.

Did he deserve what he had?  Did he deserve the opportunities he had been given...  Or was that earned?

The tradition of the Contest Of Champions Battle Royale is known best for the fact that every GZW wrestler is eligible to participate.  Knowing this was what assured Taylor that he had to take part.  

This wasn't about the Chris Cairns Creation Trophy for Lord John Taylor.  Well, on the surface it was.  That was the front.  Deeper, this was all about Taylor's confidence in himself.  This was a test for Taylor to reassure himself that GZW was his monopoly.  His only chance to solidify his belief that he was the only one deserving of the World Heavyweight Championship was to win the seventh Contest Of Champions and snag the the subsequent title shot for himself, rendering it null and void.  

That had become his goal.

Three words can do a lot.

"The", "Lone" and "Gunman" went a long way towards establishing John Taylor as a household name.  After four years, Taylor realised that Fox Giovanni had been right.

Those three other words, however, would rattle and gnaw at the centre of his being until he walked out to the Contest Of Champions match and either won it or failed.  

Those three words that separated him from the rest.  Those three words that isolated him and truly made him The Lone Gunman in the battle royale.  Those three words that attached the monkey to his back and the chip to his shoulder.  Those three words that told him he could never go out and give a 'normal' performance on the twelfth of June.  He either had to go out and majestically take the whole thing or crash and burn.

Those three words that told him this would be among the biggest challenges in his life.

Those three words...

World.

Heavyweight.

Champion.