[Lord John Taylor at Crimson’s Legendary
Night,
The screen behind him reveals the absolute
hell he's caused. Suddenly, the cameras
cut out to static and the show ends…
…or doesn’t.
Miraculously,
the live signal to the soaked, battered arena
returns. Exhausted but not showing it, a
passionate Herbert Torres stands (only slightly groggily, considering what has
just happened) alone in the centre of the rather moist ring.
Torres: Ladies and Gentlemen, your LORD OF THE COLISEUM!!!
A crackle precedes the familiar voice of
Patrick Nelson, apparently having returned from the woodwork after Raide’s abrupt exit.
Nelson: What the? Raide was just out
here. Hasn’t that little…
Wisely, the head commentator stops
mid-sentence. Re-thinking his
strategy somewhat, he clicks his tongue.
Nelson: Well, talk about overkill…
Samson (sighing): Raide
is The Lord, Patti. He can do what he-
Without warning, the Zerotron
explodes with pyrotechnics. The lighting
goes out but returns instantaneously.
The process repeats and quickly the entire Coliseum appears to fall into
slow motion. A rather familiar howl
introduces this particular Lord.
“I AM THE SAVIOUR OF ROCK N’ ROLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!”
Samson: LORD…?!
Crumb: …JOHN TAYLOR!!!
The crowd greet the veteran with perhaps the
most insane reaction of the night (quite a feat, considering the
circumstances); boos and cheers in almost equal measure with throaty screams,
howls and chants coming from all corners of the massive arena. The tall, almost lanky figure of 2004’s Lord emerges
on the stage into a cloud of smoke, lit from underneath. In his most basic and ‘classic’ ring attire
of black trunks, boots, pads and fingerless gloves, he appears statuesque; a
vintage figurine of a true legend in GZW2K1 lore. Joshua Samson speaks up as slick as ever,
after quite a prompt recovery in the dignity department.
Samson: This greasy f*cker
just lost to Eddie FEVER!
What the hell is he doing out here now?
This is Seth Raide’s night!
Crumb: Maybe… Maybe he’s out here to pass the torch,
guys.
Nelson: Sure he is. And maybe Lord Deacon Kane is en route
to the ring right now. You’d want to get
real here, Crumbass.
As was his ‘bit’ back in his simpler
days,
Samson: If he’s got something to say,
let’s hear it! Some of us have
post-show appointments, you know.
Nelson: Just because they were legal on
the Summer Heat tour doesn’t mean you can call those girls ‘appointments’,
Samson.
Crumb: He really knows how to work ‘em, fellas.
Samson: ‘Working’ long, hard
objects… Right up your alley, Crumbster.
Crumb: …
A moment of awkward, embarrassing silence
follows.
Crumb: …I meant the crowd.
Samson: Whatever you say.
“Here we are, one whole year on from that
big night. My big night.…”
His tone quickly turns sour.
“Time sure does fly when you’re being
screwed more than the nails in Seth Raide’s fairytale
little wasteland, don’t it? It do, I’ll tell you. It
does. It f*cking
well does. The better part of twelve
months with nothing more than a spiralling headache and the crappiest title run
in recent memory to show for it. Boy,
has this been my year or what?”
Sympathy from the crowd clearly isn’t
what
“Forget about that. This is no time for another sob story,
right? This is time for
celebration. Mayhem. Madness. Raide’s Toybox Terrors!
Fire! Sprinklers! Rehashed bullsh*t. Take your pick. While you’re at it, take mine too. I don’t want a part in any of it…”
Nelson: What?
“Congratulations must surely go out to
the new – or is that true – Lord, Seth Raide on this
fine, fine evening. He beat Quake, Eddie
Fever and Vyle… Glory be. This guy’s got what it takes to rip you
apart, GZW2K1. Cower in animal
analogical fright, you grazing sheep!
For better or worse, he’s in this for the long haul, folks.”
Putting his apparent sarcasm into
question,
“I’m not.”
Nelson, Samson & Crumb: WHAT?!
The crowd don’t quite know how to
react. Some ‘get’ it. The majority don’t.
“Pick it up, people. I’m f*cking
gone. Finished. Finito. Dead
as a motherf*cking Dodo. You and me…we’re finished. Me and what’s left
of this Coliseum – Raidesy’s new playpen -
finished. GZW2K1’s future, or whatever
the f*ck Raide is trying to do or not do…FINISHED! This place…
This place is an absolute DISGRACE! You people, these people, those people –
you’re scum. The little run-in buddies
and innermost circles of this company have been making me sick to my ‘boring’
little stomach for too long. You ever
wonder WHY I’ve ‘slipped’ recently? You ever wonder why I let Seth Raide get another ten minutes of ‘touching himself’ time by calling me a midcarder? You ever wonder why, thanks to me, he’s RIGHT
on that one?”
Nelson: It’s true that
Samson: Fallen?! He lost to Eddie Fever in round
f*cking ONE tonight!
“I let that happen because I just don’t
care anymore! I’ve let myself be outrun
in this dingy little rat race because that’s all it is. Filthy. Dirty.
Cheap. Temporary. They told
me it was a saga, but it’s not. There’s
no beginning, middle or end… It’s
infinite, but maybe it’s not. There’s no
structure. Nothing
true to fight for or against.
Somebody like Pimp Bizkit can build up something
of a legacy, serve for YEARS and then be forgotten about within DAYS
of retirement. Deacon Kane, an
underachiever and career CHEATER, who couldn’t even beat SEAN FIERY
by himself, is a f*cking
martyr. An absolute
and total legend. Tell me,
people, those of you that just can’t name check that Lord enough, don’t
you remember the Iron Man match? Don’t
you remember how much John Profit and Sincere did for that man and his title
run? When I realised that this sh*t goes on the entire time, I asked myself, what’s the
point? Why was I doing this? Why was I here…why was ANYONE here? I don’t know about the rest of them, but I
couldn’t think of one good reason. This
place has no real past and no real future.
It’s a prison. A
twisted little concentration camp.
Pretty soon, the occupants start to forget what it was – if anything – that
had brought them here. It’s a pointless
f*cking exercise.
It’s the showbiz equivalent of smoking.
The second I walk out of here, Seth Raide or
some other little sh*t will fat his way into my spot
and I’ll be forgotten about. THAT’S
the sort of thanks you get around here.”
Samson: As if Seth Raide
isn’t already in
Nelson: I don’t know,
he might be on to something.
“I look back to At Our Best and I
see something REAL. At least,
something that felt real at the time. Now it’s a chapter in a history book. Tomorrow it’ll be replaced with tonight. Tonight feels like a simulation of a copy of
a duplicate. We all followed the neat
little formula and just one person goes home happy. A perfect system, isn’t it? Next year’ll
replace this year. Repeat, reuse, recycle. Repeat times
infinite. Repeat ad nauseum. It never ends. I also look back and I see what I used to
be. Call me a shell of my former self if
you will… I’m not bothered to even argue
at this stage. I lost my fire too long
ago for that. I lost whatever it was
that sparked me to excel, to even want to excel. Without it, I could still destroy anybody on
this roster...yourself included, ‘Lord’ Raide. But without it, I really couldn’t give enough
of a f*ck to even bother. Have your new king Seth Raide. Let him wither and die out, give up on his
unrealistic, crappy little home-wrecker crusade within months. He’ll die out, just like I did. Have Vernon Vanderbilt next year. Have it all, because right now I really, REALLY
don’t want an ounce of it.”
“I don’t want it.”
…and throws it too into the crowd.
“Take these gloves of mine and maul each
other for them. Take what’s left of my
body and blood. Drink from me, eat me,
belittle me, berate me, dance on my grave for all I care, f*cking
ignore me. It won’t make a difference.”
He kneels down and begins to untie the
shoelaces of his heavy, well worn boots, all the while still talking.
“Months ago, before ‘Lord’ Seth
Raide’s cheap little ascension, I asked myself
whether any of this was worthwhile. I
told myself to get out, to quit while I was actually ahead. It’s better to burn out than fade away and
all of that bullsh*t.
But I didn’t. I hung on.”
Awkwardly removing his left boot, he
stands up. With his socked left foot, he
kicks it under the bottom rope and out of the ring.
“I hung on for too many reasons… Reasons that I’d never, EVER
share with you spineless c*nts. It can’t help but bring a smile to my face
now, though, at the fact that by staying, the last of my many, MANY
fruitful gifts to this company was finally giving you some genuine
disappointment. You all expected me to
try to win this thing… You all expected
me to get my revenge by mopping the f*cking mat with
that dirtbag Raide and go
on to become a two-time Lord. But I
didn’t. I didn’t want to. The autopilot and I went out drinkin’ and let whatever happens happen. That, my friends, is gospel. If it weren’t, Santiago DeTouwce
would’ve had his left leg amputated after a particularly stiff Silencer
by now…”
Samson: Pffft,
El Geezy would still school
“All I wanted was to grab the reality of
it all by the balls and slap each and every one of you across the face with
it. I wanted to show those that don’t
quite get it – the younger generation – that there are no true good guys or bad
guys. Nobody believes in a cause and
fights for it… Nobody fights the good or
bad fight. They fight for their own pay
check. Nobody is perfect and nobody is
totally useless. We’re inconsistent by
our very nature. I wanted to show you
that even the immortals can and do f*ck things up. THAT’S how I want to be
remembered. A human f*cking being with strengths, weaknesses, ulterior motives,
desire, lust and a whole host of other fine ingredients. Nothing more and nothing
less. No infinite, immortal
Deacon Kane or Monarch. Just a regular
John…that happened to be the best there’s ever been. But you all know that by now…”
The crowd oppose
Crumb: You think that camera guy would
pass me
Samson & Nelson: Shhh.
“I don’t have to spell that one out…I’d
just be repeating myself. I wouldn’t
want that, would I? My legacy’s
tarnished and rotten enough as it is. I
should’ve gone out on a higher note, right?”
Nelson: Most certainly.
“WRONGWRONGWRONG!!! You just don’t get any
higher than this. The ideal scenario of
retiring with a freshly one LotC crown or World
Heavyweight Title is futile. That’d
create no closure whatsoever. And boy,
do we need some closure right now. What
I have done tonight is consciously taken myself out of the running. I haven’t merely pressed ‘pause’
tonight – I’ve ripped the cord right out the back of the machine! This stops here and you people don’t get one
more night of The Gunman. You lose. I get to walk the f*ck out of here with my
head held up, knowing that it’s all over.
And you know what? I couldn’t be
happier about it. I’m practically
stoked, f*ckers.
I go home free, you all go back to the
grind. Sounds about
right to me.”
The crowd aren’t sure whether to applaud
“Of course, I can’t just walk out and
leave you high and dry, can I?
Well… Technically, if I did, I’d
be saving us all from another half a f*cking year of
watching Seth Raide jerk off all over GZW2K1 as a
part of the most long-winded and pointless ‘sabotage’ or ‘hostile takeover’ in
human history. I’d be achieving his
goals for him with no effort whatsoever…
GZW would be in ruins and he could go back to
Nelson: Now that is an interesting point.
Samson: Honestly, I’m not so sure. I think he needs to throw some bleeding
barbed wire into the mix to spice things up and get the creative juices
flowing.
Nelson: What the hell are you
talking about?
Samson: Forget it.
“We’re not happy because our new Lord
isn’t happy. He’s not here to destroy
you all, he’s here to squeeze whatever he f*cking can
out before the executives axe him and pick up the next sensation. He’s a little sh*tbag that couldn’t tell a convincing lie to save his life,
a poor kid with a chip on his shoulder fishing for some attention. Want proof on that one?”
Some do, as it transpires.
“Look the f*ck around you.”
They do.
“THIS is what he has had to resort
to in order to steal the show…and even then he can’t do it
properly! I’m out here in my f*cking socks doing it better than him, without the
Crumb: That was a nice gesture…oh, wait.
“Oh, and by the way: Get used to people
really stressing that ‘Lord’ before your name, ‘lord’ Raide. It gets just
a little irritating, as you’ll soon find out.
Of course, there is the whole issue of karma and doing unto
others for you to consider before plunging into great depression over the
whole thing…”
Nelson: You think?
Samson: I don’t know. Lord Samson has a nice, Samsonian
ring to it. Stress away, as far as I’m
concerned!
“Anyone else want a little piece of
me? A morsel,
even? Anyone want the last bite
of THE Lord, John Taylor? Bane? The hothead
quickly turned safety net joker? Everything’s comfortable when you can laugh at
yourself, right? I can safely say I
wouldn’t know, but I guess we’ll just have to imagine what would’ve happened if
we’d had just one rematch.
He raises the microphone towards the
executive skybox, symbolically pointing out said ‘strings’.
“Quake? Fix up and look sharp,
you’ll have it good for a while. You too, Vyle. Avenge your loss to Raide
tonight… Finish what I can’t be bothered
to and make something of yourself. Jon Kellar? RUN
back to that f*cking drawing board and – please, please
– never take part in another photo shoot.
Ever. Eddie Fever and El Gambit?
Are you the catalysts to my retirement or just two little footnotes in
what will tragically go down as Seth Raide’s
night? Take a guess.”
Heated, he goes on, blitz style.
“Who does that leave? Monarch? Seth Raide sucked
whatever the hell was left in there clean out of him leading up to Glory Through Honor. He needs no more attention than that. Sincere still around, is he? Wants to talk sh*t
about what he could never do to me? Let
him. Let them all. Enjoy it.
Soak up the fact that you can say whatever the f*ck you want about me
and I won’t even be listening. Use that
little piece of
Crumb: Is he being sarcastic?
“Just remember who said what. Remember who it was that wanted rid of
me. Who it was that thought of me as
old, decrepit of useless. Think of those
idiots when this place is truly in f*cking trouble, and you’ve got nobody to come save you. I’ve had more than enough at this stage. Stick your biggest, baddest
f*cking fork in me, GZW – I’m well and truly DONE.”
With that, he delivers a swift
football-style kick into the air, which sends his right boot flying into the
crowd.
“Make as much of that as you can, because
it’s the last you’ll be seeing of me for a long, long time. Save the Ring Of
Dishonour for someone who actually needs it. Save it all.
In a couple of months, I’ll be behind a closed door somewhere ready,
willing and able to say, “I told you so”. For now, however, I’ll just settle for a “Thank
you and goodnight, GZW2K1”. It’s
been interesting.”