'I was getting some beauty sleep when I got a call from the promo department. Said I should see something. Now, me, I had no clue what would be so damn important. I mean, I've got no opponent at Fusion. Sure I made a blanket statement about getting wins on eight different people and winning back the Mercury title, but normally my broad proclamations are paid about the same attention as the Subdued/Inferno feud. That is so say, next to none.

'So I'm sure you can imagine my surprise when no less than the very top target appeared to respond to me. Oh yes, you are the top... as long as you hold that title. See, even if I don't grant that you're better than me, I DO grant that you're better than the rest. I mean, look at the wins. Akujin and Gol, both twice and both convincingly. And then there's the men you defeat vicariously through them; Dirge, Pariah, Robert Young. If you could add me to the list, you'd have the entire Mercury upper card under your thumb. Impressive.'

Herb sips the juice. Though he doesn't let on, he's pretty much speaking off the top of his head, so he's not exactly sure what to say next.

'Though you're the top target, you're neither the first nor the focus. I plan on allowing the fickle, oft random hand of Beaumont to guide me along the way. What's more, right now I don't feel like having our epic just yet.'

His eyes light up. Something just occurred to him.

'Maybe you're not sure what I mean by that. I have, over the course of my career, had several singles matches worthy of being called epic. Suicide last year with Apex. Genesis with Rook. The Y-1 final with Sentrada. Rising, Nightmare and Fusion with Pariah. Suicide this year with Akujin. And now, perhaps the crowning jewel, Resurrection with Duel. Each match is unique, long, intense, and with its own meaning. Only a select few can ever take me to an epic match.

'You can, Geoffrey Slate. I'm just not sure you could handle it.'

Sip. Actually, more like a proper mouthful.

'You could pull it off, of course... taking me twenty or thirty minutes, making me break out a couple Dreadlock variants, trading head spikes. That's why I don't consider you a man I've beaten. If I had beat you, and I mean beat you, we'd have already had that epic. Had you beat me, we'd have already had that epic. Every single one of our encounters has some small taint on it. Thus, I'm not satisfied with you just yet. And that's not even including how much I want what you have.'

Swallow. But not juice; Herb swallows a knot in his throat.

'A trophy which could add that much more to my epics. A symbol that I truly am at the highest level. But you're not unworthy, au contraire; you're as worthy as any man I could think of. You're worthy because you have the class to go out there and die for it night after night, and compete against whatever gets thrown at you without backing down or asking for a lighter workload.

'I don't hate you, Geoffrey Slate. I pity you. I pity what will happen when we finally have our epic.'

The last of the juice is downed. Herb's voice grows steadily more somber, though with an edge of something else.

'I see it on your face. I hear it in your voice. It's a pain deep down inside. As much as the physical damage has taken a toll, that's not what I'm seeing in the depths of your eyes. That's not what was really hurting you after the main event. It was your soul; it was your conscience. You actually feel bad about committing yourself to violence on the level of a Mercury main eventer. Because you can, you must; because you must, you're trapped. That belt isn't a crown jewel to you; it's a ball and chain. And it's wearing you down every day you have it, weakening your constitution, making you doubt your own humanity.

'That's where the pity comes in. You've seen what my epics are like. You've seen the raw human toll they've taken. You know the pain involved. But it's not your own pain at issue, it's mine. I want you to go and watch the last few minutes of my match last Sunday. Take a good look at me and you'll see a man in more agony than most human beings can even imagine. A man who without adrenaline would be in a deep state of unconsciousness. A man who even six nights later would have a hard time moving when he wakes up because of the pain it causes. Take a look at me, and imagine that all having been because you did it to me.'

Amidst the monotone are hints of... no, it couldn't be. Happiness?

'Feel that? That's the guilt. That's how you work. You can't stand the thought of putting in your half of a Harbinger epic because you can't bring yourself to do that to a human being. And if you do, then what? Will you even be able to function anymore? Will you possibly be able to shoulder that burden without it crushing you?'

Yes, happiness. That's it. Herb seems to be enjoying himself more and more as he goes.

'Of course not. That's exactly why the man you are today could never win a professional wrestling match against the man I am today. Not only do I lack your self-imposed martyrdom, but I actually relish doing what I do. I love inspiring competition through the pain of my opponents.

'Each time I drop somebody on their head, they're going to fight a little harder to avoid it, and everybody watching will do the same. And the cycle continues, as my opponents bring their best to me, and my best becomes better, until finally every f**king singles match I have will be a five star classic.

'Thus, I don't have to deal with myself as an obstacle to greatness like you do. I don't have that weight attached to me. I don't have that limit to what I can do, and because of it you can never be capable of what I'm capable of. And since your martyr complex is hardwired, you never will be.

'I pity you because you may have the mind and the body of a great champion, but you have the soul of an ardent pacifist. And if the struggle between body and soul doesn't kill you, then I'll just have to, won't I Geoffrey?'

Herb smiles with his lips, no teeth showing. They don't need to; his eyes do it for him.