Post by Johnny Reb on Oct 9, 2010 13:38:36 GMT -5
On the terrace of a bar overlooking the streets of Frisco, that rise and crest like ocean waves before crashing down into mostly symmetrical lines of pavement, Johnny Reb and Hank Brown are engaged in conversation over drinks. Reb has his customary glass of SoCo on the table in front of him, and his tag belt slung over one shoulder; Hank appears to be enjoying a gin and tonic.
Johnny: So, he said he’d do it?
Brown sets his glass on the table and gives Johnny a slight nod.
Hank: Mm-hmm. He also wanted me to remind you that he’s…dangerous.
Reb grins.
Johnny: Well, I reckon we’ll just see about that.
Hank: I gotta ask, Johnny… Why him? Why Paul Dangerous? He’s just a rookie, and you’re facing the Big Time Jerks…again.
Johnny: I like the kid. He’s got a certain flair.
Hank: Whoooo!
The Inveterate Confederate chuckles.
Johnny: No, no… not that kinda Flair. Well, maybe. It’s hard to tell. The last couple of weeks, we ain’t really had a chance to see what this guy’s made of. I mean, WAR ain’t exactly the best venue to get a good look at an untried athlete, an’ last week, Lerch threw him into the ring with Greenfever, of all people. Mr. Dangerous could be the next Davey Boy Smith, for all we know.
Reb pauses to take a drink, savoring the sweet taste of the brown liquor for a moment before he continues his exposition.
Johnny: Besides, I really like this guy’s enthusiasm. Where else am I gonna find somebody as intent on followin’ the rules as I am?
Brown shrugs in a noncommittal way, swirling the melting ice around in his empty glass and glancing around for the waitress.
Hank: Rules or no rules, Johnny, the guy’s hurt pretty bad. Do you honestly think he’s going to be up to taking on either Adam Young or Austin Adams?
Johnny cocks his head to the side, thinking. Another sip drains his glass, and the waitress is at their table almost immediately, like a service-industry ninja; stealthy, and possibly deadly. Reb raises two fingers, and she nods in understanding, disappearing once more with their empty glasses.
Johnny: Hank, in this business, you learn pretty quick how to work around an injury. An’ anyhow, he’ll have had a full week to recover by Monday night. If he ain’t worried about it, I don’t see why I oughta.
Hank: Well, I suppose you know best. You’ve faced the Jerks more often than I can count.
Two fresh drinks appear on the table. Hank glances up in time to see the waitress’ back as she wanders off again, taking a moment to admire her firm calves and the sway of her hips. Johnny seems oblivious, caught up as he is in this impromptu interview.
Johnny: It sure does seem that way, don’t it? Now they got it in their heads somehow that they got some kinda destiny… some Divine Right to the tag titles…
Brown makes a dismissive gesture.
Hank: That’s nothing new.
Johnny: Nah, it sure ain’t. But lemme tell ya somethin’: Come Monday night, me an’ Mr. Dangerous are gonna help the Jerks manifest their destiny – right into yet another defeat at my hands. Them boys ain’t gettin' anywhere near my tag titles. Not now, not at Helloween… not ever.
The Inveterate Confederate runs a possessive hand over the wrought embellishments on the gold plate of his tag strap. Hank’s brow furrows slightly as he thinks of something.
Hank: Yeah, but what about Doc Henry? He’s still in possession of his belt, too.
Johnny: I ain’t worried about him right now. It’ll all get sorted out, one way or another. For now, my focus is on Slam an’ my partner for the evenin’. Provided that Mr. Dangerous performs as well as I hope he will, we may be lookin’ at the formation of a whole new partnership.
Hank: Are you really okay with that? I mean you’d be throwing away your long-standing association with Doc…
Reb shakes his head slowly.
Johnny: No… Doc already threw that away the night he decided he didn’t wanna be my partner no more. If he’d rather take shortcuts, if he’d rather pull every dirty little stunt he can think of instead of actin’ with honor an’ integrity… I don’t want nothin’ to do with him anyway. I’ll gladly pair up with a rookie who ain’t had time to get all jaded an’ corrupted, if it means preservin’ what the New Confederacy stands for.
Hank: I see… Listen, Johnny, let me ask you one more thing, while I’ve got you here.
Johnny: Shoot.
Hank: What’s your take on the big revelation at WAR? You’ve been oddly silent on the matter, all things considered.
The Inveterate Confederate frowns, clutching his title belt just a little tighter.
Johnny: I assume you’re referrin’ to the identities of the so-called invaders formerly masqueradin’ as…um… complete strangers.
Hank: Well, yes. That, and the fact that Creeping Death was evidently in on the whole thing from the beginning.
Reb sighs heavily.
Johnny: To be completely honest, Hank, I feel like a darned fool. I was sincerely upset when I thought Torture was murdered…but in retrospect, can anyone really be all that surprised? This is a man we’ve always known was capable of virtually anythin’, apparently includin’ fakin’ his own death only to make a dramatic return for some undoubtedly nefarious purpose.
As for Creepin’ Death’s involvement, I reckon that was more astonishin’, given the way he railed against them invaders so vehemently. Just goes to show… ya never know what to expect in the WCF.
Hank nods in agreement and checks his watch. His eyes widen just slightly as he realizes he’s about to be late for his next appointment. Brown picks up his glass and drains it in a single gulp, coughing as he nearly swallows an ice cube, and rises from his seat.
Hank: Well, Johnny thanks for your time. And…good luck.
Brown starts to reach for his wallet to pay for his drinks, but Reb puts up a hand to stop him.
Johnny: I got it, Hank. You get on outta here, now.
Hank hesitates for a moment, then gives Johnny a nod and a brief smile. Reb grins, appearing relaxed and confident, as the interviewer makes a hasty exit. The smile fades just slightly as Johnny turns his attention back to his drink, thinking hard about something.
Johnny: So, he said he’d do it?
Brown sets his glass on the table and gives Johnny a slight nod.
Hank: Mm-hmm. He also wanted me to remind you that he’s…dangerous.
Reb grins.
Johnny: Well, I reckon we’ll just see about that.
Hank: I gotta ask, Johnny… Why him? Why Paul Dangerous? He’s just a rookie, and you’re facing the Big Time Jerks…again.
Johnny: I like the kid. He’s got a certain flair.
Hank: Whoooo!
The Inveterate Confederate chuckles.
Johnny: No, no… not that kinda Flair. Well, maybe. It’s hard to tell. The last couple of weeks, we ain’t really had a chance to see what this guy’s made of. I mean, WAR ain’t exactly the best venue to get a good look at an untried athlete, an’ last week, Lerch threw him into the ring with Greenfever, of all people. Mr. Dangerous could be the next Davey Boy Smith, for all we know.
Reb pauses to take a drink, savoring the sweet taste of the brown liquor for a moment before he continues his exposition.
Johnny: Besides, I really like this guy’s enthusiasm. Where else am I gonna find somebody as intent on followin’ the rules as I am?
Brown shrugs in a noncommittal way, swirling the melting ice around in his empty glass and glancing around for the waitress.
Hank: Rules or no rules, Johnny, the guy’s hurt pretty bad. Do you honestly think he’s going to be up to taking on either Adam Young or Austin Adams?
Johnny cocks his head to the side, thinking. Another sip drains his glass, and the waitress is at their table almost immediately, like a service-industry ninja; stealthy, and possibly deadly. Reb raises two fingers, and she nods in understanding, disappearing once more with their empty glasses.
Johnny: Hank, in this business, you learn pretty quick how to work around an injury. An’ anyhow, he’ll have had a full week to recover by Monday night. If he ain’t worried about it, I don’t see why I oughta.
Hank: Well, I suppose you know best. You’ve faced the Jerks more often than I can count.
Two fresh drinks appear on the table. Hank glances up in time to see the waitress’ back as she wanders off again, taking a moment to admire her firm calves and the sway of her hips. Johnny seems oblivious, caught up as he is in this impromptu interview.
Johnny: It sure does seem that way, don’t it? Now they got it in their heads somehow that they got some kinda destiny… some Divine Right to the tag titles…
Brown makes a dismissive gesture.
Hank: That’s nothing new.
Johnny: Nah, it sure ain’t. But lemme tell ya somethin’: Come Monday night, me an’ Mr. Dangerous are gonna help the Jerks manifest their destiny – right into yet another defeat at my hands. Them boys ain’t gettin' anywhere near my tag titles. Not now, not at Helloween… not ever.
The Inveterate Confederate runs a possessive hand over the wrought embellishments on the gold plate of his tag strap. Hank’s brow furrows slightly as he thinks of something.
Hank: Yeah, but what about Doc Henry? He’s still in possession of his belt, too.
Johnny: I ain’t worried about him right now. It’ll all get sorted out, one way or another. For now, my focus is on Slam an’ my partner for the evenin’. Provided that Mr. Dangerous performs as well as I hope he will, we may be lookin’ at the formation of a whole new partnership.
Hank: Are you really okay with that? I mean you’d be throwing away your long-standing association with Doc…
Reb shakes his head slowly.
Johnny: No… Doc already threw that away the night he decided he didn’t wanna be my partner no more. If he’d rather take shortcuts, if he’d rather pull every dirty little stunt he can think of instead of actin’ with honor an’ integrity… I don’t want nothin’ to do with him anyway. I’ll gladly pair up with a rookie who ain’t had time to get all jaded an’ corrupted, if it means preservin’ what the New Confederacy stands for.
Hank: I see… Listen, Johnny, let me ask you one more thing, while I’ve got you here.
Johnny: Shoot.
Hank: What’s your take on the big revelation at WAR? You’ve been oddly silent on the matter, all things considered.
The Inveterate Confederate frowns, clutching his title belt just a little tighter.
Johnny: I assume you’re referrin’ to the identities of the so-called invaders formerly masqueradin’ as…um… complete strangers.
Hank: Well, yes. That, and the fact that Creeping Death was evidently in on the whole thing from the beginning.
Reb sighs heavily.
Johnny: To be completely honest, Hank, I feel like a darned fool. I was sincerely upset when I thought Torture was murdered…but in retrospect, can anyone really be all that surprised? This is a man we’ve always known was capable of virtually anythin’, apparently includin’ fakin’ his own death only to make a dramatic return for some undoubtedly nefarious purpose.
As for Creepin’ Death’s involvement, I reckon that was more astonishin’, given the way he railed against them invaders so vehemently. Just goes to show… ya never know what to expect in the WCF.
Hank nods in agreement and checks his watch. His eyes widen just slightly as he realizes he’s about to be late for his next appointment. Brown picks up his glass and drains it in a single gulp, coughing as he nearly swallows an ice cube, and rises from his seat.
Hank: Well, Johnny thanks for your time. And…good luck.
Brown starts to reach for his wallet to pay for his drinks, but Reb puts up a hand to stop him.
Johnny: I got it, Hank. You get on outta here, now.
Hank hesitates for a moment, then gives Johnny a nod and a brief smile. Reb grins, appearing relaxed and confident, as the interviewer makes a hasty exit. The smile fades just slightly as Johnny turns his attention back to his drink, thinking hard about something.
