Post by Johnny Reb on Jun 9, 2012 11:54:51 GMT -5
November 1861, Northern Kentucky
After another full day an’ night of marchin’, we found ourselves crossin’ acres of cultivated fields – fallow for the winter, the dry stalks of cotton plants still standin’ as testament to the life that had flourished here in warmer months. Dark smoke spiraled up from a distant chimney, a beacon guidin’ us onward until we reached an enormous plantation house with a wide front lawn. The lady of the house, clad in all the Southern finery you’d expect in this day an’ age, came out to greet us before we made it to the big wraparound porch supported by a colonnade. Two dark fellas flanked her, eyein’ the bunch of us in obvious suspicion. There’d been trouble here before. The menfolk were probably off fightin’ in this cursed war, an’ ya could tell the strain it was havin’ on her; lines set into a face too young to be so careworn, a slight tension in the set of her shoulders. Nevertheless, she smiled at us, an’ it was like a warm spring breeze suddenly come up outta nowhere. In spite of everythin’, that hospitality we still pride ourselves on in the South was the first, an’ sometimes only rule.
The two servants-turned-sentries guided my men ‘round back to the slave quarters, while the Lady invited me into the house. I musta looked trustworthy – or, at the very least, too exhausted from the long march to be much of a problem. More servants, not all of them black, bustled around the house, though it was pretty clear she was runnin’ a skeleton crew. She spoke to me, but only in terse, clipped sentences, unwillin’ to give away too much lest it turn out I wasn’t what I appeared to be. A bath was drawn, an’ I was left to myself for a time, while a girl of about seventeen took off with my clothes to mend an’ wash. Under other circumstances, I mighta objected; but this was a time of war. Who knew when I’d next get a chance to be inside, an’ warm, an’ especially clean? The things we take for granted in the twenty-first century…
I wasn’t done enjoyin’ my soak in the claw-foot tub when the Lady came to me. Gone, now, was the gaunt look about her. There was still a hint of wariness in her gaze, but the smile she wore softened her features. ‘Course it didn’t hurt that a smile was all she was wearin’ at the time. I couldn’t help starin’, just for a minute. She didn’t seem to mind. She even giggled when I averted my gaze.
“Don’t look away, soldier. This is no kinda time to be shy.”
“Ma’am?” I didn’t understand what was goin’ on. I mean she was probably married, right? At any rate, I got the idea when she slipped her hand into the coolin’ bathwater an’ reached right between my legs.
“This war ain’t been kind to any of us,” she told me, getting a firm grip. “We take what comfort we can, whenever we can.”
Deft an’ dexterous fingers massaged my manly parts with a skill borne of experience. My brain checked out an’ forgot to leave a forwardin’ address. Pure animal instinct – an’ the fact that I ain’t been laid in months – took over, propellin’ me outta the tub an’ into her bed. How long we tussled beneath linen sheets, I’ll never be quite sure. My recollection of the event is hazy. She smelled of lavender soap, her skin was soft as silk, an’ her appetites were damn near inhuman. By the time she was through with me, it was all I could do to stay conscious, though not for long.
I worried when I couldn’t find my clothes in the mornin’, even after askin’ the servin’-girl who’d made off with ‘em in the first place. All she would do was give me a little half-smile before disappearin’ again. An’ then the Lady returned – I still don’t know her right name; introductions were somehow forgotten in all that came to pass – an’ in spite of our exhaustin’ efforts the night before, she was all over me again. Took about three full days of the same routine for me to realize me an’ my troops was in danger. She kept me busy all day, in ever more inventive ways, so I didn’t have time nor energy to think. By the end of the fourth day, even I couldn’t take no more. The spirit was willin’, but the flesh was weak.
When I dared to bring up the subject of my imminent departure, that’s when all Hell broke loose. She summoned the servants; at merely a thought, it seemed. They carried flintlock rifles or cap-an’-ball pistols, even the girls, aimin’ in my general direction.
“Whoa,” I said, coverin’ my immodesty with the sheets. “What’s goin’ on here?”
“I can’t have ya leavin’ here, Johnny,” the Lady told me, her jade-green eyes glittering with resolve. “I want ya to stay.”
“But… my men… They’re countin’ on me…”
“Your men are fine, Johnny,” she said smoothly. “They been enjoyin’ themselves. Why deprive ‘em of that?”
“Miss… Ma’am… It’s the War. We swore an oath to fight for our freedom, our way of life. That’s not somethin’ any of us can take lightly.”
She eyed me for a moment with a look verging on disappointment, until an idea occurred to her. Her lips turned up in a wicked smile.
“Well, then, Johnny… How’s about a trade?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You for your troops – such as they are. Promise to stay here with me forever, an’ I’ll send them on their way,” she offered. “I’ll even provision them, get ‘em back on the right path.”
I frowned. Honestly, this wasn’t my fight. I was in the wrong timeline. An’ maybe it would be better if I simply stayed out of it. Then again, what would those same men think if I deserted an’ sent them on to certain doom? Because there was no question in my mind that we would all probably wind up dead before this fightin’ was over. Could I do less than they? Should I? The only reason we were here now was because of my dubious leadership. I reckoned maybe it was time to step up an’ actually be the leader those men needed. It would require some finesse on my part, though.
“Let me see them. I need to know they’re all right before I agree to anythin’.”
She wasn’t happy about it, but she whispered something to one of the armed servants, who hurried off an’ returned moments later with my Confederate uniform – clean an’ mended, just as promised. Once I was dressed, she led me outside an’ down a narrow footpath, to a long, low cabin. There were clear sounds of revelry comin’ from within, sounds that didn’t stop even when I walked in. They were drunk, an’ clearly had been for some time. It took ‘em a minute to realize I was even there; when they did, the salutes were halfhearted at best.
“Grab your gear, boys,” I said. “It’s time to go.”
There was grumblin' an’ dissent. I sensed I had lost them already. The Lady seemed inordinately pleased with that. I reckoned she figured she’d get me to agree an’ then wind up keepin' the troops as well. For what purpose, I could only imagine. So I did the only thing I could think of, regrettable as it may have been: I pulled my LeMat an’ pointed it at the Lady.
“I think we’ve had about as much of your hospitality as sane men can take,” I said. “Not that it ain’t appreciated.”
She gazed at me in equal parts admiration an’ fury. It was a rare man who told her ‘no;’ rarer still the man who pulled a gun on her. I could see that now. The whole “lonely Southern belle” routine was no more than well-practiced deception. Mighta started out as genuine, but war does funny things to a person’s head, even a civilian.
“I believe somethin' was mentioned about provisions,” I added.
A slow smile crossed her face as she considered.
“Very well, Johnny Reb. You win your freedom an’ that of your men. But mark my words: you will never reach your destination. Your steps will be dogged by evil, an’ misfortune will befall you time an’ again. Your party will scatter to the four winds before ever you find your way home.”
That was the last she spoke to me. True to her word, we were well supplied an’ given directions to the nearest encampment. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’ta laughed off that bit of witchery…
The Present
It’s a clear, warm Saturday morning in Reading, Pennsylvania; the kind of day that inspires outdoor activities and impromptu road trips; the kind of day that reminds you it’s good to be alive. Even in Reading, the air seems cleaner than usual, the typical squalor of the run-down city somehow less grimy by comparison. Not that Johnny Reb notices this in any but a peripheral way. Sitting in a corner booth in a Waffle House, a cup of coffee in front of him and a newspaper in hand, he seems to be waiting for something.
That “something” comes through the door minutes later in the form of one Mr. Hank Brown, WCF’s resident interviewer – or he was, until the arrival of Lucien Hicks, who does Hank’s job ten times better without even trying. Privately, Brown fears he’s next on the chopping block; his contract is up for renewal soon. His only comfort is that at least he’s not Jay Price. Waving those concerns aside, he slips into the booth across from the Inveterate One.
Reb: Mornin’, Hank.
Brown: How’s it going, Johnny?
The Inveterate Confederate folds the newspaper and puts it aside, gazing keenly at the middle-aged journalist.
Reb: Can’t complain, Hank. How ‘bout you?
The other man simply shrugs.
Brown: Meh. You know…
Reb: Ya worry too much, Hank. Gonna give yourself ulcers if’n ya don’t watch it.
Hank looks mildly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation is taking. He fidgets, pulls a memo pad and a pen from his pocket, and tosses them on the table.
Brown: Look, we’re here to talk about you, Johnny. Specifically, well… What the fans want to know – what everybody wants to know – is… Are you really from the future?
Johnny takes a long, slow sip of his coffee before responding.
Reb: Is it really so hard to believe, Hank?
Brown: Well…kinda. I mean, physicists in China have proven that time travel is impossible.
Johnny chuckles.
Reb: Yeah… ‘cause we should trust everythin’ comin’ out of a Communist police state that routinely lies to its own people as a matter of course. Look, I didn’t discover the principles of time travel. I didn’t build the damn machine. Hell, far as I know, it’s one of a kind. Fact of the matter is, though, the universe – multiverse, really – is damn near infinite, an’ ain’t nothin’ impossible. We only think we understand the laws of physics at the quantum level, but all we really know is what can be observed. Heisenberg was right: you can know the state of a particle, or where it’s goin’, but not both at the same time.
Brown: Uh… I’ll take your word for that. So if you’re from the future, does that mean you already know how this match between you and Ayria Adams is going to play out?
The Inveterate Confederate shakes his head.
Reb: Nah. Listen… just by comin’ back here, I altered future events. In my timeline, the Big Dick Superstars didn’t make it past Jonny Fly an’ the Unstable Elements. That was my fault, so I set about rectifyin’ it.
Brown: And that’s why you kidnapped your past self at Aftermath?
Reb: It wasn’t exactly like he was gonna just let me step into his wrestlin’ boots, Hank. Some situations require… extreme measures. Don’t you worry about ol’ Johnny Reb none. He’s safe enough for now.
Hank scribbles some notes on the paper in front of him. Honestly, he’s not really sure if he buys all this time travel stuff. But what the hell? It makes a great story, and the fans will eat it up. Best of all, he’s beaten that other reporter to what could be the scoop of the century.
Brown: Fair enough, I guess. So, all these timeline altering events aside, what do the people of the United States have to look forward to in the future?
Johnny opens his mouth to answer, and then hesitates. He picks up his mug and drains the dregs of what remains, wincing at the unpleasant taste of room-temperature coffee. One hand reaches up to rub at the back of his neck in an uncertain gesture; Hank impatiently taps his pen on the table. At last, Reb takes a deep breath and gives a reply.
Reb: Well, Hank, I gotta be honest – it ain’t great. Technology, of course, advances about the way you’d expect. An’ there’s universal health care, so I guess that’s good. People live like three times as long, in the future. But what’s all that when ya got no quality of life?
Brown: What do you mean?
Reb: I mean…all that stuff Chad Evans said about Jonny Fly; it’s true. About fifty years from now, he declares himself Emperor of the whole entire Earth. Mind you, this is shortly after the gov’ment finally admits they’ve been in touch with aliens for decades, which sparks riots everywhere, for various reasons. All that chaos leaves the field wide open for Fly to take advantage of the situation. I ain’t exactly clear on what all happened, but I know it’s got somethin’ to do with Kid Phantasm an’ that computer of his. There’s more to that thing than anybody suspects just now.
Anyway, Fly goes off on this crusade of – well, he calls it “unification” – but it’s more like subjugation. He starts consolidatin’ power, all sneaky-like at first. By the time anybody realizes what happened, it’s too late to stop him. An’ all because of that World Title.
Dutifully, Hank writes it all down. For the ravings of a madman, this stuff is gold.
Brown: Ok, but what about everybody else? The Elements, for example…
Reb: Loyal to a fault. They didn’t see what was happenin’, either, an’ they was right in the middle of it. Nightmare tried to form an underground resistance once she understood the danger, but Fly found out an’ made her…disappear. Phantasm was out for blood after that. Almost got his revenge, too, ‘cept Fly had a deal with these extra-dimensional bein’s who stepped in at the last second an’ imprisoned the Kid in a two-dimensional containment device – y’know, kinda like in Superman 2.
Brown: Uh-huh… right. What happens to the other Big Dicks, Chad Evans and Kira Sakazaki?
Reb: I can’t tell ya about Kira, Hank. Nothin’ I can do will change what happens to him. As for Chad, well… He just goes on doin’ what Chad Evans does best: he adapts an’ survives. If anyone could save the world single-handed from tyranny, it’d be him; ‘ceptin’ that somehow, Fly is always one step ahead of everybody. I’m beginnin’ to suspect he’s got a means of travelin’ through time hisself…
Brown: And your opponents at Blast? Ayria Adams and Sarah Twilight…what becomes of them?
Reb: Well, for unrelated reasons…they retire from wrestlin’ altogether an’ move to Alaska, where they open up a moose-groomin’ business. Apparently, moose need to be groomed. I dunno. Heard it was real successful. They got a whole chain of moose salons all over Alaska an’ Canada.
Hank raises an eyebrow in obvious disbelief, but he takes it all down anyway. It occurs to him he should really invest in a voice-activated digital recorder.
Brown: Ok… Um. The Team of Treachery. What about them?
Johnny shakes his head.
Reb: I dunno if I wanna talk about that. It’s still kinda… Oh, what the hell? We might still be able to prevent it. Seth Lerch was attacked by zombies – which, incidentally, has absolutely nothin’ to do with Oblivion or Greenfever – but he has this weird quasi-immunity. So he’s a half-zombie now, still runnin’ the WCF, an’ not many people can tell a difference. Y’know, other’n the fact that half his face is missin’ an’ now he likes shemale necrophilia porn.
Logan was abducted by aliens to be anally probed, an’ then refused to leave until he had returned the favor. The aliens liked him so much, they took him back to their planet and declared him President for Life. Frank Venable grew up and became CEO of Halliburton. An’ Doc Henry… well, not much changed for him. He’s still the same ol’ Doc Henry, but after the Genetic Wars of 2135, he developed a set of gills and became the ruler of Atlantis.
Brown: You’re making that up!
Reb: You callin’ me a liar, Hank?
The rage in Johnny’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders and the clenching of his fist all give Hank pause.
Brown: No! No, of course not. Carry on.
Reb: Let’s see… I already told ya about Z-Mac an’ Odin on Twitter. That whole thing with the cheese. It’s still sittin’ in a warehouse somewhere, probably all moldy an’ stuff. Adam Young was tragically killed in a humorous incident involvin’ a clown drivin’ a wheat thresher. Waylon Cash an’ Gein Spector went on to have several epic matches over the years, culminatin’ when Cash threw Spector into a wormhole. Ain’t nobody heard from him since. By that time, marijuana was totally legal, an’ Waylon retired from wrestlin’ to focus on cultivatin’ the perfect strain of weed. It’s good shit, too. Rumor has it, you smoke enough of it an’ you become immortal.
Brown: What about Bobby Cairo? Did he ever become President?
Johnny sighs heavily.
Reb: I was hopin’ ya wouldn’t ask that, Hank. See, in my timeline, he was supposed to be assassinated this November, on Election Day. But I kinda warned him about that without really thinkin’, an’ now he’s an invincible cyborg, hellbent on galactic domination.
Hank keeps writing it all down. He doesn’t believe a word of it, but it’s better than nothing. At the very least, it’ll fool the rubes. A lot of wrestling fans will believe anything.
Brown: Right. Ok. Well, Johnny… any last thoughts on your upcoming match this week?
Reb: I gotta tell ya, Hank, I ain’t never been comfortable fightin’ girls. It was one thing when I was a kid, just roughhousin’ for the fun of it. But the way I was raised, you don’t hit a woman, not under any circumstances. That bein’ said, though, I got respect for any lady who steps into the ring with a man. I already know Ms. Adams can bring it; I ain’t gonna be shy about givin’ it right back. Come what may Sunday night, win or lose, it don’t make no diff’rence in the long run. My focus is on Blast, an’ getting them tag titles once again.
The Inveterate Confederate gives Hank a big, cheesy grin.
Reb: Deo vindice!
And with that, the interview is concluded. Hank and Johnny stand, shake hands, and part company. On his way out the door, Hank privately ponders a career change.