Post by Johnny Reb on Dec 31, 2011 12:29:09 GMT -5
Sterile, white fluorescent light shines down on an assortment of equipment in some unnamed gym, in some undisclosed location. Pale yellow walls reflect the glow, casting a sickly pallor over the four men hard at work with various machines or freeweights. Being a Saturday morning – and New Year’s Eve – these few hardy souls seem to be the only people interested in getting a head start on their resolutions. But these men are, for the moment, completely irrelevant. The camera pans across the wide space, where one can summon to the imagination the mingled scents of sweat and testosterone; a heady mix for anyone with the facility to appreciate such things.
The camera’s view comes to rest on one man, apart from the others, diligently putting in some time on a treadmill. Shaggy, shoulder length blond hair is drenched with perspiration that drips into his eyes and runs down his cheeks, only to be caught up in the stubble of half a week’s growth. Taut muscles flex with the slightest motion, seen clearly through a form-fitting T-shirt and gray Adidas-brand sweatpants. That’s our Johnny; a workout junkie if ever there was one. He’s been here since the doors opened around six in the morning – and now, five hours later, he’s just finishing his cool-down cycle. A psychologist might diagnose him with some kind of obsessive disorder; but Johnny knows that to get on top, and stay there, he needs every advantage he can get. In this case, honing his body into a finely tuned fighting machine.
His pace slows, as the camera hovers patiently nearby, and finally stops. Mopping his face with a towel, he steps off the treadmill and, at last, realizes he’s being filmed. Johnny risks a glance at the other occupants of the gym, who are pointedly not paying any attention whatsoever, and gives the camera a smile.
Reb: Finally found the place, huh? I thought Hank was supposed to be here.
A soft murmur from behind the camera, the words nearly impossible to discern because the sound pickup is directed at Johnny. He lifts a skeptical eyebrow.
Reb: Traffic? Yeah, right. He’s hungover ain’t he? Don’t he know it’s tonight he’s s’posed to do his heavy drinkin’?
The cameraman mumbles something else, which Johnny dismisses with a casual wave.
Reb: Nah. Let ‘im sleep it off. Not like I ain’t done this plenty of times. All right, so… Two weeks ago, I challenged one Mr. Doc Henry for his self-styled Confederate Title. An’ although he accepted, ain’t none of us heard a peep out of him since. Now, that kinda makes me wonder… Is he layin’ low, tryin’ to lull me into a false sense of security? Or, more likely, has he scampered off like the yellow dog he is? Is he even gonna show up tomorrow night?
Johnny pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Reb: Hmm. Coward though he may be, Doc ain’t gonna skip out on a match like this. The only conclusion I can draw is that his silence is meant to throw me off, make me overconfident or careless. Him an’ his head games, y’know? Thing is, it ain’t gonna work on me. I know what Doc Henry’s capable of – an’ what he ain’t. Honestly, when was the last time the man legitimately defeated me?
I reckon he’s got somethin’ special planned. Some little surprise he’s gonna spring on me at the last minute, all calculated to put me at a disadvantage. An’ that’s fine – Doc needs all the help he can get. There’s no way in Hell that sonofabitch can beat me without cheatin’… Matter of fact, even when he does cheat, his chances are pretty slim.
Let’s face it: everyone says I carried him through the entire New Confederacy run, an’ much as I hated to admit it at the time, it was true. Success or failure rode strictly on my shoulders…an’ it still does. That’s the real reason Doc maneuvered me into this contract situation – so that he could taste actual success one more time.
The Inveterate Confederate’s expression shifts subtly, less philosophical now, and more annoyed.
Reb: All that aside, though, I got a point to make tomorrow night. It ain’t about that damn Confederate Title – it don’t mean nothin’ to nobody but Doc. Why Lerch lets him carry it around like it’s a real title is beyond me. Nevertheless, I intend to take it from him. The man has made my life a livin’ hell since Thanksgiving, an’ I ain’t gonna take it anymore. Until I put Doc Henry down once an’ for all, my career is at a standstill. No more main events, no more title shots. Not until I get my payback.
See, I reckon ol’ Doc is jealous of my career. Sure, it’s been a bit of a roller coaster, but there’s been a lot more ups than downs. I’ve held the World Title three times, to Doc’s… um, zero. I won at WAR this year. I been in the ring with legends an’ Hall of Famers. What, exactly, has Mr. Henry done? I’ll tell ya: he’s spent the greater part of his career tryin’ to get under my skin, tryin’ to get me to screw up somewhere. In short, the man is obsessed with bringin’ me down to his level. Too bad for him it’s physically impossible for me to sink that low.
I put up with it for as long as I could, outta respect for the friendship we once had. On separate occasions, the man has kidnapped my former manager and threatened to kill him; attempted to break my neck, puttin’ me outta action for a couple of months; an’ most recently, locked me into a tag team contract against my will. He’s crossed the line so many times, I’m not sure he knows where it is anymore. Then, two weeks ago, he set me up, made it look like I was cheatin’ in a Tag Title match. Now, anyone with more than two functionin’ brain cells knows that’s one thing I would never do – except that damn ref, who disqualified us on the spot. That was the last straw.
Johnny sighs, shakes his head, and looks up at the camera once more, eyes burning with a fiery determination.
Reb: Ya done pissed me off for the last time, Doc. Tomorrow night – at the biggest pay-per-view of the year – I’m gonna remind ya exactly why they call me the Inveterate Confederate. Ya kept on pushin’, so I gotta believe this is what you was anglin’ for. You an’ me, one-on-one, at One – for your stupid, made-up, Confederate Title.
Now, ya mighta beat me last year, but that was a whole different situation. Tomorrow night, there ain’t no lives on the line. There ain’t no tables, ladders, or chairs – leastwise not officially. I’m sure you’re gonna try an’ pull somethin’ illegal, though, an’ ya better believe I’m ready this time. There ain’t no more uncertainty ‘bout how I’m gonna proceed. That is to say: without mercy. If’n I gotta go so far as to put ya in the hospital, so be it. I done gave ya your chance to start actin’ like a man, instead of some deceptive little weasel.
Johnny’s gaze narrows; his teeth grind together in barely restrained fury.
Reb: I hope you’re ready, Doc. After tomorrow night, you’re gonna have a lotta time on your hands to reconsider your wrestlin’ career – if’n ya even have one by the time I’m through with ya. Ya done proved ya ain’t worth an honorable competition. Be that as it may, I’m still gonna take ya apart, piece by piece, without breakin’ a single rule. An’ when the medics wheel ya out on that stretcher, the last thing you’re gonna see before slippin’ into unconsciousness is me, holdin’ up your precious Confederate Title while the fans go apeshit. Ya can bank on that, ya sonofabitch!
Deo vindice!
The camera stays focused on Reb’s face for just a moment before the scene cuts out.
The camera’s view comes to rest on one man, apart from the others, diligently putting in some time on a treadmill. Shaggy, shoulder length blond hair is drenched with perspiration that drips into his eyes and runs down his cheeks, only to be caught up in the stubble of half a week’s growth. Taut muscles flex with the slightest motion, seen clearly through a form-fitting T-shirt and gray Adidas-brand sweatpants. That’s our Johnny; a workout junkie if ever there was one. He’s been here since the doors opened around six in the morning – and now, five hours later, he’s just finishing his cool-down cycle. A psychologist might diagnose him with some kind of obsessive disorder; but Johnny knows that to get on top, and stay there, he needs every advantage he can get. In this case, honing his body into a finely tuned fighting machine.
His pace slows, as the camera hovers patiently nearby, and finally stops. Mopping his face with a towel, he steps off the treadmill and, at last, realizes he’s being filmed. Johnny risks a glance at the other occupants of the gym, who are pointedly not paying any attention whatsoever, and gives the camera a smile.
Reb: Finally found the place, huh? I thought Hank was supposed to be here.
A soft murmur from behind the camera, the words nearly impossible to discern because the sound pickup is directed at Johnny. He lifts a skeptical eyebrow.
Reb: Traffic? Yeah, right. He’s hungover ain’t he? Don’t he know it’s tonight he’s s’posed to do his heavy drinkin’?
The cameraman mumbles something else, which Johnny dismisses with a casual wave.
Reb: Nah. Let ‘im sleep it off. Not like I ain’t done this plenty of times. All right, so… Two weeks ago, I challenged one Mr. Doc Henry for his self-styled Confederate Title. An’ although he accepted, ain’t none of us heard a peep out of him since. Now, that kinda makes me wonder… Is he layin’ low, tryin’ to lull me into a false sense of security? Or, more likely, has he scampered off like the yellow dog he is? Is he even gonna show up tomorrow night?
Johnny pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Reb: Hmm. Coward though he may be, Doc ain’t gonna skip out on a match like this. The only conclusion I can draw is that his silence is meant to throw me off, make me overconfident or careless. Him an’ his head games, y’know? Thing is, it ain’t gonna work on me. I know what Doc Henry’s capable of – an’ what he ain’t. Honestly, when was the last time the man legitimately defeated me?
I reckon he’s got somethin’ special planned. Some little surprise he’s gonna spring on me at the last minute, all calculated to put me at a disadvantage. An’ that’s fine – Doc needs all the help he can get. There’s no way in Hell that sonofabitch can beat me without cheatin’… Matter of fact, even when he does cheat, his chances are pretty slim.
Let’s face it: everyone says I carried him through the entire New Confederacy run, an’ much as I hated to admit it at the time, it was true. Success or failure rode strictly on my shoulders…an’ it still does. That’s the real reason Doc maneuvered me into this contract situation – so that he could taste actual success one more time.
The Inveterate Confederate’s expression shifts subtly, less philosophical now, and more annoyed.
Reb: All that aside, though, I got a point to make tomorrow night. It ain’t about that damn Confederate Title – it don’t mean nothin’ to nobody but Doc. Why Lerch lets him carry it around like it’s a real title is beyond me. Nevertheless, I intend to take it from him. The man has made my life a livin’ hell since Thanksgiving, an’ I ain’t gonna take it anymore. Until I put Doc Henry down once an’ for all, my career is at a standstill. No more main events, no more title shots. Not until I get my payback.
See, I reckon ol’ Doc is jealous of my career. Sure, it’s been a bit of a roller coaster, but there’s been a lot more ups than downs. I’ve held the World Title three times, to Doc’s… um, zero. I won at WAR this year. I been in the ring with legends an’ Hall of Famers. What, exactly, has Mr. Henry done? I’ll tell ya: he’s spent the greater part of his career tryin’ to get under my skin, tryin’ to get me to screw up somewhere. In short, the man is obsessed with bringin’ me down to his level. Too bad for him it’s physically impossible for me to sink that low.
I put up with it for as long as I could, outta respect for the friendship we once had. On separate occasions, the man has kidnapped my former manager and threatened to kill him; attempted to break my neck, puttin’ me outta action for a couple of months; an’ most recently, locked me into a tag team contract against my will. He’s crossed the line so many times, I’m not sure he knows where it is anymore. Then, two weeks ago, he set me up, made it look like I was cheatin’ in a Tag Title match. Now, anyone with more than two functionin’ brain cells knows that’s one thing I would never do – except that damn ref, who disqualified us on the spot. That was the last straw.
Johnny sighs, shakes his head, and looks up at the camera once more, eyes burning with a fiery determination.
Reb: Ya done pissed me off for the last time, Doc. Tomorrow night – at the biggest pay-per-view of the year – I’m gonna remind ya exactly why they call me the Inveterate Confederate. Ya kept on pushin’, so I gotta believe this is what you was anglin’ for. You an’ me, one-on-one, at One – for your stupid, made-up, Confederate Title.
Now, ya mighta beat me last year, but that was a whole different situation. Tomorrow night, there ain’t no lives on the line. There ain’t no tables, ladders, or chairs – leastwise not officially. I’m sure you’re gonna try an’ pull somethin’ illegal, though, an’ ya better believe I’m ready this time. There ain’t no more uncertainty ‘bout how I’m gonna proceed. That is to say: without mercy. If’n I gotta go so far as to put ya in the hospital, so be it. I done gave ya your chance to start actin’ like a man, instead of some deceptive little weasel.
Johnny’s gaze narrows; his teeth grind together in barely restrained fury.
Reb: I hope you’re ready, Doc. After tomorrow night, you’re gonna have a lotta time on your hands to reconsider your wrestlin’ career – if’n ya even have one by the time I’m through with ya. Ya done proved ya ain’t worth an honorable competition. Be that as it may, I’m still gonna take ya apart, piece by piece, without breakin’ a single rule. An’ when the medics wheel ya out on that stretcher, the last thing you’re gonna see before slippin’ into unconsciousness is me, holdin’ up your precious Confederate Title while the fans go apeshit. Ya can bank on that, ya sonofabitch!
Deo vindice!
The camera stays focused on Reb’s face for just a moment before the scene cuts out.
