Post by Johnny Reb on Jan 21, 2012 11:19:59 GMT -5
A semi-dark room, lit only by a single, naked bulb. The faint strains of a Southern rock ballad emanate from somewhere in the background: white noise against the near blackness of the room. The Inveterate Confederate, Johnny Reb, is seated at a rickety wooden table, a bottle of SoCo in front of him – the label altered, as always, to read “Southern DISComfort” – hands clasped and resting on the aging, unfinished oak.
Reb: So… The tag titles, once again, nearly within my grasp. So close, I can almost taste the gold. A funny thing, gold. The only metal softer is lead. And with so many more viable uses; yet the only thing we concern ourselves with is how it gleams against the thick black leather of a title belt. Have ya gotten used to it yet, Jeff? Bein’ a champion, holdin’ one half of a matched pair of the most prestigious tag titles in the business? You can thank me for that, by the way. Do ya still buff out the fingerprints every time ya touch it? Do ya carry it around everywhere you go?
The thing about the tag titles, though, is… after a while, they’re less a prize an’ more a burden; a tether to another man, a man ya may be able to trust now. But later? Gold does things to a man’s mind: yours, your partner’s. It don’t matter. One of y’all ain’t gonna walk outta this unscathed. An’ I don’t mean our upcomin’ title match at the pay-per-view. Hell, I don’t even mean tomorrow night’s match – although the outcome of that is almost certainly a foregone conclusion. What I’m talkin’ about, Jeff, is this partnership ya got goin’ with this Nightrider fella. Don’t quite seem like he’s all there, if’n ya know what I mean. Are ya sure ya wanna be stuck with him for as long as it takes to lose them belts again?
Johnny eyes the camera intently for a long moment, and then shrugs.
Reb: Honestly, Jeff… I ain’t interested in the tag titles. I done held ‘em three times, for months at a stretch. An’ I certainly don’t intend to be bound to Doc Henry for that long again. I done my time as a tag champion. The New Confederacy is widely acknowledged as one of the greatest tag teams in WCF history. Nothin’ you or Nightrider does can change that. We made them titles mean somethin’… To take ‘em back now would be takin’ a step backward on my career path. I got my eye on a higher glory.
I might feel diff’rently, if’n I had a partner I could trust. That, however, is all beside the point. Nothin’ any of us has to worry about until Payback. This week, Jeff…it’s just you an’ me in that ring, one on one. No partners. No backup. No distractions.
Now…I reckon I know what ya think of me. I’m sure you’ll echo the words of your partner. Redneck. Hillbilly. Inbred. Alcoholic. Same ol’ hogwash ever’one before ya ever said about me. Over an’ over, ad infinitum. I’m well past the point that it irritates me the way it used to. Frankly, it’s just borin’. Nobody seems capable of comin’ up with anythin’ new. I’ve heard it all; I’ve responded to it all. If’n ya think you’re gonna get under my skin with the tired ol’ insults ever’one else has hurled in my direction – think again.
Y’see, in the long run, what ya think of me don’t really matter none. You may assume that, as a WCF veteran, I’m …what? Old an’ tired? Washed up? Nah. I’m just getting started. Not only have I held the tag titles multiple times, but I am a three-time world champion, as well. An’ for the first time ever, I won WAR in 2011. I’m on a roll with butter, an’ this year’s just begun. You just try an’ stop me.
Johnny offers the camera a cocky smile.
Reb: 2012 is the Year of the Inveterate Confederate, just you wait an’ see. Won’t be long before I find a way to escape this trap Doc Henry has me in. An’ then, I’m goin’ after that world title once again. But this week… well, Jeff, I’d be sorry, but it’s just fate. The outcome of our match tomorrow is inevitable.
Deo vindice!
Reb: So… The tag titles, once again, nearly within my grasp. So close, I can almost taste the gold. A funny thing, gold. The only metal softer is lead. And with so many more viable uses; yet the only thing we concern ourselves with is how it gleams against the thick black leather of a title belt. Have ya gotten used to it yet, Jeff? Bein’ a champion, holdin’ one half of a matched pair of the most prestigious tag titles in the business? You can thank me for that, by the way. Do ya still buff out the fingerprints every time ya touch it? Do ya carry it around everywhere you go?
The thing about the tag titles, though, is… after a while, they’re less a prize an’ more a burden; a tether to another man, a man ya may be able to trust now. But later? Gold does things to a man’s mind: yours, your partner’s. It don’t matter. One of y’all ain’t gonna walk outta this unscathed. An’ I don’t mean our upcomin’ title match at the pay-per-view. Hell, I don’t even mean tomorrow night’s match – although the outcome of that is almost certainly a foregone conclusion. What I’m talkin’ about, Jeff, is this partnership ya got goin’ with this Nightrider fella. Don’t quite seem like he’s all there, if’n ya know what I mean. Are ya sure ya wanna be stuck with him for as long as it takes to lose them belts again?
Johnny eyes the camera intently for a long moment, and then shrugs.
Reb: Honestly, Jeff… I ain’t interested in the tag titles. I done held ‘em three times, for months at a stretch. An’ I certainly don’t intend to be bound to Doc Henry for that long again. I done my time as a tag champion. The New Confederacy is widely acknowledged as one of the greatest tag teams in WCF history. Nothin’ you or Nightrider does can change that. We made them titles mean somethin’… To take ‘em back now would be takin’ a step backward on my career path. I got my eye on a higher glory.
I might feel diff’rently, if’n I had a partner I could trust. That, however, is all beside the point. Nothin’ any of us has to worry about until Payback. This week, Jeff…it’s just you an’ me in that ring, one on one. No partners. No backup. No distractions.
Now…I reckon I know what ya think of me. I’m sure you’ll echo the words of your partner. Redneck. Hillbilly. Inbred. Alcoholic. Same ol’ hogwash ever’one before ya ever said about me. Over an’ over, ad infinitum. I’m well past the point that it irritates me the way it used to. Frankly, it’s just borin’. Nobody seems capable of comin’ up with anythin’ new. I’ve heard it all; I’ve responded to it all. If’n ya think you’re gonna get under my skin with the tired ol’ insults ever’one else has hurled in my direction – think again.
Y’see, in the long run, what ya think of me don’t really matter none. You may assume that, as a WCF veteran, I’m …what? Old an’ tired? Washed up? Nah. I’m just getting started. Not only have I held the tag titles multiple times, but I am a three-time world champion, as well. An’ for the first time ever, I won WAR in 2011. I’m on a roll with butter, an’ this year’s just begun. You just try an’ stop me.
Johnny offers the camera a cocky smile.
Reb: 2012 is the Year of the Inveterate Confederate, just you wait an’ see. Won’t be long before I find a way to escape this trap Doc Henry has me in. An’ then, I’m goin’ after that world title once again. But this week… well, Jeff, I’d be sorry, but it’s just fate. The outcome of our match tomorrow is inevitable.
Deo vindice!
