Post by Johnny Reb on Feb 18, 2012 13:05:16 GMT -5
The interior of Johnny Reb’s condo is much the same as the last time we saw it. Neat and orderly, with only a half-empty SoCo bottle and a glass on the coffee table to evidence that anyone lives here. Replicas of formerly held titles are mounted in custom-made shadowboxes on the wall, framed newspaper clippings and photographs arranged around them in a pattern that draws the eye, and satisfies it – except for one empty space along one side. Frame and glass are discarded on the sofa cushion beside Johnny. In his hands is a glossy 8X10 of himself and Doc Henry, posing with their WCF Tag Titles for the first time.
Reb gazes at the photo for a moment, his expression contemplative and tinged with regret. Slowly, he shakes his head and heaves a sigh. Johnny pours himself a drink, knocks half of it back in a single go, and sets the glass on the table again. His eyes are drawn back to the photo. His jaw tightens. Memories come, unbidden; memories of the good times. Old memories, from their early days in the wrestling circuit, long before either was picked up by a major company.
Johnny indulges only a moment, and then shakes it off. He finishes his drink and pours again, the photo still in his hand, as if he can’t let go of it. Whatever he’d envisioned for the future, this certainly wasn’t it. The longest running feud in WCF history…is that really what he wants?
How many times can the same two men destroy one another, in the ring or out? How many more times will they perform the same dance?
Management loves it. The fans can’t get enough. But what destroys one will eventually consume the other. It’s time to put an end to it…before Reb finds that he no longer has the strength to carry on.
Looking the photo over one final time, his eyes absorbing every detail and etching it all into his mind, Johnny Reb reaches into a pocket and withdraws a plain, undecorated Zippo. With ritualistic deliberation, he strikes the flint. Flame leaps eagerly from the lighter, impatient to be fed. Johnny hesitates just a moment longer, and then passes the corner of the photo through the waiting fire. It catches quickly, burning fast.
Reb tosses the blazing picture onto the glass-topped coffee table – snatching up his very combustible beverage at the last second. He sips it slowly this time, watching the miniature blaze. Orange-yellow light flickers, illuminating his face in an eerie way that exaggerates his features, turning his sorrowful countenance into something altogether more unsettling.
Reb: Deo vindice…
The scene closes on Johnny’s face as he watches the photograph consumed by the inferno.
Reb gazes at the photo for a moment, his expression contemplative and tinged with regret. Slowly, he shakes his head and heaves a sigh. Johnny pours himself a drink, knocks half of it back in a single go, and sets the glass on the table again. His eyes are drawn back to the photo. His jaw tightens. Memories come, unbidden; memories of the good times. Old memories, from their early days in the wrestling circuit, long before either was picked up by a major company.
Johnny indulges only a moment, and then shakes it off. He finishes his drink and pours again, the photo still in his hand, as if he can’t let go of it. Whatever he’d envisioned for the future, this certainly wasn’t it. The longest running feud in WCF history…is that really what he wants?
How many times can the same two men destroy one another, in the ring or out? How many more times will they perform the same dance?
Management loves it. The fans can’t get enough. But what destroys one will eventually consume the other. It’s time to put an end to it…before Reb finds that he no longer has the strength to carry on.
Looking the photo over one final time, his eyes absorbing every detail and etching it all into his mind, Johnny Reb reaches into a pocket and withdraws a plain, undecorated Zippo. With ritualistic deliberation, he strikes the flint. Flame leaps eagerly from the lighter, impatient to be fed. Johnny hesitates just a moment longer, and then passes the corner of the photo through the waiting fire. It catches quickly, burning fast.
Reb tosses the blazing picture onto the glass-topped coffee table – snatching up his very combustible beverage at the last second. He sips it slowly this time, watching the miniature blaze. Orange-yellow light flickers, illuminating his face in an eerie way that exaggerates his features, turning his sorrowful countenance into something altogether more unsettling.
Reb: Deo vindice…
The scene closes on Johnny’s face as he watches the photograph consumed by the inferno.
