Post by Johnny Reb on Jul 12, 2012 15:52:39 GMT -5
(Note: This is a follow-up to Kid's "Selfless, Cold, and Composed." So read that first.)
We join our intrepid heroes as they debark from their Continental Airlines flight, winding their way through the milling throng of passengers to the baggage carousel. Limited luggage in hand -- our boys like to travel light -- they cast about, looking for something.
Reb: I thought Corey was sendin' a car to pick us up.
Phantasm: More like a coach-and-four, knowing him. Maybe the driver's running late. Let's give him a few.
Looking somewhat nonplussed, the Inveterate One glances at the profusion of signs, all in a multitude of languages, and finally settles on a direction.
Reb: Yeah. Fuck it. Let's get drunk.
Not having his timecar makes Johnny impatient, restless. Nevertheless, cheered by the thought of immersion in a veritable sea of exotic brews, he leads the way to the nearest cocktail lounge. The place is crammed with harried passengers needing to get their drink on as relief from, or preparatory to, the long hours spent in the cramped confines of a passenger jet. A little creative WCF-style elbow work clears a path to the bar, where the Kid and Reb are waited on by a gorgeous blonde with only the barest trace of a Danish accent, who has observed their entrance with wry amusement.
Blonde: You'll be Mr. Phantasm and Mr. Reb, then.
Sensing opportunity, however slight, Johnny gives her his trademark Confederate grin.
Reb: That'd be us, Sugar. Say, how'd ya like a --
Blonde: Mr. Black said to expect you. His driver is a little behind schedule this evening.
Phantasm: Told you.
Blonde: Your carriage will arrive no later than midnight.
Phantasm: Times two. Heh. Motherfucker sends a carriage...
Johnny's ego, deflated, wanders off to sulk in a dark corner of his mind. The no-nonsense bartender places two drinks in front of the pair, favoring them with a businesslike smile devoid any invitation, before she walks away to tend to other customers.
Reb: Damn. Me, her, and a cell phone...we could have us a Scandanavian Hotpocket.
Phantasm: I'm probably going to regret this, but... what, exactly, is a "Scandanavian Hotpocket?"
Reb: Well, first ya have to -- No, wait. Lemme see if'n I can...It's like an Alabama Hotpocket, but more complicated. Remember how I explained my sonic impact wrench to ya?
Phantasm appears to think about this very hard for a minute, then turns a blank expression on his companion. He nods slowly.
Phantasm: No.
Reb: Yeah, well, it's sorta like that.
Phantasm: Oh.
Both men fall silent, turning their attention to their undoubtedly potent beverages; their thoughts to Friday night, and the battles to come.
Reb: XIII lineup looks pretty solid. Gonna be some serious competition.
Phantasm: Kinda the point, isn't it?
Reb: 'Course it is. Ain't complainin' so much as statin' a fact. I'm up against Brad Kane -- who ain't no slouch -- an' we got hist'ry... most of which should be water under the bridge by now. Ya just never know when somethin' like that's gonna pop up to bite ya on the ass like a toilet snake. An' there's that crazy coked-up sumbitch ZMAC -- dude could snap me like a twig if'n he had a mind to. Good thing I'm quicker'n him, an' smarter, too. Then there's our homeboy Jeff, an' you better believe I'm gonna have his back -- if someone's gotta pin me, I'd rather it be a friend, y'know? But if it comes down to me an' him, I ain't pullin' no punches.
Phantasm: You think you got it rough? Shit.. I gotta handle Oblivion and Gravedigger, plus who knows where Kira's head is after his sister pulled that mind-scramble on him? He's gonna go all Giant Reindeer or Super Saiyan on us or some shit!
The Kid's arms fly around in wild gesticulation, knocking over someone's beer in the process. Hurriedly, he rights the glass and turns to the beer's owner -- a tall, slender gentleman in a tweed jacket and a brightly-colored bowtie -- who had somehow managed to vacate his seat a split-second before a single drop could touch him.
Phantasm: Aw, hell. I'm sorry, dude. My bad. Let me buy you an -- Whoa!
Johnny turns at this exclamation to see his friend staring in open-mouthed, starstruck wonder at... Bill Nye, the Science Guy!
Bill Nye: That's quite all right, young man. No harm done.
Both wrestlers stand gaping in awe at this childhood hero, this icon of scientific inquiry, for a moment longer. Phantasm recovers his wits first, and reaches out to shake hands.
Phantasm: Wow! Bill Nye the Science Guy! This is such an honor. I'm a huge fan. Let me make it up to you.
With a grin, Phantasm unfurls a plastic baggie half-filled with light blue-green nuggets of some of the finest hydro science can achieve...
The men's bathroom is brightly lit, reasonably clean, and empty. Kid Phantasm leans against the far wall, stuffing a small pipe while Bill Nye looks on, impassive. From behind the closed door of one stall comes the distincitve sound of tape being ripped from flesh, a yelp of pain.
Reb: Goddamn! Next time, I'm just gonna keister it!
Johnny walks gingerly out of the stall, fishing in his jeans pocket for a lighter.
Bill Nye: I'm not really sure this is a good idea...
Reb: Man, I did not just spend thirteen hours to fly halfway around the world with a bag of weed taped to my junk to not smoke out with Bill Nye the Science Guy! Don't pussy out on us now! Do it for science! Do it...for Carl Sagan!
Bill Nye: Oh, well, since you put it that way...
He accepts the pipe from the Kid, who struggles -- with only limited success -- not to giggle at Johnny's outburst. Nye sparks, takes a deep hit, and passes to Reb. The bowl goes around a second time in reverent silence; a third, accompanied by quiet chuckles at inner thoughts. By the fourth pass, the bowl is cashed and all three are enjoying a vastly altered state of consciousness.
Phantasm: So what're you doing in Copenhagen, anyway, Bill Nye the Science Guy?
Bill Nye: Well, I was in Switzerland to observe the supercollider at CERN. Flew here to catch a connecting flight back to D.C., got bumped at the last minute, and now I'm sitting in an airport bathroom, getting high with a couple of professional wrestlers. ...All in all, not my weirdest day.
Reb: I got cottonmouth like a mofo. Let's go back to the bar. I can try my luck with that bartender again.
Phantasm: Dude, let it go. I can tell you right now she's not that kind of chick.
Bill Nye: What kind of chick is that?
Phantasm: Our boy Reb here likes 'em a little freaky.
Johnny simply shrugs in response to the Science Guy's quizzical look.
Bill Nye: I can get you guys laid, no problem.
Phantasm: Thanks, but... I'll pass.
Bill Nye: Johnny?
Reb: Hell, yeah. I'm in! What's the plan?
Bill Nye: We're going to do... science!
This statement is accompanied by a dramatic jabbing of one finger straight up into the air, with a subtly crazed look on Nye's face. Johnny and Phantasm break into near-identical grins at the prospect.
Moments later, in the cocktail lounge once more, our unlikely threesome have already gathered a small crowd around an empty table. Well, previously empty. Arrayed upon it now are a variety of implements: a large glass bowl half-full of water, a number of highball glasses, some duct tape, copper wire, a handful of nails, a bag of potatoes...and several bottles of liquor. Reb and the Kid work furiously, driving two nails into each potato and then twisting the length of copper wire around the nail heads, and arranging them on the table in a semicircle; leaving, at last, several inches of wire hanging off either end of the potato chain. Johnny tears off some duct tape and wraps it around the exposed copper for insulation, while Bill Nye explains to the watching crowd what's going on.
Bill Nye: ...Now, I put one end of the wire in the water, like this...
He touches one end to the surface.
Bill Nye: And nothing happens. But, I complete the circuit, like this, and...
He touches the other end to the water. Ripples move through the clear liquid.
Bill Nye: Electric current! That's not really exciting, though, is it? Let's see what happens if we use vodka!
Phantasm quickly uncaps a bottle, pours out three generous portions into the waiting glasses, then upends the rest of it into the bowl. Bill, Johnny, and the Kid pick up the glasses, salute one another, and down the shots. Then the Science Guy sticks both ends of the wire into the bowl again. Sparks shoot up, and the alcohol catches in a swift blue blaze.
Reb: Science, bitches!
This time, there is scattered applause from the audience before most of them disperse, not thoroughly impressed with the demonstration. A few hang around, though, hoping to get a word with at least one of this ragtag assortment of minor celebrities. Nye turns his attention to a thirty-something brunette who'd been giving him the eye for the past ten minutes or so, while Reb attempts to work his charms on a pretty young redhead who doesn't seem to speak a word of English. It's Kid Phantasm who notices the bartender waving urgently at them; who answers her summons, and then hurries back to pull Johnny aside.
Reb: Aw, man. Don't fuck with my mojo now. Ain't got a clue what this lady's sayin', but I'm guessin' she wants to visit the Deep South, if y'know what I mean.
Phantasm: Ride's here. We gotta go, like now.
Reb: But --
At that precise moment, there is a sound from across the room, so high-pitched it's almost above the range of human hearing. The bowl on the table, flames now flickering away as the last of the vodka is consumed, suddenly explodes with violent force. All three men look up, alarmed, as the bar's patrons dive for cover; upon seeing the figure standing at the entrance to the lounge, however, Nye's expression becomes one of fury.
Bill Nye: Brian Greene...
Standing in the doorway, clutching a device that looks vaguely like Johnny's sonic impact wrench, is none other than the world-famous physicist. He regards Nye triumphantly.
Brian Greene: Nye! You eluded me at CERN -- you will not do so again!
The Inveterate Confederate hesitates, torn. Leave, and catch their ride to Corey Black's castle? Or stay and help Bill Nye the Science Guy with... whatever this is. Johnny's hand is already inching inside his jacket, reaching for the sonic tool.
Phantasm: Dude...
Nye spares Johnny a glance.
Bill Nye: There'll be another time. Go! I can handle him on my own.
Phantasm: Black's gonna kill us if we don't show...
A brief moment of indecision, and Reb nods in agreement. He and Kid P haul ass out the only available exit, right past Brian Greene, who favors them with a disdainful look as they rush by. No sound follows them; no indication of the conflict in their wake, though both men are certain the battle is being waged even now.
Johnny Reb and Kid Phantasm emerge through wide glass doors into the cool night air. The pickup/dropoff lanes are unusually still, even considering the lateness of the hour; a couple of cabs idle near the curb, their drivers studiously ignoring the pair. Waiting for them, prominent and out of place, is a carriage -- black wood hung on a black iron frame -- drawn by four black horses, and tended by a single coachman in black livery. At each corner, the framework is surmounted by a grinning iron skull impaled on a spike. Reb and the Kid exchange glances.
Reb: Subtle.
Phantasm: Yeah. Hey, driver, what's with all the iron?
The driver fixes them with a chilling stare.
Coachman: It's for your...protection.
Reb: Protection from what?
A smile creeps slowly across the driver's face.
Coachman: Wolves... mostly. Get in. We're running late. The Master will not be pleased.
Phantasm: This is getting very Scooby Doo...
Nevertheless, the two climb in, a whip cracks, and the carriage lurches forward to disappear into the night.
We join our intrepid heroes as they debark from their Continental Airlines flight, winding their way through the milling throng of passengers to the baggage carousel. Limited luggage in hand -- our boys like to travel light -- they cast about, looking for something.
Reb: I thought Corey was sendin' a car to pick us up.
Phantasm: More like a coach-and-four, knowing him. Maybe the driver's running late. Let's give him a few.
Looking somewhat nonplussed, the Inveterate One glances at the profusion of signs, all in a multitude of languages, and finally settles on a direction.
Reb: Yeah. Fuck it. Let's get drunk.
Not having his timecar makes Johnny impatient, restless. Nevertheless, cheered by the thought of immersion in a veritable sea of exotic brews, he leads the way to the nearest cocktail lounge. The place is crammed with harried passengers needing to get their drink on as relief from, or preparatory to, the long hours spent in the cramped confines of a passenger jet. A little creative WCF-style elbow work clears a path to the bar, where the Kid and Reb are waited on by a gorgeous blonde with only the barest trace of a Danish accent, who has observed their entrance with wry amusement.
Blonde: You'll be Mr. Phantasm and Mr. Reb, then.
Sensing opportunity, however slight, Johnny gives her his trademark Confederate grin.
Reb: That'd be us, Sugar. Say, how'd ya like a --
Blonde: Mr. Black said to expect you. His driver is a little behind schedule this evening.
Phantasm: Told you.
Blonde: Your carriage will arrive no later than midnight.
Phantasm: Times two. Heh. Motherfucker sends a carriage...
Johnny's ego, deflated, wanders off to sulk in a dark corner of his mind. The no-nonsense bartender places two drinks in front of the pair, favoring them with a businesslike smile devoid any invitation, before she walks away to tend to other customers.
Reb: Damn. Me, her, and a cell phone...we could have us a Scandanavian Hotpocket.
Phantasm: I'm probably going to regret this, but... what, exactly, is a "Scandanavian Hotpocket?"
Reb: Well, first ya have to -- No, wait. Lemme see if'n I can...It's like an Alabama Hotpocket, but more complicated. Remember how I explained my sonic impact wrench to ya?
Phantasm appears to think about this very hard for a minute, then turns a blank expression on his companion. He nods slowly.
Phantasm: No.
Reb: Yeah, well, it's sorta like that.
Phantasm: Oh.
Both men fall silent, turning their attention to their undoubtedly potent beverages; their thoughts to Friday night, and the battles to come.
Reb: XIII lineup looks pretty solid. Gonna be some serious competition.
Phantasm: Kinda the point, isn't it?
Reb: 'Course it is. Ain't complainin' so much as statin' a fact. I'm up against Brad Kane -- who ain't no slouch -- an' we got hist'ry... most of which should be water under the bridge by now. Ya just never know when somethin' like that's gonna pop up to bite ya on the ass like a toilet snake. An' there's that crazy coked-up sumbitch ZMAC -- dude could snap me like a twig if'n he had a mind to. Good thing I'm quicker'n him, an' smarter, too. Then there's our homeboy Jeff, an' you better believe I'm gonna have his back -- if someone's gotta pin me, I'd rather it be a friend, y'know? But if it comes down to me an' him, I ain't pullin' no punches.
Phantasm: You think you got it rough? Shit.. I gotta handle Oblivion and Gravedigger, plus who knows where Kira's head is after his sister pulled that mind-scramble on him? He's gonna go all Giant Reindeer or Super Saiyan on us or some shit!
The Kid's arms fly around in wild gesticulation, knocking over someone's beer in the process. Hurriedly, he rights the glass and turns to the beer's owner -- a tall, slender gentleman in a tweed jacket and a brightly-colored bowtie -- who had somehow managed to vacate his seat a split-second before a single drop could touch him.
Phantasm: Aw, hell. I'm sorry, dude. My bad. Let me buy you an -- Whoa!
Johnny turns at this exclamation to see his friend staring in open-mouthed, starstruck wonder at... Bill Nye, the Science Guy!
Bill Nye: That's quite all right, young man. No harm done.
Both wrestlers stand gaping in awe at this childhood hero, this icon of scientific inquiry, for a moment longer. Phantasm recovers his wits first, and reaches out to shake hands.
Phantasm: Wow! Bill Nye the Science Guy! This is such an honor. I'm a huge fan. Let me make it up to you.
With a grin, Phantasm unfurls a plastic baggie half-filled with light blue-green nuggets of some of the finest hydro science can achieve...
****************************************
The men's bathroom is brightly lit, reasonably clean, and empty. Kid Phantasm leans against the far wall, stuffing a small pipe while Bill Nye looks on, impassive. From behind the closed door of one stall comes the distincitve sound of tape being ripped from flesh, a yelp of pain.
Reb: Goddamn! Next time, I'm just gonna keister it!
Johnny walks gingerly out of the stall, fishing in his jeans pocket for a lighter.
Bill Nye: I'm not really sure this is a good idea...
Reb: Man, I did not just spend thirteen hours to fly halfway around the world with a bag of weed taped to my junk to not smoke out with Bill Nye the Science Guy! Don't pussy out on us now! Do it for science! Do it...for Carl Sagan!
Bill Nye: Oh, well, since you put it that way...
He accepts the pipe from the Kid, who struggles -- with only limited success -- not to giggle at Johnny's outburst. Nye sparks, takes a deep hit, and passes to Reb. The bowl goes around a second time in reverent silence; a third, accompanied by quiet chuckles at inner thoughts. By the fourth pass, the bowl is cashed and all three are enjoying a vastly altered state of consciousness.
Phantasm: So what're you doing in Copenhagen, anyway, Bill Nye the Science Guy?
Bill Nye: Well, I was in Switzerland to observe the supercollider at CERN. Flew here to catch a connecting flight back to D.C., got bumped at the last minute, and now I'm sitting in an airport bathroom, getting high with a couple of professional wrestlers. ...All in all, not my weirdest day.
Reb: I got cottonmouth like a mofo. Let's go back to the bar. I can try my luck with that bartender again.
Phantasm: Dude, let it go. I can tell you right now she's not that kind of chick.
Bill Nye: What kind of chick is that?
Phantasm: Our boy Reb here likes 'em a little freaky.
Johnny simply shrugs in response to the Science Guy's quizzical look.
Bill Nye: I can get you guys laid, no problem.
Phantasm: Thanks, but... I'll pass.
Bill Nye: Johnny?
Reb: Hell, yeah. I'm in! What's the plan?
Bill Nye: We're going to do... science!
This statement is accompanied by a dramatic jabbing of one finger straight up into the air, with a subtly crazed look on Nye's face. Johnny and Phantasm break into near-identical grins at the prospect.
****************************************
Moments later, in the cocktail lounge once more, our unlikely threesome have already gathered a small crowd around an empty table. Well, previously empty. Arrayed upon it now are a variety of implements: a large glass bowl half-full of water, a number of highball glasses, some duct tape, copper wire, a handful of nails, a bag of potatoes...and several bottles of liquor. Reb and the Kid work furiously, driving two nails into each potato and then twisting the length of copper wire around the nail heads, and arranging them on the table in a semicircle; leaving, at last, several inches of wire hanging off either end of the potato chain. Johnny tears off some duct tape and wraps it around the exposed copper for insulation, while Bill Nye explains to the watching crowd what's going on.
Bill Nye: ...Now, I put one end of the wire in the water, like this...
He touches one end to the surface.
Bill Nye: And nothing happens. But, I complete the circuit, like this, and...
He touches the other end to the water. Ripples move through the clear liquid.
Bill Nye: Electric current! That's not really exciting, though, is it? Let's see what happens if we use vodka!
Phantasm quickly uncaps a bottle, pours out three generous portions into the waiting glasses, then upends the rest of it into the bowl. Bill, Johnny, and the Kid pick up the glasses, salute one another, and down the shots. Then the Science Guy sticks both ends of the wire into the bowl again. Sparks shoot up, and the alcohol catches in a swift blue blaze.
Reb: Science, bitches!
This time, there is scattered applause from the audience before most of them disperse, not thoroughly impressed with the demonstration. A few hang around, though, hoping to get a word with at least one of this ragtag assortment of minor celebrities. Nye turns his attention to a thirty-something brunette who'd been giving him the eye for the past ten minutes or so, while Reb attempts to work his charms on a pretty young redhead who doesn't seem to speak a word of English. It's Kid Phantasm who notices the bartender waving urgently at them; who answers her summons, and then hurries back to pull Johnny aside.
Reb: Aw, man. Don't fuck with my mojo now. Ain't got a clue what this lady's sayin', but I'm guessin' she wants to visit the Deep South, if y'know what I mean.
Phantasm: Ride's here. We gotta go, like now.
Reb: But --
At that precise moment, there is a sound from across the room, so high-pitched it's almost above the range of human hearing. The bowl on the table, flames now flickering away as the last of the vodka is consumed, suddenly explodes with violent force. All three men look up, alarmed, as the bar's patrons dive for cover; upon seeing the figure standing at the entrance to the lounge, however, Nye's expression becomes one of fury.
Bill Nye: Brian Greene...
Standing in the doorway, clutching a device that looks vaguely like Johnny's sonic impact wrench, is none other than the world-famous physicist. He regards Nye triumphantly.
Brian Greene: Nye! You eluded me at CERN -- you will not do so again!
The Inveterate Confederate hesitates, torn. Leave, and catch their ride to Corey Black's castle? Or stay and help Bill Nye the Science Guy with... whatever this is. Johnny's hand is already inching inside his jacket, reaching for the sonic tool.
Phantasm: Dude...
Nye spares Johnny a glance.
Bill Nye: There'll be another time. Go! I can handle him on my own.
Phantasm: Black's gonna kill us if we don't show...
A brief moment of indecision, and Reb nods in agreement. He and Kid P haul ass out the only available exit, right past Brian Greene, who favors them with a disdainful look as they rush by. No sound follows them; no indication of the conflict in their wake, though both men are certain the battle is being waged even now.
Epilogue:
Johnny Reb and Kid Phantasm emerge through wide glass doors into the cool night air. The pickup/dropoff lanes are unusually still, even considering the lateness of the hour; a couple of cabs idle near the curb, their drivers studiously ignoring the pair. Waiting for them, prominent and out of place, is a carriage -- black wood hung on a black iron frame -- drawn by four black horses, and tended by a single coachman in black livery. At each corner, the framework is surmounted by a grinning iron skull impaled on a spike. Reb and the Kid exchange glances.
Reb: Subtle.
Phantasm: Yeah. Hey, driver, what's with all the iron?
The driver fixes them with a chilling stare.
Coachman: It's for your...protection.
Reb: Protection from what?
A smile creeps slowly across the driver's face.
Coachman: Wolves... mostly. Get in. We're running late. The Master will not be pleased.
Phantasm: This is getting very Scooby Doo...
Nevertheless, the two climb in, a whip cracks, and the carriage lurches forward to disappear into the night.
