Post by Bonnie Blue on Jul 5, 2014 11:43:17 GMT -5
It's late on Wednesday afternoon, and Johnny Reb finds himself in a dusty biker bar just off the Jefferson Davis Highway, about twenty minutes outside his hometown of Sweet Water, Alabama. The joint is empty, aside from Johnny. A jukebox in the corner wheezes out a tired song full of platitudes, devoid of meaning. The Inveterate Confederate studies the flat beer in front of him. Sawdust and peanut shells strewn on the floor, years-old residue of spilled liquors and not a few bodily fluids coating the wood beneath. It smells of mildew and disuse. Nearby, the bartender wipes the counter with a threadbare rag. He has hair like brushed nickel and a gaze like a .38; he is tall, slender, and seems almost to repel the grime of the place.
"Get you another?" he asks, and there's something about the voice. Too soft for a ginslinger, too cultured and refined.
"Huh?" Johnny glances at him for the first time, and promptly tries to find something else on which to rest his eyes. "Nah, I... Actually, I could go for some Southern Comfort."
"Couldn't we all?" says the bartender, pouring the drink with unhurried efficiency. "Something on your mind?"
Johnny lifts the shot glass and salutes the barkeep with it, then downs the contents in one go, savoring the sweet-fiery taste. Without being asked, the slender man refills it as soon as Reb sets it down.
"Nothin' I oughta trouble ya with," he says at last, and still fails to look directly at the bartender.
"Well," the older man gestures expansively at the empty bar, "I doubt anyone else would be terribly inconvenienced. Perhaps you're ...embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? Why? 'Cause of a few losses? 'Cause I got my ass beat in a cowardly, underhanded sneak attack?" Reb is clearly agitated, but he shrugs it off. "That debt will be repaid, with interest. An' it's only a matter of time before them tag titles are back where they belong."
"Ah, yes. Your New Confederacy. Charming." A slight sneer mars the bartender's angular face; condescension creeps into his voice. "But that isn't what I was referring to."
The Inveterate One goes still, his glass halfway to his lips, and finally looks fully upon the bartender. The face is familiar. He's seen it before. The guy kind of looks like Terrence Stamp, but that isn't why. It's something else.
"Chunks of time go missing. Your focus isn't what it used to be. You're irritable, easily agitated. You remember things you shouldn't; don't remember things you should. And you think you're going crazy."
"How do you -- ?"
"Think, Johnny. I did try to warn you..."
Something stirs now in Johnny's mind; serpentine, a thread of memory begins to wind its way up from the depths. Without warning, he's caught up and reliving it.
Tokyo, Japan: Three days prior to Blast, early evening. Doc Henry and Johnny Reb wander the lobby of their hotel, waiting out some obscure delay with their respective rooms. The Southern Rogue is summoned shortly, presumeably because he spent quite a bit more than Johnny did. Joined by his wife, Doc leaves Reb to his fate.
At last, Reb drops onto a squarish leather chair -- back resting against one arm, legs draped over the other -- and picks up the day's edition of the New York Times. He isn't really interested in the paper; mostly, he watches other people enter, approach the reception desk, and receive their keycards immediately. So he doesn't notice soft footsteps on the ultramodern, blue and brown abstract carpet. It isn't until he hears the clearing of a throat that Johnny glances up, but doesn't see anyone right away. His attention drifts back toward the front desk; now he notices a man of negligible stature standing right next to him. Just under four feet tall, dressed impeccably in a light gray, three-piece suit with a white carnation stuck in the lapel, the man seems like someone Reb should recognize, though he can't seem to place him.
Johnny rights himself in the chair. "Do I know you?"
"No, Mr. Reb.. but I know you." He reaches into his tailored suit coat and for a crazy instant, Johnny is convinced he's going for a gun; instead, he produces a black glossy business card. In golden print is a phone number, but no name, no company.
"What's this about?"
"Suffice it to say, Mr. Reb, that you and I have a common acquaintance in the Wrestling Championship Federation. An acquaintance I need your help in... contacting."
The Inveterate Confederate stares at the card, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair as he thinks this over. A moment or two later, he passes it back.
"I don't think I'm interested."
The little man doesn't take it. "Give me five minutes. Hear me out. If you're still not interested when I'm done, you can forget we ever met."
The internal war betwen doubt and curiosity is reflected on Johnny's face. There's something unsettling about the stranger, but Johnny can't put his inquisitive nature to bed. At last, he relents.
"All right. But in there." Reb jerks his head toward the cocktail lounge about fifty feet away. "Less chance someone will overhear."
A nod from the small fellow, clearly impressed with Reb's forethought. Johnny gets up from his seat to accompany his temporary companion. They take a shadowy table in the corner, so as not to be disturbed.
"It has to do with my brother," the little man begins. "My twin brother. Dave. We were raised in an orphanage, practically inseperable. Who else did we have to rely on?"
Now, things begin to make a little sense. That the man has a twin narrows down the list of "acquaintances" they supposedly have in common. He nods to indicate that he's listening, and the other continues.
"I fear that my brother has come under the influence of a dangerous cult. These... people he associates himself with, it's sickening, really." The little man's posture straightens, his face reflects disapproval. "You must understand, I have tried to rescue him twice already. I spared no expense, hired the best exfiltration men, the best deprogrammers. Both times, it was like trying to capture fog."
Reb's suspicions are on full alert, though he can't quite say why. There is something incongruous in the man's words, the very air about him. He reminds Johnny of a 1940's gangster, with less ethics. "And you need me to get you close. Why should I help you?"
"Because, Mr. Reb," says the small figure, seemingly amused at his reluctance, "I make it my business to know certain -- very important -- details. And the secret you're keeping.... well..."
The little man smirks, certain he's got the Inveterate Confederate on the ropes. Johnny gives him a puzzled look. "What secret?"
Here's where things get hazy. Johnny's recollection is visually clear; he can see the other man's face across the table, shadows in the dim light accentuating certain features. But his words are garbled, unintelligible. Reb feels himself nodding in agreement; he doesn't know exactly what he's agreed to.
What Reb does notice, as his eyes are drawn toward the bar area, is just how much this hotel bartender looks like the one in Sweet Water at present. This revelation shakes him out of the reverie. He is briefly disoriented, part of his mind still in Tokyo. Johnny's brow furrows deep in puzzlement.
"You see what I mean?" says the bartender with mock sympathy. "Lost time? Look, it's nearly dark already."
The needles of sunlight that had previously penetrated wood-slat shutters over the roadhouse's windows are indeed weaker now, golden hue dimming as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Johnny's mind, still whirling after being forced from present, to buried recollection, and back again, struggles to make a connection. The bartender. Here. Tokyo. And... somewhere else. But where?
His eyes are fixed on Reb's face, waiting patiently for all the pieces to click. Wait. It's almost... No, that's impossible. The same man in Belfast, too? The quick-draw barman with the ready smile? Johnny studies the angular face before him, and obligingly, it copies that charming Irish grin. And then, Reb gets it.
"You!" Johnny's tone is full of venomous accusation. He rises swiftly from the barstool, knocking it over in the process. "You promised you wouldn't interfere!"
"Did I?" Smooth, cultured. An eyebrow raised, quizzical and innocent.
"I did everythin' ya asked of me. Our deal is -- "
"Concluded? When I say it is. That time is not yet. The whole of your WCF has known this all along. You're the only one still deluding yourself that our business is done."
"I ain't nobody's lackey, Timekeeper," Johnny growls.
The entity studies his fingernails with vague interest. "Actually, I prefer to think of you as an independent contractor."
"Ya make it sound like I'm a button man."
"In this case..." The Timekeeper trails off, shrugs. "No. Murder is not the answer. It will merely find another to infect..."
"It?" Alarm bells are most decidedly ringing in Reb's head now.
"Things were put into motion when I sent you here. Certain information was placed in your subconscious, your.. target, if you will. As a matter of fact, you have already acted on your instructions. Not that I imagine you remember it."
The Inveterate One's eyes narrow. "My brain ain't for you to play with, Timekeeper!"
For the first time, he looks mildly apologetic. "I do regret the measures I had to take, but I couldn't risk your becoming aware of the plan before it was too late to back out."
Feeling particularly manipulated and burdened, Johnny can't do much more than sputter wordlessly in protest.
"Things aren't as bad as all that, Johnny," says the entity, sounding dangerously bored with Reb's futile resistance. "This was inevitable. You and your target have some history. All I did was secure a few important details in the timeline. The rest is up to you. But I warn you -- if you fail, if you don't finish the job -- he will destroy you."
Indignant anger makes it difficult for Johnny to speak coherently, but he manages. "Who? An' for that matter, why?"
"One question answers the other, Johnny. As you will discover very, very soon. Have another drink."
A filled glass is put in front of Reb, drawing his attention. When he looks up again, he finds himself entirely alone. The Timekeeper is nowhere to be seen. He lifts the glass, to find its contents are not Southern Comfort, but dust and cobwebs. Sparks shoot from behind the jukebox, now attempting to crank out a tinny rendition of a Patsy Cline classic. This final request is too much for the ageing machine; it powers down, but not before a healthy blaze breaks out nearby.
The Inveterate Confederate decides he's had just a little too much of the strange and unearthly for one day, and hurriedly leaves the dingy abandoned bar before anything else can happen. He is safely out of the parking lot when flames erupt from a busted window. Shifting into another gear, Johnny opts to put as much distance between himself and the town of his youth as he possibly can.
"Get you another?" he asks, and there's something about the voice. Too soft for a ginslinger, too cultured and refined.
"Huh?" Johnny glances at him for the first time, and promptly tries to find something else on which to rest his eyes. "Nah, I... Actually, I could go for some Southern Comfort."
"Couldn't we all?" says the bartender, pouring the drink with unhurried efficiency. "Something on your mind?"
Johnny lifts the shot glass and salutes the barkeep with it, then downs the contents in one go, savoring the sweet-fiery taste. Without being asked, the slender man refills it as soon as Reb sets it down.
"Nothin' I oughta trouble ya with," he says at last, and still fails to look directly at the bartender.
"Well," the older man gestures expansively at the empty bar, "I doubt anyone else would be terribly inconvenienced. Perhaps you're ...embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? Why? 'Cause of a few losses? 'Cause I got my ass beat in a cowardly, underhanded sneak attack?" Reb is clearly agitated, but he shrugs it off. "That debt will be repaid, with interest. An' it's only a matter of time before them tag titles are back where they belong."
"Ah, yes. Your New Confederacy. Charming." A slight sneer mars the bartender's angular face; condescension creeps into his voice. "But that isn't what I was referring to."
The Inveterate One goes still, his glass halfway to his lips, and finally looks fully upon the bartender. The face is familiar. He's seen it before. The guy kind of looks like Terrence Stamp, but that isn't why. It's something else.
"Chunks of time go missing. Your focus isn't what it used to be. You're irritable, easily agitated. You remember things you shouldn't; don't remember things you should. And you think you're going crazy."
"How do you -- ?"
"Think, Johnny. I did try to warn you..."
Something stirs now in Johnny's mind; serpentine, a thread of memory begins to wind its way up from the depths. Without warning, he's caught up and reliving it.
Tokyo, Japan: Three days prior to Blast, early evening. Doc Henry and Johnny Reb wander the lobby of their hotel, waiting out some obscure delay with their respective rooms. The Southern Rogue is summoned shortly, presumeably because he spent quite a bit more than Johnny did. Joined by his wife, Doc leaves Reb to his fate.
At last, Reb drops onto a squarish leather chair -- back resting against one arm, legs draped over the other -- and picks up the day's edition of the New York Times. He isn't really interested in the paper; mostly, he watches other people enter, approach the reception desk, and receive their keycards immediately. So he doesn't notice soft footsteps on the ultramodern, blue and brown abstract carpet. It isn't until he hears the clearing of a throat that Johnny glances up, but doesn't see anyone right away. His attention drifts back toward the front desk; now he notices a man of negligible stature standing right next to him. Just under four feet tall, dressed impeccably in a light gray, three-piece suit with a white carnation stuck in the lapel, the man seems like someone Reb should recognize, though he can't seem to place him.
Johnny rights himself in the chair. "Do I know you?"
"No, Mr. Reb.. but I know you." He reaches into his tailored suit coat and for a crazy instant, Johnny is convinced he's going for a gun; instead, he produces a black glossy business card. In golden print is a phone number, but no name, no company.
"What's this about?"
"Suffice it to say, Mr. Reb, that you and I have a common acquaintance in the Wrestling Championship Federation. An acquaintance I need your help in... contacting."
The Inveterate Confederate stares at the card, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair as he thinks this over. A moment or two later, he passes it back.
"I don't think I'm interested."
The little man doesn't take it. "Give me five minutes. Hear me out. If you're still not interested when I'm done, you can forget we ever met."
The internal war betwen doubt and curiosity is reflected on Johnny's face. There's something unsettling about the stranger, but Johnny can't put his inquisitive nature to bed. At last, he relents.
"All right. But in there." Reb jerks his head toward the cocktail lounge about fifty feet away. "Less chance someone will overhear."
A nod from the small fellow, clearly impressed with Reb's forethought. Johnny gets up from his seat to accompany his temporary companion. They take a shadowy table in the corner, so as not to be disturbed.
"It has to do with my brother," the little man begins. "My twin brother. Dave. We were raised in an orphanage, practically inseperable. Who else did we have to rely on?"
Now, things begin to make a little sense. That the man has a twin narrows down the list of "acquaintances" they supposedly have in common. He nods to indicate that he's listening, and the other continues.
"I fear that my brother has come under the influence of a dangerous cult. These... people he associates himself with, it's sickening, really." The little man's posture straightens, his face reflects disapproval. "You must understand, I have tried to rescue him twice already. I spared no expense, hired the best exfiltration men, the best deprogrammers. Both times, it was like trying to capture fog."
Reb's suspicions are on full alert, though he can't quite say why. There is something incongruous in the man's words, the very air about him. He reminds Johnny of a 1940's gangster, with less ethics. "And you need me to get you close. Why should I help you?"
"Because, Mr. Reb," says the small figure, seemingly amused at his reluctance, "I make it my business to know certain -- very important -- details. And the secret you're keeping.... well..."
The little man smirks, certain he's got the Inveterate Confederate on the ropes. Johnny gives him a puzzled look. "What secret?"
Here's where things get hazy. Johnny's recollection is visually clear; he can see the other man's face across the table, shadows in the dim light accentuating certain features. But his words are garbled, unintelligible. Reb feels himself nodding in agreement; he doesn't know exactly what he's agreed to.
What Reb does notice, as his eyes are drawn toward the bar area, is just how much this hotel bartender looks like the one in Sweet Water at present. This revelation shakes him out of the reverie. He is briefly disoriented, part of his mind still in Tokyo. Johnny's brow furrows deep in puzzlement.
"You see what I mean?" says the bartender with mock sympathy. "Lost time? Look, it's nearly dark already."
The needles of sunlight that had previously penetrated wood-slat shutters over the roadhouse's windows are indeed weaker now, golden hue dimming as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Johnny's mind, still whirling after being forced from present, to buried recollection, and back again, struggles to make a connection. The bartender. Here. Tokyo. And... somewhere else. But where?
His eyes are fixed on Reb's face, waiting patiently for all the pieces to click. Wait. It's almost... No, that's impossible. The same man in Belfast, too? The quick-draw barman with the ready smile? Johnny studies the angular face before him, and obligingly, it copies that charming Irish grin. And then, Reb gets it.
"You!" Johnny's tone is full of venomous accusation. He rises swiftly from the barstool, knocking it over in the process. "You promised you wouldn't interfere!"
"Did I?" Smooth, cultured. An eyebrow raised, quizzical and innocent.
"I did everythin' ya asked of me. Our deal is -- "
"Concluded? When I say it is. That time is not yet. The whole of your WCF has known this all along. You're the only one still deluding yourself that our business is done."
"I ain't nobody's lackey, Timekeeper," Johnny growls.
The entity studies his fingernails with vague interest. "Actually, I prefer to think of you as an independent contractor."
"Ya make it sound like I'm a button man."
"In this case..." The Timekeeper trails off, shrugs. "No. Murder is not the answer. It will merely find another to infect..."
"It?" Alarm bells are most decidedly ringing in Reb's head now.
"Things were put into motion when I sent you here. Certain information was placed in your subconscious, your.. target, if you will. As a matter of fact, you have already acted on your instructions. Not that I imagine you remember it."
The Inveterate One's eyes narrow. "My brain ain't for you to play with, Timekeeper!"
For the first time, he looks mildly apologetic. "I do regret the measures I had to take, but I couldn't risk your becoming aware of the plan before it was too late to back out."
Feeling particularly manipulated and burdened, Johnny can't do much more than sputter wordlessly in protest.
"Things aren't as bad as all that, Johnny," says the entity, sounding dangerously bored with Reb's futile resistance. "This was inevitable. You and your target have some history. All I did was secure a few important details in the timeline. The rest is up to you. But I warn you -- if you fail, if you don't finish the job -- he will destroy you."
Indignant anger makes it difficult for Johnny to speak coherently, but he manages. "Who? An' for that matter, why?"
"One question answers the other, Johnny. As you will discover very, very soon. Have another drink."
A filled glass is put in front of Reb, drawing his attention. When he looks up again, he finds himself entirely alone. The Timekeeper is nowhere to be seen. He lifts the glass, to find its contents are not Southern Comfort, but dust and cobwebs. Sparks shoot from behind the jukebox, now attempting to crank out a tinny rendition of a Patsy Cline classic. This final request is too much for the ageing machine; it powers down, but not before a healthy blaze breaks out nearby.
The Inveterate Confederate decides he's had just a little too much of the strange and unearthly for one day, and hurriedly leaves the dingy abandoned bar before anything else can happen. He is safely out of the parking lot when flames erupt from a busted window. Shifting into another gear, Johnny opts to put as much distance between himself and the town of his youth as he possibly can.
