Post by Jahani al-Reb on Sept 26, 2014 12:29:30 GMT -5
An acre or so of sparse grass and dry earth spreads out behind Club Haboob; forlorn, undeveloped, and host to a faded "For Sale" sign. Upon this semi- barren stretch sits a magnificent pavillion of gleaming white. The entrance is open, guarded by two tanned beauties with gold-plated (and entirely non-functional) AK's. Hank Brown approaches and, with a sigh of irritation, presents his press credentials. One of the women makes a show of inspecting the badge carefully, then gestures to Hank and the cameraman trailing him to go inside.
Within, the pavillion is even more impressive. The floor is covered in intricately detailed Persian rugs; Ottoman stools -- actually from the Ottoman Empire era -- are ranged around the floor; a television and a PS4 sit incongruously on a low wooden chest covered in gold filligree; and a modest chandelier hangs from the canvas ceiling. Jahani al-Reb is seated in a reproduction Etruscan chair, dressed in a white suit with an ermine coat resting on his shoulders like a cape. A black-and-white checked keffiyeh and a pair of Aviator sunglasses complete the ensemble.
Lips pull back in a predatory smile as he spots the WCF interviewer; he gestures to one of the low Ottomans.
Jahani: Welcome, Hank Brown. Please, be seated. Let me extend my most gracious thanks to you for agreeing to see me, after our previous... misunderstanding.
Those honeyed words turn sour in Hank's ear. He is a professional; he does his best, but sometimes... A dark look crosses his face for the barest instant, before he covers it up with a forced smile.
Brown: I didn't have much choice in the matter. All the same, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. This time.
One of al-Reb's attendant harem approaches Hank with a silver platter, laden with fruit. Struck suddenly by the recollection of a course in Greek mythology he'd taken in college, Hank waves the girl away. You don't eat or drink in Hades, if you expect to escape again. He reaches into the pocket of his sport coat for a set of index cards.
Brown: Let's just cut right to the chase, shall we? You've had exactly one match in the WCF, and now you're entered into the WAR match. That's got to be a lot of pressure, unproven as you are...
Jahani: Unproven, Hank? Did I not put that two-bit hack, Douche Murdock, on the canvas, exactly as I promised I would? Did I not shut his filthy, infidel mouth? The reason I have not had another match since, Hank, is obvious. The WCF fears Jahani al-Reb -- as well they should! I am chosen by Allah to represent my people here, in this dystopian, hedonistic landfill you call a country.
Brown: Hedonistic?
He looks around in pointed disbelief.
Brown: What do you call all this?
The Baghdadi Mack shrugs, smiling.
Jahani: Opulence, Hank, is the gift of Allah to those faithful men not chosen for glorious martyrdom.
Brown: Right... Ok, then, speaking of Deuce Murdock...
Without warning, al-Reb's fist crashes down on the low table in front of him. His face contorts into a mask of rage.
Jahani: That swine will pay for the humiliation he visited on me last week! To lure away my women -- mine! -- and then to turn them against me?! Do you think I'm going to let that go, Hank? There was a time when that behavior would have gotten them all stoned to death! But in the laws of your stupid, backward country, I must allow these whores to have their own way; without retribution, without honor... It makes me sick. But at least -- at the very least -- I can take my vengeance on that demented son of a goat. I will not simply eliminate Murdock at WAR -- I will destroy him. You think he's a cripple now? Wait until I am finished with him! I will pull his figs out through his damnable throat, and then --
The young muslim works himself into such a frenzy he can't even finish the thought. One of the girls places a calming hand on his shoulder; almost instantly, he takes a deep breath and relaxes.
Jahani: The point is, Hank, I have never hated another man so much in my life. Win or lose, as long as I get a piece of Douche Murdock, I'm content.
Poised for flight, Hank hesitates, eyeing the subject of his interview carefully. Wrestlers are known for quick shifts in demeanor, and al-Reb is certainly not the exception. Slowly, he eases back onto the cushioned seat.
Brown: Yes, well, all that aside, the WAR match is a very big deal. Huge. I can't emphasize that enough. Particularly for a man who has had only a single match to prove himself. And while you were victorious, there's still going to be some question as to whether or not you can run with bigger dogs.
Jahani: By "bigger dogs," do you mean the likes of Tobias Barnz, Isaac Salinger, Kaz Mazy, perhaps? I've only heard of this Mazy person, and only because he -- like, evidently, everyone else -- beat Douche Murdock. Or are you thinking of the legends, like Torture, Bobby Cairo, or Corey Black?
Hank gives a little shrug at this point, having nothing to really contribute to the conversation.
Jahani: Torture. There is a legend, indeed. This is a man who will do whatever it takes to achieve his aims, and that is a man to be respected. To look up to. He's also a man who has never been pinned, never defeated, not in all the years he's been in this profession. So I am wary. I am also realistic. Torture won't have time for me. His focus will be on those, as you said, "bigger dogs"... which means he won't see it coming when I eliminate him.
And Bobby Cairo? I mean... how old is he? Like fifty? I don't know. Far too old for this game, that much is certain. Too old, and with too many ironing boards in the fire...whatever that means.
Brown: Irons. It's "too many irons in the fire".
This earns the intrepid reporter a sneer from his subject.
Jahani: Do not correct me ever again, Hank Brown. Understood?
Brown: My bad.
Jahani: Indeed. And speaking of old people... hasn't Corey Black been around forever and a day? He's washed up. Slowing down. The fans only like him because they don't know any better. These people have all the culture of a Petri dish. Not even worth my time.
Brown: I wouldn't dismiss Corey Black so readily if I were you.
Jahani: Why? He would be just as dismissive as I -- assuming he deigns to mention my name at all. That's the problem with all these so-called "legends" of the WCF... they all think they're too good to consider anyone a threat who hasn't been around here as long as they have.
Brown: These are experienced veterans you're talking about, Mr. al-Reb...
Jahani: Hmph. Then they should know that it's the threat you don't anticipate that gets you, in the end.
A slow, casual smile spreads across al-Reb's face.
Jahani: All these men, these veterans, these champions -- current and former alike -- and they should all know better. They all had to start somewhere, too. How soon does a man forget what it took to get where he is? Does success in the ring affect the memory so severely? Not me. I have always been -- always will be -- the cream of the coffee.
Hank bites his lip, tempted to interject; but caution gets the better of him. The Baghdadi Mack, however, doesn't miss the look on his face.
Jahani: What now, Hank?
Brown: It's... "cream of the crop"... You asked.
Jahani: That doesn't make any sense. What crops, precisely, are derived from cream? What does that even mean? English is stupid. No wonder you people are losing this idiotic "war on terror."
An uncomfortable silence falls. Hank doesn't dare argue; he's a lover, not a fighter. And the memory of his last interview with al-Reb is still fresh in his mind. The cameraman isn't any help; he's a skinny nineteen-year-old intern more interested in the half-clothed ladies wandering around al-Reb's giant tent. Still, Hank has one more question -- one that has intrigued absolutely no one else, but has been mentioned once or twice behind the scenes.
Brown: There's a rumor going around, Jahani, that you and Johnny Reb are, in fact, the same person. You have to admit, there is a hint of a resemblance, and the two of you have not yet been seen in the same place, at the same time. Do you have an answer for that?
Al-Reb stares at Hank in disbelief for several seconds.
Jahani: I...what? Do I look like an inbred hillbilly to you, Hank? Do you see me swilling Southern Comfort all day, or smoking hashish until I start spouting inane balderdash about ...time travel? Alternate realities? Seriously, that is a person who needs therapy. No, Hank, I am not Johnny Reb. If I were, I would have myself beheaded. Pathetic, driven to delusion by the sad fact that he can't seem to win a match, except, like two weeks ago, when Steve Orbit took pity on the little bastard and let him win.
Then, instead of capitalizing on his momentum, he gets all distracted with his imaginary friend and the loss his imaginary friend's sodding ring bell. And after all that talk of being king of the ladder match, or whatever, he loses... What kind of "legend" is this?
Brown: To be fair, I think it had more to do with the fact that Doc Henry was missing.
Jahani: Sure. Missing, but still able to wrestle as scheduled. Do these rednecks honestly think anyone's buying that nonsense? Just a couple of backwoods hicks who drink too much, forget where they're supposed to be and when, and try to pass it off as "time travel." There's no such thing, by the way. It's not in the Qu'ran anywhere.
Brown: I dunno, man. I've seen some freaky shit with those two...
Jahani: Then you are equally delusional. Now, Hank, if you don't mind... I do have other business to attend to.
Brown: Any final words for the WCF viewers at home?
Jahani nods, and the camera turns to focus on him alone.
Jahani: Sunday night, at WAR, the WCF will learn what Gonzo Douche already knows. I will demonstrate to all of you infidels just what it means to cross the Baghdadi Mack! First, I will dismantle that insufferable cripple, and then I turn my attention to whichever man -- or woman -- steps into my path. And believe me when I say that is the last thing any of you want, to step into my path, into my reach. I will destroy whomever is put in front of me, and I will keep going until none are left. I will cleanse the WCF, that you may all see the light of Allah, and turn from your wasteful, decadent ways!
Without much ceremony, Hank and his cameraman are hustled outside the pavillion. From elsewhere, a pair of men in dark suits carry a briefcase full of dark promise, moving rapidly toward the tent. Hank gestures at the cameraman, and the view swings to the interviewer.
Brown: Well, you heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. For WCF, this is Hank Brown, signing off!
And, abruptly, the scene cuts to black.
Within, the pavillion is even more impressive. The floor is covered in intricately detailed Persian rugs; Ottoman stools -- actually from the Ottoman Empire era -- are ranged around the floor; a television and a PS4 sit incongruously on a low wooden chest covered in gold filligree; and a modest chandelier hangs from the canvas ceiling. Jahani al-Reb is seated in a reproduction Etruscan chair, dressed in a white suit with an ermine coat resting on his shoulders like a cape. A black-and-white checked keffiyeh and a pair of Aviator sunglasses complete the ensemble.
Lips pull back in a predatory smile as he spots the WCF interviewer; he gestures to one of the low Ottomans.
Jahani: Welcome, Hank Brown. Please, be seated. Let me extend my most gracious thanks to you for agreeing to see me, after our previous... misunderstanding.
Those honeyed words turn sour in Hank's ear. He is a professional; he does his best, but sometimes... A dark look crosses his face for the barest instant, before he covers it up with a forced smile.
Brown: I didn't have much choice in the matter. All the same, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. This time.
One of al-Reb's attendant harem approaches Hank with a silver platter, laden with fruit. Struck suddenly by the recollection of a course in Greek mythology he'd taken in college, Hank waves the girl away. You don't eat or drink in Hades, if you expect to escape again. He reaches into the pocket of his sport coat for a set of index cards.
Brown: Let's just cut right to the chase, shall we? You've had exactly one match in the WCF, and now you're entered into the WAR match. That's got to be a lot of pressure, unproven as you are...
Jahani: Unproven, Hank? Did I not put that two-bit hack, Douche Murdock, on the canvas, exactly as I promised I would? Did I not shut his filthy, infidel mouth? The reason I have not had another match since, Hank, is obvious. The WCF fears Jahani al-Reb -- as well they should! I am chosen by Allah to represent my people here, in this dystopian, hedonistic landfill you call a country.
Brown: Hedonistic?
He looks around in pointed disbelief.
Brown: What do you call all this?
The Baghdadi Mack shrugs, smiling.
Jahani: Opulence, Hank, is the gift of Allah to those faithful men not chosen for glorious martyrdom.
Brown: Right... Ok, then, speaking of Deuce Murdock...
Without warning, al-Reb's fist crashes down on the low table in front of him. His face contorts into a mask of rage.
Jahani: That swine will pay for the humiliation he visited on me last week! To lure away my women -- mine! -- and then to turn them against me?! Do you think I'm going to let that go, Hank? There was a time when that behavior would have gotten them all stoned to death! But in the laws of your stupid, backward country, I must allow these whores to have their own way; without retribution, without honor... It makes me sick. But at least -- at the very least -- I can take my vengeance on that demented son of a goat. I will not simply eliminate Murdock at WAR -- I will destroy him. You think he's a cripple now? Wait until I am finished with him! I will pull his figs out through his damnable throat, and then --
The young muslim works himself into such a frenzy he can't even finish the thought. One of the girls places a calming hand on his shoulder; almost instantly, he takes a deep breath and relaxes.
Jahani: The point is, Hank, I have never hated another man so much in my life. Win or lose, as long as I get a piece of Douche Murdock, I'm content.
Poised for flight, Hank hesitates, eyeing the subject of his interview carefully. Wrestlers are known for quick shifts in demeanor, and al-Reb is certainly not the exception. Slowly, he eases back onto the cushioned seat.
Brown: Yes, well, all that aside, the WAR match is a very big deal. Huge. I can't emphasize that enough. Particularly for a man who has had only a single match to prove himself. And while you were victorious, there's still going to be some question as to whether or not you can run with bigger dogs.
Jahani: By "bigger dogs," do you mean the likes of Tobias Barnz, Isaac Salinger, Kaz Mazy, perhaps? I've only heard of this Mazy person, and only because he -- like, evidently, everyone else -- beat Douche Murdock. Or are you thinking of the legends, like Torture, Bobby Cairo, or Corey Black?
Hank gives a little shrug at this point, having nothing to really contribute to the conversation.
Jahani: Torture. There is a legend, indeed. This is a man who will do whatever it takes to achieve his aims, and that is a man to be respected. To look up to. He's also a man who has never been pinned, never defeated, not in all the years he's been in this profession. So I am wary. I am also realistic. Torture won't have time for me. His focus will be on those, as you said, "bigger dogs"... which means he won't see it coming when I eliminate him.
And Bobby Cairo? I mean... how old is he? Like fifty? I don't know. Far too old for this game, that much is certain. Too old, and with too many ironing boards in the fire...whatever that means.
Brown: Irons. It's "too many irons in the fire".
This earns the intrepid reporter a sneer from his subject.
Jahani: Do not correct me ever again, Hank Brown. Understood?
Brown: My bad.
Jahani: Indeed. And speaking of old people... hasn't Corey Black been around forever and a day? He's washed up. Slowing down. The fans only like him because they don't know any better. These people have all the culture of a Petri dish. Not even worth my time.
Brown: I wouldn't dismiss Corey Black so readily if I were you.
Jahani: Why? He would be just as dismissive as I -- assuming he deigns to mention my name at all. That's the problem with all these so-called "legends" of the WCF... they all think they're too good to consider anyone a threat who hasn't been around here as long as they have.
Brown: These are experienced veterans you're talking about, Mr. al-Reb...
Jahani: Hmph. Then they should know that it's the threat you don't anticipate that gets you, in the end.
A slow, casual smile spreads across al-Reb's face.
Jahani: All these men, these veterans, these champions -- current and former alike -- and they should all know better. They all had to start somewhere, too. How soon does a man forget what it took to get where he is? Does success in the ring affect the memory so severely? Not me. I have always been -- always will be -- the cream of the coffee.
Hank bites his lip, tempted to interject; but caution gets the better of him. The Baghdadi Mack, however, doesn't miss the look on his face.
Jahani: What now, Hank?
Brown: It's... "cream of the crop"... You asked.
Jahani: That doesn't make any sense. What crops, precisely, are derived from cream? What does that even mean? English is stupid. No wonder you people are losing this idiotic "war on terror."
An uncomfortable silence falls. Hank doesn't dare argue; he's a lover, not a fighter. And the memory of his last interview with al-Reb is still fresh in his mind. The cameraman isn't any help; he's a skinny nineteen-year-old intern more interested in the half-clothed ladies wandering around al-Reb's giant tent. Still, Hank has one more question -- one that has intrigued absolutely no one else, but has been mentioned once or twice behind the scenes.
Brown: There's a rumor going around, Jahani, that you and Johnny Reb are, in fact, the same person. You have to admit, there is a hint of a resemblance, and the two of you have not yet been seen in the same place, at the same time. Do you have an answer for that?
Al-Reb stares at Hank in disbelief for several seconds.
Jahani: I...what? Do I look like an inbred hillbilly to you, Hank? Do you see me swilling Southern Comfort all day, or smoking hashish until I start spouting inane balderdash about ...time travel? Alternate realities? Seriously, that is a person who needs therapy. No, Hank, I am not Johnny Reb. If I were, I would have myself beheaded. Pathetic, driven to delusion by the sad fact that he can't seem to win a match, except, like two weeks ago, when Steve Orbit took pity on the little bastard and let him win.
Then, instead of capitalizing on his momentum, he gets all distracted with his imaginary friend and the loss his imaginary friend's sodding ring bell. And after all that talk of being king of the ladder match, or whatever, he loses... What kind of "legend" is this?
Brown: To be fair, I think it had more to do with the fact that Doc Henry was missing.
Jahani: Sure. Missing, but still able to wrestle as scheduled. Do these rednecks honestly think anyone's buying that nonsense? Just a couple of backwoods hicks who drink too much, forget where they're supposed to be and when, and try to pass it off as "time travel." There's no such thing, by the way. It's not in the Qu'ran anywhere.
Brown: I dunno, man. I've seen some freaky shit with those two...
Jahani: Then you are equally delusional. Now, Hank, if you don't mind... I do have other business to attend to.
Brown: Any final words for the WCF viewers at home?
Jahani nods, and the camera turns to focus on him alone.
Jahani: Sunday night, at WAR, the WCF will learn what Gonzo Douche already knows. I will demonstrate to all of you infidels just what it means to cross the Baghdadi Mack! First, I will dismantle that insufferable cripple, and then I turn my attention to whichever man -- or woman -- steps into my path. And believe me when I say that is the last thing any of you want, to step into my path, into my reach. I will destroy whomever is put in front of me, and I will keep going until none are left. I will cleanse the WCF, that you may all see the light of Allah, and turn from your wasteful, decadent ways!
Without much ceremony, Hank and his cameraman are hustled outside the pavillion. From elsewhere, a pair of men in dark suits carry a briefcase full of dark promise, moving rapidly toward the tent. Hank gestures at the cameraman, and the view swings to the interviewer.
Brown: Well, you heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. For WCF, this is Hank Brown, signing off!
And, abruptly, the scene cuts to black.
