Post by Johnny Reb on Mar 29, 2009 10:20:28 GMT -5
Opening with a kaleidoscopic blur of dark colors, the scene resolves itself to crystalline sharpness; a close-up of a half-full bottle of Black Label Southern Comfort. The letters “DIS” have been inscribed, just above the word “Comfort”, in silver ink. The camera pans back to reveal the interior of a modest hotel suite, all in white. Johnny Reb sits in a high-armed chair, upholstered in white simulated leather, presenting a profile to the camera. He ignores its presence, instead gazing contemplatively at the glass in his hand, swirling the sorghum-sweet liquid around for a moment before draining it completely.
As he reaches for the bottle in front of him, pours generously, he begins to speak, seemingly more to himself than to the camera. Of that, he remains purposely unaware.
I recall a time, not so long ago – less than a year, in fact – that I, myself, was new to this game. No one respects ya, not at first. Not until ya prove yourself, many times over. I remember what it was like, all but ignored by my opponents.
My advantage, of course, lay in the fact that I was not – never have been – some kind of dilettante, usin’ wrestlin’ as a means to kill time between other, more personally interestin’ engagements. Nor did I ever do anythin’ so distasteful as to use my own career as a marketin’ platform for somethin’ entirely unrelated. I may be a rat bastard sometimes, but even I wouldn’t sink that low.
Each time I step into the squared circle, lights blazin’ overhead like a hundred suns, my music blended with the noise of the audience – whether in jubilation or absolute loathin’ – anticipation makin’ my Rebel heart beat just a little faster… Those are the moments I spent my entire life trainin’ for. That almost indescribable feelin’, when you best another man at a contest of wills and physical power; for that, I spurned nearly everything that meant anything to me.
Johnny pauses, sips his drink, his eyes never yet straying toward the camera.
Yet it seems as though my co-competitors for this event do not share my enthusiasm. Perhaps, to them, this is but another in a long line of meanin’less matches; surely better will come along eventually. I cannot argue with the sentiment. I’m less than overjoyed at the opposition, myself. But I see things a little differently. Some matches, yes, are more important than others. Yet if a man does not give his all every time, what’s the point?
He shrugs, gaze drawn again to the glass in his hand, as if the answer to every rhetorical question is somehow contained therein. Reb drinks again, then shifts in his seat so that he faces the camera at last.
An’ so, to Tonto, the Lone Ranger, an’ that other guy: I, at least, will give you the fight you so richly deserve. When it’s all said an’ done, when the battle ends an’ the smoke clears, we’ll see just how the combined might of the Pink Triangle stands up to the will – an’ the skill – of Johnny Reb.
The Inveterate Confederate gives the camera a contemptuous smirk, full of self-assurance. The scene fades quickly to static, overlaid with the image of a Confederate flag.
As he reaches for the bottle in front of him, pours generously, he begins to speak, seemingly more to himself than to the camera. Of that, he remains purposely unaware.
I recall a time, not so long ago – less than a year, in fact – that I, myself, was new to this game. No one respects ya, not at first. Not until ya prove yourself, many times over. I remember what it was like, all but ignored by my opponents.
My advantage, of course, lay in the fact that I was not – never have been – some kind of dilettante, usin’ wrestlin’ as a means to kill time between other, more personally interestin’ engagements. Nor did I ever do anythin’ so distasteful as to use my own career as a marketin’ platform for somethin’ entirely unrelated. I may be a rat bastard sometimes, but even I wouldn’t sink that low.
Each time I step into the squared circle, lights blazin’ overhead like a hundred suns, my music blended with the noise of the audience – whether in jubilation or absolute loathin’ – anticipation makin’ my Rebel heart beat just a little faster… Those are the moments I spent my entire life trainin’ for. That almost indescribable feelin’, when you best another man at a contest of wills and physical power; for that, I spurned nearly everything that meant anything to me.
Johnny pauses, sips his drink, his eyes never yet straying toward the camera.
Yet it seems as though my co-competitors for this event do not share my enthusiasm. Perhaps, to them, this is but another in a long line of meanin’less matches; surely better will come along eventually. I cannot argue with the sentiment. I’m less than overjoyed at the opposition, myself. But I see things a little differently. Some matches, yes, are more important than others. Yet if a man does not give his all every time, what’s the point?
He shrugs, gaze drawn again to the glass in his hand, as if the answer to every rhetorical question is somehow contained therein. Reb drinks again, then shifts in his seat so that he faces the camera at last.
An’ so, to Tonto, the Lone Ranger, an’ that other guy: I, at least, will give you the fight you so richly deserve. When it’s all said an’ done, when the battle ends an’ the smoke clears, we’ll see just how the combined might of the Pink Triangle stands up to the will – an’ the skill – of Johnny Reb.
The Inveterate Confederate gives the camera a contemptuous smirk, full of self-assurance. The scene fades quickly to static, overlaid with the image of a Confederate flag.
