Post by Johnny Reb on Apr 4, 2009 21:42:06 GMT -5
The scene is a Civil War battlefield. Around the perimeters, a crowd is gathering to watch a reenactment. Across the field, tents are lined up in uniform rows. Within the confines of one of the tents, an assembly of Union officers are huddled around a map spread upon a table. One man, his back turned to the camera, is apparently in charge: he issues a few final orders, and the others disperse. At last, he turns to face the camera. It’s Johnny Reb, dressed in the very Union Blue he despises above all else. For a moment, he gives the viewing audience a grin.
Y’all think this is wrong?
Reb’s grin becomes more a sneer.
Wrong is havin’ to face one opponent who clearly – in spite of all his talk of preparedness – has no idea what he’s up against, and another who, by all rights, shouldn’t even be considered a professional.
Johnny leans casually against the table behind him. He removes the dark blue slouch hat, inspecting it thoughtfully before setting it down.
I’ll let my record speak for itself, though. In nearly every triple threat match in which I have battled, I have come out on top. For God’s sake, I defeated Brad Kane and Ryan Daniels both, durin’ my debut match here in WCF.
Granted, that same Ryan Daniels helped cost me my match at Timebomb. An’ y’all saw what he got in return for it. But I digress….
The Inveterate Confederate pauses again, considering. Outside, there are shouts and the sound of gunfire and cannon. His attention is drawn to the noise for a moment; his eyes take on a faraway look.
Fact of the matter is, a title shot don’t mean much if y’ain’t earned it. Personal experience an’ all that. Paranoid delusions notwithstandin’, a man’s gotta suffer sometimes. For the things that are important.
This ain’t no more than a shot at a shot at the US Title. There ain’t no guarantees, not ever. But let me assure you, gentlemen, that no amount of scouting will prepare you for the reality of the Inveterate Confederate.
I’m in this match for one reason, an’ one reason alone: to win. I don’t give a goddamn about Logan, about some perceived evil. Only one thing matters, an’ that’s WCF gold. That’s my future, my destiny, an’ I am ready to claim it…
With that, Reb rises from the table, grabs his hat, and walks outside. Fade to static overlaid with the image of a Confederate flag.
Y’all think this is wrong?
Reb’s grin becomes more a sneer.
Wrong is havin’ to face one opponent who clearly – in spite of all his talk of preparedness – has no idea what he’s up against, and another who, by all rights, shouldn’t even be considered a professional.
Johnny leans casually against the table behind him. He removes the dark blue slouch hat, inspecting it thoughtfully before setting it down.
I’ll let my record speak for itself, though. In nearly every triple threat match in which I have battled, I have come out on top. For God’s sake, I defeated Brad Kane and Ryan Daniels both, durin’ my debut match here in WCF.
Granted, that same Ryan Daniels helped cost me my match at Timebomb. An’ y’all saw what he got in return for it. But I digress….
The Inveterate Confederate pauses again, considering. Outside, there are shouts and the sound of gunfire and cannon. His attention is drawn to the noise for a moment; his eyes take on a faraway look.
Fact of the matter is, a title shot don’t mean much if y’ain’t earned it. Personal experience an’ all that. Paranoid delusions notwithstandin’, a man’s gotta suffer sometimes. For the things that are important.
This ain’t no more than a shot at a shot at the US Title. There ain’t no guarantees, not ever. But let me assure you, gentlemen, that no amount of scouting will prepare you for the reality of the Inveterate Confederate.
I’m in this match for one reason, an’ one reason alone: to win. I don’t give a goddamn about Logan, about some perceived evil. Only one thing matters, an’ that’s WCF gold. That’s my future, my destiny, an’ I am ready to claim it…
With that, Reb rises from the table, grabs his hat, and walks outside. Fade to static overlaid with the image of a Confederate flag.
