Post by Johnny Reb on May 9, 2009 12:05:32 GMT -5
A small, grey Mercedes coupe rolls to a stop at the parabola of an enormous circular driveway that encloses a massive marble fountain. A red-jacketed valet promptly opens the driver’s side door, and Johnny Reb emerges from within, handing over his keys with an admonition not to scratch the paint.
Enormous double doors – ancient oak inlaid with intricate leaded glass panes – are opened as Johnny approaches what is plainly a converted mansion. The interior is no less impressive: an elaborate mosaic of pink and brown granite spreads across the floor of the foyer, where he is met by a well-dressed attendant whose manner borders on obsequious. The man leads him through a haze of pungent smoke and prowling cocktail waitresses, until they arrive, finally, at a more secluded area.
A string quartet plays softly in a corner as Johnny sinks into an overstuffed, high-backed leather chair. No tawdry strip club with pretensions of being more, this establishment is a true “gentlemen’s club;” a different example of hedonistic excess, though no less stimulating to its patrons. The man goes away, and in moments, a waitress appears at Johnny’s side, offering an array of fine imported cigars. Johnny considers the selection carefully before choosing one, and, with a practiced flick of her wrist, the young woman produces a flame from which Reb lights his cigar. She vanishes again as quickly as she arrived, and Johnny puffs contentedly on the cigar for a moment.
Now, I reckon this little activity is gonna lead to some kind of Freudian assumptions regardin’ my character or my orientation. An’ while any other smartass might merely respond by sayin’ a cigar is just a cigar, I find the observation to be more than a little fallacious. Few things are as satisfyin’ as a hand-rolled panatela…
Johnny takes another long drag from the cigar.
But…I digress. You do me a grave injustice, Mr. Ken, by implyin’ that my accomplishments have been widely exaggerated. I have achieved more in my admittedly brief career than many athletes twice my age. Athletes like you…
Unbidden, a glass of brandy is set on a low table in front of Johnny, next to an assortment of special interest magazines. Reb regards the glass curiously for a moment, but his mind is on other things.
There was a time, perhaps, when I’d have admired you, looked up to you. In my naïveté, I would have been just as snowed as those fans who tune in, week after week, convinced of your…superiority in the ring.
Johnny’s lips turn up in the barest hint of a smug smile.
That time is long past, Mr. Ken. What I see now is a broken-down, washed-up old hack, lookin’ to reclaim some modicum of former glory. There is no dishonor in losin’ to the likes of me, an’ yet…
The Inveterate Confederate pauses now to pick up the glass of brandy. He holds it up to the natural light streaming in from tall windows, observing the liquid thoughtfully. A small taste is all he takes before setting the glass down again and picking up his cigar from an oversized ashtray at his side.
An’ yet, you seem to be unable to accept that with any measure of dignity. Instead, you resort to makin’ broad assumptions an’ castin’ sophomoric aspersions on my noble character. You even go so far as to suggest that I pinned you illegally.
This elicits a soft chuckle, and Johnny puffs on his cigar once more.
On top of all that, you have the audacity to tell me how to run my affairs. To advise me to look for flaws in your technique – flaws you insist aren’t there. Let me tell you, they are there. Your overconfidence will be your downfall. But in the meantime…
Reb’s teeth are clenched as he speaks, his posture tense and his expression one bordering on real agitation.
I know my business, Mr. Ken. I’ll thank you to mind your own. An’ for the record, I’m not any happier about this match than you are.
The fact that you happened to fall on Chris Avery when I pinned you… that was more luck than sense on your part. This time, there won’t be any accidents, I assure you. There won’t be anyone else to get in the way. An’ when I put your shoulders on the mat – again – there won’t be any whinin’ to the ref.
The better man will win, will go on to face Torture for his World Title.
An’ you…you’ll be relegated to the history books.
Reb picks up his glass again and leans back in the chair as the scene fades away.
Enormous double doors – ancient oak inlaid with intricate leaded glass panes – are opened as Johnny approaches what is plainly a converted mansion. The interior is no less impressive: an elaborate mosaic of pink and brown granite spreads across the floor of the foyer, where he is met by a well-dressed attendant whose manner borders on obsequious. The man leads him through a haze of pungent smoke and prowling cocktail waitresses, until they arrive, finally, at a more secluded area.
A string quartet plays softly in a corner as Johnny sinks into an overstuffed, high-backed leather chair. No tawdry strip club with pretensions of being more, this establishment is a true “gentlemen’s club;” a different example of hedonistic excess, though no less stimulating to its patrons. The man goes away, and in moments, a waitress appears at Johnny’s side, offering an array of fine imported cigars. Johnny considers the selection carefully before choosing one, and, with a practiced flick of her wrist, the young woman produces a flame from which Reb lights his cigar. She vanishes again as quickly as she arrived, and Johnny puffs contentedly on the cigar for a moment.
Now, I reckon this little activity is gonna lead to some kind of Freudian assumptions regardin’ my character or my orientation. An’ while any other smartass might merely respond by sayin’ a cigar is just a cigar, I find the observation to be more than a little fallacious. Few things are as satisfyin’ as a hand-rolled panatela…
Johnny takes another long drag from the cigar.
But…I digress. You do me a grave injustice, Mr. Ken, by implyin’ that my accomplishments have been widely exaggerated. I have achieved more in my admittedly brief career than many athletes twice my age. Athletes like you…
Unbidden, a glass of brandy is set on a low table in front of Johnny, next to an assortment of special interest magazines. Reb regards the glass curiously for a moment, but his mind is on other things.
There was a time, perhaps, when I’d have admired you, looked up to you. In my naïveté, I would have been just as snowed as those fans who tune in, week after week, convinced of your…superiority in the ring.
Johnny’s lips turn up in the barest hint of a smug smile.
That time is long past, Mr. Ken. What I see now is a broken-down, washed-up old hack, lookin’ to reclaim some modicum of former glory. There is no dishonor in losin’ to the likes of me, an’ yet…
The Inveterate Confederate pauses now to pick up the glass of brandy. He holds it up to the natural light streaming in from tall windows, observing the liquid thoughtfully. A small taste is all he takes before setting the glass down again and picking up his cigar from an oversized ashtray at his side.
An’ yet, you seem to be unable to accept that with any measure of dignity. Instead, you resort to makin’ broad assumptions an’ castin’ sophomoric aspersions on my noble character. You even go so far as to suggest that I pinned you illegally.
This elicits a soft chuckle, and Johnny puffs on his cigar once more.
On top of all that, you have the audacity to tell me how to run my affairs. To advise me to look for flaws in your technique – flaws you insist aren’t there. Let me tell you, they are there. Your overconfidence will be your downfall. But in the meantime…
Reb’s teeth are clenched as he speaks, his posture tense and his expression one bordering on real agitation.
I know my business, Mr. Ken. I’ll thank you to mind your own. An’ for the record, I’m not any happier about this match than you are.
The fact that you happened to fall on Chris Avery when I pinned you… that was more luck than sense on your part. This time, there won’t be any accidents, I assure you. There won’t be anyone else to get in the way. An’ when I put your shoulders on the mat – again – there won’t be any whinin’ to the ref.
The better man will win, will go on to face Torture for his World Title.
An’ you…you’ll be relegated to the history books.
Reb picks up his glass again and leans back in the chair as the scene fades away.
