Post by Johnny Reb on May 26, 2009 10:50:21 GMT -5
Footage from the last few minutes of the May 18th edition of Slam plays in glorious high-definition. Every bone-crunching strike recreated in exacting detail. Each sound – chair impacting on skull, the collective “oooh!” from the audience, rattle of the steel cage, the resonance of a body hitting taut canvas – captured in Dolby 5.1 Surround.
Rewind. Freeze. Advance frame-by-frame.
A steely, ice-blue gaze takes it all in dispassionately.
Rewind.
I was caught up in the thrill of the hunt. I can admit that. All I could see was a golden opportunity, handed to me on a silver platter.
Freeze.
The image onscreen shows Dake Ken, arms raised in triumph, as erstwhile partner Johnny Reb leans against the ropes, searching the stage area for an absent competitor.
I haven’t been a very good person of late. I’ve done whatever it took to get ahead. My motto: At any cost.
Johnny’s eyes take on a faraway look, as if he is seeing something beyond the four walls of his spare-furnished living room.
Didn’t realize the price I would pay. Not ‘til it was too late. Family: incommunicado. Mother, Father, brother – none of ‘em will so much as talk to me these days. Friends: virtually nonexistent. I have to live with that. I can… live with that.
Frame by frame, the image on the TV screen moves forward; life in halting, jerky slow-motion.
Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss that wide-eyed, innocent Southern boy the most. I didn’t even appreciate that, until Dake Ken opened my eyes and reminded me who I was…
Who I am.
Color rises to Johnny’s cheeks as he watches the screen; something beyond anger simmers within, but his voice remains steady.
This ain’t the part where I swear before God ‘n’ everybody I’m gonna change my ways. I’ve come too far down this path for that now. This ain’t even the part where I talk about how and why I’m gonna be the next WCF World Champ.
Fast-forward, past scenes of systematic brutality. Reb’s jaw tightens as he watches the beating yet again, his ego not yet assuaged. On the screen before him, the WCF Champion raises a microphone to his lips, inaudible words spilling out in double time. Like a latter-day gunslinger, Johnny aims the remote at his DVD player and presses a button. His on-screen rival mentions the GWC title, the WCF title, insists he can’t be dethroned. Pause.
GWC champion, my ass! You ain’t nothin’ but a low-down, dirty, rotten thief!
The remote comes up again, the scene changes. Torture and Reb are in the ring again, but their roles are reversed. This time it’s Reb with the chair. The audience goes wild, spurring Johnny to ever-greater heights of physical abuse. The Inveterate Confederate smiles as he watches the replay – a smile neither of malice nor wickedness, but satisfaction.
You hear that, Torture?
The television’s volume suddenly amplifies, the cheering of the crowd growing in intensity.
That is the sound of your imminent ruin.
Johnny stops the playback altogether. The screen before him goes dark. Boyish features arrange themselves into a thoughtful expression.
Sometimes a man feels a higher callin’, somethin’ that forces him to look and act beyond the immediate. Fate, destiny, Karma…whatever you wanna call it.
Reb shrugs, his gaze still directed at the darkened screen.
Bottom line, Torture: These fans – they deserve better. Last night, that was just a foretaste of what’s to come. Because, y’see, I’ve realized my callin’.
Johnny takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly.
There is a reason that I’m the number one contender. I’m not the best man for the task – I am the only man. The only one possessed of enough moral flexibility to do what needs to be done. The only one ruthless enough to stand up and give you what you got comin’.
Reb stops for a moment, his gaze darkening. His thoughts are chaotic, most of them defying explanation.
Before you stain that precious WCF belt any further, I am gonna remove it from your possession. I may not be particularly worthy of the honor, but all else bein’ equal, I’m a far worthier man than you…
Rewind. Freeze. Advance frame-by-frame.
A steely, ice-blue gaze takes it all in dispassionately.
Rewind.
I was caught up in the thrill of the hunt. I can admit that. All I could see was a golden opportunity, handed to me on a silver platter.
Freeze.
The image onscreen shows Dake Ken, arms raised in triumph, as erstwhile partner Johnny Reb leans against the ropes, searching the stage area for an absent competitor.
I haven’t been a very good person of late. I’ve done whatever it took to get ahead. My motto: At any cost.
Johnny’s eyes take on a faraway look, as if he is seeing something beyond the four walls of his spare-furnished living room.
Didn’t realize the price I would pay. Not ‘til it was too late. Family: incommunicado. Mother, Father, brother – none of ‘em will so much as talk to me these days. Friends: virtually nonexistent. I have to live with that. I can… live with that.
Frame by frame, the image on the TV screen moves forward; life in halting, jerky slow-motion.
Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss that wide-eyed, innocent Southern boy the most. I didn’t even appreciate that, until Dake Ken opened my eyes and reminded me who I was…
Who I am.
Color rises to Johnny’s cheeks as he watches the screen; something beyond anger simmers within, but his voice remains steady.
This ain’t the part where I swear before God ‘n’ everybody I’m gonna change my ways. I’ve come too far down this path for that now. This ain’t even the part where I talk about how and why I’m gonna be the next WCF World Champ.
Fast-forward, past scenes of systematic brutality. Reb’s jaw tightens as he watches the beating yet again, his ego not yet assuaged. On the screen before him, the WCF Champion raises a microphone to his lips, inaudible words spilling out in double time. Like a latter-day gunslinger, Johnny aims the remote at his DVD player and presses a button. His on-screen rival mentions the GWC title, the WCF title, insists he can’t be dethroned. Pause.
GWC champion, my ass! You ain’t nothin’ but a low-down, dirty, rotten thief!
The remote comes up again, the scene changes. Torture and Reb are in the ring again, but their roles are reversed. This time it’s Reb with the chair. The audience goes wild, spurring Johnny to ever-greater heights of physical abuse. The Inveterate Confederate smiles as he watches the replay – a smile neither of malice nor wickedness, but satisfaction.
You hear that, Torture?
The television’s volume suddenly amplifies, the cheering of the crowd growing in intensity.
That is the sound of your imminent ruin.
Johnny stops the playback altogether. The screen before him goes dark. Boyish features arrange themselves into a thoughtful expression.
Sometimes a man feels a higher callin’, somethin’ that forces him to look and act beyond the immediate. Fate, destiny, Karma…whatever you wanna call it.
Reb shrugs, his gaze still directed at the darkened screen.
Bottom line, Torture: These fans – they deserve better. Last night, that was just a foretaste of what’s to come. Because, y’see, I’ve realized my callin’.
Johnny takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly.
There is a reason that I’m the number one contender. I’m not the best man for the task – I am the only man. The only one possessed of enough moral flexibility to do what needs to be done. The only one ruthless enough to stand up and give you what you got comin’.
Reb stops for a moment, his gaze darkening. His thoughts are chaotic, most of them defying explanation.
Before you stain that precious WCF belt any further, I am gonna remove it from your possession. I may not be particularly worthy of the honor, but all else bein’ equal, I’m a far worthier man than you…
