Post by Johnny Reb on May 31, 2009 9:41:32 GMT -5
The hour is late, well past midnight, and Johnny Reb lies awake. Beside him, slumbering peacefully, is Dixie Pride. Johnny turns to regard her in the semidarkness, envying her the sweet oblivion of sleep. Though his body is exhausted, his thoughts are in turmoil, denying him such a mundane comfort. With a soft sigh, he slips quietly from beneath the covers and makes his way downstairs.
At the foot of the stairs, he flips a switch. A matched pair of lamps, set on end tables flanking the long, beige sofa, pour their harsh incandescence into the room. Johnny waits for a moment as his eyes adjust to the brilliance. Tomorrow night promises a turning point in his career. A title win would cement his place in the firmament of WCF superstars. A loss at this crucial stage, on the other hand…
Johnny saunters past an open space laughingly referred to in his condo’s floorplan as a “dining area,” and proceeds into the kitchen. There, he pours himself a glass of his favorite libation before returning to the living room. His eyes skim the slightly disorganized multitude of framed photographs, newspaper clippings, and other memorabilia of his wrestling career. But there is no inspiration to be found among those mementoes of the past. Not tonight. Not on the eve of the single most important match with which he has ever been faced. Not with the prospect of the WCF title hanging over his head in an increasingly Damoclean fashion.
A creak at the top of the stairs warns him that his absence has been noted. Johnny looks up to see Dixie, wrapped in a sheer robe of lavender, gazing at him from the staircase. He manages a trace of a smile for her.
Dixie:
You’re doin’ yourself no good, worryin’ like this, Johnny.
Johnny:
I ain’t worried, darlin’.
Dixie puts her hands on her hips and fixes him with a stare. Johnny shrugs nonchalantly.
Dixie:
You’ve done everythin’ you can to prepare yourself. Now you need to rest.
Johnny shakes his head wistfully. He thinks of the competition ahead, as he has so many days past, but his thoughts are colored by the immediacy of the event. In less than twenty-four hours, his career would reach new heights or come crashing down. Keyed up, simultaneously apprehensive and excited, Johnny shifts restlessly away from her and begins pacing.
Johnny:
It’s just… Dixie, this ain’t just any ol’ match. This is…
He stops pacing long enough to take a sip of his beverage.
Dixie:
Sugar, I appreciate the gravity of the situation. I really do. I know you’ve been workin’ toward this for a long time. But you’re too concerned with speculatin’ on what might be.
Reb allows himself to be coaxed toward the couch, where he notices, for the first time, a pair of accent pillows that seem to have sprung up out of nowhere. With a mental shrug, he sits beside Dixie. She pries the glass from his fingers and sets it on the coffee table, next to a hitherto overlooked jar candle. Glancing around the room, he spots more evidence of feminine tinkering: throw rugs scattered around the floor, valances topping the windows, and his entire collection of DVDs neatly organized. As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about, now his personal life – like his professional life – seems to be moving at a far more rapid pace than Johnny is comfortable with.
On the other hand, he considers, maybe it isn’t so bad. Dixie’s taste in décor isn’t overly effeminate, and he enjoys her company. Too soon, yet, to contemplate a more permanent arrangement… With some difficulty, he wrangles his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Dixie isn’t wrong. He’s trained, he’s scouted, he’s planned. There isn’t much else to do but embrace whatever may happen.
Johnny:
You’re right, hon. Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout.
Smiling warmly, she puts an arm around his shoulders.
Dixie:
‘Course there ain’t. It’s only a matter of time, Johnny. If you don’t win this one, there’ll be other opportunities.
Johnny:
No. The time is now. Torture’s been top dog in this organization for far too long. He’s overconfident, lazy. But the law of averages is against him.
How many times can a man successfully defend a title? How many victories does it take? How long is that luck gonna hold out?
No, things are changin’, Dixie. This ain’t Torture’s world anymore. The status quo is shiftin’; the boat’s startin’ to rock…
Reb reaches for his drink and takes a hefty draught before setting it back on the table. His smile broadens as he recalls a sound he hasn’t heard in almost a year: an entire arena calling his name, urging him to be their hero and depose the tyrant champion. Two weeks in a row, currently. Tomorrow would make three.
Johnny:
Dixie, with you, an’ all them fans behind me… well, there ain’t no way I can lose. When I claim the WCF title, it won’t be for myself alone. It’s gonna be for every poor bastard out there that’s ever paid good money to see Torture knocked down a peg or two, only to be disappointed in the end. From now on, I am the main event.
Dixie leans closer to Johnny, her smile taking on a far less innocent cast.
Dixie:
That’s more like it. Now, what d’ya say we go upstairs and get some… sleep…
Needing no more prompting, Johnny rises from his seat and takes Dixie’s hand. They cross the room toward the staircase, turning out the lights once again.
At the foot of the stairs, he flips a switch. A matched pair of lamps, set on end tables flanking the long, beige sofa, pour their harsh incandescence into the room. Johnny waits for a moment as his eyes adjust to the brilliance. Tomorrow night promises a turning point in his career. A title win would cement his place in the firmament of WCF superstars. A loss at this crucial stage, on the other hand…
Johnny saunters past an open space laughingly referred to in his condo’s floorplan as a “dining area,” and proceeds into the kitchen. There, he pours himself a glass of his favorite libation before returning to the living room. His eyes skim the slightly disorganized multitude of framed photographs, newspaper clippings, and other memorabilia of his wrestling career. But there is no inspiration to be found among those mementoes of the past. Not tonight. Not on the eve of the single most important match with which he has ever been faced. Not with the prospect of the WCF title hanging over his head in an increasingly Damoclean fashion.
A creak at the top of the stairs warns him that his absence has been noted. Johnny looks up to see Dixie, wrapped in a sheer robe of lavender, gazing at him from the staircase. He manages a trace of a smile for her.
Dixie:
You’re doin’ yourself no good, worryin’ like this, Johnny.
Johnny:
I ain’t worried, darlin’.
Dixie puts her hands on her hips and fixes him with a stare. Johnny shrugs nonchalantly.
Dixie:
You’ve done everythin’ you can to prepare yourself. Now you need to rest.
Johnny shakes his head wistfully. He thinks of the competition ahead, as he has so many days past, but his thoughts are colored by the immediacy of the event. In less than twenty-four hours, his career would reach new heights or come crashing down. Keyed up, simultaneously apprehensive and excited, Johnny shifts restlessly away from her and begins pacing.
Johnny:
It’s just… Dixie, this ain’t just any ol’ match. This is…
He stops pacing long enough to take a sip of his beverage.
Dixie:
Sugar, I appreciate the gravity of the situation. I really do. I know you’ve been workin’ toward this for a long time. But you’re too concerned with speculatin’ on what might be.
Reb allows himself to be coaxed toward the couch, where he notices, for the first time, a pair of accent pillows that seem to have sprung up out of nowhere. With a mental shrug, he sits beside Dixie. She pries the glass from his fingers and sets it on the coffee table, next to a hitherto overlooked jar candle. Glancing around the room, he spots more evidence of feminine tinkering: throw rugs scattered around the floor, valances topping the windows, and his entire collection of DVDs neatly organized. As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about, now his personal life – like his professional life – seems to be moving at a far more rapid pace than Johnny is comfortable with.
On the other hand, he considers, maybe it isn’t so bad. Dixie’s taste in décor isn’t overly effeminate, and he enjoys her company. Too soon, yet, to contemplate a more permanent arrangement… With some difficulty, he wrangles his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Dixie isn’t wrong. He’s trained, he’s scouted, he’s planned. There isn’t much else to do but embrace whatever may happen.
Johnny:
You’re right, hon. Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout.
Smiling warmly, she puts an arm around his shoulders.
Dixie:
‘Course there ain’t. It’s only a matter of time, Johnny. If you don’t win this one, there’ll be other opportunities.
Johnny:
No. The time is now. Torture’s been top dog in this organization for far too long. He’s overconfident, lazy. But the law of averages is against him.
How many times can a man successfully defend a title? How many victories does it take? How long is that luck gonna hold out?
No, things are changin’, Dixie. This ain’t Torture’s world anymore. The status quo is shiftin’; the boat’s startin’ to rock…
Reb reaches for his drink and takes a hefty draught before setting it back on the table. His smile broadens as he recalls a sound he hasn’t heard in almost a year: an entire arena calling his name, urging him to be their hero and depose the tyrant champion. Two weeks in a row, currently. Tomorrow would make three.
Johnny:
Dixie, with you, an’ all them fans behind me… well, there ain’t no way I can lose. When I claim the WCF title, it won’t be for myself alone. It’s gonna be for every poor bastard out there that’s ever paid good money to see Torture knocked down a peg or two, only to be disappointed in the end. From now on, I am the main event.
Dixie leans closer to Johnny, her smile taking on a far less innocent cast.
Dixie:
That’s more like it. Now, what d’ya say we go upstairs and get some… sleep…
Needing no more prompting, Johnny rises from his seat and takes Dixie’s hand. They cross the room toward the staircase, turning out the lights once again.
