Post by Johnny Reb on Jun 6, 2009 13:31:23 GMT -5
Somewhere, far out in the country, two ancient roads intersect. Paved only with dirt and gravel, bounded by a wood, the juncture plainly sees little use. Above, clouds race across the purple-blue night sky, intermittently obscuring the full moon shining down from the heavens. A hunting owl’s cry echoes in the distance.
Standing in the middle of the crossroad is Johnny Reb, dressed, for some obscure reason, in his ring gear. The same breeze that chases the clouds overhead stirs his shaggy blond hair as he gazes appraisingly at his surroundings.
Johnny Reb:
Y’know, all over the South, there’s legends of all manner of supernatural goin’s-on. One, in particular – an’ there are many variations on the ol’ tale – has to do with meetin’ a stranger at a crossroads at midnight.
The hint of an amused smile appears on his lips.
Johnny Reb:
Now the stories differ dependin’ on who you ask. Sometimes, you gotta bring an offerin’. For example, a couple of silver coins.
Johnny reaches into a coat pocket as he speaks, withdrawing a pair of silver dollars.
Johnny Reb:
You bury ‘em right in the middle of the intersection…
Reb kneels, scraping out a shallow depression with his hands, and drops the coins in it. After covering them up, he stands and brushes road dirt from his hands and clothes. The wind picks up slightly, shoving the sparse clouds into one another.
Johnny Reb:
Then ‘long about midnight, a stranger comes. It’s said he’ll teach you ev’rythin’ you need to know to be the best. Lotsa ol’ blues singers claim they learned to play guitar from the Devil hisself. The stranger at the crossroads.
The grin turns wistful, and he shakes his head slowly.
Johnny Reb:
Lotta ol’ superstition. Talent is inherent. Skill, attained only through hard work an’ commitment.
Reb casts his gaze to the skies as a low growl of thunder sounds from overhead.
Johnny Reb:
On the other hand…. Well, there’s more things under Heaven than are dreamt of, an’ all that. Who can really blame a fella for wantin’ to gain an edge?
After last week, I reckon I need all the help I can get.
Johnny’s expression turns dour as he recalls the match at Aftermath. A hard-fought battle, nearly won; the world championship, almost his. Almost….
Slowly, the Inveterate Confederate begins pacing a wide counterclockwise circle around the crossroad, as if trying to banish thoughts of failure from his consciousness. The moonlight seems to grow dimmer in response to his darkening reflections.
Johnny Reb:
Just outta reach. That title shoulda been mine. Instead, I’m bein’ offered a consolation prize….
Not that I don’t want it. That GWC strap means more to me than it ever will to someone like Torture. I gave ev’rythin’ I had – ev’rythin’ I was – to that company. Even sold my soul to Danny Vice, figuratively, for a far lesser prize.
Reb pauses in his perambulations, looking contemplatively at the ring of slow-settling dust in his wake. The air around him has grown still and oppressive. Johnny removes his hat and fans himself with it in a futile attempt to conquer the evening’s heat.
Johnny Reb:
A ladder match. An’ if I win, I’ll be the last ever GWC World Champion. It’s a gesture, nothin’ more. Then what? I fade quietly into the background, wait my turn like a good boy?
A slow, negative shake of the head.
Johnny Reb:
No, sir. That ain’t how it’s gonna play out. If – when – I defeat Torture, well… that can only prove I deserve another shot.
Johnny’s hand strays to his pocket again and withdraws a watch on a chain. He flips the case open and checks the time: one minute to midnight. Closing the case again, he is about to replace it when a large, feathered creature shoots out of the treeline, passing within inches of his face. Reb turns to track the owl with his eyes until it vanishes from sight. He shakes off a sense of vague unease, stands a little straighter.
Johnny Reb:
Y’see, I have fought with monsters. I have gazed into the Abyss. I know what evil lurks in the hearts of men. An’ that’s why I ain’t afraid of no devil –
A bright flash of lightning suddenly splits the sky, coinciding with a thunderclap loud enough to shake the surrounding trees to their roots. Johnny scowls up at the clouds as the first drops of rain begin to fall, slow and heavy, to disappear into the dust of the road.
Johnny Reb:
– nor hoodoo trickster. Creatures of myth and legend are bound by certain rules. The real danger comes from the dirty an’ underhanded things men are willin’ to do to one another.
The Inveterate Confederate flashes a knowing grin.
Johnny Reb:
Now I ain’t no stranger to underhanded dealin’s. I got no problem doin’ whatever it takes to win – within reason. There are limits. But in this case… Well, assumin’ the ol’ superstitions have even a little truth in ‘em, I gotta ask myself one o’ them rhetorical-type questions: Would I be willin’ to make a deal with whatever comes down this road?
Reb turns in every direction, as rain starts falling faster and thicker, his eyes traveling the length of each path in turn only to find himself utterly alone. He shrugs.
Johnny Reb:
I reckon … well, I reckon we won’t ever know for sure.
As he turns away, Johnny doesn’t see the lone figure stalking to the middle of the crossroads.
Standing in the middle of the crossroad is Johnny Reb, dressed, for some obscure reason, in his ring gear. The same breeze that chases the clouds overhead stirs his shaggy blond hair as he gazes appraisingly at his surroundings.
Johnny Reb:
Y’know, all over the South, there’s legends of all manner of supernatural goin’s-on. One, in particular – an’ there are many variations on the ol’ tale – has to do with meetin’ a stranger at a crossroads at midnight.
The hint of an amused smile appears on his lips.
Johnny Reb:
Now the stories differ dependin’ on who you ask. Sometimes, you gotta bring an offerin’. For example, a couple of silver coins.
Johnny reaches into a coat pocket as he speaks, withdrawing a pair of silver dollars.
Johnny Reb:
You bury ‘em right in the middle of the intersection…
Reb kneels, scraping out a shallow depression with his hands, and drops the coins in it. After covering them up, he stands and brushes road dirt from his hands and clothes. The wind picks up slightly, shoving the sparse clouds into one another.
Johnny Reb:
Then ‘long about midnight, a stranger comes. It’s said he’ll teach you ev’rythin’ you need to know to be the best. Lotsa ol’ blues singers claim they learned to play guitar from the Devil hisself. The stranger at the crossroads.
The grin turns wistful, and he shakes his head slowly.
Johnny Reb:
Lotta ol’ superstition. Talent is inherent. Skill, attained only through hard work an’ commitment.
Reb casts his gaze to the skies as a low growl of thunder sounds from overhead.
Johnny Reb:
On the other hand…. Well, there’s more things under Heaven than are dreamt of, an’ all that. Who can really blame a fella for wantin’ to gain an edge?
After last week, I reckon I need all the help I can get.
Johnny’s expression turns dour as he recalls the match at Aftermath. A hard-fought battle, nearly won; the world championship, almost his. Almost….
Slowly, the Inveterate Confederate begins pacing a wide counterclockwise circle around the crossroad, as if trying to banish thoughts of failure from his consciousness. The moonlight seems to grow dimmer in response to his darkening reflections.
Johnny Reb:
Just outta reach. That title shoulda been mine. Instead, I’m bein’ offered a consolation prize….
Not that I don’t want it. That GWC strap means more to me than it ever will to someone like Torture. I gave ev’rythin’ I had – ev’rythin’ I was – to that company. Even sold my soul to Danny Vice, figuratively, for a far lesser prize.
Reb pauses in his perambulations, looking contemplatively at the ring of slow-settling dust in his wake. The air around him has grown still and oppressive. Johnny removes his hat and fans himself with it in a futile attempt to conquer the evening’s heat.
Johnny Reb:
A ladder match. An’ if I win, I’ll be the last ever GWC World Champion. It’s a gesture, nothin’ more. Then what? I fade quietly into the background, wait my turn like a good boy?
A slow, negative shake of the head.
Johnny Reb:
No, sir. That ain’t how it’s gonna play out. If – when – I defeat Torture, well… that can only prove I deserve another shot.
Johnny’s hand strays to his pocket again and withdraws a watch on a chain. He flips the case open and checks the time: one minute to midnight. Closing the case again, he is about to replace it when a large, feathered creature shoots out of the treeline, passing within inches of his face. Reb turns to track the owl with his eyes until it vanishes from sight. He shakes off a sense of vague unease, stands a little straighter.
Johnny Reb:
Y’see, I have fought with monsters. I have gazed into the Abyss. I know what evil lurks in the hearts of men. An’ that’s why I ain’t afraid of no devil –
A bright flash of lightning suddenly splits the sky, coinciding with a thunderclap loud enough to shake the surrounding trees to their roots. Johnny scowls up at the clouds as the first drops of rain begin to fall, slow and heavy, to disappear into the dust of the road.
Johnny Reb:
– nor hoodoo trickster. Creatures of myth and legend are bound by certain rules. The real danger comes from the dirty an’ underhanded things men are willin’ to do to one another.
The Inveterate Confederate flashes a knowing grin.
Johnny Reb:
Now I ain’t no stranger to underhanded dealin’s. I got no problem doin’ whatever it takes to win – within reason. There are limits. But in this case… Well, assumin’ the ol’ superstitions have even a little truth in ‘em, I gotta ask myself one o’ them rhetorical-type questions: Would I be willin’ to make a deal with whatever comes down this road?
Reb turns in every direction, as rain starts falling faster and thicker, his eyes traveling the length of each path in turn only to find himself utterly alone. He shrugs.
Johnny Reb:
I reckon … well, I reckon we won’t ever know for sure.
As he turns away, Johnny doesn’t see the lone figure stalking to the middle of the crossroads.
