Post by Johnny Reb on Jun 22, 2009 11:45:51 GMT -5
Late afternoon, and Hank Brown is waiting somewhere in the labyrinthine corridors of the arena. Empty yet of patrons, it will be only hours before the arena is filled with devotees of the WCF pantheon. He checks his watch again and heaves a sigh. His appointment is running late; no surprise, there, but one would think a little consideration… No, of course not. Not for him.
A light tread at the far end of the corridor draws his attention away from the beginnings of morose reflection and the endless contemplation of just what it was he got a degree in journalism for. He gestures imperiously to an unseen cameraman, and obediently, he shifts the focus at the approaching figure of Johnny Reb, hurrying along with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Reb shoots Hank an uncharacteristic grin.
Johnny Reb: Hiya, Hank. How’s it goin’?
Briefly, the interviewer wonders if he’s stepped into some alternate dimension, where everything is ass-backward and flat out wrong.
Hank Brown: Afternoon, Johnny. I was expecting you sooner…
Reb frowns slightly at the admonition in Brown’s tone.
Johnny: Traffic. Y’know how it is.
Hank: Hrm. Well, let’s just hurry this along, shall we?
Johnny cocks an eyebrow and gazes searchingly at Hank for a moment. Then he grins once more.
Johnny: Oh, I see. Hot date, huh?
Hank: Er – something like that. Speaking of, where is Miss Pride?
Johnny: She’ll be along presently. I am here mainly to fulfill my contractual obligation to give you a few minutes of my time at random intervals. So…
Reb’s expectant trailing-off isn’t lost on the journalist, but he lets the ellipsis hang in the air a moment more, trying to re-establish his own dominance in this situation.
Hank: Well, Johnny, I expect you have some rather definitive thoughts on tonight’s match. Care to share those with our viewers?
Again, that disarming smile, and Hank wonders what Johnny is up to.
Johnny: What’s to think about, Hank? I gotta put up with Dake Ken long enough for one of us – and I don’t much care who – to pin that hot dog-swillin’ horse’s ass, Logan, or his often overly loquacious and equally vexin’ counterpart.
Hank: I don’t think the Team of Treachery is going to make it that easy on either of you, Johnny.
Johnny shakes his head slowly, still smiling.
Johnny: Oh, ye of little faith. When was the last time you saw one of them in a title match? Or hell, even a contendership match?
Hank opens his mouth to reply, but Johnny steamrolls right over him.
Johnny: An’ don’t gimme none o’ that baloney about how many titles either of those two cretins have held in the past. That’s just what it is – the past. Gone. Over. Done.
The interviewer mutters something sotto voce about other persons that are overdone, but Reb’s hearing is more acute than he had counted on. The Inveterate Confederate smiles again, the one we’re all used to this time, with that hint of smug malice.
Johnny: I’ll let that one slide, this time, Hank. You might wanna reserve those comments for your own private reflection in future.
Refusing to be intimidated, Hank locks his gaze with Johnny’s, just long enough to make his point.
Hank: So… you seem to be in a rather boisterous mood today…
Johnny: If you were gettin’ more tail than a Red Lobster, you’d be in a good mood, too.
Brown rubs at his temples, as if he feels the beginnings of a stress headache, then makes an elaborate show of looking at his watch.
Hank: Good lord, you’re almost as bad as Tank. I think we’re out of time now.
Johnny: Works for me.
Hank Brown is left slowly shaking his head in exasperation as Johnny Reb strolls away.
A light tread at the far end of the corridor draws his attention away from the beginnings of morose reflection and the endless contemplation of just what it was he got a degree in journalism for. He gestures imperiously to an unseen cameraman, and obediently, he shifts the focus at the approaching figure of Johnny Reb, hurrying along with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Reb shoots Hank an uncharacteristic grin.
Johnny Reb: Hiya, Hank. How’s it goin’?
Briefly, the interviewer wonders if he’s stepped into some alternate dimension, where everything is ass-backward and flat out wrong.
Hank Brown: Afternoon, Johnny. I was expecting you sooner…
Reb frowns slightly at the admonition in Brown’s tone.
Johnny: Traffic. Y’know how it is.
Hank: Hrm. Well, let’s just hurry this along, shall we?
Johnny cocks an eyebrow and gazes searchingly at Hank for a moment. Then he grins once more.
Johnny: Oh, I see. Hot date, huh?
Hank: Er – something like that. Speaking of, where is Miss Pride?
Johnny: She’ll be along presently. I am here mainly to fulfill my contractual obligation to give you a few minutes of my time at random intervals. So…
Reb’s expectant trailing-off isn’t lost on the journalist, but he lets the ellipsis hang in the air a moment more, trying to re-establish his own dominance in this situation.
Hank: Well, Johnny, I expect you have some rather definitive thoughts on tonight’s match. Care to share those with our viewers?
Again, that disarming smile, and Hank wonders what Johnny is up to.
Johnny: What’s to think about, Hank? I gotta put up with Dake Ken long enough for one of us – and I don’t much care who – to pin that hot dog-swillin’ horse’s ass, Logan, or his often overly loquacious and equally vexin’ counterpart.
Hank: I don’t think the Team of Treachery is going to make it that easy on either of you, Johnny.
Johnny shakes his head slowly, still smiling.
Johnny: Oh, ye of little faith. When was the last time you saw one of them in a title match? Or hell, even a contendership match?
Hank opens his mouth to reply, but Johnny steamrolls right over him.
Johnny: An’ don’t gimme none o’ that baloney about how many titles either of those two cretins have held in the past. That’s just what it is – the past. Gone. Over. Done.
The interviewer mutters something sotto voce about other persons that are overdone, but Reb’s hearing is more acute than he had counted on. The Inveterate Confederate smiles again, the one we’re all used to this time, with that hint of smug malice.
Johnny: I’ll let that one slide, this time, Hank. You might wanna reserve those comments for your own private reflection in future.
Refusing to be intimidated, Hank locks his gaze with Johnny’s, just long enough to make his point.
Hank: So… you seem to be in a rather boisterous mood today…
Johnny: If you were gettin’ more tail than a Red Lobster, you’d be in a good mood, too.
Brown rubs at his temples, as if he feels the beginnings of a stress headache, then makes an elaborate show of looking at his watch.
Hank: Good lord, you’re almost as bad as Tank. I think we’re out of time now.
Johnny: Works for me.
Hank Brown is left slowly shaking his head in exasperation as Johnny Reb strolls away.
