Post by Johnny Reb on Jun 27, 2009 22:05:13 GMT -5
It’s dark as Johnny Reb steps out onto the back porch, the quarter moon already high and casting a faint light across an open expanse of lawn behind the condo. He is alone this night – Dixie gone out of town on a gig with her band – and feeling contemplative. Leaning against the railing that separates his porch from the grass, ubiquitous highball in his hand, Johnny looks out across the sea of manicured blades, their color indeterminate in the diffuse light. Fireflies wink at each other in erratic patterns.
Johnny: I shouldn’t be surprised, honestly. In addition to an astonishin’ly inaccurate recapitulation of the last days of the GWC an’ my subsequent employment with this fine establishment, it appears that Torture is likewise incapable of graspin’ so simple a thing as logic.
Reb shakes his head slowly.
Johnny: To insist that I never defeated him because our most recent confrontation was a ladder match is, at best, fallacious and at worst, a bald-faced lie. It would be foolish, I suppose, to expect any better. Yet the insult is compounded by this claim that the GWC title in my possession is a counterfeit; part of an elaborate, childish scheme to ensure his own continuance as champion of that now-defunct company.
He lifts the glass, takes a sip, and shrugs.
Johnny: No matter. I’m sure it’s the sort of thing that can be straightened out by attorneys. If the insinuation was meant, by some obscure means, to impact on my strategy for takin’ the WCF title for myself, alas… the plan has gone awry.
Y’see, it’s long since time to lay the past to rest. That chapter in my life is over. This… is the beginning of a new one.
Johnny’s gaze travels skyward, taking in the sliver of moon set against a backdrop of violet.
Johnny: When I first arrived here, I made my intentions plain. I came for gold, an’ gold I shall have. Fact of the matter is, I’d have achieved that objective a month ago – if it weren’t for Torture’s little intervention while the ref wasn’t lookin’.
Honor is not yet satisfied, an’ I will not so easily be disregarded.
Reb turns as a distant movement catches his attention, presenting a shadowed profile. His expression is still pensive, jaw set with determination.
Johnny: It seems, however, that both my opponents for this upcomin’ event are more focused on each other than they are on me. An’ that plays in my favor. So what if Torture spent the last few weeks sittin’ on his backside? You’ll notice it didn’t hurt the ratin’s any. There were no fewer seats filled for the absence of one overblown, struttin’ turkey.
A slight smile tugs the corners of his lips.
Johnny: Plans. Dake Ken has a plan. He always has one of those. He goes to great lengths to assure us all that he has his strategy all worked out. Torture has a plan; a fiendishly clever an’ diabolical scheme, I’m sure. Everybody has a goddamn plan.
Trouble with plans, though… They don’t leave a lot of room for adaptation. The disadvantage lies not with the most obvious target, nor with the man who has toiled week in and week out to earn his shot. No. The detriment is with the man – or men – who fail to adapt. Then again, this is, what? Sixth grade science stuff? Survival of the fittest, evolution.
Reb kills the rest of his drink in a long draught, setting the glass on the broad top of the railing as he turns his attention back to the skies.
Johnny: A plan alone can’t stand in the face of resiliency, the ability to change with the circumstances, to innovate. That’s why a three-way match suits me just fine. I’ve hardly ever lost one of those. Four way? Handicap? That’s me all over. Damn near every time I’m in a situation where it looks like the odds are stacked against me, I’m the one walkin’ away with the victory.
There is a significant pause as Johnny turns away from the panoramic view.
Johnny: An’ come tomorrow night, that’s how the tale will be told. No more the perpetual underdog, I will… be… champion.
Johnny: I shouldn’t be surprised, honestly. In addition to an astonishin’ly inaccurate recapitulation of the last days of the GWC an’ my subsequent employment with this fine establishment, it appears that Torture is likewise incapable of graspin’ so simple a thing as logic.
Reb shakes his head slowly.
Johnny: To insist that I never defeated him because our most recent confrontation was a ladder match is, at best, fallacious and at worst, a bald-faced lie. It would be foolish, I suppose, to expect any better. Yet the insult is compounded by this claim that the GWC title in my possession is a counterfeit; part of an elaborate, childish scheme to ensure his own continuance as champion of that now-defunct company.
He lifts the glass, takes a sip, and shrugs.
Johnny: No matter. I’m sure it’s the sort of thing that can be straightened out by attorneys. If the insinuation was meant, by some obscure means, to impact on my strategy for takin’ the WCF title for myself, alas… the plan has gone awry.
Y’see, it’s long since time to lay the past to rest. That chapter in my life is over. This… is the beginning of a new one.
Johnny’s gaze travels skyward, taking in the sliver of moon set against a backdrop of violet.
Johnny: When I first arrived here, I made my intentions plain. I came for gold, an’ gold I shall have. Fact of the matter is, I’d have achieved that objective a month ago – if it weren’t for Torture’s little intervention while the ref wasn’t lookin’.
Honor is not yet satisfied, an’ I will not so easily be disregarded.
Reb turns as a distant movement catches his attention, presenting a shadowed profile. His expression is still pensive, jaw set with determination.
Johnny: It seems, however, that both my opponents for this upcomin’ event are more focused on each other than they are on me. An’ that plays in my favor. So what if Torture spent the last few weeks sittin’ on his backside? You’ll notice it didn’t hurt the ratin’s any. There were no fewer seats filled for the absence of one overblown, struttin’ turkey.
A slight smile tugs the corners of his lips.
Johnny: Plans. Dake Ken has a plan. He always has one of those. He goes to great lengths to assure us all that he has his strategy all worked out. Torture has a plan; a fiendishly clever an’ diabolical scheme, I’m sure. Everybody has a goddamn plan.
Trouble with plans, though… They don’t leave a lot of room for adaptation. The disadvantage lies not with the most obvious target, nor with the man who has toiled week in and week out to earn his shot. No. The detriment is with the man – or men – who fail to adapt. Then again, this is, what? Sixth grade science stuff? Survival of the fittest, evolution.
Reb kills the rest of his drink in a long draught, setting the glass on the broad top of the railing as he turns his attention back to the skies.
Johnny: A plan alone can’t stand in the face of resiliency, the ability to change with the circumstances, to innovate. That’s why a three-way match suits me just fine. I’ve hardly ever lost one of those. Four way? Handicap? That’s me all over. Damn near every time I’m in a situation where it looks like the odds are stacked against me, I’m the one walkin’ away with the victory.
There is a significant pause as Johnny turns away from the panoramic view.
Johnny: An’ come tomorrow night, that’s how the tale will be told. No more the perpetual underdog, I will… be… champion.
