Post by Johnny Reb on Jun 28, 2009 10:13:27 GMT -5
The day is overcast, and a cool breeze brings relief from the all-too-seasonable heat of early summer. Within the confines of the private parking lot, fenced off to afford some security from rabid fans, Johnny Reb and Dixie Pride unload their belongings from the trunk of a rental car. A portly security guard looks on disinterestedly.
Johnny grumbles something inaudible as he rearranges his burden: his duffel, a vinyl garment bag, and Dixie’s laptop. Side by side, they start making their way toward the rear entrance, dodging loitering staff and haphazardly parked semis.
Dixie: Ok, ok, so the flight was delayed. We’re here now. There’s still plenty of time.
Reb shakes his head.
Johnny: It ain’t that, Dix… It’s that goddamned Dake Ken.
She sighs theatrically and quickens her pace to match his.
Dixie: So? Who cares what he thinks?
Johnny: I – … Look, he ain’t got no right to say the things he said. To call me a coward. Nobody calls me that, y’hear?
Dixie hastens ahead to hold the door open. Johnny looks vaguely uncomfortable, all his gentlemanly instincts insisting that their roles should be reversed, though he hasn’t a free hand to open the door himself. Dixie smiles at him, amused at his discomfiture.
Dixie: Sugar, you an’ me both know it ain’t true. A coward wouldn’t have made it this far. A coward wouldn’t step into the ring with either of those brutes, let alone both of them. What you may or may not do to gain an advantage… that’s just necessity, hon.
Johnny gazes at Dixie for a moment, grateful for her sensible, reassuring presence. True, he’d been named coward – and worse – many times before. Truer still, the words had stung more when they’d come from his own family.
Johnny: It’s the principle of the thing, Dixie. You’re right: I am just doin’ whatever I gotta do to get the upper hand. Call me an opportunist, that’s fine. Connivin’, maybe.
With some difficulty, he manages a shrug as they continue their journey through the corridors.
Dixie: Actually, I kinda thought it was a little more offensive when he said you was worse than Torture. Better a coward than … that.
The Inveterate Confederate slows his pace again, forcefully reminded of that statement. Teeth clenched, he walks on in silence for a moment, Dixie at his side.
Johnny: All right, so I ain’t a nice guy. I ain’t here to be nice, to be anybody’s hero. Leave that to the ones with the savior complexes, the ones who need to hear the audience cheerin’ ‘em at every opportunity. I am followin’ my dream, my goals. There’s nothin’ wrong with that.
Dixie: Of course there ain’t, sugar. But gettin' stressed about it ain’t gonna do you no good. This is just like last time; you’re all high-strung again. Think about this, Johnny: you have been in the main event spotlight every week, for the last several weeks. If that ain’t enough for you…
Johnny: It is. Most folks wouldn’ta made it this far, this quickly. I know that, darlin’. To imply that I don’t deserve this shot…
Dixie: I know. Last time, Torture screwed you over. He won’t get a chance this time. He’s got you an’ Ken to worry about, an’ I sure as hell won’t let him –
Johnny draws up short and looks at her intently.
Johnny: No. Not tonight. You come with me to the ring, but when the bell sounds, I want you up the ramp and backstage. Ain’t no tellin’ what that low-down sidewinder’s gonna try to pull, just to keep that belt ‘round his waist.
She smiles, reaching up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
Dixie: Don’t you worry ‘bout me none, Johnny Reb. Torture’s gonna be too distracted to pull anythin’. Besides, I ain’t gonna interfere. Not unless I really have to.
Johnny: I don’t like it. Last time –
Dixie: Last time, we didn’t know as much as we do now. Hindsight an’ all that. I can take care of myself, sugar.
Johnny’s brow furrows with concern as she opens the door to his dressing room. Still unhappy with her insistence, he knows there’s nothing he can do when her mind is made up. With a feeling not unlike impending doom, he follows her inside, and closes the door.
Johnny grumbles something inaudible as he rearranges his burden: his duffel, a vinyl garment bag, and Dixie’s laptop. Side by side, they start making their way toward the rear entrance, dodging loitering staff and haphazardly parked semis.
Dixie: Ok, ok, so the flight was delayed. We’re here now. There’s still plenty of time.
Reb shakes his head.
Johnny: It ain’t that, Dix… It’s that goddamned Dake Ken.
She sighs theatrically and quickens her pace to match his.
Dixie: So? Who cares what he thinks?
Johnny: I – … Look, he ain’t got no right to say the things he said. To call me a coward. Nobody calls me that, y’hear?
Dixie hastens ahead to hold the door open. Johnny looks vaguely uncomfortable, all his gentlemanly instincts insisting that their roles should be reversed, though he hasn’t a free hand to open the door himself. Dixie smiles at him, amused at his discomfiture.
Dixie: Sugar, you an’ me both know it ain’t true. A coward wouldn’t have made it this far. A coward wouldn’t step into the ring with either of those brutes, let alone both of them. What you may or may not do to gain an advantage… that’s just necessity, hon.
Johnny gazes at Dixie for a moment, grateful for her sensible, reassuring presence. True, he’d been named coward – and worse – many times before. Truer still, the words had stung more when they’d come from his own family.
Johnny: It’s the principle of the thing, Dixie. You’re right: I am just doin’ whatever I gotta do to get the upper hand. Call me an opportunist, that’s fine. Connivin’, maybe.
With some difficulty, he manages a shrug as they continue their journey through the corridors.
Dixie: Actually, I kinda thought it was a little more offensive when he said you was worse than Torture. Better a coward than … that.
The Inveterate Confederate slows his pace again, forcefully reminded of that statement. Teeth clenched, he walks on in silence for a moment, Dixie at his side.
Johnny: All right, so I ain’t a nice guy. I ain’t here to be nice, to be anybody’s hero. Leave that to the ones with the savior complexes, the ones who need to hear the audience cheerin’ ‘em at every opportunity. I am followin’ my dream, my goals. There’s nothin’ wrong with that.
Dixie: Of course there ain’t, sugar. But gettin' stressed about it ain’t gonna do you no good. This is just like last time; you’re all high-strung again. Think about this, Johnny: you have been in the main event spotlight every week, for the last several weeks. If that ain’t enough for you…
Johnny: It is. Most folks wouldn’ta made it this far, this quickly. I know that, darlin’. To imply that I don’t deserve this shot…
Dixie: I know. Last time, Torture screwed you over. He won’t get a chance this time. He’s got you an’ Ken to worry about, an’ I sure as hell won’t let him –
Johnny draws up short and looks at her intently.
Johnny: No. Not tonight. You come with me to the ring, but when the bell sounds, I want you up the ramp and backstage. Ain’t no tellin’ what that low-down sidewinder’s gonna try to pull, just to keep that belt ‘round his waist.
She smiles, reaching up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
Dixie: Don’t you worry ‘bout me none, Johnny Reb. Torture’s gonna be too distracted to pull anythin’. Besides, I ain’t gonna interfere. Not unless I really have to.
Johnny: I don’t like it. Last time –
Dixie: Last time, we didn’t know as much as we do now. Hindsight an’ all that. I can take care of myself, sugar.
Johnny’s brow furrows with concern as she opens the door to his dressing room. Still unhappy with her insistence, he knows there’s nothing he can do when her mind is made up. With a feeling not unlike impending doom, he follows her inside, and closes the door.
