Post by Johnny Reb on Jul 5, 2009 12:26:46 GMT -5
Cool fluorescent light floods down on a clean, almost sterile, workout facility. The space is small, intimate, and crammed with every imaginable apparatus: treadmills, stationary bikes, ellipticals, weight machines of every description, and freeweights.
Johnny Reb is seated at a leg press, muscles tensing and easing with each repetition, until he loses himself in the rhythm, in his own thoughts. Sweat breaks out on his face, streams in rivulets down his neck, soaking his grey shirt.
Hard work is a poor substitute for cheatin’.
He smiles inwardly at the errant thought, knowing how backward – and how viable – the sentiment is. Yet his focus never wavers, legs pumping in that same mesmeric regularity: extending and retracting, over and over. A half-sensed metaphor flutters just out of conscious reach.
At last, exhausted, Johnny lowers the weight stack for a final time, reaching for a water bottle from the duffel at his side. He’s lost all track of time, doesn’t know that outside, the sun is setting; that crowds are gathering in open spaces across the country in preparation for an evening of pyrotechnic magic. He wouldn’t care if he did know. Only one thing drives him now; one thought, relentless in its persistence.
Two new figures enter the gym, familiar and unwelcome. Hank Brown and his attendant cameraman make a beeline for the Inveterate Confederate, who affects not to notice them immediately. Mopping perspiration from his brow, Reb waits a moment before acknowledging Brown’s presence with a nod.
Johnny: Afternoon, Hank. That time again, huh?
The interviewer’s eyes search Reb’s face, looking for some kind of cue, wondering what sort of mood he’s in this time.
Hank: Well, you know, being in the main event spotlight for the last couple of months, you sort of owe it to the fans.
Johnny snorts in derision and rolls his eyes.
Johnny: The fans got no idea what they want, Hank. They cheer me when I take on Torture, and hate me the rest of the time. It’s essentially Pavlovian.
Brown sighs inwardly, knowing his subject won’t make it easy on him this time.
Hank: All that aside, Johnny, surely you’d like to take the opportunity to comment on what happened at Blast.
This assumption is met with a noncommittal shrug.
Johnny: What’s to say, Hank? I got robbed again. Kinda gettin' used to it.
Hank raises a quizzical eyebrow.
Hank: Robbed? You care to elaborate on that?
Johnny: You saw the match, same as anyone else. You saw what happened. I had Torture, right on the verge of submittin’. An’ then Dake Ken came along, an’….well, that was that.
Hank’s expression turns doubtful.
Hank: Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it…
Abruptly, Reb rises from his seat, takes one menacing step toward the interviewer. Hank responds by taking a step backward.
Hank: I mean, not that it’s not valid. Looks like you might have a chance for a little payback this week, though.
Johnny: Little enough. That sanctimonious blowhard has become the bane of my existence, and I’d much rather have a one on one rematch. An’ I will have it; you’d better believe that.
Brown clears his throat nervously and checks a set of notecards in his hand. Deciding that the conversation has already turned irrevocably from his original intent, he tucks the cards into a pocket.
Hank: Right. Well, what about your other opponent? Or your partner, for that matter?
Reb shakes his head slowly.
Johnny: Guiliano? He may have proven himself a force to be reckoned with… among the midcarders. But honestly, the consigliore of a Sicilian crime family as the United States champ? I mean, he ain’t even American. It’s a disgrace.
Brown considers making a counterpoint, but promptly dismisses it as a bad idea.
Johnny: An’ as to my… partner…
Reb’s tone makes his distaste clear.
Johnny: Well, all I can say on that account, Hank, is that my focus will be in the ring, on my opponents. If Mikami can’t extricate his skull from his own hindquarters, that ain’t my problem. But if he causes us to lose the match, he’s gonna wish his boss had taken him outta action last week.
Hank: I see… Thank you, Johnny. I think that about wraps it up.
As he speaks, Brown gestures urgently to the cameraman to start moving toward the egress. The Inveterate Confederate watches their departing haste with a detached amusement. He isn’t overly concerned with either his partner or the US champ. His mind wanders back to its original course, all his intellectual resources bent on a single enemy, one goal foremost in his mind.
Johnny Reb is seated at a leg press, muscles tensing and easing with each repetition, until he loses himself in the rhythm, in his own thoughts. Sweat breaks out on his face, streams in rivulets down his neck, soaking his grey shirt.
Hard work is a poor substitute for cheatin’.
He smiles inwardly at the errant thought, knowing how backward – and how viable – the sentiment is. Yet his focus never wavers, legs pumping in that same mesmeric regularity: extending and retracting, over and over. A half-sensed metaphor flutters just out of conscious reach.
At last, exhausted, Johnny lowers the weight stack for a final time, reaching for a water bottle from the duffel at his side. He’s lost all track of time, doesn’t know that outside, the sun is setting; that crowds are gathering in open spaces across the country in preparation for an evening of pyrotechnic magic. He wouldn’t care if he did know. Only one thing drives him now; one thought, relentless in its persistence.
Two new figures enter the gym, familiar and unwelcome. Hank Brown and his attendant cameraman make a beeline for the Inveterate Confederate, who affects not to notice them immediately. Mopping perspiration from his brow, Reb waits a moment before acknowledging Brown’s presence with a nod.
Johnny: Afternoon, Hank. That time again, huh?
The interviewer’s eyes search Reb’s face, looking for some kind of cue, wondering what sort of mood he’s in this time.
Hank: Well, you know, being in the main event spotlight for the last couple of months, you sort of owe it to the fans.
Johnny snorts in derision and rolls his eyes.
Johnny: The fans got no idea what they want, Hank. They cheer me when I take on Torture, and hate me the rest of the time. It’s essentially Pavlovian.
Brown sighs inwardly, knowing his subject won’t make it easy on him this time.
Hank: All that aside, Johnny, surely you’d like to take the opportunity to comment on what happened at Blast.
This assumption is met with a noncommittal shrug.
Johnny: What’s to say, Hank? I got robbed again. Kinda gettin' used to it.
Hank raises a quizzical eyebrow.
Hank: Robbed? You care to elaborate on that?
Johnny: You saw the match, same as anyone else. You saw what happened. I had Torture, right on the verge of submittin’. An’ then Dake Ken came along, an’….well, that was that.
Hank’s expression turns doubtful.
Hank: Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it…
Abruptly, Reb rises from his seat, takes one menacing step toward the interviewer. Hank responds by taking a step backward.
Hank: I mean, not that it’s not valid. Looks like you might have a chance for a little payback this week, though.
Johnny: Little enough. That sanctimonious blowhard has become the bane of my existence, and I’d much rather have a one on one rematch. An’ I will have it; you’d better believe that.
Brown clears his throat nervously and checks a set of notecards in his hand. Deciding that the conversation has already turned irrevocably from his original intent, he tucks the cards into a pocket.
Hank: Right. Well, what about your other opponent? Or your partner, for that matter?
Reb shakes his head slowly.
Johnny: Guiliano? He may have proven himself a force to be reckoned with… among the midcarders. But honestly, the consigliore of a Sicilian crime family as the United States champ? I mean, he ain’t even American. It’s a disgrace.
Brown considers making a counterpoint, but promptly dismisses it as a bad idea.
Johnny: An’ as to my… partner…
Reb’s tone makes his distaste clear.
Johnny: Well, all I can say on that account, Hank, is that my focus will be in the ring, on my opponents. If Mikami can’t extricate his skull from his own hindquarters, that ain’t my problem. But if he causes us to lose the match, he’s gonna wish his boss had taken him outta action last week.
Hank: I see… Thank you, Johnny. I think that about wraps it up.
As he speaks, Brown gestures urgently to the cameraman to start moving toward the egress. The Inveterate Confederate watches their departing haste with a detached amusement. He isn’t overly concerned with either his partner or the US champ. His mind wanders back to its original course, all his intellectual resources bent on a single enemy, one goal foremost in his mind.
