Post by Johnny Reb on Jul 26, 2009 10:44:36 GMT -5
Two cups sit on a small, round table inside an airport coffee shop. The name and logo are obscured, but it is clear from the interior of the shop that it’s a certain chain, based out of Seattle; a chain with multiple locations in every major city, and at least one in most of the smaller ones. One cup is the standard white paper with an unbleached cardboard sleeve to protect its owner’s hands from the heat. The other is clear plastic, showing a concoction that’s more milk and sugar and ice than actual coffee, beads of condensation forming rapidly on the sides.
Johnny Reb sits alone at this table, a newspaper untouched in front of him, his eyes roving over the seemingly endless stream of people marching past the boundaries of the coffee shop. He picks up his cup – the reinforced paper one – and takes a sip. Wincing, he realizes he’s just paid four bucks for something he could’ve made at home. Only he’s far from home, now, and the quality of the coffee is irrelevant next to the fact that it contains large quantities of caffeine.
Johnny: Tonight may well be the biggest night of my career. Bigger than any of the times I faced Torture, more important than any other match I’ve ever been in. I’ve proven myself time an’ time again; shown everyone – repeatedly – that I belong in the main event, that I am indeed worthy of the WCF Title. An’ yet…
Reb takes another sip of his coffee, then sets it carefully back on the table, his expression thoughtful.
Johnny: An’ yet, all anyone can see fit to do is try an’ discredit me. I reckon I oughta find it flatterin’, on some level, that so many of my fellow athletes devote even a small portion of their time to little ol’ me. Even if it is only to say things that are completely unfounded.
Johnny’s gaze goes crowd surfing again. Finding nothing of interest, it returns, settling briefly on the folded newspaper.
Johnny: I can’t blame ‘em, not really. My story is one of success, damn near a fairy tale. To go from relative obscurity to the main event in a matter of weeks – not months, but weeks – is far from ordinary. A dizzying array of adjectives has been used to describe me: “best and brightest,” “a risin’ star,” “tremendously talented.” The list goes on, but my detractors…
Here, Johnny shrugs.
Johnny: They conveniently forget that I’m the one who handed that arrogant guinea, Slickie T, his first ever loss here in the WCF; that I defeated Torture for the GWC title; that I have, in short, consistently provided high-quality entertainment for the droolin’ masses that comprise the WCF fan base.
With an exaggerated sigh and a rueful shake of his head, Johnny picks up his coffee again.
Johnny: No, what people wanna focus on is the fact that, on occasion, I haven’t been above… well, stackin’ the deck in my own favor, so to speak. The way some folks talk, you’d think it was a daily phenomenon. As if I got nothin’ better to do with myself than constantly plot some evil deed, like some damn comic book villain. If that’s the case, does that make Dake Ken the Superman to my Lex Luthor? The Professor X to my Magneto? The Rorschach to my Ozymandias?
He takes another drink from his cup and allows himself a small smile.
Johnny: Dake, you an’ me have been at each other’s throats for a long time now. We oughta know each other as well as brothers by now, yet you have failed to learn anythin’ about me. All you seem able to do, week in and week out, is sound like a broken record. You say I’m a coward, but when have I ever backed down from a confrontation? You insist that I lack certain qualities – integrity, honor, pride, an’ respect – all unquanitfiable characteristics.
Reb’s countenance becomes contemplative once more.
Johnny: Oh, irony of ironies! You talk about my lack of respect in one breath, an’ in the next, you compare me to a nineteenth century slave owner. That, sir, is hypocrisy in its basest form.
Contemplation gives way to annoyance.
Johnny: Now you wanna talk about how there ain’t no rules for you to adhere to, this time. How that’s somehow gonna give you the advantage tonight. I disagree. We’ve both been victorious in ladder matches, but our opponents were radically different people. You defeated Ryan Daniels – but let’s face it: who hasn’t? I, on the other hand, bested a man who can still honestly claim never to have been pinned; who had been considered at one point WCF’s greatest superstar; a former World Champion.
I don’t think any lack of rules is gonna work to your benefit, not when you so slavishly conform to those rules most of the time. It’s not really your fault; it’s gotta be second nature for you by now. The only thing that lack of regulations means is that, when I get to the top of that ladder and take that belt, you can’t accuse me of cheatin’.
The Inveterate Confederate smiles, a predatory, malicious grin.
Johnny Reb sits alone at this table, a newspaper untouched in front of him, his eyes roving over the seemingly endless stream of people marching past the boundaries of the coffee shop. He picks up his cup – the reinforced paper one – and takes a sip. Wincing, he realizes he’s just paid four bucks for something he could’ve made at home. Only he’s far from home, now, and the quality of the coffee is irrelevant next to the fact that it contains large quantities of caffeine.
Johnny: Tonight may well be the biggest night of my career. Bigger than any of the times I faced Torture, more important than any other match I’ve ever been in. I’ve proven myself time an’ time again; shown everyone – repeatedly – that I belong in the main event, that I am indeed worthy of the WCF Title. An’ yet…
Reb takes another sip of his coffee, then sets it carefully back on the table, his expression thoughtful.
Johnny: An’ yet, all anyone can see fit to do is try an’ discredit me. I reckon I oughta find it flatterin’, on some level, that so many of my fellow athletes devote even a small portion of their time to little ol’ me. Even if it is only to say things that are completely unfounded.
Johnny’s gaze goes crowd surfing again. Finding nothing of interest, it returns, settling briefly on the folded newspaper.
Johnny: I can’t blame ‘em, not really. My story is one of success, damn near a fairy tale. To go from relative obscurity to the main event in a matter of weeks – not months, but weeks – is far from ordinary. A dizzying array of adjectives has been used to describe me: “best and brightest,” “a risin’ star,” “tremendously talented.” The list goes on, but my detractors…
Here, Johnny shrugs.
Johnny: They conveniently forget that I’m the one who handed that arrogant guinea, Slickie T, his first ever loss here in the WCF; that I defeated Torture for the GWC title; that I have, in short, consistently provided high-quality entertainment for the droolin’ masses that comprise the WCF fan base.
With an exaggerated sigh and a rueful shake of his head, Johnny picks up his coffee again.
Johnny: No, what people wanna focus on is the fact that, on occasion, I haven’t been above… well, stackin’ the deck in my own favor, so to speak. The way some folks talk, you’d think it was a daily phenomenon. As if I got nothin’ better to do with myself than constantly plot some evil deed, like some damn comic book villain. If that’s the case, does that make Dake Ken the Superman to my Lex Luthor? The Professor X to my Magneto? The Rorschach to my Ozymandias?
He takes another drink from his cup and allows himself a small smile.
Johnny: Dake, you an’ me have been at each other’s throats for a long time now. We oughta know each other as well as brothers by now, yet you have failed to learn anythin’ about me. All you seem able to do, week in and week out, is sound like a broken record. You say I’m a coward, but when have I ever backed down from a confrontation? You insist that I lack certain qualities – integrity, honor, pride, an’ respect – all unquanitfiable characteristics.
Reb’s countenance becomes contemplative once more.
Johnny: Oh, irony of ironies! You talk about my lack of respect in one breath, an’ in the next, you compare me to a nineteenth century slave owner. That, sir, is hypocrisy in its basest form.
Contemplation gives way to annoyance.
Johnny: Now you wanna talk about how there ain’t no rules for you to adhere to, this time. How that’s somehow gonna give you the advantage tonight. I disagree. We’ve both been victorious in ladder matches, but our opponents were radically different people. You defeated Ryan Daniels – but let’s face it: who hasn’t? I, on the other hand, bested a man who can still honestly claim never to have been pinned; who had been considered at one point WCF’s greatest superstar; a former World Champion.
I don’t think any lack of rules is gonna work to your benefit, not when you so slavishly conform to those rules most of the time. It’s not really your fault; it’s gotta be second nature for you by now. The only thing that lack of regulations means is that, when I get to the top of that ladder and take that belt, you can’t accuse me of cheatin’.
The Inveterate Confederate smiles, a predatory, malicious grin.
