Post by Johnny Reb on Jul 26, 2009 14:16:22 GMT -5
In a line of traffic, a grey sedan idles, wedged between a pickup truck in front and a bright red sports car behind. Johnny Reb is at the wheel, Dixie beside him in the passenger seat. He watches the traffic light ahead intensely. It changes from red to green, and the car behind him immediately lets out a blare from its horn. Johnny’s response is instinctive; as the truck in front of him begins to move, he casts an obscene gesture out the window and proceeds through the intersection.
Behind them, the little red car roars in defiance. Tires squeal and cut to the right, carrying it and its driver off in another direction. Dixie turns around in her seat to watch the offending vehicle disappear.
Dixie: Jesus, Johnny. I wish you wouldn’t do that.
Johnny: Do what?
The young woman shifts her gaze to the passenger side window, watching storefronts pass them slowly by.
Dixie: Encourage road rage. What if that guy’d had a gun?
Reb keeps his eyes on the traffic ahead, slowing as the light at the next intersection changes to yellow, then red.
Johnny: That’s why we got the extra insurance at the rental place. You worry too much, Dixie. Can’t spend your whole life thinkin’ about “what if.”
Dixie shoots him an incredulous look.
Dixie: Your whole career is based on “what if,” Johnny Reb. An’ there ain’t no insurance against the kinds of things that could happen.
Briefly, he turns to face her, amused.
Johnny: Well, you’re right, Dixie. In a way. Of course, there’s a lot of things that wouldn’t’a happened, if it weren’t for my career. You an’ me, for instance.
His attention shifts again as the traffic moves once more. Dixie’s brow furrows as she considers this.
Dixie: All right, you gotta point. But maybe you shouldn’t take unnecessary risks. Especially tonight.
Johnny sighs dramatically and consults the car’s GPS, smoothly changing lanes to accommodate an upcoming left turn. Outside, the buildings are packed more closely together as they wind their way deeper into the city.
Johnny: Any risk that pays off is a necessary one. Besides, I ain’t worried about that. Well, not inordinately. I know what I’m walkin’ into.
Dixie: Sugar, Dake Ken is out for blood tonight. He wants to keep that strap ‘round his waist as much as you wanna get it away from him. This ain’t gonna be pretty.
The Inveterate Confederate takes the next turning, a little more sharply than intended.
Johnny: I know that, Dixie. I ain’t seen the guy quite this intense before. But much like his limited vocabulary, I’m familiar with his repertoire –
Dixie: An’ he’s familiar with yours, remember.
Reb waves the comment aside.
Johnny: I know. Trust me, I know. But we’re on even footin’ this time. We’ve each won a ladder match where there was gold on the line. We both know there’s not gonna be any disqualifications, that there’s only one way to win. The difference is, Dixie, that Dake Ken thrives on order, on rules. Sure, he’s an accomplished veteran. Sure, he can adapt to most circumstances. His long experience is gonna work against him this time.
Dixie: What in the hell are you talkin’ about?
Another turn down a broad, one way street, and their destination comes into view. Still distant, the waiting arena looms ominously, separated from the office buildings, apartments, and stores by a wide, grassy plaza and a vast expanse of parking lot. Intentionally designed to stand as a post-modern representation of the ancient Roman Coliseum, the imposing edifice seems to take on a life of its own, a life infused in it by the millions of patrons that come and go any given week, always hoping to see disaster strike. Cautiously, the grey sedan circles the perimeter, seeking a means of ingress.
Johnny: This match is not only the culmination of months of hard work here in the WCF; it’s also kind of a metaphor for my career. Danglin’ twenty feet overhead, the World Title. Between me an’ it, only one obstacle: Dake Ken. The only way to achieve that ultimate goal involves makin’ sure no one gets in my way while I climb the ladder. Over the last several months, a lot of folks have tried to keep me down on them lower rungs. In spite of all that – or maybe even because of it – well, here I am with another title shot.
He finally finds what he’s looking for: a fenced-in parking lot monitored by a security guard. There is a short delay as the guard insists on checking Johnny’s driver’s license against his list before waving the car through. Dixie raises an eyebrow at Johnny.
Dixie: How many times have you competed for the World Title, Johnny? How many more times is it gonna be “another title shot” instead of a successful one? Your boss ain’t gonna keep throwing you into these matches if you consistently fall short of the mark, sugar.
Reb doesn’t respond immediately, concentrating on squeezing the sedan into a parking spot never made to accommodate it, but the dark scowl on his face clearly shows that he’s listening.
Johnny: Dixie, first of all, this match was my idea. Lerch didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, save to confirm that he couldn’ta done better himself. Don’t think I’m not takin’ this seriously, either. I know this business. I know that if I lose tonight, there may not be another shot for months, if at all. I know that a wrestler can be a risin’ star one day, and a flash in the pan the next.
I also know that all the skill and talent in the world don’t mean a damn thing sometimes. I ain’t the biggest guy on the roster. I ain’t the strongest. An’ I damn sure ain’t the meanest, but I am vilified like I was Torture or Gravedigger or somebody.
What I am, however, is probably the smartest wrestler in this organization. That’s gotta count for somethin’.
Satisfied, he finally throws the car into “park” and turns off the engine. He climbs out and walks around to Dixie’s side, opening her door and offering his hand.
Dixie: So what unknown quantity is it that actually concerns you?
Johnny gazes at her for a moment, letting the question sink in.
Johnny: That goddamn Doc Henry…
Behind them, the little red car roars in defiance. Tires squeal and cut to the right, carrying it and its driver off in another direction. Dixie turns around in her seat to watch the offending vehicle disappear.
Dixie: Jesus, Johnny. I wish you wouldn’t do that.
Johnny: Do what?
The young woman shifts her gaze to the passenger side window, watching storefronts pass them slowly by.
Dixie: Encourage road rage. What if that guy’d had a gun?
Reb keeps his eyes on the traffic ahead, slowing as the light at the next intersection changes to yellow, then red.
Johnny: That’s why we got the extra insurance at the rental place. You worry too much, Dixie. Can’t spend your whole life thinkin’ about “what if.”
Dixie shoots him an incredulous look.
Dixie: Your whole career is based on “what if,” Johnny Reb. An’ there ain’t no insurance against the kinds of things that could happen.
Briefly, he turns to face her, amused.
Johnny: Well, you’re right, Dixie. In a way. Of course, there’s a lot of things that wouldn’t’a happened, if it weren’t for my career. You an’ me, for instance.
His attention shifts again as the traffic moves once more. Dixie’s brow furrows as she considers this.
Dixie: All right, you gotta point. But maybe you shouldn’t take unnecessary risks. Especially tonight.
Johnny sighs dramatically and consults the car’s GPS, smoothly changing lanes to accommodate an upcoming left turn. Outside, the buildings are packed more closely together as they wind their way deeper into the city.
Johnny: Any risk that pays off is a necessary one. Besides, I ain’t worried about that. Well, not inordinately. I know what I’m walkin’ into.
Dixie: Sugar, Dake Ken is out for blood tonight. He wants to keep that strap ‘round his waist as much as you wanna get it away from him. This ain’t gonna be pretty.
The Inveterate Confederate takes the next turning, a little more sharply than intended.
Johnny: I know that, Dixie. I ain’t seen the guy quite this intense before. But much like his limited vocabulary, I’m familiar with his repertoire –
Dixie: An’ he’s familiar with yours, remember.
Reb waves the comment aside.
Johnny: I know. Trust me, I know. But we’re on even footin’ this time. We’ve each won a ladder match where there was gold on the line. We both know there’s not gonna be any disqualifications, that there’s only one way to win. The difference is, Dixie, that Dake Ken thrives on order, on rules. Sure, he’s an accomplished veteran. Sure, he can adapt to most circumstances. His long experience is gonna work against him this time.
Dixie: What in the hell are you talkin’ about?
Another turn down a broad, one way street, and their destination comes into view. Still distant, the waiting arena looms ominously, separated from the office buildings, apartments, and stores by a wide, grassy plaza and a vast expanse of parking lot. Intentionally designed to stand as a post-modern representation of the ancient Roman Coliseum, the imposing edifice seems to take on a life of its own, a life infused in it by the millions of patrons that come and go any given week, always hoping to see disaster strike. Cautiously, the grey sedan circles the perimeter, seeking a means of ingress.
Johnny: This match is not only the culmination of months of hard work here in the WCF; it’s also kind of a metaphor for my career. Danglin’ twenty feet overhead, the World Title. Between me an’ it, only one obstacle: Dake Ken. The only way to achieve that ultimate goal involves makin’ sure no one gets in my way while I climb the ladder. Over the last several months, a lot of folks have tried to keep me down on them lower rungs. In spite of all that – or maybe even because of it – well, here I am with another title shot.
He finally finds what he’s looking for: a fenced-in parking lot monitored by a security guard. There is a short delay as the guard insists on checking Johnny’s driver’s license against his list before waving the car through. Dixie raises an eyebrow at Johnny.
Dixie: How many times have you competed for the World Title, Johnny? How many more times is it gonna be “another title shot” instead of a successful one? Your boss ain’t gonna keep throwing you into these matches if you consistently fall short of the mark, sugar.
Reb doesn’t respond immediately, concentrating on squeezing the sedan into a parking spot never made to accommodate it, but the dark scowl on his face clearly shows that he’s listening.
Johnny: Dixie, first of all, this match was my idea. Lerch didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, save to confirm that he couldn’ta done better himself. Don’t think I’m not takin’ this seriously, either. I know this business. I know that if I lose tonight, there may not be another shot for months, if at all. I know that a wrestler can be a risin’ star one day, and a flash in the pan the next.
I also know that all the skill and talent in the world don’t mean a damn thing sometimes. I ain’t the biggest guy on the roster. I ain’t the strongest. An’ I damn sure ain’t the meanest, but I am vilified like I was Torture or Gravedigger or somebody.
What I am, however, is probably the smartest wrestler in this organization. That’s gotta count for somethin’.
Satisfied, he finally throws the car into “park” and turns off the engine. He climbs out and walks around to Dixie’s side, opening her door and offering his hand.
Dixie: So what unknown quantity is it that actually concerns you?
Johnny gazes at her for a moment, letting the question sink in.
Johnny: That goddamn Doc Henry…
