Post by Johnny Reb on Jul 28, 2009 13:15:33 GMT -5
(The following was pre-recorded on 26 July, 2009.)
Set into a seemingly endless corridor, there is a door exactly like a multitude of others. Painted an institutional slate-grey, with a hand-lettered paper sign hastily taped at roughly eye level, this otherwise unremarkable portal differs only in the name written on the sign: Johnny Reb.
In a distinctly different hand, the following words have been added below the name: Do not disturb – This means YOU, Hank.
Those unwelcoming words elicit an audible sigh as a hand raises, hesitates, then knocks thrice. There is a muffled curse from within. A brief, heated debate ensues for just a moment, and then the door is opened to reveal Dixie Pride. She opens the door wider, standing aside to accommodate the resident interviewer and his camera operator du jour.
The new champion is slouching on a steel chair, still dressed in his ring gear. His ribs are taped, his breathing slow and even, and his eyes closed. An ice pack is held loosely in one hand, while the other clutches his new title possessively to his chest. Like ugly, misshapen flowers, bruises are blooming, darkening to sickly purple in errant patterns across exposed skin.
Hank Brown: Jesus, Johnny. You look like hell.
The Inveterate Confederate opens one eye to regard Hank with undisguised antipathy.
Johnny: Thank you, Hank.
The interviewer shoots a long-suffering look at the camera as Dixie carries in two more chairs: one for Hank, and another for herself. She glances at Johnny, and when she speaks, there is admonishment in her tone.
Dixie: Johnny, be nice to Mr. Brown. He’s just doin’ his job.
Hank nods vigorously in agreement as he takes his seat.
Hank: I wouldn’t bother you right now, Johnny, but… I mean, this is kind of a big deal for you, isn’t it?
Wincing with the effort, Johnny moves to sit upright in his chair, exhaling through clenched teeth. He drops the rapidly melting ice pack on the floor beside him, gazing at Hank thoughtfully.
Johnny: Ok, Hank. I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a huge deal. For me. For anyone. I’ve worked so hard, for months an’ months, an’ now…
Brown nods in understanding.
Hank: And now you have the prize most coveted, and after the fact, it’s sort of anticlimactic.
Reb’s brow furrows as he considers this.
Johnny: Yes an’ no. Honestly, it’s still sinkin’ in. Ain’t quite real yet, y’know? I’d probably be a lot more excited if I had more energy. In addition, there’s also the fact that, when you face a certain opponent time and time again, you kinda get used to ‘em. I might sorta miss Dake Ken a little bit.
Brown smirks and shakes his head in wonder.
Hank: It was a hell of a match, Johnny. That had to be the best performance we’ve ever seen from you, hands down. Now that you’ve won the World Title, though, you’re going to have to defend it every week in the Championship Series. Are you up to it?
Johnny gives Hank a patronizing smile, showing a return to his usual conceited manner.
Johnny: You better believe it, Hank. I didn’t come all this way, climb that ladder – figuratively an’ literally – just to lose this belt a week later. There’s gonna be a buncha people sayin’ I don’t deserve the title, for one reason or another. I aim to prove those folks wrong.
Hank hesitates only a moment.
Hank: I take it you haven’t heard, then?
Beside Johnny, Dixie is staring hard at Hank, shaking her head and motioning to him to shut up, but far too late. Reb eyes the interviewer suspiciously.
Johnny: Heard…what, exactly?
Hank: You opponent next week…
Brown stops then, finally catching on that Dixie was trying to quiet him. Johnny glances back and forth between the two of them, realizing belatedly that they know something he doesn’t.
Johnny: Who?
Dixie rests a hand lightly on his shoulder, while Hank looks appropriately chagrined.
Dixie: I was gonna wait to tell you, Johnny.
Johnny: Who is it?
Dixie: Don’t worry ‘bout it right now, sugar. You oughta be enjoyin’ your victory over Dake Ken.
The Inveterate Confederate halfway rises from his chair, momentarily forgetting that nearly every part of his body aches.
Johnny: Goddamnit, y’all already let the cat outta the bag. Might as well just tell me now. Who the hell is my opponent next week?!
Hank Brown glances at Dixie, who shrugs and looks away from him, clearly displeased with this turn of events. Hank grins.
Hank: Gravedigger.
For the barest instant, Johnny’s expression turns apprehensive. Quickly, he covers it up with a disdainful sneer.
Johnny: Gravedigger.
The utterance is more a growl than actual spoken language. Hank starts to look nervous.
Hank: Well, I better be going –
Johnny: Sit your ass back down, Hank. We ain’t quite done yet.
Reb gestures imperiously, and the interviewer promptly obeys.
Johnny: An’ they call me a coward. That miserable, lowlife, dirty, cheatin’ sonofabitch. I underestimated him once before – a mistake I will not repeat. What the hell was Lerch thinkin’?
The question is plainly rhetorical, but Hank shrugs in response anyway.
Johnny: That man is a terrible excuse for a human bein’, capable of depths to which even I will not sink… Unless…
A long moment of hushed anticipation. All eyes are on the Inveterate Confederate. Unconsciously, his grip on his newly acquired title stiffens, and the consternation eases from his youthful features.
Johnny: For a long time, my unofficial motto has been “at any cost.” I can’t count on an adversary like Gravedigger to do what’s considered right or noble or honorable, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep him away from my world title…
Dixie: I think it’s time for you to leave now, Mr. Brown.
Hank rises cautiously from his seat, keeping a wary eye on Reb.
Hank: Well, thank you for your time, Johnny. And… uh, congratulations.
Johnny waves him off negligently, his gaze unfocused, lost in thought. Dixie stands, too, and ushers the WCF interviewer quickly to the door.
Dixie: From now on, Mr. Brown, why don’t you submit your questions to me before we do this, ‘k? Good night.
Without waiting for a response, she shuts the door, leaving Hank to face the same scene as when he arrived.
Set into a seemingly endless corridor, there is a door exactly like a multitude of others. Painted an institutional slate-grey, with a hand-lettered paper sign hastily taped at roughly eye level, this otherwise unremarkable portal differs only in the name written on the sign: Johnny Reb.
In a distinctly different hand, the following words have been added below the name: Do not disturb – This means YOU, Hank.
Those unwelcoming words elicit an audible sigh as a hand raises, hesitates, then knocks thrice. There is a muffled curse from within. A brief, heated debate ensues for just a moment, and then the door is opened to reveal Dixie Pride. She opens the door wider, standing aside to accommodate the resident interviewer and his camera operator du jour.
The new champion is slouching on a steel chair, still dressed in his ring gear. His ribs are taped, his breathing slow and even, and his eyes closed. An ice pack is held loosely in one hand, while the other clutches his new title possessively to his chest. Like ugly, misshapen flowers, bruises are blooming, darkening to sickly purple in errant patterns across exposed skin.
Hank Brown: Jesus, Johnny. You look like hell.
The Inveterate Confederate opens one eye to regard Hank with undisguised antipathy.
Johnny: Thank you, Hank.
The interviewer shoots a long-suffering look at the camera as Dixie carries in two more chairs: one for Hank, and another for herself. She glances at Johnny, and when she speaks, there is admonishment in her tone.
Dixie: Johnny, be nice to Mr. Brown. He’s just doin’ his job.
Hank nods vigorously in agreement as he takes his seat.
Hank: I wouldn’t bother you right now, Johnny, but… I mean, this is kind of a big deal for you, isn’t it?
Wincing with the effort, Johnny moves to sit upright in his chair, exhaling through clenched teeth. He drops the rapidly melting ice pack on the floor beside him, gazing at Hank thoughtfully.
Johnny: Ok, Hank. I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a huge deal. For me. For anyone. I’ve worked so hard, for months an’ months, an’ now…
Brown nods in understanding.
Hank: And now you have the prize most coveted, and after the fact, it’s sort of anticlimactic.
Reb’s brow furrows as he considers this.
Johnny: Yes an’ no. Honestly, it’s still sinkin’ in. Ain’t quite real yet, y’know? I’d probably be a lot more excited if I had more energy. In addition, there’s also the fact that, when you face a certain opponent time and time again, you kinda get used to ‘em. I might sorta miss Dake Ken a little bit.
Brown smirks and shakes his head in wonder.
Hank: It was a hell of a match, Johnny. That had to be the best performance we’ve ever seen from you, hands down. Now that you’ve won the World Title, though, you’re going to have to defend it every week in the Championship Series. Are you up to it?
Johnny gives Hank a patronizing smile, showing a return to his usual conceited manner.
Johnny: You better believe it, Hank. I didn’t come all this way, climb that ladder – figuratively an’ literally – just to lose this belt a week later. There’s gonna be a buncha people sayin’ I don’t deserve the title, for one reason or another. I aim to prove those folks wrong.
Hank hesitates only a moment.
Hank: I take it you haven’t heard, then?
Beside Johnny, Dixie is staring hard at Hank, shaking her head and motioning to him to shut up, but far too late. Reb eyes the interviewer suspiciously.
Johnny: Heard…what, exactly?
Hank: You opponent next week…
Brown stops then, finally catching on that Dixie was trying to quiet him. Johnny glances back and forth between the two of them, realizing belatedly that they know something he doesn’t.
Johnny: Who?
Dixie rests a hand lightly on his shoulder, while Hank looks appropriately chagrined.
Dixie: I was gonna wait to tell you, Johnny.
Johnny: Who is it?
Dixie: Don’t worry ‘bout it right now, sugar. You oughta be enjoyin’ your victory over Dake Ken.
The Inveterate Confederate halfway rises from his chair, momentarily forgetting that nearly every part of his body aches.
Johnny: Goddamnit, y’all already let the cat outta the bag. Might as well just tell me now. Who the hell is my opponent next week?!
Hank Brown glances at Dixie, who shrugs and looks away from him, clearly displeased with this turn of events. Hank grins.
Hank: Gravedigger.
For the barest instant, Johnny’s expression turns apprehensive. Quickly, he covers it up with a disdainful sneer.
Johnny: Gravedigger.
The utterance is more a growl than actual spoken language. Hank starts to look nervous.
Hank: Well, I better be going –
Johnny: Sit your ass back down, Hank. We ain’t quite done yet.
Reb gestures imperiously, and the interviewer promptly obeys.
Johnny: An’ they call me a coward. That miserable, lowlife, dirty, cheatin’ sonofabitch. I underestimated him once before – a mistake I will not repeat. What the hell was Lerch thinkin’?
The question is plainly rhetorical, but Hank shrugs in response anyway.
Johnny: That man is a terrible excuse for a human bein’, capable of depths to which even I will not sink… Unless…
A long moment of hushed anticipation. All eyes are on the Inveterate Confederate. Unconsciously, his grip on his newly acquired title stiffens, and the consternation eases from his youthful features.
Johnny: For a long time, my unofficial motto has been “at any cost.” I can’t count on an adversary like Gravedigger to do what’s considered right or noble or honorable, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep him away from my world title…
Dixie: I think it’s time for you to leave now, Mr. Brown.
Hank rises cautiously from his seat, keeping a wary eye on Reb.
Hank: Well, thank you for your time, Johnny. And… uh, congratulations.
Johnny waves him off negligently, his gaze unfocused, lost in thought. Dixie stands, too, and ushers the WCF interviewer quickly to the door.
Dixie: From now on, Mr. Brown, why don’t you submit your questions to me before we do this, ‘k? Good night.
Without waiting for a response, she shuts the door, leaving Hank to face the same scene as when he arrived.
