Post by Johnny Reb on Aug 3, 2009 13:29:44 GMT -5
In the East Falls section of Philadelphia, overlooking the Schuylkill River, is a vast 78-acre tract of manicured lawns and carefully tended trees; part park, part botanical garden. One-lane blacktop roads and paved walkways cut paths through the property, winding between rows of statuary, headstones, and mausoleums.
Bright sunlight falls golden from an almost cloudless sky. Tourists and locals alike walk the trails in pairs or small clusters, taking in the serene beauty of one of Philly’s oldest cemeteries. Beneath a spreading, ancient live oak, Johnny Reb is seated on a poured-concrete bench. With his title belt draped over one shoulder, gleaming occasionally in the dappled sunlight, he watches the scurrying of lesser human beings as they go about their business, his expression reflective.
Ironic, ain’t it, that the livin’ take solace in a place of the dead? That we find comfort amid the humblest of grave markers an’ the most exaggerated of monuments? What do people derive from a buncha old tombstones, anyway?
Johnny stands and stretches languidly; readjusting the belt on his shoulder, he steps out onto the path and into the light, drawing bemused stares from nearby sightseers.
Now, I ain’t one for a lotta symbolic imagery. An’ maybe all this…
He makes a broad gesture to encompass the whole of the memorial park.
Well, I reckon it’s a little on the obvious side. But sometimes subtlety ain’t everythin’.
With embellished casualty, Johnny saunters down the path, glancing occasionally at a headstone here and there.
See, it ain’t just people that get buried in cemeteries. It’s a place to put to rest the darker parts of our past, while those we leave behind celebrate the glories we achieved in life. Here, hopes and dreams for the future are interred with the dead. An’ all the corpse gets is a name and a couple of dates on an overpriced chunk of rock.
A shadow looms over the sidewalk. Reb comes to a halt, gazing up into the sightless eyes of a weeping stone angel, green moss lining the cheeks like tearstains. The angel leans wearily against a granite block, inscribed with an epitaph made illegible by generations of weathering. Johnny shakes his head in mild vexation at the vanity before moving on.
Tonight, I face a man to whom “subtlety” is a foreign word; a man who chooses to hide his inadequacies behind the obfuscation of rampant paranoia an’ wild conspiracy theories; a man who is afflicted with the worst kind of hubris.
My opponent seems to believe that the world – an’ the WCF in particular – owes him something because he was a champion in the past. Six years is a long time in this business. Gravedigger may believe that his skills have not dulled in all that time. Perhaps they haven’t. But I ain’t some punk kid that wandered in off the streets one day an’ just happened to get lucky. There was no obligation to a title shot in my contract; I earned it the old-fashioned way.
The Inveterate Confederate stops again, this time in the shade of an overhanging willow, branches cascading from the thick trunk like a fountain of greenery. A slight smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
An’ where have you been, Gravedigger? While I have been consistently in the main event for over two months, what have you been doin’ with your time? Oh, sure, you can talk about trainin’, preparin’ for this moment, scoutin’ matches. The most pedestrian of claims, to be sure. If there’s one thing you shoulda learnt by now, it’s that Johnny Reb doesn’t give up.
Oh, but neither do you, right? Granted, there’s a couple of similarities between us: neither of us is ashamed of the fact that we tend to alter the odds to favor us; neither of us is particularly beloved by the fans; an’ the boys in the back, well…
Johnny spreads his hands and shrugs theatrically.
The fact of the matter is, locker room talk bein’ what it is an’ all, I ain’t heard your name come up in conversation all that often. You’re yesterday’s news, Gravedigger. The past. The Inveterate Confederate is relevant, the man of the hour, an’ not solely because I’m the World Champion.
I’ve done things you can’t lay claim to. I defeated Torture for the GWC belt. I defeated Dake Ken for this.
Reb points at the WCF strap on his shoulder.
Now, I ain’t gonna say it was easy, ‘cause it wasn’t. Both those men are accomplished veterans, and never once did I underestimate either of them. I will not repeat that mistake with you, Gravedigger, not when I know what I’m up against. But tonight, I will add a third veteran to that list.
There is assurance in Johnny’s voice as he speaks, a sense of true confidence over the usual tendency toward unfounded cockiness.
See, I don’t plan on my title reign endin’ anytime soon. I know everyone’s gonna be after me, wantin’ to prove themselves against a true champion. I can hear them, the subdued voices of small men, petty men, growin’ harsh and discordant, thinkin’ they can dethrone me just ‘cause this is my first real championship.
Men like Doc Henry, who ain’t really up to the challenge; but he thinks we got a score to settle. I was willin’ to let it all go, let bygones be bygones. Some people cling too desperately to the past. Then again, Doc Henry ain’t my focus right now. He can wait.
Johnny’s gaze roves over the uneven rows of markers, rising like stony crops in a field tended by a madman. In the distance, a canvas and steel pavilion shelters a freshly-excavated grave awaiting its newest resident.
Tonight, I lay to rest all those delusions of grandeur you been fosterin’, Gravedigger.
Tonight, I write the eulogy for your World Title aspirations.
Tonight …
Abruptly, Johnny turns and walks away, leaving the remainder of the sentiment unspoken, and the sprawling necropolis void of his presence.
Bright sunlight falls golden from an almost cloudless sky. Tourists and locals alike walk the trails in pairs or small clusters, taking in the serene beauty of one of Philly’s oldest cemeteries. Beneath a spreading, ancient live oak, Johnny Reb is seated on a poured-concrete bench. With his title belt draped over one shoulder, gleaming occasionally in the dappled sunlight, he watches the scurrying of lesser human beings as they go about their business, his expression reflective.
Ironic, ain’t it, that the livin’ take solace in a place of the dead? That we find comfort amid the humblest of grave markers an’ the most exaggerated of monuments? What do people derive from a buncha old tombstones, anyway?
Johnny stands and stretches languidly; readjusting the belt on his shoulder, he steps out onto the path and into the light, drawing bemused stares from nearby sightseers.
Now, I ain’t one for a lotta symbolic imagery. An’ maybe all this…
He makes a broad gesture to encompass the whole of the memorial park.
Well, I reckon it’s a little on the obvious side. But sometimes subtlety ain’t everythin’.
With embellished casualty, Johnny saunters down the path, glancing occasionally at a headstone here and there.
See, it ain’t just people that get buried in cemeteries. It’s a place to put to rest the darker parts of our past, while those we leave behind celebrate the glories we achieved in life. Here, hopes and dreams for the future are interred with the dead. An’ all the corpse gets is a name and a couple of dates on an overpriced chunk of rock.
A shadow looms over the sidewalk. Reb comes to a halt, gazing up into the sightless eyes of a weeping stone angel, green moss lining the cheeks like tearstains. The angel leans wearily against a granite block, inscribed with an epitaph made illegible by generations of weathering. Johnny shakes his head in mild vexation at the vanity before moving on.
Tonight, I face a man to whom “subtlety” is a foreign word; a man who chooses to hide his inadequacies behind the obfuscation of rampant paranoia an’ wild conspiracy theories; a man who is afflicted with the worst kind of hubris.
My opponent seems to believe that the world – an’ the WCF in particular – owes him something because he was a champion in the past. Six years is a long time in this business. Gravedigger may believe that his skills have not dulled in all that time. Perhaps they haven’t. But I ain’t some punk kid that wandered in off the streets one day an’ just happened to get lucky. There was no obligation to a title shot in my contract; I earned it the old-fashioned way.
The Inveterate Confederate stops again, this time in the shade of an overhanging willow, branches cascading from the thick trunk like a fountain of greenery. A slight smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
An’ where have you been, Gravedigger? While I have been consistently in the main event for over two months, what have you been doin’ with your time? Oh, sure, you can talk about trainin’, preparin’ for this moment, scoutin’ matches. The most pedestrian of claims, to be sure. If there’s one thing you shoulda learnt by now, it’s that Johnny Reb doesn’t give up.
Oh, but neither do you, right? Granted, there’s a couple of similarities between us: neither of us is ashamed of the fact that we tend to alter the odds to favor us; neither of us is particularly beloved by the fans; an’ the boys in the back, well…
Johnny spreads his hands and shrugs theatrically.
The fact of the matter is, locker room talk bein’ what it is an’ all, I ain’t heard your name come up in conversation all that often. You’re yesterday’s news, Gravedigger. The past. The Inveterate Confederate is relevant, the man of the hour, an’ not solely because I’m the World Champion.
I’ve done things you can’t lay claim to. I defeated Torture for the GWC belt. I defeated Dake Ken for this.
Reb points at the WCF strap on his shoulder.
Now, I ain’t gonna say it was easy, ‘cause it wasn’t. Both those men are accomplished veterans, and never once did I underestimate either of them. I will not repeat that mistake with you, Gravedigger, not when I know what I’m up against. But tonight, I will add a third veteran to that list.
There is assurance in Johnny’s voice as he speaks, a sense of true confidence over the usual tendency toward unfounded cockiness.
See, I don’t plan on my title reign endin’ anytime soon. I know everyone’s gonna be after me, wantin’ to prove themselves against a true champion. I can hear them, the subdued voices of small men, petty men, growin’ harsh and discordant, thinkin’ they can dethrone me just ‘cause this is my first real championship.
Men like Doc Henry, who ain’t really up to the challenge; but he thinks we got a score to settle. I was willin’ to let it all go, let bygones be bygones. Some people cling too desperately to the past. Then again, Doc Henry ain’t my focus right now. He can wait.
Johnny’s gaze roves over the uneven rows of markers, rising like stony crops in a field tended by a madman. In the distance, a canvas and steel pavilion shelters a freshly-excavated grave awaiting its newest resident.
Tonight, I lay to rest all those delusions of grandeur you been fosterin’, Gravedigger.
Tonight, I write the eulogy for your World Title aspirations.
Tonight …
Abruptly, Johnny turns and walks away, leaving the remainder of the sentiment unspoken, and the sprawling necropolis void of his presence.
