Post by Johnny Reb on Sept 27, 2009 13:43:57 GMT -5
Friday night, 21:07 hours
JFK International Airport
Inside an airport bar, dimly lit and filled with the low drone of conversation, Johnny Reb nurses a glass of SoCo, his gaze moving steadily between a number of high-mounted televisions, each showing something different. One plays a commercial for the upcoming War PPV, displaying images of the men favored to win the match, with Guiliano foremost among them. And why not? He’s the last entrant, which puts the odds heavily in his favor.
A couple of Italians over at the next table get a little loud upon seeing this. Third generation Americans, the two men have been shaped by pop culture and an all too brief childhood. Queens, the Bronx, Brooklyn; any of the boroughs could have spawned these men, with their knock-off Armani suits and cheap sunglasses. Reb shoots them a glance; they stare back in wide-eyed disbelief, recognizing him right away.
Johnny: You boys fans?
He inclines his head toward the TV, which has since moved on to something else. The shorter of the two – in a grey suit with a black T-shirt underneath and a length of gold chain around his throat – nods slowly. Johnny picks up his glass and saunters over to their table, holding out a hand in greeting. Handshakes and introductions all around. The two have typically Italian-American names. The short one is Vinny, the taller of the two is Carmine. Reb takes a seat at their table without specifically being invited to do so.
Johnny: Y’all goin’ to the show?
Vinny shakes his head.
Vinny: Nah, we gotta work.
Johnny: On a Sunday night?
Carmine: Well, you’re workin’, ain’t yas?
The Inveterate Confederate smiles, taking another sip of his drink.
Johnny: It ain’t work, not really. A man oughta get paid for doin’ what he enjoys. What line of work are you guys in?
Carmine and Vinny exchange knowing glances and say nothing. Reb nods slowly in comprehension.
Johnny: I see. Somethin’ in common with your boy, Guiliano. Well, in the interest of fosterin’ better North/South relations, next round’s on me.
Johnny grins as Vinny flags down a passing waitress. His smile fades rapidly as he catches sight of a bulge under Vinny’s left arm.
Carmine: Just so’s ya know, Reb, you’re all right. Sure, I wanna see Slickie T walkin’ outta War with that title shot, but… In all honesty, it shoulda been you he’d end up facin’ for the World Title.
Vinny: Yeah, I dunno what the hell your boss is thinkin’. You shoulda got a rematch. Don’t you have some kinda clause about that?
The conversation is briefly interrupted as the waitress appears with another round of drinks: SoCo for Johnny, beers for his newfound companions.
Johnny: Hell, I dunno. My agent went over the contract; all I had to do was sign.
Vinny shakes his head in disappointment.
Vinny: I know a guy. He could probably take a look at your contract. My guy fixes things like that.
Reb’s lips twitch, a nervous smile trying to form as he attempts to figure out whether or not Vinny is kidding. Carmine turns away, unsuccessfully hiding a chuckle at Johnny’s expense.
Johnny: I’ll, uh… keep that in mind.
Vinny: Sure. Sure, Reb. But think about it. I mean, you, the former World Champ, in some pissant thirty-man elimination match. And who gets the title shot that shoulda been yours?
Carmine: Fuckin’ Creepin’ Death.
Johnny nods slowly in agreement. He brings his glass to his lips and knocks half of it back in a single shot.
Johnny: Yeah. I reckon you’re right…
Vinny: So what’re ya doin’ mopin’ around here? You oughta march your ass straight to your boss’ office and demand what’s rightfully yours!
Johnny: Yeah! But…nothin’ I can do about the card now. Way too late.
Vinny looks at him sagaciously as Johnny downs the rest of his drink. Carmine appears to be distracted by something on one of the TV’s elsewhere in the room.
Vinny: Look, ya dumb redneck, don’t focus on that right this second. There’s gonna be thirty men in that match, and more’n half of ‘em are gonna be gunnin’ for yas. Every last one of these guys has a list in his head, who they’re gonna try and eliminate. You better have a list of your own.
Johnny bristles at being called names, until it dawns on him that the Italian doesn’t mean it to be particularly offensive. It’s just his way. He looks at his empty glass, sets it down, and starts to stand. Carmine returns his attention to the conversation.
Johnny: Well… I do have a list. Sort of. I just figure I’ll take things as they come.
Carmine: No plan is the best plan, huh?
Johnny: Somethin’ like that. I ain’t exactly been buildin’ a lotta bridges, y’know. There’s one other guy I can count on Sunday night, an’ that’s Doc Henry. But that don’t mean I can trust him if it comes down to just the two of us.
Vinny: You can trust ‘im to try an’ put you over the top rope. If it comes down to it. Which it won’t. Your boy’s good, but not that good.
Reb hesitates for just a moment. He grabs a couple of bar napkins and scribbles on them real fast, handing one each to the two Italians.
Johnny: Thanks for the chat, gentlemen. I’ll, uh… keep your advice in mind.
Carmine picks up the napkin in front of him, looking at it curiously. Reb catches the expression on his face and grins.
Johnny: My autograph. Hang onto it. It’ll be worth a lot more after I put ol’ Slickie T over the ropes on Sunday.
The two Italians watch Johnny walk away, both chuckling. Carmine folds the napkin, holding his jacket open to tuck it into an inside pocket, revealing a U.S. Marshall’s badge clipped to his belt that gleams dully under the dim light.
Saturday afternoon, 13:33 hours
Times Square, NYC
The Inveterate Confederate prowls the sidewalks, working his way against the currents and eddies of the river of pedestrians. Signs stretch the length of Broadway and 7th Avenue, mounted on buildings that rise like canyon walls on either side of the streets; ever-changing, flashing, an array of lights and colors that are probably responsible for more seizures than Japanese animation. He scouts an assortment of retail establishments; like scouting an opponent for a match. He’d promised Dixie an entire day of… ugh, shopping, followed by a Broadway show. Johnny isn’t sure if she cares which show, just so long as she can say she’s seen something on Broadway.
Jostled by the flow of foot traffic, Johnny Reb finally manages to find a tiny island of stability in the form of a hot dog stand. Hot dogs remind him of Logan; irrevocably, forever, hot dogs will remind Johnny of Logan. He isn’t sure how he feels about that, or if there’s some Freudian subcontext he’d rather not consider. Deciding not to think about it, he asks the vendor to make him one with everything, like the Buddha.
Moments later, Johnny walks away, hot dog in hand, mind consumed by thoughts of War. Confident, yes; but cautious, too. So many things could go so terribly wrong. So many things could go right, too.
Slickie T, he’s the biggest threat. Got the last entry, number thirty. An’ he earned it, sure. Gives him the advantage. He’ll be fresh, the rest of us won’t. We all know that, we’re all as prepared as we can be.
I don’t expect to win, honestly. An’ this time, I don’t much care. Everyone wants to bitch about Torture, but nobody wants to seriously do anything about him. Or at least, very few of the men who actually could. He’s the real problem, and this War is only serving as a distraction. I’ve been there before, not seeing the bigger picture until it was almost too late.
Reb continues along the sidewalk, then cuts across the street, weaving his way between bright yellow taxis, all of them honking, but not necessarily at him.
Sure, everybody thinks they’re gonna get their piece of Death, or Havoc, or that punk Anthrax. An’ still, nobody cares about Ryan Daniels. The highlight of his career came an’ went months ago, when me an’ him had a couple of matches. Shoulda retired gracefully then. Instead, he chooses to ride along on someone else’s coattails.
Johnny shrugs.
Doesn’t matter. These guys are gonna get what they deserve – one way or another…
Reb’s train of thought is derailed by the ringing of his cell phone, its speaker playing a distorted version of “Sweet Home Alabama.” He answers it.
Hey, Doc. …Yeah? …What do you mean by “business venture?”
Johnny listens intently for a few minutes.
I’m not sure… Look, we’ll discuss it later. …Uh-huh. See ya at the Garden.
Reb hangs up the phone and disappears into a crowd.
JFK International Airport
Inside an airport bar, dimly lit and filled with the low drone of conversation, Johnny Reb nurses a glass of SoCo, his gaze moving steadily between a number of high-mounted televisions, each showing something different. One plays a commercial for the upcoming War PPV, displaying images of the men favored to win the match, with Guiliano foremost among them. And why not? He’s the last entrant, which puts the odds heavily in his favor.
A couple of Italians over at the next table get a little loud upon seeing this. Third generation Americans, the two men have been shaped by pop culture and an all too brief childhood. Queens, the Bronx, Brooklyn; any of the boroughs could have spawned these men, with their knock-off Armani suits and cheap sunglasses. Reb shoots them a glance; they stare back in wide-eyed disbelief, recognizing him right away.
Johnny: You boys fans?
He inclines his head toward the TV, which has since moved on to something else. The shorter of the two – in a grey suit with a black T-shirt underneath and a length of gold chain around his throat – nods slowly. Johnny picks up his glass and saunters over to their table, holding out a hand in greeting. Handshakes and introductions all around. The two have typically Italian-American names. The short one is Vinny, the taller of the two is Carmine. Reb takes a seat at their table without specifically being invited to do so.
Johnny: Y’all goin’ to the show?
Vinny shakes his head.
Vinny: Nah, we gotta work.
Johnny: On a Sunday night?
Carmine: Well, you’re workin’, ain’t yas?
The Inveterate Confederate smiles, taking another sip of his drink.
Johnny: It ain’t work, not really. A man oughta get paid for doin’ what he enjoys. What line of work are you guys in?
Carmine and Vinny exchange knowing glances and say nothing. Reb nods slowly in comprehension.
Johnny: I see. Somethin’ in common with your boy, Guiliano. Well, in the interest of fosterin’ better North/South relations, next round’s on me.
Johnny grins as Vinny flags down a passing waitress. His smile fades rapidly as he catches sight of a bulge under Vinny’s left arm.
Carmine: Just so’s ya know, Reb, you’re all right. Sure, I wanna see Slickie T walkin’ outta War with that title shot, but… In all honesty, it shoulda been you he’d end up facin’ for the World Title.
Vinny: Yeah, I dunno what the hell your boss is thinkin’. You shoulda got a rematch. Don’t you have some kinda clause about that?
The conversation is briefly interrupted as the waitress appears with another round of drinks: SoCo for Johnny, beers for his newfound companions.
Johnny: Hell, I dunno. My agent went over the contract; all I had to do was sign.
Vinny shakes his head in disappointment.
Vinny: I know a guy. He could probably take a look at your contract. My guy fixes things like that.
Reb’s lips twitch, a nervous smile trying to form as he attempts to figure out whether or not Vinny is kidding. Carmine turns away, unsuccessfully hiding a chuckle at Johnny’s expense.
Johnny: I’ll, uh… keep that in mind.
Vinny: Sure. Sure, Reb. But think about it. I mean, you, the former World Champ, in some pissant thirty-man elimination match. And who gets the title shot that shoulda been yours?
Carmine: Fuckin’ Creepin’ Death.
Johnny nods slowly in agreement. He brings his glass to his lips and knocks half of it back in a single shot.
Johnny: Yeah. I reckon you’re right…
Vinny: So what’re ya doin’ mopin’ around here? You oughta march your ass straight to your boss’ office and demand what’s rightfully yours!
Johnny: Yeah! But…nothin’ I can do about the card now. Way too late.
Vinny looks at him sagaciously as Johnny downs the rest of his drink. Carmine appears to be distracted by something on one of the TV’s elsewhere in the room.
Vinny: Look, ya dumb redneck, don’t focus on that right this second. There’s gonna be thirty men in that match, and more’n half of ‘em are gonna be gunnin’ for yas. Every last one of these guys has a list in his head, who they’re gonna try and eliminate. You better have a list of your own.
Johnny bristles at being called names, until it dawns on him that the Italian doesn’t mean it to be particularly offensive. It’s just his way. He looks at his empty glass, sets it down, and starts to stand. Carmine returns his attention to the conversation.
Johnny: Well… I do have a list. Sort of. I just figure I’ll take things as they come.
Carmine: No plan is the best plan, huh?
Johnny: Somethin’ like that. I ain’t exactly been buildin’ a lotta bridges, y’know. There’s one other guy I can count on Sunday night, an’ that’s Doc Henry. But that don’t mean I can trust him if it comes down to just the two of us.
Vinny: You can trust ‘im to try an’ put you over the top rope. If it comes down to it. Which it won’t. Your boy’s good, but not that good.
Reb hesitates for just a moment. He grabs a couple of bar napkins and scribbles on them real fast, handing one each to the two Italians.
Johnny: Thanks for the chat, gentlemen. I’ll, uh… keep your advice in mind.
Carmine picks up the napkin in front of him, looking at it curiously. Reb catches the expression on his face and grins.
Johnny: My autograph. Hang onto it. It’ll be worth a lot more after I put ol’ Slickie T over the ropes on Sunday.
The two Italians watch Johnny walk away, both chuckling. Carmine folds the napkin, holding his jacket open to tuck it into an inside pocket, revealing a U.S. Marshall’s badge clipped to his belt that gleams dully under the dim light.
Saturday afternoon, 13:33 hours
Times Square, NYC
The Inveterate Confederate prowls the sidewalks, working his way against the currents and eddies of the river of pedestrians. Signs stretch the length of Broadway and 7th Avenue, mounted on buildings that rise like canyon walls on either side of the streets; ever-changing, flashing, an array of lights and colors that are probably responsible for more seizures than Japanese animation. He scouts an assortment of retail establishments; like scouting an opponent for a match. He’d promised Dixie an entire day of… ugh, shopping, followed by a Broadway show. Johnny isn’t sure if she cares which show, just so long as she can say she’s seen something on Broadway.
Jostled by the flow of foot traffic, Johnny Reb finally manages to find a tiny island of stability in the form of a hot dog stand. Hot dogs remind him of Logan; irrevocably, forever, hot dogs will remind Johnny of Logan. He isn’t sure how he feels about that, or if there’s some Freudian subcontext he’d rather not consider. Deciding not to think about it, he asks the vendor to make him one with everything, like the Buddha.
Moments later, Johnny walks away, hot dog in hand, mind consumed by thoughts of War. Confident, yes; but cautious, too. So many things could go so terribly wrong. So many things could go right, too.
Slickie T, he’s the biggest threat. Got the last entry, number thirty. An’ he earned it, sure. Gives him the advantage. He’ll be fresh, the rest of us won’t. We all know that, we’re all as prepared as we can be.
I don’t expect to win, honestly. An’ this time, I don’t much care. Everyone wants to bitch about Torture, but nobody wants to seriously do anything about him. Or at least, very few of the men who actually could. He’s the real problem, and this War is only serving as a distraction. I’ve been there before, not seeing the bigger picture until it was almost too late.
Reb continues along the sidewalk, then cuts across the street, weaving his way between bright yellow taxis, all of them honking, but not necessarily at him.
Sure, everybody thinks they’re gonna get their piece of Death, or Havoc, or that punk Anthrax. An’ still, nobody cares about Ryan Daniels. The highlight of his career came an’ went months ago, when me an’ him had a couple of matches. Shoulda retired gracefully then. Instead, he chooses to ride along on someone else’s coattails.
Johnny shrugs.
Doesn’t matter. These guys are gonna get what they deserve – one way or another…
Reb’s train of thought is derailed by the ringing of his cell phone, its speaker playing a distorted version of “Sweet Home Alabama.” He answers it.
Hey, Doc. …Yeah? …What do you mean by “business venture?”
Johnny listens intently for a few minutes.
I’m not sure… Look, we’ll discuss it later. …Uh-huh. See ya at the Garden.
Reb hangs up the phone and disappears into a crowd.
