Post by Johnny Reb on Nov 24, 2009 15:04:32 GMT -5
The clinically clean and indifferent aisles of a Whole Foods Market are not, perhaps, the best place to be so close to Thanksgiving. The store is crowded, and it’s a little bit out of his way to go grocery shopping, but nevertheless, this is where former World Champion – and future Tag Team Champion – Johnny Reb finds himself.
Other patrons navigate their carts in a poor approximation of the Monaco Grand Prix, forcing Reb to work his way slowly against the flow of traffic, towards the store’s delicatessen. In a glass display, all manner of meats, cheeses, salads, and jello molds are arranged to high aesthetic standards. Everything boasts the label “organic.” Beside the display is a sign, advertising holiday dinners with all the traditional trimmings. Johnny gets the attention of the attendant behind the counter, a kid no older than eighteen, wearing a paper hat, an apron, and a perpetually disdainful sneer.
Deli clerk: Can I help you?
He doesn’t sound very interested in Johnny’s response, and Reb hesitates for a moment, wondering if this kid’s attitude is worth putting up with long enough to complete a transaction.
Johnny: Yeah. How much is that?
Reb points to the sign. The attendant rolls his eyes.
Deli clerk: Sir, you’d have to have ordered it like two days ago to have that on Thanksgiving.
Johnny: I was outta town. Ain’t there anythin’ you can do?
The surly attendant eyes the Inveterate Confederate as if considering to tell him he should have thought of this before going out of town, but something in Johnny’s eyes warns him not to push his luck. Instead, he heaves a dramatically extended sigh.
Deli clerk: Well, I suppose…. How many people?
Reb ponders that for a second, recalling that he currently has no one with whom to share the holidays. His shoulders slump dejectedly.
Johnny: Just one.
The clerk quickly covers up a derisive snort with a fake cough, and goes on to explain that the smallest prepared dinner they offer is for a family of four. Reb takes several moments to think about that. The holiday season has reminded him again of the family he spurned over a year ago, all in an effort to make a name for himself in an organization that folded shortly thereafter. Perhaps it’s time to show them he’s mended his ways. A slow smile spreads across his face.
Johnny: Actually, let’s make it…
He pauses to count off the number of people he intends to invite on his fingers. His mother and father; his brother and his wife; that made four. It wouldn’t be a huge gathering, but then again, his apartment probably couldn’t take a lot more than that. There would be five of them, altogether, and he is a believer in being prepared for anything.
Johnny: …for six. Think you can handle that?
Deli clerk: Whatever. I’ll put you down for a six-person tofurkey dinner, with all the organic, soy-based fixings…
Reb frowns at that. The words made a sort of sense, but not strung together in that particular order. It makes the whole thing sound unappealing.
Johnny: Damnit, I don’t want a “tofurkey”, whatever the hell that is. Or soy-based anything.
Now it’s the deli attendant’s turn to look perplexed.
Deli clerk: Then what are you doing shopping in a Whole Foods? If you want actual … ugh, meat….you should go to the Piggly Wiggly down the road, like the rest of the common people.
Johnny grins, as if that’s the best suggestion he’s heard all day.
Johnny: You’re right. So I reckon that’s what I’m gonna do.
And with that, the Inveterate Confederate turns around and walks out of the store. Once outside, he turns to face the camera.
Johnny: You know, that right there’s an example of what happens when ya start puttin’ on airs, tryin’ to pretend you’re more’n what ya really are. Not that there’s anythin’ wrong with tryin’ to better y’self, not at all. But a man’s gotta draw the line somewhere. There comes a point when it’s all pretension and hot air… not unlike a “tofurkey.”
Reb stops talking as a young, trendy couple pass in front of him, shooting a questioning glance at the camera on their way into the store.
Johnny: That’s all beside the point, though. This week, I’m makin’ amends. Gonna spend time with my family for the first time in a long time. Because I have seen the error of my ways, an’ I have repented. The same cannot be said for my opponent.
See, Mikami used to be a man of honor. It’s easy to make the assumption that the Japanese, as a people, tend to hold to some sort of moral or ethical code that is inscrutable to us Westerners. When you think of the Japanese people, you think of Samurai an’ Bushido, Musashi an’ Ueshiba-sensei, an’ it’s all very romanticized. What Western people tend to forget is that, wherever you go, human nature is essentially the same.
After all, who among us has not been faced with a moral dilemma? Further, who among us has not failed one or more of these little tests?
The point, however, is to learn from the experience. To make yourself stronger, in your convictions an’ your actions. Mikami-san is the last man I’d have expected to give in to the rigors of maintainin’ a high ethical standard… an’ yet…
The Inveterate Confederate shrugs in an embellished way.
Johnny: Then, to add insult to injury, this man allows himself to be partnered with one Mr. Ryan Daniels, who, as we all know, is the least reliable of Torture’s cohorts.
On t’other hand, what should one expect from a man who can fight by your side one day… only to be more’n willin’ to face off against ya a week later?
Mikami would like us all to think he’s some deep, complex soul who may even believe he’s doin’ the right thing. But the fact is, there’s no underlyin’ consideration of principles here. He’s doin’ the same thing any of us have done in the past: whatever it takes to get ahead. I been there. I know what it’s like.
An’ I know that draggin’ yourself back from the edge of Nietzsche’s Abyss ain’t a whole lotta fun.
Here, Reb smiles, just slightly.
Johnny: That’s the next step, y’know. Realizin’ that you’ve become somethin’ you never intended to be; that you spent too long fightin’ monsters, an’ somehow lost your way.
The Inveterate Confederate stops, as if he’s just become conscious of another possibility.
Johnny: Of course, that’s assumin’ there was ever a decent human bein’ there in the first place. Maybe my opponent likes the thing he has turned into. I mean, a lackey is a lackey. Whether it be in service to a man like Steve Carr, or Rick Mad… or Torture himself, servitude is servitude. An’ if ya like that sorta thing…
Well, what more can I really say to that? The fact remains that I have faced Mikami in singles competition before, and emerged victorious. There won’t be nothin’ stoppin’ me from doin’ it again Monday night.
Johnny turns now from the camera, refusing to acknowledge it further. He walks toward his car, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket as he goes, presumably to somehow convince his family to come and visit him for Thanksgiving.
Other patrons navigate their carts in a poor approximation of the Monaco Grand Prix, forcing Reb to work his way slowly against the flow of traffic, towards the store’s delicatessen. In a glass display, all manner of meats, cheeses, salads, and jello molds are arranged to high aesthetic standards. Everything boasts the label “organic.” Beside the display is a sign, advertising holiday dinners with all the traditional trimmings. Johnny gets the attention of the attendant behind the counter, a kid no older than eighteen, wearing a paper hat, an apron, and a perpetually disdainful sneer.
Deli clerk: Can I help you?
He doesn’t sound very interested in Johnny’s response, and Reb hesitates for a moment, wondering if this kid’s attitude is worth putting up with long enough to complete a transaction.
Johnny: Yeah. How much is that?
Reb points to the sign. The attendant rolls his eyes.
Deli clerk: Sir, you’d have to have ordered it like two days ago to have that on Thanksgiving.
Johnny: I was outta town. Ain’t there anythin’ you can do?
The surly attendant eyes the Inveterate Confederate as if considering to tell him he should have thought of this before going out of town, but something in Johnny’s eyes warns him not to push his luck. Instead, he heaves a dramatically extended sigh.
Deli clerk: Well, I suppose…. How many people?
Reb ponders that for a second, recalling that he currently has no one with whom to share the holidays. His shoulders slump dejectedly.
Johnny: Just one.
The clerk quickly covers up a derisive snort with a fake cough, and goes on to explain that the smallest prepared dinner they offer is for a family of four. Reb takes several moments to think about that. The holiday season has reminded him again of the family he spurned over a year ago, all in an effort to make a name for himself in an organization that folded shortly thereafter. Perhaps it’s time to show them he’s mended his ways. A slow smile spreads across his face.
Johnny: Actually, let’s make it…
He pauses to count off the number of people he intends to invite on his fingers. His mother and father; his brother and his wife; that made four. It wouldn’t be a huge gathering, but then again, his apartment probably couldn’t take a lot more than that. There would be five of them, altogether, and he is a believer in being prepared for anything.
Johnny: …for six. Think you can handle that?
Deli clerk: Whatever. I’ll put you down for a six-person tofurkey dinner, with all the organic, soy-based fixings…
Reb frowns at that. The words made a sort of sense, but not strung together in that particular order. It makes the whole thing sound unappealing.
Johnny: Damnit, I don’t want a “tofurkey”, whatever the hell that is. Or soy-based anything.
Now it’s the deli attendant’s turn to look perplexed.
Deli clerk: Then what are you doing shopping in a Whole Foods? If you want actual … ugh, meat….you should go to the Piggly Wiggly down the road, like the rest of the common people.
Johnny grins, as if that’s the best suggestion he’s heard all day.
Johnny: You’re right. So I reckon that’s what I’m gonna do.
And with that, the Inveterate Confederate turns around and walks out of the store. Once outside, he turns to face the camera.
Johnny: You know, that right there’s an example of what happens when ya start puttin’ on airs, tryin’ to pretend you’re more’n what ya really are. Not that there’s anythin’ wrong with tryin’ to better y’self, not at all. But a man’s gotta draw the line somewhere. There comes a point when it’s all pretension and hot air… not unlike a “tofurkey.”
Reb stops talking as a young, trendy couple pass in front of him, shooting a questioning glance at the camera on their way into the store.
Johnny: That’s all beside the point, though. This week, I’m makin’ amends. Gonna spend time with my family for the first time in a long time. Because I have seen the error of my ways, an’ I have repented. The same cannot be said for my opponent.
See, Mikami used to be a man of honor. It’s easy to make the assumption that the Japanese, as a people, tend to hold to some sort of moral or ethical code that is inscrutable to us Westerners. When you think of the Japanese people, you think of Samurai an’ Bushido, Musashi an’ Ueshiba-sensei, an’ it’s all very romanticized. What Western people tend to forget is that, wherever you go, human nature is essentially the same.
After all, who among us has not been faced with a moral dilemma? Further, who among us has not failed one or more of these little tests?
The point, however, is to learn from the experience. To make yourself stronger, in your convictions an’ your actions. Mikami-san is the last man I’d have expected to give in to the rigors of maintainin’ a high ethical standard… an’ yet…
The Inveterate Confederate shrugs in an embellished way.
Johnny: Then, to add insult to injury, this man allows himself to be partnered with one Mr. Ryan Daniels, who, as we all know, is the least reliable of Torture’s cohorts.
On t’other hand, what should one expect from a man who can fight by your side one day… only to be more’n willin’ to face off against ya a week later?
Mikami would like us all to think he’s some deep, complex soul who may even believe he’s doin’ the right thing. But the fact is, there’s no underlyin’ consideration of principles here. He’s doin’ the same thing any of us have done in the past: whatever it takes to get ahead. I been there. I know what it’s like.
An’ I know that draggin’ yourself back from the edge of Nietzsche’s Abyss ain’t a whole lotta fun.
Here, Reb smiles, just slightly.
Johnny: That’s the next step, y’know. Realizin’ that you’ve become somethin’ you never intended to be; that you spent too long fightin’ monsters, an’ somehow lost your way.
The Inveterate Confederate stops, as if he’s just become conscious of another possibility.
Johnny: Of course, that’s assumin’ there was ever a decent human bein’ there in the first place. Maybe my opponent likes the thing he has turned into. I mean, a lackey is a lackey. Whether it be in service to a man like Steve Carr, or Rick Mad… or Torture himself, servitude is servitude. An’ if ya like that sorta thing…
Well, what more can I really say to that? The fact remains that I have faced Mikami in singles competition before, and emerged victorious. There won’t be nothin’ stoppin’ me from doin’ it again Monday night.
Johnny turns now from the camera, refusing to acknowledge it further. He walks toward his car, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket as he goes, presumably to somehow convince his family to come and visit him for Thanksgiving.
