Post by Johnny Reb on Dec 20, 2009 1:40:36 GMT -5
The following takes place between 3 pm and 4 pm…
Having showered and changed clothes following the drive-by paintballing, Johnny Reb sits in a booth in one of downtown Los Angeles’ trendy bars, nursing a glass of SoCo. Doc Henry sits across from him, glancing now and again toward the door.
Johnny: What’re we waitin’ on again?
Doc: An informant… just be patient.
Reb takes another sip of his drink and allows his gaze to rove around the establishment. This time of day, it isn’t particularly crowded. The other patrons are largely businessmen and their clients; they ignore the two wrestlers, focused on their own concerns. The bar is dimly lit, with recessed fixtures illuminated by environmentally friendly spiral bulbs. Framed art, mostly photographs, hangs on the bare brick walls, each with a handwritten placard bearing the name of the piece, the artist’s name, and a ridiculously exorbitant price.
The door opens, and a man walks in. Johnny’s suspicions are immediately aroused, probably due to the fact that the man is wearing a trench coat, a wide-brimmed borcelino hat, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. He approaches the table, and Doc scoots over to make room. With a slight flair for the dramatic, the man looks around for a moment, then removes the hat and shades. Reb stares in disbelief.
Johnny: Hank? You’re the informant?
Indeed, it is WCF’s very own Hank Brown, looking rather uncomfortable and glancing over his shoulder nervously as he takes his seat.
Hank: Keep your voice down. I don’t want anybody to know I’m doing this.
Reb raises an eyebrow and looks directly into the camera for just a second, then shoots Doc a puzzled look. Henry shrugs.
Doc: Can we get ya a drink, Hank?
Brown shakes his head in negation.
Hank: Not planning on being here that long. This is the information you asked for…
Hank reaches into his coat and slowly withdraws a manila envelope, sliding it over to Doc while gazing pointedly in the opposite direction. Henry opens it up and looks at the contents, nodding to himself.
Doc: All right, so they have an alibi. Looks like we’re back to square one.
Johnny cocks his head to one side, considering this turn of events. Doc slips the paper back into the envelope, carelessly folding the whole thing up and stuffing it into a back pocket. Hank just sits there, impatient and fidgeting.
Johnny: Well, now what? I mean, virtually anybody could have the motive. Nobody likes Lerch…
Doc: Lerch wasn’t the only target, Johnny. Don’t forget what happened when we were leavin’ the airport; that couldn’ta been coincidence.
Reb’s brow furrows as he ponders a little longer. Hank casts a glance at Doc, his expression indecipherable.
Hank: …might be an inside player…
Brown jumps slightly in his seat, as if he has just been kicked under the table. Johnny looks at him wonderingly.
Johnny: A mole? In the ToT, you mean?
Doc: Yep. That’s what Hank means, all right. In fact, Hank, I reckon ya better get outta here before anyone sees ya talkin’ to us.
This time, Hank looks directly at the camera for the barest instant, before standing up.
Hank: Yeah… yeah, Doc, you’re right. Um… bye!
Brown replaces his hat and sunglasses, then makes his way out of the bar again, being just a little too nonchalant about it. Johnny watches him go, curious about his behavior.
Johnny: That was …weird. What d’ya reckon, though? I mean, the ToT wouldn’t…
Henry shakes his head slowly.
Doc: Not as a whole, no. But individual players, now that’s a different story altogether, ain’t it?
Reb looks uncertain.
Johnny: But who?
Doc: Who’s got the most to gain?
Johnny: Well, the obvious answer is Mikami an’ Daniels. Somethin’ don’t set right with me about all this, though.
Henry takes a sip of his own drink, silent for a while.
Doc: Ya may be right. I mean… Daniels ain’t motivated enough. When’s the last time he even won a match? An’ it sure don’t seem like Mikami’s style. He’s more of a hands-on kinda guy.
He appears to think about it for a little longer.
Johnny: Either way, we’re runnin’ outta time. We ain’t got the luxury to sit here an’ discuss it all day. Lemme see that evidence you got from Hank.
Doc: Not here, Johnny. It’s too public. Are ya even sure ya wanna keep pursuin’ this? We got more important things to think about.
Reb mulls it over briefly.
Johnny: Well… I reckon we should focus on the match. Now, our eminently forgettable current tag champs seem to believe we ain’t got no advantage, but their logic is a little fuzzy. They say they been in triple threat matches an’ ladder matches an’ they used to operate outta LA. But hell, that don’t mean nothin’. Bein’ in a match ain’t the same as winnin’ a match.
Doc nods in agreement and knocks back the rest of his drink. Johnny eyes his own empty glass in momentary disappointment, then shrugs and tosses some cash on the table to cover the expense. They emerge from the dimness of the bar into the dazzling afternoon sunlight, both confident about their upcoming capture of the WCF Tag Titles. As Reb’s eyes adjust to the light, movement in the periphery catches his attention.
A closer look reveals Hank Brown, still wearing his concealing attire, slumped against a wall and liberally swathed in silly string. At the same time, both of them notice a lone figure disappearing hurriedly around a corner. Doc makes a series of complex hand gestures, and Reb gives him a brief acknowledgement before taking off after the retreating suspect…
3:59:59
4:00:00
