Post by Johnny Reb on Jan 24, 2010 13:39:24 GMT -5
All is silent within the Baltimore Arena. The peace is only temporary. Soon, the arena will be filled with thousands of eager fans, their screaming adulation mingling with the deafening sounds of entrance music and pyros. Already, the air is tinged with the scents of fresh popcorn and stale nachos; before much longer, those aromas will blend with the tang of testosterone-laced sweat and the odor of burnt Cordite to create a mélange of scent that excites the fighting instinct inherent in all humanity.
Yes, here the people will gather to live vicariously through their heroes; to share in the exhilaration of triumph in the face of overwhelming odds; to sympathize with the agony of succumbing to those odds. Here, the people can forget, for a while, the doldrums of their everyday lives. Escape, for just a few hours, the drudgery of work, of home, of responsibility. Here, soon, they will throw off the shackles imposed on them by an impartial society and revel in the most primitive, the most noble, of entertainments.
For now, however, stillness and serenity hold sway. The vast construct that is Baltimore Arena is void of activity or life – save for one man. In the center of the arena floor, the ring is set up, awaiting the night’s battles; and sitting on a turnbuckle, gazing out over the sea of empty seats, is none other than the Inveterate Confederate himself: Johnny Reb, with his tag title belt slung over one shoulder. His expression is contemplative, his posture relaxed. Never does Johnny feel more at home than in the squared circle, where there is no complication; only clarity. Clarity of thought, clarity of will. Reb pulls the title belt from his shoulder and lays it across his lap, shifting his focus from the outer world to his own inner concerns.
Johnny: Y’know, it’s a little strange, lookin’ at this belt. Knowin’ what it represents. See, I wasn’t real sure if I’d ever hold a title again. After everythin’ I went through, as Summer made its slow transition to Fall. Months and months of hard work, of dedication, all went into my quest for the WCF World Title. An’ when my time finally came, when I finally defeated Dake Ken for the ultimate prize, I realized somethin’: I wasn’t ready.
A ghost of a smile plays across Reb’s lips as he remembers those days, in that hazy, wistful way that all people are subject to. Our past is tinged with the rose-colored lenses of nostalgic recollection, no matter the reality of the time, and Johnny is no different in that regard.
Johnny: Y’see, though I may have stood toe to toe with the best men WCF had to offer – then or now – I was not, in truth, championship material. I was lost an’ without direction. I was not the World Champion that the fans deserved. An’ when fate at last caught up with me, I have to admit that I was relieved. Disappointed, but relieved. The burden was not yet for my shoulders to bear.
In the time that followed, I was taught humility by greater men than I; men like Allen Guilliano, for example. But I digress…
The spectral smile materializes fully now. Reb traces the embossed ornamentations on his tag belt with a forefinger, nearly losing himself again in thought.
Johnny: Now… Now I am a better man than I was. I am a champion, once again. This time, however, it ain’t for myself alone. The Inveterate Confederate is a champion…of the people. The New Confederacy is more than your ordinary tag team, more than a merchandisin’ powerhouse. Me an’ Doc… we’re in it for the fans, for the workin’ class. Week in an’ week out, we strive to make these tag belts represent more than a chain of assorted midcard placeholders ever could. An’ yet… there are those who would take that all away. Not only from the New Confederacy, but also from our loyal an’ dedicated admirers. I just won’t stand for that.
Reb hops off the turnbuckle, landing lightly on his feet. The canvas gives just slightly beneath him. He begins to pace the length of the ring, settling his title belt on his shoulder again.
Johnny: Over the past week, my opponent has said a lotta things ‘bout Yours Truly. Things I feel I must address.
This is a man who would have us believe he’s some sort of homespun vigilante, handin’ out his own brand of justice, neatly packaged an’ trademarked for the consumer market. My opponent calls himself an anarchist, which is really just a generic catch-all term for any moron who wants to flaunt the rules of any given establishment. One can see where these claims ring just a little bit hollow.
Johnny stops pacing to lean casually against the ring ropes, directing his gaze outward to the empty arena once more.
Johnny: The Roman poet Juvenal once pointed out that the decline of modern society was due to the provision of cheap food and entertainment to the masses – when people are so easily placated with this instant gratification, they willin’ly give up their civic rights and responsibilities. Things aren't so different now. Nachos, beer an’ wrestling equates to the old Roman “bread and circuses.” By participatin’ in these events, Mr. Evans, you give the lie to your incoherent ramblin’s about bein’ an anarchist. You're a part of this, a cog in the machine, and to deny it is hypocrisy of the highest order.
Then again, who am I to expect honor an’ integrity from a man whose pre-recorded appearances are more porno than promo?
This statement elicits a derisive snort from the Inveterate Confederate.
Johnny: You are nothin’ to me, Mr. Evans. Nothin’. You may have been a...respected competitor at one time. Now? You're a delusional child-man with nothin’ better to do than make broad and incorrect assumptions regarding any number of things, but most especially our meetin’ in the ring tonight.
You were, however, correct in one observation, Mr. Evans. Like any other bird of prey, I am most dangerous when airborne. But if I am the eagle, doesn’t that make you a hare, helpless an’ cowerin’ in the open? An’ when the shadow of my metaphorically outspread wings falls across the canvas, Mr. Evans, you better run like the scared li’l rabbit we all know you really are.
Now Johnny’s smile is tinged – ever so slightly – with some of his old malevolence.
Johnny: ‘Cause Mr. Evans, tonight, this Confederate eagle is goin’ on the hunt. There is no risk I will not take to assuage the offenses you have heaped upon me these last two weeks, an’ there is no power on this Earth that can stop me from destroyin’ you utterly an’ completely come our match at Ten.
Casting a final contemptuous sneer in the general direction of the camera, Johnny takes a deep breath and a moment to compose himself. Then he slips between the ropes, descends the ring steps, and heads to the back, leaving the arena empty and silent once more.
Yes, here the people will gather to live vicariously through their heroes; to share in the exhilaration of triumph in the face of overwhelming odds; to sympathize with the agony of succumbing to those odds. Here, the people can forget, for a while, the doldrums of their everyday lives. Escape, for just a few hours, the drudgery of work, of home, of responsibility. Here, soon, they will throw off the shackles imposed on them by an impartial society and revel in the most primitive, the most noble, of entertainments.
For now, however, stillness and serenity hold sway. The vast construct that is Baltimore Arena is void of activity or life – save for one man. In the center of the arena floor, the ring is set up, awaiting the night’s battles; and sitting on a turnbuckle, gazing out over the sea of empty seats, is none other than the Inveterate Confederate himself: Johnny Reb, with his tag title belt slung over one shoulder. His expression is contemplative, his posture relaxed. Never does Johnny feel more at home than in the squared circle, where there is no complication; only clarity. Clarity of thought, clarity of will. Reb pulls the title belt from his shoulder and lays it across his lap, shifting his focus from the outer world to his own inner concerns.
Johnny: Y’know, it’s a little strange, lookin’ at this belt. Knowin’ what it represents. See, I wasn’t real sure if I’d ever hold a title again. After everythin’ I went through, as Summer made its slow transition to Fall. Months and months of hard work, of dedication, all went into my quest for the WCF World Title. An’ when my time finally came, when I finally defeated Dake Ken for the ultimate prize, I realized somethin’: I wasn’t ready.
A ghost of a smile plays across Reb’s lips as he remembers those days, in that hazy, wistful way that all people are subject to. Our past is tinged with the rose-colored lenses of nostalgic recollection, no matter the reality of the time, and Johnny is no different in that regard.
Johnny: Y’see, though I may have stood toe to toe with the best men WCF had to offer – then or now – I was not, in truth, championship material. I was lost an’ without direction. I was not the World Champion that the fans deserved. An’ when fate at last caught up with me, I have to admit that I was relieved. Disappointed, but relieved. The burden was not yet for my shoulders to bear.
In the time that followed, I was taught humility by greater men than I; men like Allen Guilliano, for example. But I digress…
The spectral smile materializes fully now. Reb traces the embossed ornamentations on his tag belt with a forefinger, nearly losing himself again in thought.
Johnny: Now… Now I am a better man than I was. I am a champion, once again. This time, however, it ain’t for myself alone. The Inveterate Confederate is a champion…of the people. The New Confederacy is more than your ordinary tag team, more than a merchandisin’ powerhouse. Me an’ Doc… we’re in it for the fans, for the workin’ class. Week in an’ week out, we strive to make these tag belts represent more than a chain of assorted midcard placeholders ever could. An’ yet… there are those who would take that all away. Not only from the New Confederacy, but also from our loyal an’ dedicated admirers. I just won’t stand for that.
Reb hops off the turnbuckle, landing lightly on his feet. The canvas gives just slightly beneath him. He begins to pace the length of the ring, settling his title belt on his shoulder again.
Johnny: Over the past week, my opponent has said a lotta things ‘bout Yours Truly. Things I feel I must address.
This is a man who would have us believe he’s some sort of homespun vigilante, handin’ out his own brand of justice, neatly packaged an’ trademarked for the consumer market. My opponent calls himself an anarchist, which is really just a generic catch-all term for any moron who wants to flaunt the rules of any given establishment. One can see where these claims ring just a little bit hollow.
Johnny stops pacing to lean casually against the ring ropes, directing his gaze outward to the empty arena once more.
Johnny: The Roman poet Juvenal once pointed out that the decline of modern society was due to the provision of cheap food and entertainment to the masses – when people are so easily placated with this instant gratification, they willin’ly give up their civic rights and responsibilities. Things aren't so different now. Nachos, beer an’ wrestling equates to the old Roman “bread and circuses.” By participatin’ in these events, Mr. Evans, you give the lie to your incoherent ramblin’s about bein’ an anarchist. You're a part of this, a cog in the machine, and to deny it is hypocrisy of the highest order.
Then again, who am I to expect honor an’ integrity from a man whose pre-recorded appearances are more porno than promo?
This statement elicits a derisive snort from the Inveterate Confederate.
Johnny: You are nothin’ to me, Mr. Evans. Nothin’. You may have been a...respected competitor at one time. Now? You're a delusional child-man with nothin’ better to do than make broad and incorrect assumptions regarding any number of things, but most especially our meetin’ in the ring tonight.
You were, however, correct in one observation, Mr. Evans. Like any other bird of prey, I am most dangerous when airborne. But if I am the eagle, doesn’t that make you a hare, helpless an’ cowerin’ in the open? An’ when the shadow of my metaphorically outspread wings falls across the canvas, Mr. Evans, you better run like the scared li’l rabbit we all know you really are.
Now Johnny’s smile is tinged – ever so slightly – with some of his old malevolence.
Johnny: ‘Cause Mr. Evans, tonight, this Confederate eagle is goin’ on the hunt. There is no risk I will not take to assuage the offenses you have heaped upon me these last two weeks, an’ there is no power on this Earth that can stop me from destroyin’ you utterly an’ completely come our match at Ten.
Casting a final contemptuous sneer in the general direction of the camera, Johnny takes a deep breath and a moment to compose himself. Then he slips between the ropes, descends the ring steps, and heads to the back, leaving the arena empty and silent once more.
