Post by Johnny Reb on Jan 31, 2010 14:31:33 GMT -5
Sunday morning, sometime after ten. In the bedroom of a spacious hotel suite, the shower can be heard running ever so faintly. The bedspread is thrown back, the sheets in disarray; crimson accent pillows, tossed haphazardly out of the way, make a sharp contrast to the white bedclothes. All of it is testament to a long night of vigorous activity.
The bathroom door opens. A cloud of steam escapes. Johnny Reb walks out, a thick white towel tied around his waist like a sarong, and promptly busies himself sorting his clothes from a mixed-up pile on the floor. Pulling on his jeans quickly, he casts the towel aside and carries the rest of his stuff into the next room.
Here, the color white is still overwhelmingly dominant, in the carpet, the sofa, even the matching lamps on the end tables. The effect would be less pleasing, were it not for the presence of ebony tables and more bright red cushions. Near the door, a room service cart waits, with two silver-domed platters and a carafe of hot coffee. Reb immediately pours himself a cup and takes a seat on the couch to enjoy it, reflecting on the events of the last few weeks – inevitable, so close now to the evening’s match.
Johnny: Ten. This may be the biggest pay-per-view event in which I have ever participated. Really, in which any of us has. How often does one get the opportunity to celebrate an organization’s decade anniversary? Particularly amongst such distinguished an’ honored company?
Reb pauses, taking a sip from his steaming cup, and wincing slightly at the heat.
Johnny: So many competitors, respected veterans, all of them. Men like Brad Kane, Creepin’ Death, Torture, Kevin Hardaway; who have been with the WCF for years, if not from the very outset of the venture. Whatever else may be said about these men, it’s important to remember that they came first, blazed a trail for the rest of us to follow. I may not really like Torture as a person, for example, but I have a deep an’ abidin’ respect for the competitor he is.
The Inveterate Confederate raises the coffee cup to his lips once more, thinks better of it, and sets it on the table in front of him.
Johnny: It’s an honor simply to be included in the company of such men, even for so short a duration as I have. I’ve stood toe-to-toe with some of the greatest WCF has to offer, an’ I have emerged victorious more often than not. My partner, Mr. Doc Henry, is a risin’ star in his own right, and a perennial contender for the United States championship.
Tonight, we defend our titles, an’ we will do so with all the pride an’ nobility befitting so prestigious an event. Our opponents, on t’other hand…
Reb shrugs noncommittally.
Johnny: Well, I can’t hardly never make heads or tails of what His Royal Highness, Mr. Jimmy Dean, has to say. Borrowin’ heavily from Shakespeare really don’t clarify things too much, but what can one expect from a man who’d be more at home in a padded cell than a wrestlin’ ring? Even so…
Johnny looks up, a slight smile playing across his face, and shakes his head.
Johnny: Even so, if the Prince were my tag partner, I think I’d have a little more respect for him than our dear, sexually conflicted Mr. Evans. Y’see, amidst his recent ramblin’s regardin’ our last confrontation an’ our upcomin’ conflict, he suggested that we’d both do better to cast off our current partners in favor of workin’ with each other, instead.
Were I a man of lesser integrity, I might be tempted by the suggestion. Not because I lack any confidence in my partner, y’understand, but because Mr. Evans has ambitions, an’ the infrastructure to reach for them as often as he likes. Now, don’t get me wrong here. I will admit to bein’ flattered – if mildly disturbed – at the offer. But this is about more than a temporary fix to Mr. Evans’ problems.
See, we all know the Prince is draggin’ Evans down; that’s what happens when a desperate man clings to the coattails of another. Chad’s star won’t rise much further, not with that kinda weight pullin’ him back to the mundane. What comes next is implosion; the creation of a black hole, metaphorically speakin’. An’ I been there…
The Inveterate Confederate’s smile broadens.
Johnny: See, Mr. Evans, you mighta beat me last week. Maybe that’s because it was just you an’ me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t have that burden of a partner weighin’ you down. But don’t think tonight is gonna be the same story.
Reb pauses, looking thoughtful for a moment.
Johnny: An’ don’t forget, you tried to leave our match unfinished last week. You ran from me like a scalded dog, an’ I had to come after you. Would it have been better, had I allowed you to forfeit? Would either of us have been satisfied with that outcome?
He shakes his head, answering his own rhetorical questions.
Johnny: You an’ I both know things had to go down the way they did. An’ while you may have some vague momentum from your victory last week, I got somethin’ better. I have the impetus, now, to show the WCF universe just what I’m made of. What the New Confederacy really stands for.
He hesitates again, cocking his head to one side as if listening to something. Silence reigns now, where before, the white noise of the shower was a constant in the background. Johnny smiles again, anticipating the emergence of the lady with whom he’d spent the night.
Johnny: Tonight, Mr. Evans, you an’ your partner will fail. These tag titles belong to the New Confederacy, an’ they’re stayin’ right here, around our waists. Tonight, the world will bear witness to the fall of the Royal Family. An’ when your risin’ star implodes, Mr. Evans… when things look bleak an’ the darkness starts to close in… Just remember that ol’ Johnny’s been there before, that I have walked that path myself…an’ that I’ll always be here to give you the benefit of my own experience, when it comes to that.
As the Inveterate Confederate concludes his oration, Jennifer steps out of the bedroom, clad only in a white bathrobe. Johnny looks up at her, awed yet again at her beauty; marveling at the fact that some strange fate has brought them together once more. Her own smile, as she gazes at him, is just a little lascivious, giving him a promise of things to come.
The bathroom door opens. A cloud of steam escapes. Johnny Reb walks out, a thick white towel tied around his waist like a sarong, and promptly busies himself sorting his clothes from a mixed-up pile on the floor. Pulling on his jeans quickly, he casts the towel aside and carries the rest of his stuff into the next room.
Here, the color white is still overwhelmingly dominant, in the carpet, the sofa, even the matching lamps on the end tables. The effect would be less pleasing, were it not for the presence of ebony tables and more bright red cushions. Near the door, a room service cart waits, with two silver-domed platters and a carafe of hot coffee. Reb immediately pours himself a cup and takes a seat on the couch to enjoy it, reflecting on the events of the last few weeks – inevitable, so close now to the evening’s match.
Johnny: Ten. This may be the biggest pay-per-view event in which I have ever participated. Really, in which any of us has. How often does one get the opportunity to celebrate an organization’s decade anniversary? Particularly amongst such distinguished an’ honored company?
Reb pauses, taking a sip from his steaming cup, and wincing slightly at the heat.
Johnny: So many competitors, respected veterans, all of them. Men like Brad Kane, Creepin’ Death, Torture, Kevin Hardaway; who have been with the WCF for years, if not from the very outset of the venture. Whatever else may be said about these men, it’s important to remember that they came first, blazed a trail for the rest of us to follow. I may not really like Torture as a person, for example, but I have a deep an’ abidin’ respect for the competitor he is.
The Inveterate Confederate raises the coffee cup to his lips once more, thinks better of it, and sets it on the table in front of him.
Johnny: It’s an honor simply to be included in the company of such men, even for so short a duration as I have. I’ve stood toe-to-toe with some of the greatest WCF has to offer, an’ I have emerged victorious more often than not. My partner, Mr. Doc Henry, is a risin’ star in his own right, and a perennial contender for the United States championship.
Tonight, we defend our titles, an’ we will do so with all the pride an’ nobility befitting so prestigious an event. Our opponents, on t’other hand…
Reb shrugs noncommittally.
Johnny: Well, I can’t hardly never make heads or tails of what His Royal Highness, Mr. Jimmy Dean, has to say. Borrowin’ heavily from Shakespeare really don’t clarify things too much, but what can one expect from a man who’d be more at home in a padded cell than a wrestlin’ ring? Even so…
Johnny looks up, a slight smile playing across his face, and shakes his head.
Johnny: Even so, if the Prince were my tag partner, I think I’d have a little more respect for him than our dear, sexually conflicted Mr. Evans. Y’see, amidst his recent ramblin’s regardin’ our last confrontation an’ our upcomin’ conflict, he suggested that we’d both do better to cast off our current partners in favor of workin’ with each other, instead.
Were I a man of lesser integrity, I might be tempted by the suggestion. Not because I lack any confidence in my partner, y’understand, but because Mr. Evans has ambitions, an’ the infrastructure to reach for them as often as he likes. Now, don’t get me wrong here. I will admit to bein’ flattered – if mildly disturbed – at the offer. But this is about more than a temporary fix to Mr. Evans’ problems.
See, we all know the Prince is draggin’ Evans down; that’s what happens when a desperate man clings to the coattails of another. Chad’s star won’t rise much further, not with that kinda weight pullin’ him back to the mundane. What comes next is implosion; the creation of a black hole, metaphorically speakin’. An’ I been there…
The Inveterate Confederate’s smile broadens.
Johnny: See, Mr. Evans, you mighta beat me last week. Maybe that’s because it was just you an’ me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t have that burden of a partner weighin’ you down. But don’t think tonight is gonna be the same story.
Reb pauses, looking thoughtful for a moment.
Johnny: An’ don’t forget, you tried to leave our match unfinished last week. You ran from me like a scalded dog, an’ I had to come after you. Would it have been better, had I allowed you to forfeit? Would either of us have been satisfied with that outcome?
He shakes his head, answering his own rhetorical questions.
Johnny: You an’ I both know things had to go down the way they did. An’ while you may have some vague momentum from your victory last week, I got somethin’ better. I have the impetus, now, to show the WCF universe just what I’m made of. What the New Confederacy really stands for.
He hesitates again, cocking his head to one side as if listening to something. Silence reigns now, where before, the white noise of the shower was a constant in the background. Johnny smiles again, anticipating the emergence of the lady with whom he’d spent the night.
Johnny: Tonight, Mr. Evans, you an’ your partner will fail. These tag titles belong to the New Confederacy, an’ they’re stayin’ right here, around our waists. Tonight, the world will bear witness to the fall of the Royal Family. An’ when your risin’ star implodes, Mr. Evans… when things look bleak an’ the darkness starts to close in… Just remember that ol’ Johnny’s been there before, that I have walked that path myself…an’ that I’ll always be here to give you the benefit of my own experience, when it comes to that.
As the Inveterate Confederate concludes his oration, Jennifer steps out of the bedroom, clad only in a white bathrobe. Johnny looks up at her, awed yet again at her beauty; marveling at the fact that some strange fate has brought them together once more. Her own smile, as she gazes at him, is just a little lascivious, giving him a promise of things to come.