Post by Johnny Reb on Apr 24, 2011 11:07:42 GMT -5
Mexico City belies the very notion of Mexico as a third-world cesspit. It’s an ultramodern city; a bustling metropolis teeming with life, its skyline marked by towering skyscrapers – none too different from Manhattan, or Chicago, or Los Angeles. The afternoon sun burns through the slight cloud cover, its light reflecting a thousand ways from a thousand windows, drawing a barely-perceptible shimmer of heat from the pavement below.
In front of a small downtown taqueria – the Mexican equivalent of a deli – Johnny Reb leans against the hood of a ’79 Ford Ranchero; iridescent dragonfly green, the hood graced by an image of La Dama Nuestra de Guadalupe. His World Title belt is slung over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the camera before him.
Johnny: All right, Mr. Williams… you made your point. Sorta. Your logic is a little fuzzy, an’ your assumptions about as broad as the Mississippi River Delta. So I reckon it’s up to me to set the record straight.
Reb takes a deep breath, ordering his thoughts, and then lets it all out in a long, slow sigh.
Johnny: I know I been real quiet since Timebomb. There wasn’t, honestly, much to say. I did precisely what I said I’d do – I defeated that monster, Oblivion, an’ walked away with my World Title. I didn’t need to brag about that. Even if nobody else believed I could pull it off, I knew I would. That’s what counts. Braggin’ about it afterward would just be bad form.
Now, I get why you felt you had to do what you did at the contract signin’ two weeks ago. I understand, too, why you allied yourself with Torture, however temporarily, last week. You had to make an impression, an’ you did. There was a time I mighta taken that path, too; however, I do have principles. But y’know what all that says to me? To the fans? You’re sendin’ a message, all right – loud an’ clear: The message that you can’t beat Johnny Reb… not all on your lonesome, anyway.
He pauses for a moment to watch a couple of chicas dressed in halter tops and very short denim shorts walk by. A brief, sharp whistle from somewhere off camera gets their attention. The young ladies turn to look, giggling coyly at Johnny; he blushes and smiles back. Seeing him otherwise occupied, the girls wave and move off down the sidewalk, the sway of their hips just slightly more pronounced as they walk away.
Johnny: Mmm… Damn. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Listen, Jay… I’m a laid-back kinda guy. It’s just the way I am. A lotta folks mistake that for frivolity or weakness – usually to their own detriment. I don’t typically let people get under my skin, neither. You’d think, by now, I’d be so used to everyone insistin’ I’m some kinda racist redneck spendin’ all his spare time in the trailer park swillin’ cheap beer an’ watchin’ NASCAR, that it wouldn’t even bother me no more. Most of the time, it don’t; I just let it slide right off. But you – well, I reckon I gave ya more credit than all that. I thought, maybe, you was a little better than the rest of them. Looks like I was wrong.
Then again, I was wrong about a lotta things. I told ya before that I saw parallels between us, in the events leadin’ up to Timebomb, an’ after. That’s really where the comparison ends. I got so much more to offer this company than you do. I’ve proven myself, over an’ over again. A consistent main-eventer; a three-time Tag Team champion; a two-time an’ current World Champion; an’ I’ve headlined more pay-per-views than I care to count.
Reb stops for a moment to lift the title belt from his shoulder, looking it over meditatively. His fingers trace the embossed design on the golden plate, as a man on a religious pilgrimage might walk the famous Labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral. He glances up at the camera again, his eyes full of fire and his voice suffused with resolve.
Johnny: You asked me what the World Title meant to me. It’s every ounce of blood, every drop of perspiration that has ever been wrung from my body in the WCF ring. It’s the innumerable hours of trainin’ I put in, day by day, for the last two years. It’s months upon months of destroyin’ every obstacle put in my path, just to prove I deserved the opportunity. The World Title ain’t some prize to simply be taken; it represents everythin’ that makes a man…a man. Honor. Integrity. Virtue. A struggle against insurmountable odds, an’ overcomin’ them. Quite simply, the WCF World Title is – an’ always has been – my destiny.
Now, you implied the only reason I beat Brad Kane for this was that he simply didn’t care anymore; true or not, you dishonor the man who has done so much for this company over the years. An’ then you had the audacity to suggest that I defeated Oblivion by virtue of a simple mistake on his part. That may be so. But you know this business, or you oughta by now. Mistakes are to be capitalized on; that’s just good tactics. Unlike you, though, Mr. Williams, I felt no need to lash out at either of those men before facin’ them one-on-one. An’ to what end? Did ya think you was gonna rattle my cage? Interrupt my serene an’ self-assured composure?
I’ll let ya in on a little secret: of everythin’ I got in my arsenal, confidence is my greatest weapon… an’ clearly the one thing you lack. Now, if you’ll excuse me…
Johnny’s eye is caught by the reappearance of the two young women as they emerge from a little boutique and move toward him, smiling in a less-than-innocent way.
Johnny: Looks like I got a little somethin’ else to attend to. Deo vindice!
The camera follows him for a few seconds more as Reb saunters casually toward the girls before it cuts off, leaving the remainder of that particular adventure to our rather vivid imagination.
In front of a small downtown taqueria – the Mexican equivalent of a deli – Johnny Reb leans against the hood of a ’79 Ford Ranchero; iridescent dragonfly green, the hood graced by an image of La Dama Nuestra de Guadalupe. His World Title belt is slung over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the camera before him.
Johnny: All right, Mr. Williams… you made your point. Sorta. Your logic is a little fuzzy, an’ your assumptions about as broad as the Mississippi River Delta. So I reckon it’s up to me to set the record straight.
Reb takes a deep breath, ordering his thoughts, and then lets it all out in a long, slow sigh.
Johnny: I know I been real quiet since Timebomb. There wasn’t, honestly, much to say. I did precisely what I said I’d do – I defeated that monster, Oblivion, an’ walked away with my World Title. I didn’t need to brag about that. Even if nobody else believed I could pull it off, I knew I would. That’s what counts. Braggin’ about it afterward would just be bad form.
Now, I get why you felt you had to do what you did at the contract signin’ two weeks ago. I understand, too, why you allied yourself with Torture, however temporarily, last week. You had to make an impression, an’ you did. There was a time I mighta taken that path, too; however, I do have principles. But y’know what all that says to me? To the fans? You’re sendin’ a message, all right – loud an’ clear: The message that you can’t beat Johnny Reb… not all on your lonesome, anyway.
He pauses for a moment to watch a couple of chicas dressed in halter tops and very short denim shorts walk by. A brief, sharp whistle from somewhere off camera gets their attention. The young ladies turn to look, giggling coyly at Johnny; he blushes and smiles back. Seeing him otherwise occupied, the girls wave and move off down the sidewalk, the sway of their hips just slightly more pronounced as they walk away.
Johnny: Mmm… Damn. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Listen, Jay… I’m a laid-back kinda guy. It’s just the way I am. A lotta folks mistake that for frivolity or weakness – usually to their own detriment. I don’t typically let people get under my skin, neither. You’d think, by now, I’d be so used to everyone insistin’ I’m some kinda racist redneck spendin’ all his spare time in the trailer park swillin’ cheap beer an’ watchin’ NASCAR, that it wouldn’t even bother me no more. Most of the time, it don’t; I just let it slide right off. But you – well, I reckon I gave ya more credit than all that. I thought, maybe, you was a little better than the rest of them. Looks like I was wrong.
Then again, I was wrong about a lotta things. I told ya before that I saw parallels between us, in the events leadin’ up to Timebomb, an’ after. That’s really where the comparison ends. I got so much more to offer this company than you do. I’ve proven myself, over an’ over again. A consistent main-eventer; a three-time Tag Team champion; a two-time an’ current World Champion; an’ I’ve headlined more pay-per-views than I care to count.
Reb stops for a moment to lift the title belt from his shoulder, looking it over meditatively. His fingers trace the embossed design on the golden plate, as a man on a religious pilgrimage might walk the famous Labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral. He glances up at the camera again, his eyes full of fire and his voice suffused with resolve.
Johnny: You asked me what the World Title meant to me. It’s every ounce of blood, every drop of perspiration that has ever been wrung from my body in the WCF ring. It’s the innumerable hours of trainin’ I put in, day by day, for the last two years. It’s months upon months of destroyin’ every obstacle put in my path, just to prove I deserved the opportunity. The World Title ain’t some prize to simply be taken; it represents everythin’ that makes a man…a man. Honor. Integrity. Virtue. A struggle against insurmountable odds, an’ overcomin’ them. Quite simply, the WCF World Title is – an’ always has been – my destiny.
Now, you implied the only reason I beat Brad Kane for this was that he simply didn’t care anymore; true or not, you dishonor the man who has done so much for this company over the years. An’ then you had the audacity to suggest that I defeated Oblivion by virtue of a simple mistake on his part. That may be so. But you know this business, or you oughta by now. Mistakes are to be capitalized on; that’s just good tactics. Unlike you, though, Mr. Williams, I felt no need to lash out at either of those men before facin’ them one-on-one. An’ to what end? Did ya think you was gonna rattle my cage? Interrupt my serene an’ self-assured composure?
I’ll let ya in on a little secret: of everythin’ I got in my arsenal, confidence is my greatest weapon… an’ clearly the one thing you lack. Now, if you’ll excuse me…
Johnny’s eye is caught by the reappearance of the two young women as they emerge from a little boutique and move toward him, smiling in a less-than-innocent way.
Johnny: Looks like I got a little somethin’ else to attend to. Deo vindice!
The camera follows him for a few seconds more as Reb saunters casually toward the girls before it cuts off, leaving the remainder of that particular adventure to our rather vivid imagination.