Post by Johnny Reb on Oct 1, 2011 11:54:37 GMT -5
Slate-gray clouds cast a heavy pall over a public park. In contrast, the trees blaze with shades of crimson, orange, and gold. A stiff wind stirs fallen leaves, sending them to skitter along the winding footpath until they become ensnared in fading green grass. Among the few souls hardy enough to brave the autumn chill, two men run at a steady pace along the concrete pathway: one, fit and trim, showing little sign of exertion; the other, slightly paunchy, red-faced and puffing as he strains to keep up. Gasping for air, WCF’s own resident interviewer turns to his companion.
Hank Brown: Johnny… can we… stop now?
The Inveterate Confederate spares Hank a glance, half annoyance, half concern. He slows to a trot.
Reb: Nope. Can’t stop cold. C’mon, Hank. It’s just a little further.
Hank opens his mouth to protest, but his straining lungs refuse to do more than attempt to take in as much oxygen as possible. In spite of his less rapid pace, Johnny pulls ahead again. They continue on for another eighth of a mile or so, before Reb calls a halt at last. Hank collapses thankfully onto the nearest park bench; it’s another couple of minutes before he’s recovered enough to speak.
Reb: Jeez, Hank. You are really outta shape, y’know that?
Hank: Yeah, well… Why’d you drag me out here, anyway?
Johnny eyes the journalist in something approaching pity.
Reb: I thought you could keep up. This is WAR, Hank. Gotta have the stamina to outlast every other person in that ring.
Hank: But I’m not competing…
Reb: Clearly.
Hank is silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to segue into a legitimate interview question.
Hank: Speaking of WAR… You’ve admitted, yourself, that you’ve traditionally not done all that well in previous years. What makes this year any different?
Reb: Lotsa things. First off, I’m better prepared this time. I know what to expect, save for the few inevitable surprises along the way. I’m in the best shape of my life; been trainin’ almost nonstop ever since that last fiasco of a match I was in. But the biggest difference this time ‘round, Hank, is that I have the confidence I lacked before. I know the competition, some of ‘em nearly as well as family. I know who to watch out for. An’ in the long run, what it comes down to is… I actually have the drive, the desire to come out on top this time. Never really did before. Figured it was a lost cause.
Hank: Uh-huh. So, in your opinion, who are the biggest threats to your success in WAR?
Reb: Oh, that’s easy. Brad Kane, D-Day, Jay Williams, Jake Keeton, Oblivion, an’ possibly Logan… in no partic’lar order.
Hank: What about the former World Champion, Odin Balfore?
Johnny shrugs noncommittally.
Reb: He walks outta WAR with that title, he’ll have the right to brag, or talk shit, or whatever. Not before. As it stands right now, I got no respect for that man. An’ he still ain’t got a clue what he’s prattlin’ about.
Hank: And you don’t think Doc Henry’s a threat?
Reb: Nope.
Hank: Even though the last time you two met in the ring, he caused you an injury that required surgery and might have ended your career?
Reb: Even so. Listen, Hank, if an’ when me an’ Mr. Henry come face-to-face at WAR… I’m gonna eliminate his ass, no doubt about it. It ain’t a possibility; it’s a certainty. That’s assumin’ he don’t do what he always does, an’ hide from ever’body. The man’s a low-down, yellow-bellied snake in the grass. He done forgot how to hold his own, so he’s gotta resort to base trickery. I don’t cotton to that. He gets anywhere near me, he’s goin’ down.
Hank nods, more in acknowledgement than agreement. Privately, he isn’t so sure. He’s seen enough of these events to know that things rarely go as planned.
Hank: Now, Johnny… there’s word going around that your recent injury makes you less of an obstacle, especially considering you came back to work far too early. Got anything to say about that?
Reb: You sure are obsessed with this whole injury thing, Hank. So I got a few pins in my neck. No big deal. The only real inconvenience that’s caused me is when I try to get through airport security. It ain’t slowed me down; it ain’t made me weak. An’ iffn’ I’d really thought it was too soon, I wouldn’ta returned when I did. Long story short, it ain’t a factor.
Hank: Ok, sure. So… your manager, Don Jesus, left kind of abruptly. How is that going to affect your performance in the ring on Monday night?
The Inveterate Confederate is briefly quiet, mulling that over.
Reb: Lemme tell ya, Hank… I ain’t exactly overjoyed. But the more I think about it, the more I realize he was right. It was time for him to move on. Time for me to move on. It was never meant to be a permanent arrangement, an’ truth be told, I ain’t really needed the moral support in months. If you’re lookin’ for me to falter ‘cause I ain’t got nobody in my proverbial corner anymore, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.
See, Hank, in a way, things have come full circle. I’m sorta where I was when I began; exceptin’ not exactly. I’m on my lonesome once more, an’ that’s really more how I like it. Which ain’t to say that I’m averse to formin’ an alliance, like with D-Day an’ Jay Williams. But alone is how I started, an’ alone is how I prefer to fight my own battles. The more surprisin’ parallel, though, is that everyone seems to have forgotten who I am. Well, I s’pose the new guys – the ones who came along while I was recoverin’ from surgery – wouldn’t know; not that they couldn’t do a little homework, if they wasn’t so lazy. However, even the veterans, men I’ve known for most or all of my career – they seem to think I’ve lost a step, or forgotten how to wrestle entirely.
That’s no concern of mine, though. They underestimate me at their own peril. Come Monday night, anyone who’s dismissed me as a legitimate threat is gonna see the error of their ways. I’m gonna remind ever’body just why they call me the Inveterate Confederate.
Brown nods, glancing at his watch in a slightly theatrical way.
Hank: Right. Good. Well, listen, Johnny… it’s been great catching up, but I got another appointment this afternoon. Is there anything else you’d like to add, for the viewers at home?
Johnny grins broadly.
Reb: Yeah. One last thing… I’m gonna allay ever’body’s reservations ‘bout my ability to perform. I’m walkin’ outta WAR the new WCF World Champion, you can count on that. Not Odin Balfore. Not Logan. Not Brad Kane. Johnny Reb, the Inveterate Confederate, is bringin’ the World Title back home where it belongs.
Johnny makes a “ghost belting” motion across his waist, still grinning.
Reb: Deo vindice!
The camera pans out in an ever-widening view as Hank and Johnny shake hands, and part ways, before the scene cuts abruptly to black.
Hank Brown: Johnny… can we… stop now?
The Inveterate Confederate spares Hank a glance, half annoyance, half concern. He slows to a trot.
Reb: Nope. Can’t stop cold. C’mon, Hank. It’s just a little further.
Hank opens his mouth to protest, but his straining lungs refuse to do more than attempt to take in as much oxygen as possible. In spite of his less rapid pace, Johnny pulls ahead again. They continue on for another eighth of a mile or so, before Reb calls a halt at last. Hank collapses thankfully onto the nearest park bench; it’s another couple of minutes before he’s recovered enough to speak.
Reb: Jeez, Hank. You are really outta shape, y’know that?
Hank: Yeah, well… Why’d you drag me out here, anyway?
Johnny eyes the journalist in something approaching pity.
Reb: I thought you could keep up. This is WAR, Hank. Gotta have the stamina to outlast every other person in that ring.
Hank: But I’m not competing…
Reb: Clearly.
Hank is silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to segue into a legitimate interview question.
Hank: Speaking of WAR… You’ve admitted, yourself, that you’ve traditionally not done all that well in previous years. What makes this year any different?
Reb: Lotsa things. First off, I’m better prepared this time. I know what to expect, save for the few inevitable surprises along the way. I’m in the best shape of my life; been trainin’ almost nonstop ever since that last fiasco of a match I was in. But the biggest difference this time ‘round, Hank, is that I have the confidence I lacked before. I know the competition, some of ‘em nearly as well as family. I know who to watch out for. An’ in the long run, what it comes down to is… I actually have the drive, the desire to come out on top this time. Never really did before. Figured it was a lost cause.
Hank: Uh-huh. So, in your opinion, who are the biggest threats to your success in WAR?
Reb: Oh, that’s easy. Brad Kane, D-Day, Jay Williams, Jake Keeton, Oblivion, an’ possibly Logan… in no partic’lar order.
Hank: What about the former World Champion, Odin Balfore?
Johnny shrugs noncommittally.
Reb: He walks outta WAR with that title, he’ll have the right to brag, or talk shit, or whatever. Not before. As it stands right now, I got no respect for that man. An’ he still ain’t got a clue what he’s prattlin’ about.
Hank: And you don’t think Doc Henry’s a threat?
Reb: Nope.
Hank: Even though the last time you two met in the ring, he caused you an injury that required surgery and might have ended your career?
Reb: Even so. Listen, Hank, if an’ when me an’ Mr. Henry come face-to-face at WAR… I’m gonna eliminate his ass, no doubt about it. It ain’t a possibility; it’s a certainty. That’s assumin’ he don’t do what he always does, an’ hide from ever’body. The man’s a low-down, yellow-bellied snake in the grass. He done forgot how to hold his own, so he’s gotta resort to base trickery. I don’t cotton to that. He gets anywhere near me, he’s goin’ down.
Hank nods, more in acknowledgement than agreement. Privately, he isn’t so sure. He’s seen enough of these events to know that things rarely go as planned.
Hank: Now, Johnny… there’s word going around that your recent injury makes you less of an obstacle, especially considering you came back to work far too early. Got anything to say about that?
Reb: You sure are obsessed with this whole injury thing, Hank. So I got a few pins in my neck. No big deal. The only real inconvenience that’s caused me is when I try to get through airport security. It ain’t slowed me down; it ain’t made me weak. An’ iffn’ I’d really thought it was too soon, I wouldn’ta returned when I did. Long story short, it ain’t a factor.
Hank: Ok, sure. So… your manager, Don Jesus, left kind of abruptly. How is that going to affect your performance in the ring on Monday night?
The Inveterate Confederate is briefly quiet, mulling that over.
Reb: Lemme tell ya, Hank… I ain’t exactly overjoyed. But the more I think about it, the more I realize he was right. It was time for him to move on. Time for me to move on. It was never meant to be a permanent arrangement, an’ truth be told, I ain’t really needed the moral support in months. If you’re lookin’ for me to falter ‘cause I ain’t got nobody in my proverbial corner anymore, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.
See, Hank, in a way, things have come full circle. I’m sorta where I was when I began; exceptin’ not exactly. I’m on my lonesome once more, an’ that’s really more how I like it. Which ain’t to say that I’m averse to formin’ an alliance, like with D-Day an’ Jay Williams. But alone is how I started, an’ alone is how I prefer to fight my own battles. The more surprisin’ parallel, though, is that everyone seems to have forgotten who I am. Well, I s’pose the new guys – the ones who came along while I was recoverin’ from surgery – wouldn’t know; not that they couldn’t do a little homework, if they wasn’t so lazy. However, even the veterans, men I’ve known for most or all of my career – they seem to think I’ve lost a step, or forgotten how to wrestle entirely.
That’s no concern of mine, though. They underestimate me at their own peril. Come Monday night, anyone who’s dismissed me as a legitimate threat is gonna see the error of their ways. I’m gonna remind ever’body just why they call me the Inveterate Confederate.
Brown nods, glancing at his watch in a slightly theatrical way.
Hank: Right. Good. Well, listen, Johnny… it’s been great catching up, but I got another appointment this afternoon. Is there anything else you’d like to add, for the viewers at home?
Johnny grins broadly.
Reb: Yeah. One last thing… I’m gonna allay ever’body’s reservations ‘bout my ability to perform. I’m walkin’ outta WAR the new WCF World Champion, you can count on that. Not Odin Balfore. Not Logan. Not Brad Kane. Johnny Reb, the Inveterate Confederate, is bringin’ the World Title back home where it belongs.
Johnny makes a “ghost belting” motion across his waist, still grinning.
Reb: Deo vindice!
The camera pans out in an ever-widening view as Hank and Johnny shake hands, and part ways, before the scene cuts abruptly to black.
