Post by Johnny Reb on Oct 14, 2011 10:39:12 GMT -5
Plain alabaster walls contrast with the highly polished wood floor in a cozy, two-storey townhouse condo, located in an upscale neighborhood near Reading, Pennsylvania. Though small, the condo is well appointed with contemporary furniture from a local high-end retailer. Most of the natural light filters in through a big bay window in front, and a skylight set into the vaulted ceiling high above; recessed and track lighting combine to make up the rest. It looks more like a showroom than a home, lacking yet that lived-in ambiance.
A man descends a staircase that – by virtue of its minimalist construction – appears to be floating in midair: Johnny Reb, with the WCF World Title slung over one shoulder. He saunters to the built-in minibar under the stairs and pours a hearty helping of Southern Comfort into a highball glass. As always, the label on the bottle has been altered, the letters “DIS” written in Sharpie so that it now reads “Southern Discomfort.” Drink in hand, he crosses the living room and drops onto the leather sectional, pointing a remote at the forty-two inch HDTV. Images of Odin Balfore (and company) play across the screen, while Reb’s expression grows ever more puzzled. At last, he pauses the whole mess, and takes a slug from his glass.
Reb: If that’s a joke of some kind, I don’t get it. Maybe my sense of humor ain’t what it used to be. Then again, I ain’t five years old no more, neither.
He doesn’t look at the camera; addressing his comments instead to the television itself. As if it’s the poor TV’s fault.
Reb: Another week, another spewin’ of meanin’less verbal sewage. Perhaps, Mr. Balfore, you seek to inundate me with so much empty rhetoric that my mind shuts down to protect itself from the painful an’ obvious foolishness of your statements. Makes me wonder how come stupidity is only painful for those of us forced to observe it, rather than the one responsible for it. I reckon ignorance is bliss, after all.
Johnny lifts the glass to his lips again, still staring at the screen in a bemused way.
Reb: Now – an’ this is perhaps the funniest part of your little diatribe – you wanna say that I “squeaked by” at WAR?! Were we even in the same match? Or were you participatin’ in some alternate universe version of WAR where everythin’s all ass-backward?
Maybe you’re just too busy playin’ with that rabies-infested varmint an’ makin’ a mockery of – well, yourself, mainly. So I’m gonna lay a little illumination on ya, since you’re clearly incapable of doin’ it on y’own. If you’ll recall – an’ ya can go ahead an’ pick up the DVD from the WCF online store to double check me on this – I was the second man in the ring at WAR. From beginnin’ to end, I was in that mach; I outlasted every other competitor. Took my share of bumps an’ bruises along the way, to be sure. But I made it through. Even after sufferin’ multiple neckbreakers, most of ‘em at your own hands, Mr. Balfore; I. Still. Won. Just like I said I would.
But you… ya just can’t get over the fact that, after all of that – after well over an hour of all-out brawlin’ – I still pinned you an’ claimed the title of World Champion for myself. An’ what’d you do then? You made off with the belt, cryin’ like a little girl with a skinned knee the whole way. An’ then, when Seth Lerch did the right thing – perhaps for the first time in his entire life – in helpin’ me to retrieve that title belt, ya started whinin’ again. Face it, Mr. Balfore: ya simply ain’t championship material. At best, you’re a second-rate midcarder. Roy Speede is a better man than you are – an’ I use the term rather loosely.
The Inveterate Confederate downs the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the mahogany coffee table before him.
Reb: So, while we’re on the subject, there’s a few more of your misconceptions I feel need corrected. Not that I expect ya to listen; y’haven’t so far. Maybe I been talkin’ over your head, so I’ll simplify it for ya. I ain’t friends with Seth Lerch; I just happen to work for him. Lerch is the man solely responsible for the dissolution of one of the greatest tag teams in WCF history: the New Confederacy. You weren’t around in them days, Mr. Balfore. Ya dunno what we did, an’ ya can’t be bothered to learn the actual dynamic around here. Just ‘cause I don’t actively despise Lerch, don’t mean I like him any better’n you do. I ain’t friends with Logan, neither. Sure, I got some respect for the guy. He’s been around about a hundred years. Beyond that…
A noncommittal shrug.
Reb: Don’t assume ya know who I am or what I’m about, Mr. Balfore. Not when ya don’t do your due diligence. Ya just spout a bunch of random words that seem to make complete sentences. F’rinstance, your continual questionin’ of where I was when you were… I dunno, runnin’ amok dominatin’ all of the roster’s leftovers when most of the superstars were otherwise occupied. Now, everyone else knows the answer to this; you’re the only one that don’t. So I’m gonna tell ya, one last time: I was recoverin’ from an injury I suffered at the hands of my former partner. I wasn’t s’posed to come back for at least six months, accordin’ to my surgeon. But I did it anyway, an’ y’know why?
Because this… it’s in my blood, now. Part of who I am. Without my career, what am I? Just like most of the guys under contract to this fine organization, I eat, sleep, and breathe wrestlin’. So much of my blood an’ sweat is soaked into the canvas, you could make a dozen clones of me, an’ still have plenty left over. Hm. There’s a thought… But I digress. I had my say, an’ I’m done. Done tryin’ to make you a little less ignorant. Done wastin’ my breath on ya. You don’t listen to me this time, it ain’t my problem anymore.
All I got left to say is this: When you an’ your little buddy Ryan Blake step into the ring with D-Day an’ the Inveterate Confederate, you’re gonna know how a legitimate champion does things. Me an’ D-Day have both held this here World Title, by skill rather than luck, or cheatin’, or whatever it was ya did to get it in the first place. The difference between you an’ me, Mr. Balfore, is that I can afford not to give ya much thought. That don’t mean I’m gonna let my guard down for one second; it just means I know what y’are, what you’re about. I’ve walked right through men like you before, men so haughty an’ arrogant they think nothin’ can touch ‘em.
Our match at Slam is gonna end just like WAR: with me puttin’ your ass on the canvas for the three-count. An’ that’s just a taste of what you’ll get at Helloween.
Now, Johnny casts a glance at the camera, smiling with self-assurance.
Reb: Deo vindice!
The Inveterate Confederate continues to smile, his fingers absently, lovingly caressing the embossed work of the gold plate on his title belt. The scene fades away.
A man descends a staircase that – by virtue of its minimalist construction – appears to be floating in midair: Johnny Reb, with the WCF World Title slung over one shoulder. He saunters to the built-in minibar under the stairs and pours a hearty helping of Southern Comfort into a highball glass. As always, the label on the bottle has been altered, the letters “DIS” written in Sharpie so that it now reads “Southern Discomfort.” Drink in hand, he crosses the living room and drops onto the leather sectional, pointing a remote at the forty-two inch HDTV. Images of Odin Balfore (and company) play across the screen, while Reb’s expression grows ever more puzzled. At last, he pauses the whole mess, and takes a slug from his glass.
Reb: If that’s a joke of some kind, I don’t get it. Maybe my sense of humor ain’t what it used to be. Then again, I ain’t five years old no more, neither.
He doesn’t look at the camera; addressing his comments instead to the television itself. As if it’s the poor TV’s fault.
Reb: Another week, another spewin’ of meanin’less verbal sewage. Perhaps, Mr. Balfore, you seek to inundate me with so much empty rhetoric that my mind shuts down to protect itself from the painful an’ obvious foolishness of your statements. Makes me wonder how come stupidity is only painful for those of us forced to observe it, rather than the one responsible for it. I reckon ignorance is bliss, after all.
Johnny lifts the glass to his lips again, still staring at the screen in a bemused way.
Reb: Now – an’ this is perhaps the funniest part of your little diatribe – you wanna say that I “squeaked by” at WAR?! Were we even in the same match? Or were you participatin’ in some alternate universe version of WAR where everythin’s all ass-backward?
Maybe you’re just too busy playin’ with that rabies-infested varmint an’ makin’ a mockery of – well, yourself, mainly. So I’m gonna lay a little illumination on ya, since you’re clearly incapable of doin’ it on y’own. If you’ll recall – an’ ya can go ahead an’ pick up the DVD from the WCF online store to double check me on this – I was the second man in the ring at WAR. From beginnin’ to end, I was in that mach; I outlasted every other competitor. Took my share of bumps an’ bruises along the way, to be sure. But I made it through. Even after sufferin’ multiple neckbreakers, most of ‘em at your own hands, Mr. Balfore; I. Still. Won. Just like I said I would.
But you… ya just can’t get over the fact that, after all of that – after well over an hour of all-out brawlin’ – I still pinned you an’ claimed the title of World Champion for myself. An’ what’d you do then? You made off with the belt, cryin’ like a little girl with a skinned knee the whole way. An’ then, when Seth Lerch did the right thing – perhaps for the first time in his entire life – in helpin’ me to retrieve that title belt, ya started whinin’ again. Face it, Mr. Balfore: ya simply ain’t championship material. At best, you’re a second-rate midcarder. Roy Speede is a better man than you are – an’ I use the term rather loosely.
The Inveterate Confederate downs the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the mahogany coffee table before him.
Reb: So, while we’re on the subject, there’s a few more of your misconceptions I feel need corrected. Not that I expect ya to listen; y’haven’t so far. Maybe I been talkin’ over your head, so I’ll simplify it for ya. I ain’t friends with Seth Lerch; I just happen to work for him. Lerch is the man solely responsible for the dissolution of one of the greatest tag teams in WCF history: the New Confederacy. You weren’t around in them days, Mr. Balfore. Ya dunno what we did, an’ ya can’t be bothered to learn the actual dynamic around here. Just ‘cause I don’t actively despise Lerch, don’t mean I like him any better’n you do. I ain’t friends with Logan, neither. Sure, I got some respect for the guy. He’s been around about a hundred years. Beyond that…
A noncommittal shrug.
Reb: Don’t assume ya know who I am or what I’m about, Mr. Balfore. Not when ya don’t do your due diligence. Ya just spout a bunch of random words that seem to make complete sentences. F’rinstance, your continual questionin’ of where I was when you were… I dunno, runnin’ amok dominatin’ all of the roster’s leftovers when most of the superstars were otherwise occupied. Now, everyone else knows the answer to this; you’re the only one that don’t. So I’m gonna tell ya, one last time: I was recoverin’ from an injury I suffered at the hands of my former partner. I wasn’t s’posed to come back for at least six months, accordin’ to my surgeon. But I did it anyway, an’ y’know why?
Because this… it’s in my blood, now. Part of who I am. Without my career, what am I? Just like most of the guys under contract to this fine organization, I eat, sleep, and breathe wrestlin’. So much of my blood an’ sweat is soaked into the canvas, you could make a dozen clones of me, an’ still have plenty left over. Hm. There’s a thought… But I digress. I had my say, an’ I’m done. Done tryin’ to make you a little less ignorant. Done wastin’ my breath on ya. You don’t listen to me this time, it ain’t my problem anymore.
All I got left to say is this: When you an’ your little buddy Ryan Blake step into the ring with D-Day an’ the Inveterate Confederate, you’re gonna know how a legitimate champion does things. Me an’ D-Day have both held this here World Title, by skill rather than luck, or cheatin’, or whatever it was ya did to get it in the first place. The difference between you an’ me, Mr. Balfore, is that I can afford not to give ya much thought. That don’t mean I’m gonna let my guard down for one second; it just means I know what y’are, what you’re about. I’ve walked right through men like you before, men so haughty an’ arrogant they think nothin’ can touch ‘em.
Our match at Slam is gonna end just like WAR: with me puttin’ your ass on the canvas for the three-count. An’ that’s just a taste of what you’ll get at Helloween.
Now, Johnny casts a glance at the camera, smiling with self-assurance.
Reb: Deo vindice!
The Inveterate Confederate continues to smile, his fingers absently, lovingly caressing the embossed work of the gold plate on his title belt. The scene fades away.
