Post by Johnny Reb on Oct 28, 2011 11:58:39 GMT -5
A fist crashes into a crimson Century Wavemaster, rocking it back on its weighted base. A solid left hook follows, sinking deep into the foam padding. Another straight punch, followed by a series of quick jabs; and then an uppercut that nearly topples the target. The Wavemaster rights itself almost immediately, coming back for more. Over and over again, those fists dent the padded target, speed and power increasing with each strike; until, at last, knuckles are scraped raw and bloody.
Breathing heavily with exertion, Johnny Reb backs away from the Wavemaster. Beads of sweat drip down his face, join together, run in little rivulets along his neck to soak the collar of his plain white T-shirt. The Inveterate Confederate wipes perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, winces, and looks at his bleeding knuckles. One corner of his mouth turns up in an expression of satisfaction.
Reb: Odin Balfore…
Johnny’s expression turns sour.
Reb: I know what kinda man you are, Mr. Balfore. Seth Lerch ain’t the only guy ‘round here blinded by his own ego. In spite of all your delusional ramblin’ about bein’ a Norse God an’ whatnot, you’re still a man. Granted, a big man. Tough. Strong. But a man nonetheless, subject to mortal frailties just like anyone else. An’ none too bright a man, at that.
I tried to see things from your point of view, but I can’t get my head that far up my own ass. Now, I get that ya feel like ya got screwed out of the World Title. To be completely fair, ya sorta did. Then again… ya had your chance to win it back, to show the whole world that you was worthy of it in the first place – an’ ya failed. At WAR, ya mighta had the most eliminations: five in roughly twenty-one minutes, pretty impressive. But ya didn’t come in at the beginnin’ to outlast every other man on the roster. Ya weren’t subject to an hour and twelve minute test of endurance. An’ ya seem to forget the most important thing: I eliminated you. Ya put five men down in your comparatively shorter time in the ring, but try as ya might, when it was just you an’ me left; when you was doin’ your damnedest to break my neck – ya still couldn’t put me down for the three-count. What makes ya think Helloween is gonna be any diff’rent?
The Inveterate Confederate falls silent for a moment, contemplative. He reaches for a towel from a duffel bag at his feet, wiping away the last of the sweat from his face and neck.
Reb: That was supposed to be my night. My shinin’ moment. My ultimate vict’ry. An’ you… ya just had to take that away from me. Ya couldn’t stand the fact that ya lost, fair an’ square, so ya stole the title belt to assuage your ponderous ego. It’s a shame. Under other circumstances, I coulda come to respect ya. But not now; not ever.
Was a time, Mr. Balfore, I’d’a let it go. I’m a pretty laid-back kinda guy; I don’t let shit get to me. I tried to be understandin’, to put myself in your shoes for a minute. Up to now, I been handlin’ ya with kid gloves. But at Helloween, them gloves are comin’ off. I ain’t gonna put up with this no more. You talk, an’ talk, an’ talk – an ya never say nothin’ of any substance. Hell, ya hardly ever say anythin’ that even remotely makes any sense. Why, in the last week alone, you’ve accused me of name-droppin’ an’ – for the thousandth time – bein’ Seth Lerch’s “puppet.” I ain’t even gonna answer the latter: I done told ya I got nothin’ to do with Lerch beyond acceptin’ my paycheck every week. There’s only so many times I can repeat myself before even I get tired of the sound of my own voice. An’ as to the name-droppin’ bit… that’s just a consequence of who I am. I been in the ring with everyone who's important. For most of my career, I’ve been a consistent main-eventer. I’ve held the tag titles on three separate occasions – the last time for a solid four months, an’ largely on my own merit. I’ve ended more winnin’ streaks an’ put more legends down than I care to count. My record speaks for itself.
After weeks of tellin’ ya the same thing, over an’ over, I thought I was finally gettin' through to ya, only to see ya spewin’ the same nonsense yet again. Reason don’t seem to be your strongest point. Hell, ya can’t even decide if this is personal or just business. Ya keep sayin’ I’m standin’ between you an’ Seth Lerch, that I’m just… “collateral damage;” but your actions make it personal. I suggest ya make up your goddamned mind, ‘cause I’m tired of arguin’ the same point with you. If ya wanna fight me, fight me… for the Title, not for your shot at Lerch. ‘Cause I guarantee ya, the only thing on my mind come Monday night is keepin’ my World Title.
The title I actually earned… by defeatin’ you at WAR.
Johnny looks directly into the camera, blue-green eyes glittering and hard, jaw set with determination. A smile creeps slowly across his lips, showing just a hint of something malicious lurking underneath.
Reb: An’ just like at WAR, I am gonna walk out of Helloween in triumph. Deo vindice!
With that final thought, the scene fades to black.
Breathing heavily with exertion, Johnny Reb backs away from the Wavemaster. Beads of sweat drip down his face, join together, run in little rivulets along his neck to soak the collar of his plain white T-shirt. The Inveterate Confederate wipes perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, winces, and looks at his bleeding knuckles. One corner of his mouth turns up in an expression of satisfaction.
Reb: Odin Balfore…
Johnny’s expression turns sour.
Reb: I know what kinda man you are, Mr. Balfore. Seth Lerch ain’t the only guy ‘round here blinded by his own ego. In spite of all your delusional ramblin’ about bein’ a Norse God an’ whatnot, you’re still a man. Granted, a big man. Tough. Strong. But a man nonetheless, subject to mortal frailties just like anyone else. An’ none too bright a man, at that.
I tried to see things from your point of view, but I can’t get my head that far up my own ass. Now, I get that ya feel like ya got screwed out of the World Title. To be completely fair, ya sorta did. Then again… ya had your chance to win it back, to show the whole world that you was worthy of it in the first place – an’ ya failed. At WAR, ya mighta had the most eliminations: five in roughly twenty-one minutes, pretty impressive. But ya didn’t come in at the beginnin’ to outlast every other man on the roster. Ya weren’t subject to an hour and twelve minute test of endurance. An’ ya seem to forget the most important thing: I eliminated you. Ya put five men down in your comparatively shorter time in the ring, but try as ya might, when it was just you an’ me left; when you was doin’ your damnedest to break my neck – ya still couldn’t put me down for the three-count. What makes ya think Helloween is gonna be any diff’rent?
The Inveterate Confederate falls silent for a moment, contemplative. He reaches for a towel from a duffel bag at his feet, wiping away the last of the sweat from his face and neck.
Reb: That was supposed to be my night. My shinin’ moment. My ultimate vict’ry. An’ you… ya just had to take that away from me. Ya couldn’t stand the fact that ya lost, fair an’ square, so ya stole the title belt to assuage your ponderous ego. It’s a shame. Under other circumstances, I coulda come to respect ya. But not now; not ever.
Was a time, Mr. Balfore, I’d’a let it go. I’m a pretty laid-back kinda guy; I don’t let shit get to me. I tried to be understandin’, to put myself in your shoes for a minute. Up to now, I been handlin’ ya with kid gloves. But at Helloween, them gloves are comin’ off. I ain’t gonna put up with this no more. You talk, an’ talk, an’ talk – an ya never say nothin’ of any substance. Hell, ya hardly ever say anythin’ that even remotely makes any sense. Why, in the last week alone, you’ve accused me of name-droppin’ an’ – for the thousandth time – bein’ Seth Lerch’s “puppet.” I ain’t even gonna answer the latter: I done told ya I got nothin’ to do with Lerch beyond acceptin’ my paycheck every week. There’s only so many times I can repeat myself before even I get tired of the sound of my own voice. An’ as to the name-droppin’ bit… that’s just a consequence of who I am. I been in the ring with everyone who's important. For most of my career, I’ve been a consistent main-eventer. I’ve held the tag titles on three separate occasions – the last time for a solid four months, an’ largely on my own merit. I’ve ended more winnin’ streaks an’ put more legends down than I care to count. My record speaks for itself.
After weeks of tellin’ ya the same thing, over an’ over, I thought I was finally gettin' through to ya, only to see ya spewin’ the same nonsense yet again. Reason don’t seem to be your strongest point. Hell, ya can’t even decide if this is personal or just business. Ya keep sayin’ I’m standin’ between you an’ Seth Lerch, that I’m just… “collateral damage;” but your actions make it personal. I suggest ya make up your goddamned mind, ‘cause I’m tired of arguin’ the same point with you. If ya wanna fight me, fight me… for the Title, not for your shot at Lerch. ‘Cause I guarantee ya, the only thing on my mind come Monday night is keepin’ my World Title.
The title I actually earned… by defeatin’ you at WAR.
Johnny looks directly into the camera, blue-green eyes glittering and hard, jaw set with determination. A smile creeps slowly across his lips, showing just a hint of something malicious lurking underneath.
Reb: An’ just like at WAR, I am gonna walk out of Helloween in triumph. Deo vindice!
With that final thought, the scene fades to black.
