Post by Johnny Reb on Oct 31, 2011 11:22:37 GMT -5
The flickering of a single fluorescent light casts eerie shadows in the empty WCF Arena locker room. All is silent as the camera pans slowly across rows of lockers. In traditional horror-film fashion, urgent music begins to fill the background. Anticipation builds as the volume rises; the tempo speeds up like the beating of a human heart, faster and faster as the camera creeps toward its destination. The music rises, after several tense moments, to a crescendo – at the precise moment that the camera peers around a corner to reveal…
…Johnny Reb, sitting alone on a bench, lacing up his boots and ignoring the bad lighting. The WCF World Title is carefully laid out on the bench beside him. He looks up at the camera.
Reb: Boo!
A huge grin splits his face.
Reb: Did I scare ya? No? ‘Course not… This whole…atmosphere, it ain’t any more terrifyin’ than, say, a bunch of guys playin’ in the woods. I reckon I shoulda been more careful what I wished for: I asked for more tired clichés, an’ I got ‘em in spades. Apparently, irony is a poorly understood concept for some folks.
All right, you can get back to fixin’ them lights now, Jimmy…
This last, the Inveterate Confederate addresses to someone off-camera: a maintenance worker called Jimmy. There is no response. He waits as the seconds tick by.
Reb: Jimmy?
Again, no answer. Johnny shrugs.
Reb: Oh, well. Guess he went to find somethin’ else to do. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes… Odin’s little pantomime in the woods. Cute. It’d be more impressive if’n I hadn’t seen somethin’ like it before. So, now ya call upon your ancestors for help. Maybe I overestimated ya. Maybe you’re a lot more worried ‘bout me than I thought. Perhaps, deep down, ya realize that – in spite of your talk of stoppin’ me short – y’ain’t a roadblock; you’re more of a speed bump.
An’, once again, you’ve entirely missed the point of what I was gettin' at. That’s all right. I understand, now. There is a certain intellectual capacity required to comprehend what I keep tryin’ to tell ya. An intellectual capacity that you can’t quite reach. Another failin’ of the public school system, I suppose. Then again, I went to public schools, an’ I turned out all right…
Now, I don’t know where ya ever got the idea that I would “invoke the Devil” or whatever. Since when does decoratin’ my home for Halloween equate performin’ the Great Rite? By that same logic, watchin’ Hammer films from the seventies makes me a practitioner of the dark arts… So your response to my clear enjoyment of the Halloween season is to go play pretend in the woods with your little friends.
Johnny flashes a smug grin at the camera. All at once, a loud bang echoes from the other side of the room. Johnny looks around, eyes scanning the semi-darkness.
Reb: Jimmy? Is that you? …Hello…?
His brow furrows in puzzlement. Something seems a little off here. Johnny shakes off the sensation of some impending unpleasantness and plunges ahead.
Reb: Man, now I’m hearin’ things… Anyway, look, Odin, I’ll make this as plain as I can so’s even you might finally get it. I don’t like you; you don’t like me. You think this…
He lifts the title belt with careful reverence and holds it up to the camera.
Reb: …belongs to you. It doesn’t. Honestly, I don’t even know how you’re in this match. There are so many more deservin’ of this opportunity. Ya had your chance to prove to everyone that you was worthy of this title at WAR. An’ ya blew it. I reckon it takes a lotta repetition for anythin’ to get through that thick Norse skull of yours. I reckon ya failed to notice how, every time you put me down that night, I got right back up an’ came back for more. See, I might be a little dude, compared to you; but I can take a lot of abuse, ‘specially when this title – my title – is on the line.
So, y’know, it’s good that y’ain’t gonna cut me any slack. I don’t want that. I want ya to bring me everythin’ ya got, just so’s – when I put ya down for the three count – y’ain’t got a damn thing to bitch about anymore. No more excuses. No more whinin’.
See, this title means a whole lot more to me than it does to you. For two an’ a half years, I have bled for this company. I stuck with it through thick an’ thin; through the Gravedigger era; through the Torture era; through management changin’ hands more often than some people change their underwear. All for this company. This title. By now, WCF is firmly imprinted in my DNA. An’ there is no man – in Midgard, Asgard, or Valhalla – more fit to carry this fine organization into the future.
WAR was the dawnin’ of a new age in WCF: the era of the Inveterate Confederate. It’s my time, now. But talk is cheap. Tonight, I’m gonna prove it. Tonight, you an’ me are gonna put on a battle worthy of the epic ballads of old.
Tonight, Mr. Balfore… you’re gonna meet the end of your title aspirations at these very hands. You an’ me are gonna tear it up, ain’t no doubt about that. But when the battle’s over; when the smoke clears, an’ the bell is rung… it’ll be my hand raised in triumph. An’ you… well, ya won’t be nothin’ more than a footnote in what promises to be a very long title reign.
Deo –
The Inveterate Confederate is interrupted once again by another loud bang; closer this time.
Reb: Goddamnit.
He finishes tying off his boot and stands, lifting the title strap from the bench and holding it defensively, like a weapon at the ready. Slowly, he prowls the locker room, seeking the source of the noise. Johnny stops short near the open door, looking down, and the camera moves in to peer over his shoulder. On the floor is a pool of sticky red liquid, smeared with drag marks leading out into the hallway.
Reb: Aw, hell. Not again…
Without warning, the scene cuts to static.
…Johnny Reb, sitting alone on a bench, lacing up his boots and ignoring the bad lighting. The WCF World Title is carefully laid out on the bench beside him. He looks up at the camera.
Reb: Boo!
A huge grin splits his face.
Reb: Did I scare ya? No? ‘Course not… This whole…atmosphere, it ain’t any more terrifyin’ than, say, a bunch of guys playin’ in the woods. I reckon I shoulda been more careful what I wished for: I asked for more tired clichés, an’ I got ‘em in spades. Apparently, irony is a poorly understood concept for some folks.
All right, you can get back to fixin’ them lights now, Jimmy…
This last, the Inveterate Confederate addresses to someone off-camera: a maintenance worker called Jimmy. There is no response. He waits as the seconds tick by.
Reb: Jimmy?
Again, no answer. Johnny shrugs.
Reb: Oh, well. Guess he went to find somethin’ else to do. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes… Odin’s little pantomime in the woods. Cute. It’d be more impressive if’n I hadn’t seen somethin’ like it before. So, now ya call upon your ancestors for help. Maybe I overestimated ya. Maybe you’re a lot more worried ‘bout me than I thought. Perhaps, deep down, ya realize that – in spite of your talk of stoppin’ me short – y’ain’t a roadblock; you’re more of a speed bump.
An’, once again, you’ve entirely missed the point of what I was gettin' at. That’s all right. I understand, now. There is a certain intellectual capacity required to comprehend what I keep tryin’ to tell ya. An intellectual capacity that you can’t quite reach. Another failin’ of the public school system, I suppose. Then again, I went to public schools, an’ I turned out all right…
Now, I don’t know where ya ever got the idea that I would “invoke the Devil” or whatever. Since when does decoratin’ my home for Halloween equate performin’ the Great Rite? By that same logic, watchin’ Hammer films from the seventies makes me a practitioner of the dark arts… So your response to my clear enjoyment of the Halloween season is to go play pretend in the woods with your little friends.
Johnny flashes a smug grin at the camera. All at once, a loud bang echoes from the other side of the room. Johnny looks around, eyes scanning the semi-darkness.
Reb: Jimmy? Is that you? …Hello…?
His brow furrows in puzzlement. Something seems a little off here. Johnny shakes off the sensation of some impending unpleasantness and plunges ahead.
Reb: Man, now I’m hearin’ things… Anyway, look, Odin, I’ll make this as plain as I can so’s even you might finally get it. I don’t like you; you don’t like me. You think this…
He lifts the title belt with careful reverence and holds it up to the camera.
Reb: …belongs to you. It doesn’t. Honestly, I don’t even know how you’re in this match. There are so many more deservin’ of this opportunity. Ya had your chance to prove to everyone that you was worthy of this title at WAR. An’ ya blew it. I reckon it takes a lotta repetition for anythin’ to get through that thick Norse skull of yours. I reckon ya failed to notice how, every time you put me down that night, I got right back up an’ came back for more. See, I might be a little dude, compared to you; but I can take a lot of abuse, ‘specially when this title – my title – is on the line.
So, y’know, it’s good that y’ain’t gonna cut me any slack. I don’t want that. I want ya to bring me everythin’ ya got, just so’s – when I put ya down for the three count – y’ain’t got a damn thing to bitch about anymore. No more excuses. No more whinin’.
See, this title means a whole lot more to me than it does to you. For two an’ a half years, I have bled for this company. I stuck with it through thick an’ thin; through the Gravedigger era; through the Torture era; through management changin’ hands more often than some people change their underwear. All for this company. This title. By now, WCF is firmly imprinted in my DNA. An’ there is no man – in Midgard, Asgard, or Valhalla – more fit to carry this fine organization into the future.
WAR was the dawnin’ of a new age in WCF: the era of the Inveterate Confederate. It’s my time, now. But talk is cheap. Tonight, I’m gonna prove it. Tonight, you an’ me are gonna put on a battle worthy of the epic ballads of old.
Tonight, Mr. Balfore… you’re gonna meet the end of your title aspirations at these very hands. You an’ me are gonna tear it up, ain’t no doubt about that. But when the battle’s over; when the smoke clears, an’ the bell is rung… it’ll be my hand raised in triumph. An’ you… well, ya won’t be nothin’ more than a footnote in what promises to be a very long title reign.
Deo –
The Inveterate Confederate is interrupted once again by another loud bang; closer this time.
Reb: Goddamnit.
He finishes tying off his boot and stands, lifting the title strap from the bench and holding it defensively, like a weapon at the ready. Slowly, he prowls the locker room, seeking the source of the noise. Johnny stops short near the open door, looking down, and the camera moves in to peer over his shoulder. On the floor is a pool of sticky red liquid, smeared with drag marks leading out into the hallway.
Reb: Aw, hell. Not again…
Without warning, the scene cuts to static.
