Post by Johnny Reb on Nov 22, 2011 13:48:48 GMT -5
The bustling airport is positively teeming with people, on this overcast Tuesday afternoon just before Thanksgiving. The concourse looks like any other, in any number of major airports the world over: massive panes of thick glass set into steel framework that soars upward to terminate in naked girders overhead; polished granite floors, worn in places from the vast amount of passengers moving through; baggage carousels spewing out suitcases and valises at such a rate that a third of them wind up on the floor, and no one seems to notice or care.
Clad in jeans, a T-shirt bearing the image of a Southern Comfort label – with the letters “DIS” inscribed in red just over the word “Comfort” – and a replica Civil War era gray officer’s jacket, the blond man makes his way through the crowd. At just under six feet tall, with a slim, athletic build, The Inveterate Confederate is not physically imposing; yet there is something about him that draws the eye, and commands attention. His bearing is confident, bordering on regal. The throng of passengers parts to make way for him; incredulous stares, excited whispers, and pointing fingers follow. He is the Wrestling Championship Federation’s very own Johnny Reb.
At the bottom of the escalator leading down from the concourse, a man dressed in a slightly shabby suit and a chauffeur’s cap waits, holding a cardboard sign with Johnny’s name on it. Their eyes meet; they exchange a nod, one of confirmation, the other of acknowledgement; and the man leads Reb out to a big, black towncar idling in the pickup/dropoff lane. The driver doesn’t speak until they’re out of the airport’s environs and on the main roads.
Driver: I have to say, it’s a real pleasure, Mr. Reb.
Reb: Johnny, please. Mr. Reb is my father.
The driver catches Reb’s knowing grin in the rearview mirror, but fails to get the joke immediately. Reb, of course, is not Johnny’s legal name. But the relevance of that fact is fleeting, just now. He smiles back anyway.
Driver: All right. Johnny, then. You ready for the big show?
Johnny’s brow furrows slightly as he contemplates his reply.
Reb: Hmm. Pretty much, yeah. I mean, I don’t personally know my opponents. I done my scoutin’: watched matches, seen some promos. But ya never really know a man until ya step into the ring with him; until ya unload on him with everythin’ ya got, an’ he either falters right then an’ there…or he comes back for more. Can’t say I’m overly impressed with what I seen so far, though.
Driver: You sound disappointed.
Reb: Admittedly, I am. See, half the reason I agreed to this thing was that I thought I was gonna be in the main event. Get another shot at that son of a bitch Odin Balfore, y’know? On pure damn luck, the guy manages to beat me in a title match. Then he turns around an’ takes a metaphorical dump on our World Title when he opts to represent UWA in this in this interfed competition – instead of WCF! Can you believe that shit?
An’ then, on top of that, I find out that not only have I been bumped out of the main event… but I’m paired up with my former tag team partner against two guys I never even heard of. Honestly, I dunno whom I despise more: Odin Balfore or Doc Henry. The man who took my World Title an’ then subsequently crapped all over it; or the man who has consistently made my life a livin’ hell for the past year and a half or so.
Driver: Yeah, that Doc Henry is pretty rough. I don’t really keep up with professional wrestling – not my thing. But my son’s a huge fan. You, in particular, have been an inspiration to him.
Johnny looks surprised at this revelation.
Reb: Really?
Driver: If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. The kid’s had a hell of a time of it the last several months, after he got out of the Service. PTSD. Unemployment. Divorce. Foreclosure. He had to move back home. Working now, but it’ll be a while before he gets back on his feet. Anyway, he may not turn on the TV all week, but when it’s time for Slam!, he’s right there, glued to the set. The minute he hears your music hit, his eyes light up like he’s eight years old again, and it’s Christmas morning. He’s been watching you from day one, way on back in the GWC days. He’s seen you rise from an undistinguished rookie to a three-time tag champion and three-time world champion. He’s watched you go through countless trials and tribulations: your struggle with borderline alcoholism, all the times Doc Henry has betrayed you, your growth from an absolute rat bastard to a man of honor and principle… And he figures if you can get through all of that, and keep on fighting, he can surely survive a few bumps in the road.
Johnny blinks, gazing at the chauffeur thoughtfully. He’d never really considered any impact he might have on his fanbase, so this is all news to him.
Reb: Wow. I’m…flattered.
The chauffeur is quiet for a moment, reddening just slightly as he realizes he might have said too much.
Driver: Yeah. Well, look, I didn’t mean to gush like that. I usually don’t. It’s just…
Reb: Nah, nah. It’s all right. Hell, economy in the state it’s in, I’m grateful people are still watchin’, can still afford to come to our shows. Your son, though… he’s the real hero, bein’ in the military an’ all. Matter of fact… y’know what? I’m gonna have a couple of tickets waitin’ for y’all at the box office.
Driver: Oh, that’s not necess –
Reb: Yes, it is. When we, as individuals, stop honorin’ the military – even if we don’t especially agree with the reasons they’re fightin’ – the whole damn country is doomed.
Driver: Gee, thanks, Johnny. This is going to mean a lot to my son. I don’t know how to thank you.
Reb: You can thank me by listenin’ to me ramble on a little bit longer. See, ya got an advantage most folks watchin’ might not have. Ya know who I am, what I stand for, what I’ve accomplished. What was your son’s favorite match, by the by?
Driver: That’s easy: this year’s WAR. Most exciting battle royal either of us has ever seen. When you came in as the second competitor – out of eighteen, nineteen other guys – neither of us was sure what to think. Don’t get me wrong, Johnny. You’re one of the best in the business, but historically, WAR was never your strong suit. Man, you were on fire that night. People getting eliminated left and right, and you stood tall among them, weathered the storm, put a few out in your own right. I thought you were finished after Odin dropped you with all those backbreakers… and every time you got up again, me and my son both went insane! I’m pretty sure the neighbors were ready to call the cops for a noise disturbance. Then, when it was all said and done, and you were the man holding that World Title…that totally blew us away. You have hit a whole new level.
Reb: Y’know, you’re right. I have. An’ to be honest, I been slackin’ a little. I have a tendency to do that. Gain a title, get lazy. Happens to the best of us, from time to time.
Driver: That was going to be my next point, Johnny. You’ve been in the ring with – and defeated – some of the biggest names in professional wrestling: Dake Ken, Slickie T, Jake Keeton, Brad Kane, just to name a few. And Torture. I remember when you beat him in a ladder match one time… Everybody always says D-Day is the only man to have ever beaten Torture, but you did it first.
Reb: An’ you said you didn’t keep up with wrestlin’… Truth is, ol’ Tort’s lost a lot more than he likes to admit. But the man’s a weasel; not unlike my partner, Mr. Henry. Always figures out a way to make it not count… or he slips in an’ steals a legitimate submission… Torture ain’t important right now, though. Neither are any of them other guys you mentioned. Not this week. Any other time, I’d be more’n happy to chew the fat with ya about them fellas. But this week, I’m treadin’ in new territory for the first time in years, an’ that is where my focus lies.
Like I said, I dunno a lot about my opponents beyond what I could learn watchin’ old matches. I gather this Neptune guy had some rather bizarre personal issues that conveniently got resolved just in time for this show. Good. I’m glad. ‘Cause I want his A-game. I don’t want to be in the ring with some dude, an’ his attention’s all split a hundred different ways. It don’t feel right, getting a win over someone who can’t keep his focus on the match – an’ I don’t care how much he might protest to the contrary; when there’s somethin’ like that goin’ on in your life, at least a part of your concentration is gonna be elsewhere. But all this business about havin’ the deadliest feet in the industry… I dunno, it sounds like a Shaw Brothers flick from the Seventies, only about half as entertainin’. An’ I like me some Shaw Brothers movies, now. Still…I got my doubts about this Neptune… All the fancy footwork in the world ain’t gonna help against a man who can fly.
Here, Johnny pauses to offer a confident grin.
Reb: An’ his partner… who has, thus far, been entirely silent on the subject. Calls himself Fear, I think. He don’t really make much impression on me. So he’s a paranoid schizophrenic with possibly homicidal tendencies, who may or may not have murdered his own parents.
Another pause, this time accompanied by a wide, theatrical yawn.
Reb: Been there, done that, didn’t bother with the souvenir T-shirt. I have been toe-to-toe with a monster called Oblivion. You wanna talk crazy, that’s the man to see. At least three distinct personalities, and dozens of confirmed kills under his belt. Cops won’t come near him. Hell, even the FBI an’ the US Marshals are terrified of the guy. Don’t help that he’s got a whole coterie of freaks an’ mutants surroundin’ him all the time. An’ they bite! I know, ‘cause I been subjected to the onslaught. Even after all that, I come outta that match mostly intact…an’ still holdin’ onto my title. So even ol’ Fear ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of.
Nah. If there’s anythin’ I need to worry about in this match, it’s my own partner. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. Hell, not even that far. I dealt with my share of crazy guys. I dealt with my share of amoral guys. But Doc is somethin’ else. I’m startin’ to believe the man really is pure evil. It’ll be a miracle if he don’t turn on me halfway into the match an’ try to kill me again. Damn near broke my neck the last time, an’ I still got the pins in there to prove it. Made getting through airport security a hell of a lot more difficult than it shoulda been. That’s beside the point… Doc Henry is not a man to be trusted in any way. He’s a liar, a cheat, an’ a scoundrel of the lowest order. In fact, I suspect his hand in the arrangement of this competition. Can’t prove it, of course, but somethin’ tells me he’s behind it.
All in all, though… well, I ain’t got a lotta choice. This interfed event is excitin’ enough to make up for the fact that I’m partnerin’ with one of my oldest enemies. An’ perhaps bein’ paired with Mr. Henry will balance out the lack of a challenge I expect from our ersatz opponents on Thursday night. So, to those young gentlemen, I have only this to say: bring everythin’ ya got, ‘cause I will accept no less. You’re outclassed, outmatched, an’ outgunned…but you owe it to yourselves, to the fans, an’ to me to put everythin’ you are into this match.
As to Mr. Henry… don’t you dare cross me, son. ‘Cause I’m done with your nonsense, an’ there will be repercussions.
The towncar pulls to a stop in front of a small, luxurious boutique hotel, where a doorman in a crimson uniform steps up to open Johnny’s door for him. Reb gives the driver a hearty handshake – slipping him a generous tip at the same time – and smiles.
Reb: Don’t forget about them tickets, now.
He gets out of the car, refusing to let the attendant take his worn duffel bag, and watches as the driver takes off once more with a friendly wave. Johnny looks directly at the camera for the first time, still smiling, his eyes blazing with determination.
Reb: Thursday night, boys. However things work out, it’ll be a night to remember. You will not only witness, but become a party to, the one night only reunion of the greatest tag team in WCF’s recent history: the New Confederacy. An’ whatever else I may have to say about my once an’ future partner, I can guarantee y’all one thing – together, we are a force to be reckoned with. Y’all might think you’re gonna walk right through us. Especially you, Neptune. Clearly, you are accustomed to… lesser talents, if’n ya think you’re gonna make either me or Doc “beg” for anythin’. Next time, maybe y’oughta do your homework a little better.
Deo vindice!
Without another word, the Inveterate Confederate turns on his heel and disappears inside the hotel.
Clad in jeans, a T-shirt bearing the image of a Southern Comfort label – with the letters “DIS” inscribed in red just over the word “Comfort” – and a replica Civil War era gray officer’s jacket, the blond man makes his way through the crowd. At just under six feet tall, with a slim, athletic build, The Inveterate Confederate is not physically imposing; yet there is something about him that draws the eye, and commands attention. His bearing is confident, bordering on regal. The throng of passengers parts to make way for him; incredulous stares, excited whispers, and pointing fingers follow. He is the Wrestling Championship Federation’s very own Johnny Reb.
At the bottom of the escalator leading down from the concourse, a man dressed in a slightly shabby suit and a chauffeur’s cap waits, holding a cardboard sign with Johnny’s name on it. Their eyes meet; they exchange a nod, one of confirmation, the other of acknowledgement; and the man leads Reb out to a big, black towncar idling in the pickup/dropoff lane. The driver doesn’t speak until they’re out of the airport’s environs and on the main roads.
Driver: I have to say, it’s a real pleasure, Mr. Reb.
Reb: Johnny, please. Mr. Reb is my father.
The driver catches Reb’s knowing grin in the rearview mirror, but fails to get the joke immediately. Reb, of course, is not Johnny’s legal name. But the relevance of that fact is fleeting, just now. He smiles back anyway.
Driver: All right. Johnny, then. You ready for the big show?
Johnny’s brow furrows slightly as he contemplates his reply.
Reb: Hmm. Pretty much, yeah. I mean, I don’t personally know my opponents. I done my scoutin’: watched matches, seen some promos. But ya never really know a man until ya step into the ring with him; until ya unload on him with everythin’ ya got, an’ he either falters right then an’ there…or he comes back for more. Can’t say I’m overly impressed with what I seen so far, though.
Driver: You sound disappointed.
Reb: Admittedly, I am. See, half the reason I agreed to this thing was that I thought I was gonna be in the main event. Get another shot at that son of a bitch Odin Balfore, y’know? On pure damn luck, the guy manages to beat me in a title match. Then he turns around an’ takes a metaphorical dump on our World Title when he opts to represent UWA in this in this interfed competition – instead of WCF! Can you believe that shit?
An’ then, on top of that, I find out that not only have I been bumped out of the main event… but I’m paired up with my former tag team partner against two guys I never even heard of. Honestly, I dunno whom I despise more: Odin Balfore or Doc Henry. The man who took my World Title an’ then subsequently crapped all over it; or the man who has consistently made my life a livin’ hell for the past year and a half or so.
Driver: Yeah, that Doc Henry is pretty rough. I don’t really keep up with professional wrestling – not my thing. But my son’s a huge fan. You, in particular, have been an inspiration to him.
Johnny looks surprised at this revelation.
Reb: Really?
Driver: If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. The kid’s had a hell of a time of it the last several months, after he got out of the Service. PTSD. Unemployment. Divorce. Foreclosure. He had to move back home. Working now, but it’ll be a while before he gets back on his feet. Anyway, he may not turn on the TV all week, but when it’s time for Slam!, he’s right there, glued to the set. The minute he hears your music hit, his eyes light up like he’s eight years old again, and it’s Christmas morning. He’s been watching you from day one, way on back in the GWC days. He’s seen you rise from an undistinguished rookie to a three-time tag champion and three-time world champion. He’s watched you go through countless trials and tribulations: your struggle with borderline alcoholism, all the times Doc Henry has betrayed you, your growth from an absolute rat bastard to a man of honor and principle… And he figures if you can get through all of that, and keep on fighting, he can surely survive a few bumps in the road.
Johnny blinks, gazing at the chauffeur thoughtfully. He’d never really considered any impact he might have on his fanbase, so this is all news to him.
Reb: Wow. I’m…flattered.
The chauffeur is quiet for a moment, reddening just slightly as he realizes he might have said too much.
Driver: Yeah. Well, look, I didn’t mean to gush like that. I usually don’t. It’s just…
Reb: Nah, nah. It’s all right. Hell, economy in the state it’s in, I’m grateful people are still watchin’, can still afford to come to our shows. Your son, though… he’s the real hero, bein’ in the military an’ all. Matter of fact… y’know what? I’m gonna have a couple of tickets waitin’ for y’all at the box office.
Driver: Oh, that’s not necess –
Reb: Yes, it is. When we, as individuals, stop honorin’ the military – even if we don’t especially agree with the reasons they’re fightin’ – the whole damn country is doomed.
Driver: Gee, thanks, Johnny. This is going to mean a lot to my son. I don’t know how to thank you.
Reb: You can thank me by listenin’ to me ramble on a little bit longer. See, ya got an advantage most folks watchin’ might not have. Ya know who I am, what I stand for, what I’ve accomplished. What was your son’s favorite match, by the by?
Driver: That’s easy: this year’s WAR. Most exciting battle royal either of us has ever seen. When you came in as the second competitor – out of eighteen, nineteen other guys – neither of us was sure what to think. Don’t get me wrong, Johnny. You’re one of the best in the business, but historically, WAR was never your strong suit. Man, you were on fire that night. People getting eliminated left and right, and you stood tall among them, weathered the storm, put a few out in your own right. I thought you were finished after Odin dropped you with all those backbreakers… and every time you got up again, me and my son both went insane! I’m pretty sure the neighbors were ready to call the cops for a noise disturbance. Then, when it was all said and done, and you were the man holding that World Title…that totally blew us away. You have hit a whole new level.
Reb: Y’know, you’re right. I have. An’ to be honest, I been slackin’ a little. I have a tendency to do that. Gain a title, get lazy. Happens to the best of us, from time to time.
Driver: That was going to be my next point, Johnny. You’ve been in the ring with – and defeated – some of the biggest names in professional wrestling: Dake Ken, Slickie T, Jake Keeton, Brad Kane, just to name a few. And Torture. I remember when you beat him in a ladder match one time… Everybody always says D-Day is the only man to have ever beaten Torture, but you did it first.
Reb: An’ you said you didn’t keep up with wrestlin’… Truth is, ol’ Tort’s lost a lot more than he likes to admit. But the man’s a weasel; not unlike my partner, Mr. Henry. Always figures out a way to make it not count… or he slips in an’ steals a legitimate submission… Torture ain’t important right now, though. Neither are any of them other guys you mentioned. Not this week. Any other time, I’d be more’n happy to chew the fat with ya about them fellas. But this week, I’m treadin’ in new territory for the first time in years, an’ that is where my focus lies.
Like I said, I dunno a lot about my opponents beyond what I could learn watchin’ old matches. I gather this Neptune guy had some rather bizarre personal issues that conveniently got resolved just in time for this show. Good. I’m glad. ‘Cause I want his A-game. I don’t want to be in the ring with some dude, an’ his attention’s all split a hundred different ways. It don’t feel right, getting a win over someone who can’t keep his focus on the match – an’ I don’t care how much he might protest to the contrary; when there’s somethin’ like that goin’ on in your life, at least a part of your concentration is gonna be elsewhere. But all this business about havin’ the deadliest feet in the industry… I dunno, it sounds like a Shaw Brothers flick from the Seventies, only about half as entertainin’. An’ I like me some Shaw Brothers movies, now. Still…I got my doubts about this Neptune… All the fancy footwork in the world ain’t gonna help against a man who can fly.
Here, Johnny pauses to offer a confident grin.
Reb: An’ his partner… who has, thus far, been entirely silent on the subject. Calls himself Fear, I think. He don’t really make much impression on me. So he’s a paranoid schizophrenic with possibly homicidal tendencies, who may or may not have murdered his own parents.
Another pause, this time accompanied by a wide, theatrical yawn.
Reb: Been there, done that, didn’t bother with the souvenir T-shirt. I have been toe-to-toe with a monster called Oblivion. You wanna talk crazy, that’s the man to see. At least three distinct personalities, and dozens of confirmed kills under his belt. Cops won’t come near him. Hell, even the FBI an’ the US Marshals are terrified of the guy. Don’t help that he’s got a whole coterie of freaks an’ mutants surroundin’ him all the time. An’ they bite! I know, ‘cause I been subjected to the onslaught. Even after all that, I come outta that match mostly intact…an’ still holdin’ onto my title. So even ol’ Fear ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of.
Nah. If there’s anythin’ I need to worry about in this match, it’s my own partner. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. Hell, not even that far. I dealt with my share of crazy guys. I dealt with my share of amoral guys. But Doc is somethin’ else. I’m startin’ to believe the man really is pure evil. It’ll be a miracle if he don’t turn on me halfway into the match an’ try to kill me again. Damn near broke my neck the last time, an’ I still got the pins in there to prove it. Made getting through airport security a hell of a lot more difficult than it shoulda been. That’s beside the point… Doc Henry is not a man to be trusted in any way. He’s a liar, a cheat, an’ a scoundrel of the lowest order. In fact, I suspect his hand in the arrangement of this competition. Can’t prove it, of course, but somethin’ tells me he’s behind it.
All in all, though… well, I ain’t got a lotta choice. This interfed event is excitin’ enough to make up for the fact that I’m partnerin’ with one of my oldest enemies. An’ perhaps bein’ paired with Mr. Henry will balance out the lack of a challenge I expect from our ersatz opponents on Thursday night. So, to those young gentlemen, I have only this to say: bring everythin’ ya got, ‘cause I will accept no less. You’re outclassed, outmatched, an’ outgunned…but you owe it to yourselves, to the fans, an’ to me to put everythin’ you are into this match.
As to Mr. Henry… don’t you dare cross me, son. ‘Cause I’m done with your nonsense, an’ there will be repercussions.
The towncar pulls to a stop in front of a small, luxurious boutique hotel, where a doorman in a crimson uniform steps up to open Johnny’s door for him. Reb gives the driver a hearty handshake – slipping him a generous tip at the same time – and smiles.
Reb: Don’t forget about them tickets, now.
He gets out of the car, refusing to let the attendant take his worn duffel bag, and watches as the driver takes off once more with a friendly wave. Johnny looks directly at the camera for the first time, still smiling, his eyes blazing with determination.
Reb: Thursday night, boys. However things work out, it’ll be a night to remember. You will not only witness, but become a party to, the one night only reunion of the greatest tag team in WCF’s recent history: the New Confederacy. An’ whatever else I may have to say about my once an’ future partner, I can guarantee y’all one thing – together, we are a force to be reckoned with. Y’all might think you’re gonna walk right through us. Especially you, Neptune. Clearly, you are accustomed to… lesser talents, if’n ya think you’re gonna make either me or Doc “beg” for anythin’. Next time, maybe y’oughta do your homework a little better.
Deo vindice!
Without another word, the Inveterate Confederate turns on his heel and disappears inside the hotel.