Heroes of the Squared Circle 3: Kayfabe
Title: Kayfabe
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Captain Marvel, Maxwell Lord
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3800
Summary: Clark learns a valuable lesson about going out drinking with wrestlers, makes an enemy, and finds out more about Bruce Wayne's gimmick.
Their language hailed from turn-of-the-century carnivals, where house brawlers would take on challengers, also known as marks, from the crowd. When the best of them wrestled one another, they couldn’t afford to go at each other for real, lest they get hurt. So they rigged their matches, deciding who’d win beforehand. Since more than a few were already on the lam from the law, conning the public came naturally. They even developed a secret language that allowed them to guard their secret-a pig-Latin dialect called carny. Whenever an outsider was in their midst, they’d quiet each other by saying 'kayfabe.' In time, kayfabe became a metaphor for the wall of silence that wrestlers built around their business. --Shaun Assael, "Sex, Lies, and Headlocks"
The bar hadn't been redecorated since the early 1970s, but the beer was cold and the selection on the jukebox was good, so Clark wasn't complaining. He was sitting at a table with Michael Jon Carter, Ted Kord, Ben Turner, Tom Tresser, and Orion Kirby--better known under their stage names as Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Bronze Tiger, Nemesis, and Orion the New God. Several people had approached them already for autographs, which they had all signed with cheerful smiles.
Well, everyone but "Country Clark Kent," because apparently no one wanted his autograph yet.
Ted was launching into another story about some hilarious and slightly racy situation he had found himself in, with Michael enthusiastically embellishing, when the bar door swung open and a new group of people entered.
"Hey!" Clark waved at Guy Gardner with a smile and started to cross the bar to go talk to him, but a hand clamped down on his arm. He looked over at Orion with surprise. "What?"
"Those are heels, Kent," hissed Orion. "Babyfaces don't socialize with heels."
Guy, Werner, Bruce, and Selina paid no attention to the other wrestlers as they swept by them on their way to another corner of the bar.
"Geez, if there was another decent bar in this hellhole of a town, this wouldn't happen," sighed Michael. "Hey, I'll buy this next round, okay?" He stood up to go to the bar and place the order, and Clark leaned over to Ted.
"It's really so strict? We can't talk with the heels in public?"
"Are you kidding? We travel on separate buses, stay in separate hotels. It's kayfabe, man," said Ted. He gestured at the people in the bar around them. "They won't believe it's real unless we make it real for them. That means all the time when we're in public, no breaks. Max takes that shit seriously, don't mess with it."
Clark glanced over to where the heels were laughing and drinking beer together. Guy was talking animatedly with--well, Clark would have said Bruce, but it was most definitely Billionaire Brucie, all wide white smile and glittering eyes. In character even off the clock, thought Clark, unsure whether to be impressed or appalled.
"Here you go, man," said Michael, handing him a fresh mug of beer. "My treat."
"Hey, thanks," said Clark with a grin. Traveling with these guys wouldn't be so bad either, though. They seemed like a--
"What is this swill you are consuming?"
Clark froze with his mug almost to his lips at the sound of Billionaire Brucie's affected voice at his elbow. Everyone in the bar stopped talking as Bruce plucked the mug from Clark's hand and took an exaggerated sniff from it, his face wrinkling in disgust.
"Domestic, of course. The peons in this town have no concept of good beer!" he announced, provoking rumbles of anger around the bar.
Then, with no warning at all, Bruce Wayne swiveled and threw the contents of the mug into Michael Carter's face.
"I recommend you try some of the Czech beer," he said conversationally to Clark as Michael sputtered and dripped. "They have a truly fine Svijanský Máz, one of the better lagers."
Then he strolled back to the heel table, leaving Clark gaping after him in disbelief.
Michael sputtered turning a dull red as the beer dripped off his face. "I'll--That bastard--I swear I'll--"
"Let it go, Booster," Ted muttered, putting a hand on his arm, and Michael subsided, scrubbing at his hair with a napkin.
"Isn't that taking the heel thing a little too far?" Clark asked in a low voice.
"He just likes to mess with us," Michael snarled. "Just because he's got a stick up his ass--" His voice had risen again, but Ted leaned over and said something in his ear, and he quieted down once more.
People were giggling, and Michael was clearly humiliated underneath the bluster, Clark noted with sympathy. He glared over at Bruce, but Bruce was ignoring them once more, laughing and flirting with Selina.
"I'll treat this time," Clark said, clasping Michael on the shoulder as he rose to get another round of beer, and Michael looked at him gratefully.
Eventually Clark noticed Bruce excusing himself to use the restroom. Casually, he excused himself as well.
He came into the bathroom as Bruce was washing his hands. Bruce looked up as he came in, but barely had time to look surprised before Clark grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "What the hell's your problem?" snarled Clark.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You're faster than you look," he said, as calmly as if he weren't backed against a wall with an angry wrestler yelling at him.
"I said, what the hell's your problem?" Clark repeated, shaking him slightly. "What did Michael do to you to deserve that?"
"Not a thing," Bruce said.
"Not a--so you thought it would just be a lark to mortify him in front of a bar full of people? You've got some nerve! I mean, really, you're a--"
"Flunitrazepam," Bruce said.
Clark blinked. "What?"
"Flunitrazepam," Bruce repeated. "It's a strong muscle relaxant." He met Clark's eyes squarely. "Michael spiked your beer with it."
"He what? That's absurd!"
A faint look of exasperation crossed Bruce's impassive face. "It's a rib, Kent. A practical joke. They do it to all the new wrestlers. Once you'd passed out in your hotel room, they'd have shaved your eyebrows. Or your whole head, if they felt brave."
Clark stared. "Are you serious?"
"I'm always serious," Bruce Wayne said with an absolutely straight face. He shrugged Clark's hands away from his collar and started to move to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned back around. "Kent. I suggest you get better at telling babyfaces and heels apart. And keep a closer eye on your drinks."
And then he was gone.
Clark washed his hands slowly, looking at himself in the mirror and imagining himself without eyebrows--or worse, without hair. When he got back to the table, Michael slapped him on the back. "Got you another beer, buddy," he said.
Clark looked down at the mug. "Thanks, but I think I'll just have a soda," he said.
Michael and Ted's furtive shared glance told him all he needed to know.
He put aside his anger--it was clearly nothing personal, just a rite of passage new wrestlers had to go through--and tried to get back into the laughing conversation, but his heart was no longer in it. He found himself watching Billionaire Brucie out of the corner of one eye as he laughed his high, braying laugh, and his anger was slowly replaced by a very different emotion: curiosity.
Why had Bruce intervened on his behalf?
: : :
The back corridors of the Gotham City Auditorium were buzzing as Clark showed up the next night to prepare for the evening's show. He heard Billy Batson's name murmured, saw eyes rolling. And when he walked into the locker room, he could hear why.
"I refuse!" Batson's whine cut through the locker-room chatter. "That bastard Kord knocked my back out of whack, I know it, and I won't wrestle a long match injured!"
"Now, Billy--" Max Lord's voice was placating.
"If Vertigo refuses to lose fast and clean, find me another opponent!"
"But you're billed as fighting--"
"I. Don't. Give. A. Damn how I'm billed," Captain Marvel snarled. He jabbed at Lord's chest with a thick finger. "I haven't seen a paycheck from you for two months, there's no way I'm risking my body for no pay!"
Lord's face was turning red. Most of the locker room was trying to act as though they weren't listening. In a corner, Bruce Wayne was reading The Big Sleep and seemed oblivious to the altercation.
Marvel whirled, his white and gold cape flaring as he glared around the room. "Put me against him," he said, catching sight of Clark. He pointed at him. "You. Hayseed. You can manage to lose to me in thirty seconds, right?"
"But...we're both babyfaces," Clark stammered. "Shouldn't the champion be fighting heels?"
Marvel's eyes narrowed. "You're not a babyface," he said. "You're nothing. You think of an angle, it's not my job." He stomped off, people scattering before him.
Max Lord sighed. "Kent, you're up against Marvel tonight."
"But--I was supposed to be starting an angle with Doctor Light," Clark stammered.
"Look, when Batson's unhappy, we're all unhappy," Lord said. "Now I just have to come up with some reason why you'd be fighting him in...two hours. Jeez." Lord's distress was palpable.
"Well," said Clark, "You could announce that Country Clark isn't hired by the JLI as a regular yet, but you've decided that if I can defeat Captain Marvel I'll be given a full-time contract. That way he'll have a reason to defeat me fast. It'll be like tough love, I have to prove I'm worthy to be on the regular roster."
Lord was nodding, a smile slowly dawning on his face. "That's good! I like that! I'll go out before the match and start talking about the next pay-per-view, and you can run in and interrupt me to demand a contract. Then I'll make that stipulation." He gave Clark a narrow look. "You think your mic skills are up to cutting a promo like that?"
Clark tried not to show how excited the prospect made him. A chance to express himself on the mic! "I'm up to it, sir."
"Great, great! And tell Arthur, would you?"
He slapped Clark on the back and walked off without waiting for an answer.
"God damnit!" yelled Arthur Light when Clark told him about the change of plans. He stripped off his white gloves and hurled them on the ground. "That overgrown man-child and his temper tantrums will be the death of this promotion. I don't know why the hell Max decided to give him the belt, but now he keeps threatening to bail to the DCW and we have to keep him happy, because we can't have the champion ditch us."
"We've got a lot of good wrestlers, we could get by without him."
Arthur winced. "Kent, we're kind of bleeding talent here. That bastard Luthor keeps hiring away our best wrestlers--the Darkseid schtick was just getting over with the crowd here, and Luthor went and offered him a million-dollar contract. We lost Floyd Lawton last month, too. I hear he's been making overtures to both John Jones and Batson. I mean, Max can't compete with the kind of salary Luthor can offer!"
"Batson said something about not getting a paycheck from Lord for months," Clark said, and Arthur grimaced.
"Sometimes Max has a hard time making ends meet," he said. "It doesn't happen too often, though."
"But...I have to help my parents with the mortgage," Clark said.
Arthur clapped him on the back. "I'm sure he'll come through this month. Marvel and Miracle have been drawing the crowds. Look, Max gave a lot of us a chance when no one else would, so we try to cut him some slack. You just go out there and lose clean to Marvel, keep him happy. The money'll be there."
Clark was pulling on his hated coveralls, frowning, when Guy Gardner found him. "Kent! What are you doing back here? You have to come watch Bruce in action."
"I saw him in Blüdhaven last night," Clark said, in no mood to socialize, but Guy would have none of it.
"It's different. Tonight is Gotham. That's when Brucie's gimmick really hits the fan," Guy said as he dragged him out toward the staging room where a monitor was set up.
"What do you mean?"
Guy gave him an odd look. "You really don't know? He's not just any old rich vanity heel. He goes out there in front of the Gotham crowd and claims to be the Bruce Wayne." When Clark still looked confused, Guy cuffed him lightly. "You really are from the sticks, aren't you? The richest couple in Gotham, Thomas and Martha Wayne, got themselves murdered like twenty years ago, leaving their little orphaned boy as the heir to their fortune. He grew up this reclusive legend, and then maybe seven years ago he just...disappeared."
"And Billionaire Brucie pretends to be Gotham's lost favorite son?" Clark whistled. "That takes balls."
"Brass ones," Guy grinned. "Oh, they hate him with a passion here, it's beautiful." He dropped into a chair. "Here we go, his promo is starting."
The cameras were panning the crowd, revealing various signs being held up by booing fans: "Fake!" "Pretender!" "Douche Wayne" and even "Thomas Wayne Would Hate You."
When Billionaire Bruce's entrance music hit, Clark could hear the roar of hatred not just from the monitor, but shaking the walls of the auditorium itself. "Holy smokes," he muttered.
Bruce Wayne strutted down the ramp in a robe even more fanciful than the one he'd worn in Albany, ablaze with spangles and awash in ruffles. He acknowledged the boos of the crowd with a regal wave, then climbed into the ring, holding his microphone as if it were a brandy snifter.
"It's such a pleasure to be home again," he started when the boos died down slightly, re-igniting the crowd into a deafening rage. "In the auditorium named after my dear departed parents, no less!" He gestured toward the Jumbotron emblazoned with "Wayne Memorial Auditorium," and smiled as if he were soaking up adulation rather than bitter hatred. "I swear, it's enough to make a person positively sentimental." He wiped his dry eyes ostentatiously. "Later tonight, I will have the honor of defending my beloved city against a so-called alien menace, the 'Manhunter' from 'Mars,'" he announced, making air-quotes around the words. "All part of my solemn duty to keep Gotham free of frauds and phonies!" The crowd shrieked defiance at the hypocrisy: the Martian Manhunter, with his lost-alien gimmick, was one of the more popular babyfaces in the promotion. Bruce beamed out at them before making a sweeping bow and announcing, "You're welcome, Gotham!"
As he strolled back out to the beat of his music and the pummelling noise of the crowd, Clark looked at Guy. "If he's pretending to be Bruce Wayne, what's his real name?"
Guy shrugged. "It's the only name he ever gave. Maybe he just got lucky--it's not an uncommon name. Or maybe he just insists on going by it all the time. He takes his gimmick very seriously," he said with an eyeroll.
Fifteen minutes later, Clark was waiting in the Gorilla Position, watching the monitors as Max Lord talked about the upcoming pay-per-view in which Captain Marvel would be defending his championship against the brutish Kalibak. At just the right moment, he ran down the ramp--no music, no lights, no pop from the crowd--and jumped into the ring. "Mr. Lord, Mr. Lord!" he cried, taking off his straw hat and crushing it in his hands in his eagerness.
"What do you want?" Lord said, eyeing him dubiously.
"Well, I was hoping you'd give me a regular contract, sir!"
Max seemed to consider it, turning his back on Clark to give an exaggerated "hidden" wink to the audience. "Tell you what, Clark, I'll give you that regular contract, if..."
Clark leaned forward eagerly.
"...if you can beat our champion, Captain Marvel, in a match!"
Clark emoted dismay as Captain Marvel's music hit and the champion came down the ramp, smiling and shaking hands with everyone, letting small children touch his belt for luck. He got into the ring, took the mic, and explained to Clark that it was nothing personal, but he wasn't going to go easy on him. "You understand, right? It's for your own good."
Clark nodded eagerly and shook his hand, and the bell rang.
"Clothesline and then we'll go home," Batson muttered as they locked up, then tossed him up against the ropes. As Clark felt the ropes against his back and started to slingshot off them toward Marvel's cheesy grin, a flicker of rebellion went through him, and he acted on instinct. When Marvel raised his arm for Clark to smash into, Clark ducked, ran into the far ropes, and came back at Marvel. Marvel's eyes widened and he put out his fist, but Clark ducked again and slid through his legs.
The crowd laughed and cheered, and Clark stood up smiling--until his eye connected with Marvel's fist.
It was a real punch, too--stiff and with strength behind it. Clark heard a crack of bone meeting bone, sparks swam behind his eyes, and his sag to the mat was only half-faked. He felt Marvel land on him, just hard enough to knock the wind out of him without seriously injuring him, and lay stunned as Marvel put him in a pin.
As the referee counted, Billy Batson put his mouth next to Clark's ear. "We're done when I say we're done and not a moment more, you little prick," he panted. "Now stay down and shut up."
His head spinning, Clark stayed down and shut up.
The bell rang and Captain Marvel's music started playing. He stood up, huge grin back in place, and helped Clark to his feet solicitously. "Better luck next time, chum," he said loud enough for the mic to catch, dusted him off, and gave him a toothy smile that was just a millimeter too wide to be sincere. The crowd cheered as he exited with waves and handshakes, leaving Clark to make his slow way out after him, feeling his eye swelling more with every moment.
His exit was halting enough that the ring announcer finally gave up and started announcing the next match between Billionaire Brucie and the Martian Manhunter. As he called out Bruce's name, the Gotham crowd went berserk, the noise smashing against Clark's throbbing head.
As he winced and glanced at the crowd, something caught his eye. One of the audience members wasn't booing. His face was set and pale, and he was staring fixedly at the spot from which Bruce was about to emerge.
Clark saw a glint of metal in his hand.
Things happened very quickly after that. Bruce Wayne emerged onto the ramp, giving the lagging Country Clark one annoyed glance before turning to wave and bow to the crowd. When his back was turned, the pale man lunged forward.
Clark met him halfway, catching his wrist and squeezing until the switchblade fell to the ramp with a tiny clatter that could barely be heard over the music and the roar of the crowd. Then the security guards were there, grabbing him and ushering him away so quickly that the cameras probably never even caught it.
Clark looked from the switchblade on the floor up into the wide eyes of Bruce Wayne, shocked for an instant out of his smile.
For a moment, there on the ramp, surrounded by the howling and oblivious crowd, their eyes met.
Then Billionaire Brucie was turning away as if nothing had happened, the mask of his smile firmly back in place.
"Whoa, he got you pretty bad, huh?" Guy Gardner whistled as he looked at Clark's face backstage. "Impressive." He tossed an ice pack to Clark. "Get some ice on that shiner."
"Thanks," Clark muttered.
"Nice move there, sliding under his legs like that. Hope it was worth it."
Clark remembered the fury in Billy Batson's whisper and wasn't sure if it had been.
The showers were full of wrestlers horsing around and insulting each other, but no one joked with Clark as he stood under the hot water and let it wash over him. Apparently Captain Marvel had quite literally marked him as persona non grata. A few people cast him sympathetic glances, but he ignored them.
When he finally emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he blinked in surprise to see Bruce Wayne leaning against his locker, still in his wrestling trunks, his hair lank with sweat from his match. "I wanted to say thank you," Bruce said.
Clark shrugged and sat down on the bench. "You saved me last night. I figure maybe we're even."
"I saved your eyebrows. You might have saved my spleen," Bruce said. "I think we're more than even." He wasn't smiling, which Clark found almost a relief--he'd had enough fake smiles for one evening.
"You're welcome, then," said Clark.
Bruce's face creased in a frown. "Are you okay? You took a pretty bad hit there." He sat down next to Clark and looked deeply into his eyes, then tilted his chin up to the light. "What's your name?" he asked, moving Clark's head back and forth so the light shone in each of his eyes.
"Country Clark Kent, apparently."
"And where are you?"
Clark sighed. "I'm in a locker room in Gotham."
"And who am I?"
"Bruce Wayne, lost billionaire orphan."
Bruce didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth did something that looked amused. "It's a great gimmick, isn't it? I'm very proud of it."
"It's amazing."
"Keep it iced up until the swelling goes down," said Bruce, letting go of Clark's chin. "Once the swelling's not a problem, switch to hot compresses to relieve some of the bruising." He tilted his head. "Though a nice black eye looks great on camera, so you might want to keep it as long as possible. It gives you a distinctive look."
Clark couldn't help a weary chuckle. "You really think of everything in terms of angles and storyline, don't you?"
Bruce leaned in close and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Here's my secret, Kent: everything is an angle." He patted Clark's bare shoulder as he stood up. "It's just a matter of figuring out how to use it."
Then he was walking to the showers, stripping off his trunks as he walked and tossing them into his open locker without looking, leaving Clark with a ghost-impression of warm fingers touching his face.
---
( Chapter 4)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Captain Marvel, Maxwell Lord
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3800
Summary: Clark learns a valuable lesson about going out drinking with wrestlers, makes an enemy, and finds out more about Bruce Wayne's gimmick.
Their language hailed from turn-of-the-century carnivals, where house brawlers would take on challengers, also known as marks, from the crowd. When the best of them wrestled one another, they couldn’t afford to go at each other for real, lest they get hurt. So they rigged their matches, deciding who’d win beforehand. Since more than a few were already on the lam from the law, conning the public came naturally. They even developed a secret language that allowed them to guard their secret-a pig-Latin dialect called carny. Whenever an outsider was in their midst, they’d quiet each other by saying 'kayfabe.' In time, kayfabe became a metaphor for the wall of silence that wrestlers built around their business. --Shaun Assael, "Sex, Lies, and Headlocks"
The bar hadn't been redecorated since the early 1970s, but the beer was cold and the selection on the jukebox was good, so Clark wasn't complaining. He was sitting at a table with Michael Jon Carter, Ted Kord, Ben Turner, Tom Tresser, and Orion Kirby--better known under their stage names as Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Bronze Tiger, Nemesis, and Orion the New God. Several people had approached them already for autographs, which they had all signed with cheerful smiles.
Well, everyone but "Country Clark Kent," because apparently no one wanted his autograph yet.
Ted was launching into another story about some hilarious and slightly racy situation he had found himself in, with Michael enthusiastically embellishing, when the bar door swung open and a new group of people entered.
"Hey!" Clark waved at Guy Gardner with a smile and started to cross the bar to go talk to him, but a hand clamped down on his arm. He looked over at Orion with surprise. "What?"
"Those are heels, Kent," hissed Orion. "Babyfaces don't socialize with heels."
Guy, Werner, Bruce, and Selina paid no attention to the other wrestlers as they swept by them on their way to another corner of the bar.
"Geez, if there was another decent bar in this hellhole of a town, this wouldn't happen," sighed Michael. "Hey, I'll buy this next round, okay?" He stood up to go to the bar and place the order, and Clark leaned over to Ted.
"It's really so strict? We can't talk with the heels in public?"
"Are you kidding? We travel on separate buses, stay in separate hotels. It's kayfabe, man," said Ted. He gestured at the people in the bar around them. "They won't believe it's real unless we make it real for them. That means all the time when we're in public, no breaks. Max takes that shit seriously, don't mess with it."
Clark glanced over to where the heels were laughing and drinking beer together. Guy was talking animatedly with--well, Clark would have said Bruce, but it was most definitely Billionaire Brucie, all wide white smile and glittering eyes. In character even off the clock, thought Clark, unsure whether to be impressed or appalled.
"Here you go, man," said Michael, handing him a fresh mug of beer. "My treat."
"Hey, thanks," said Clark with a grin. Traveling with these guys wouldn't be so bad either, though. They seemed like a--
"What is this swill you are consuming?"
Clark froze with his mug almost to his lips at the sound of Billionaire Brucie's affected voice at his elbow. Everyone in the bar stopped talking as Bruce plucked the mug from Clark's hand and took an exaggerated sniff from it, his face wrinkling in disgust.
"Domestic, of course. The peons in this town have no concept of good beer!" he announced, provoking rumbles of anger around the bar.
Then, with no warning at all, Bruce Wayne swiveled and threw the contents of the mug into Michael Carter's face.
"I recommend you try some of the Czech beer," he said conversationally to Clark as Michael sputtered and dripped. "They have a truly fine Svijanský Máz, one of the better lagers."
Then he strolled back to the heel table, leaving Clark gaping after him in disbelief.
Michael sputtered turning a dull red as the beer dripped off his face. "I'll--That bastard--I swear I'll--"
"Let it go, Booster," Ted muttered, putting a hand on his arm, and Michael subsided, scrubbing at his hair with a napkin.
"Isn't that taking the heel thing a little too far?" Clark asked in a low voice.
"He just likes to mess with us," Michael snarled. "Just because he's got a stick up his ass--" His voice had risen again, but Ted leaned over and said something in his ear, and he quieted down once more.
People were giggling, and Michael was clearly humiliated underneath the bluster, Clark noted with sympathy. He glared over at Bruce, but Bruce was ignoring them once more, laughing and flirting with Selina.
"I'll treat this time," Clark said, clasping Michael on the shoulder as he rose to get another round of beer, and Michael looked at him gratefully.
Eventually Clark noticed Bruce excusing himself to use the restroom. Casually, he excused himself as well.
He came into the bathroom as Bruce was washing his hands. Bruce looked up as he came in, but barely had time to look surprised before Clark grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "What the hell's your problem?" snarled Clark.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You're faster than you look," he said, as calmly as if he weren't backed against a wall with an angry wrestler yelling at him.
"I said, what the hell's your problem?" Clark repeated, shaking him slightly. "What did Michael do to you to deserve that?"
"Not a thing," Bruce said.
"Not a--so you thought it would just be a lark to mortify him in front of a bar full of people? You've got some nerve! I mean, really, you're a--"
"Flunitrazepam," Bruce said.
Clark blinked. "What?"
"Flunitrazepam," Bruce repeated. "It's a strong muscle relaxant." He met Clark's eyes squarely. "Michael spiked your beer with it."
"He what? That's absurd!"
A faint look of exasperation crossed Bruce's impassive face. "It's a rib, Kent. A practical joke. They do it to all the new wrestlers. Once you'd passed out in your hotel room, they'd have shaved your eyebrows. Or your whole head, if they felt brave."
Clark stared. "Are you serious?"
"I'm always serious," Bruce Wayne said with an absolutely straight face. He shrugged Clark's hands away from his collar and started to move to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned back around. "Kent. I suggest you get better at telling babyfaces and heels apart. And keep a closer eye on your drinks."
And then he was gone.
Clark washed his hands slowly, looking at himself in the mirror and imagining himself without eyebrows--or worse, without hair. When he got back to the table, Michael slapped him on the back. "Got you another beer, buddy," he said.
Clark looked down at the mug. "Thanks, but I think I'll just have a soda," he said.
Michael and Ted's furtive shared glance told him all he needed to know.
He put aside his anger--it was clearly nothing personal, just a rite of passage new wrestlers had to go through--and tried to get back into the laughing conversation, but his heart was no longer in it. He found himself watching Billionaire Brucie out of the corner of one eye as he laughed his high, braying laugh, and his anger was slowly replaced by a very different emotion: curiosity.
Why had Bruce intervened on his behalf?
: : :
The back corridors of the Gotham City Auditorium were buzzing as Clark showed up the next night to prepare for the evening's show. He heard Billy Batson's name murmured, saw eyes rolling. And when he walked into the locker room, he could hear why.
"I refuse!" Batson's whine cut through the locker-room chatter. "That bastard Kord knocked my back out of whack, I know it, and I won't wrestle a long match injured!"
"Now, Billy--" Max Lord's voice was placating.
"If Vertigo refuses to lose fast and clean, find me another opponent!"
"But you're billed as fighting--"
"I. Don't. Give. A. Damn how I'm billed," Captain Marvel snarled. He jabbed at Lord's chest with a thick finger. "I haven't seen a paycheck from you for two months, there's no way I'm risking my body for no pay!"
Lord's face was turning red. Most of the locker room was trying to act as though they weren't listening. In a corner, Bruce Wayne was reading The Big Sleep and seemed oblivious to the altercation.
Marvel whirled, his white and gold cape flaring as he glared around the room. "Put me against him," he said, catching sight of Clark. He pointed at him. "You. Hayseed. You can manage to lose to me in thirty seconds, right?"
"But...we're both babyfaces," Clark stammered. "Shouldn't the champion be fighting heels?"
Marvel's eyes narrowed. "You're not a babyface," he said. "You're nothing. You think of an angle, it's not my job." He stomped off, people scattering before him.
Max Lord sighed. "Kent, you're up against Marvel tonight."
"But--I was supposed to be starting an angle with Doctor Light," Clark stammered.
"Look, when Batson's unhappy, we're all unhappy," Lord said. "Now I just have to come up with some reason why you'd be fighting him in...two hours. Jeez." Lord's distress was palpable.
"Well," said Clark, "You could announce that Country Clark isn't hired by the JLI as a regular yet, but you've decided that if I can defeat Captain Marvel I'll be given a full-time contract. That way he'll have a reason to defeat me fast. It'll be like tough love, I have to prove I'm worthy to be on the regular roster."
Lord was nodding, a smile slowly dawning on his face. "That's good! I like that! I'll go out before the match and start talking about the next pay-per-view, and you can run in and interrupt me to demand a contract. Then I'll make that stipulation." He gave Clark a narrow look. "You think your mic skills are up to cutting a promo like that?"
Clark tried not to show how excited the prospect made him. A chance to express himself on the mic! "I'm up to it, sir."
"Great, great! And tell Arthur, would you?"
He slapped Clark on the back and walked off without waiting for an answer.
"God damnit!" yelled Arthur Light when Clark told him about the change of plans. He stripped off his white gloves and hurled them on the ground. "That overgrown man-child and his temper tantrums will be the death of this promotion. I don't know why the hell Max decided to give him the belt, but now he keeps threatening to bail to the DCW and we have to keep him happy, because we can't have the champion ditch us."
"We've got a lot of good wrestlers, we could get by without him."
Arthur winced. "Kent, we're kind of bleeding talent here. That bastard Luthor keeps hiring away our best wrestlers--the Darkseid schtick was just getting over with the crowd here, and Luthor went and offered him a million-dollar contract. We lost Floyd Lawton last month, too. I hear he's been making overtures to both John Jones and Batson. I mean, Max can't compete with the kind of salary Luthor can offer!"
"Batson said something about not getting a paycheck from Lord for months," Clark said, and Arthur grimaced.
"Sometimes Max has a hard time making ends meet," he said. "It doesn't happen too often, though."
"But...I have to help my parents with the mortgage," Clark said.
Arthur clapped him on the back. "I'm sure he'll come through this month. Marvel and Miracle have been drawing the crowds. Look, Max gave a lot of us a chance when no one else would, so we try to cut him some slack. You just go out there and lose clean to Marvel, keep him happy. The money'll be there."
Clark was pulling on his hated coveralls, frowning, when Guy Gardner found him. "Kent! What are you doing back here? You have to come watch Bruce in action."
"I saw him in Blüdhaven last night," Clark said, in no mood to socialize, but Guy would have none of it.
"It's different. Tonight is Gotham. That's when Brucie's gimmick really hits the fan," Guy said as he dragged him out toward the staging room where a monitor was set up.
"What do you mean?"
Guy gave him an odd look. "You really don't know? He's not just any old rich vanity heel. He goes out there in front of the Gotham crowd and claims to be the Bruce Wayne." When Clark still looked confused, Guy cuffed him lightly. "You really are from the sticks, aren't you? The richest couple in Gotham, Thomas and Martha Wayne, got themselves murdered like twenty years ago, leaving their little orphaned boy as the heir to their fortune. He grew up this reclusive legend, and then maybe seven years ago he just...disappeared."
"And Billionaire Brucie pretends to be Gotham's lost favorite son?" Clark whistled. "That takes balls."
"Brass ones," Guy grinned. "Oh, they hate him with a passion here, it's beautiful." He dropped into a chair. "Here we go, his promo is starting."
The cameras were panning the crowd, revealing various signs being held up by booing fans: "Fake!" "Pretender!" "Douche Wayne" and even "Thomas Wayne Would Hate You."
When Billionaire Bruce's entrance music hit, Clark could hear the roar of hatred not just from the monitor, but shaking the walls of the auditorium itself. "Holy smokes," he muttered.
Bruce Wayne strutted down the ramp in a robe even more fanciful than the one he'd worn in Albany, ablaze with spangles and awash in ruffles. He acknowledged the boos of the crowd with a regal wave, then climbed into the ring, holding his microphone as if it were a brandy snifter.
"It's such a pleasure to be home again," he started when the boos died down slightly, re-igniting the crowd into a deafening rage. "In the auditorium named after my dear departed parents, no less!" He gestured toward the Jumbotron emblazoned with "Wayne Memorial Auditorium," and smiled as if he were soaking up adulation rather than bitter hatred. "I swear, it's enough to make a person positively sentimental." He wiped his dry eyes ostentatiously. "Later tonight, I will have the honor of defending my beloved city against a so-called alien menace, the 'Manhunter' from 'Mars,'" he announced, making air-quotes around the words. "All part of my solemn duty to keep Gotham free of frauds and phonies!" The crowd shrieked defiance at the hypocrisy: the Martian Manhunter, with his lost-alien gimmick, was one of the more popular babyfaces in the promotion. Bruce beamed out at them before making a sweeping bow and announcing, "You're welcome, Gotham!"
As he strolled back out to the beat of his music and the pummelling noise of the crowd, Clark looked at Guy. "If he's pretending to be Bruce Wayne, what's his real name?"
Guy shrugged. "It's the only name he ever gave. Maybe he just got lucky--it's not an uncommon name. Or maybe he just insists on going by it all the time. He takes his gimmick very seriously," he said with an eyeroll.
Fifteen minutes later, Clark was waiting in the Gorilla Position, watching the monitors as Max Lord talked about the upcoming pay-per-view in which Captain Marvel would be defending his championship against the brutish Kalibak. At just the right moment, he ran down the ramp--no music, no lights, no pop from the crowd--and jumped into the ring. "Mr. Lord, Mr. Lord!" he cried, taking off his straw hat and crushing it in his hands in his eagerness.
"What do you want?" Lord said, eyeing him dubiously.
"Well, I was hoping you'd give me a regular contract, sir!"
Max seemed to consider it, turning his back on Clark to give an exaggerated "hidden" wink to the audience. "Tell you what, Clark, I'll give you that regular contract, if..."
Clark leaned forward eagerly.
"...if you can beat our champion, Captain Marvel, in a match!"
Clark emoted dismay as Captain Marvel's music hit and the champion came down the ramp, smiling and shaking hands with everyone, letting small children touch his belt for luck. He got into the ring, took the mic, and explained to Clark that it was nothing personal, but he wasn't going to go easy on him. "You understand, right? It's for your own good."
Clark nodded eagerly and shook his hand, and the bell rang.
"Clothesline and then we'll go home," Batson muttered as they locked up, then tossed him up against the ropes. As Clark felt the ropes against his back and started to slingshot off them toward Marvel's cheesy grin, a flicker of rebellion went through him, and he acted on instinct. When Marvel raised his arm for Clark to smash into, Clark ducked, ran into the far ropes, and came back at Marvel. Marvel's eyes widened and he put out his fist, but Clark ducked again and slid through his legs.
The crowd laughed and cheered, and Clark stood up smiling--until his eye connected with Marvel's fist.
It was a real punch, too--stiff and with strength behind it. Clark heard a crack of bone meeting bone, sparks swam behind his eyes, and his sag to the mat was only half-faked. He felt Marvel land on him, just hard enough to knock the wind out of him without seriously injuring him, and lay stunned as Marvel put him in a pin.
As the referee counted, Billy Batson put his mouth next to Clark's ear. "We're done when I say we're done and not a moment more, you little prick," he panted. "Now stay down and shut up."
His head spinning, Clark stayed down and shut up.
The bell rang and Captain Marvel's music started playing. He stood up, huge grin back in place, and helped Clark to his feet solicitously. "Better luck next time, chum," he said loud enough for the mic to catch, dusted him off, and gave him a toothy smile that was just a millimeter too wide to be sincere. The crowd cheered as he exited with waves and handshakes, leaving Clark to make his slow way out after him, feeling his eye swelling more with every moment.
His exit was halting enough that the ring announcer finally gave up and started announcing the next match between Billionaire Brucie and the Martian Manhunter. As he called out Bruce's name, the Gotham crowd went berserk, the noise smashing against Clark's throbbing head.
As he winced and glanced at the crowd, something caught his eye. One of the audience members wasn't booing. His face was set and pale, and he was staring fixedly at the spot from which Bruce was about to emerge.
Clark saw a glint of metal in his hand.
Things happened very quickly after that. Bruce Wayne emerged onto the ramp, giving the lagging Country Clark one annoyed glance before turning to wave and bow to the crowd. When his back was turned, the pale man lunged forward.
Clark met him halfway, catching his wrist and squeezing until the switchblade fell to the ramp with a tiny clatter that could barely be heard over the music and the roar of the crowd. Then the security guards were there, grabbing him and ushering him away so quickly that the cameras probably never even caught it.
Clark looked from the switchblade on the floor up into the wide eyes of Bruce Wayne, shocked for an instant out of his smile.
For a moment, there on the ramp, surrounded by the howling and oblivious crowd, their eyes met.
Then Billionaire Brucie was turning away as if nothing had happened, the mask of his smile firmly back in place.
"Whoa, he got you pretty bad, huh?" Guy Gardner whistled as he looked at Clark's face backstage. "Impressive." He tossed an ice pack to Clark. "Get some ice on that shiner."
"Thanks," Clark muttered.
"Nice move there, sliding under his legs like that. Hope it was worth it."
Clark remembered the fury in Billy Batson's whisper and wasn't sure if it had been.
The showers were full of wrestlers horsing around and insulting each other, but no one joked with Clark as he stood under the hot water and let it wash over him. Apparently Captain Marvel had quite literally marked him as persona non grata. A few people cast him sympathetic glances, but he ignored them.
When he finally emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he blinked in surprise to see Bruce Wayne leaning against his locker, still in his wrestling trunks, his hair lank with sweat from his match. "I wanted to say thank you," Bruce said.
Clark shrugged and sat down on the bench. "You saved me last night. I figure maybe we're even."
"I saved your eyebrows. You might have saved my spleen," Bruce said. "I think we're more than even." He wasn't smiling, which Clark found almost a relief--he'd had enough fake smiles for one evening.
"You're welcome, then," said Clark.
Bruce's face creased in a frown. "Are you okay? You took a pretty bad hit there." He sat down next to Clark and looked deeply into his eyes, then tilted his chin up to the light. "What's your name?" he asked, moving Clark's head back and forth so the light shone in each of his eyes.
"Country Clark Kent, apparently."
"And where are you?"
Clark sighed. "I'm in a locker room in Gotham."
"And who am I?"
"Bruce Wayne, lost billionaire orphan."
Bruce didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth did something that looked amused. "It's a great gimmick, isn't it? I'm very proud of it."
"It's amazing."
"Keep it iced up until the swelling goes down," said Bruce, letting go of Clark's chin. "Once the swelling's not a problem, switch to hot compresses to relieve some of the bruising." He tilted his head. "Though a nice black eye looks great on camera, so you might want to keep it as long as possible. It gives you a distinctive look."
Clark couldn't help a weary chuckle. "You really think of everything in terms of angles and storyline, don't you?"
Bruce leaned in close and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Here's my secret, Kent: everything is an angle." He patted Clark's bare shoulder as he stood up. "It's just a matter of figuring out how to use it."
Then he was walking to the showers, stripping off his trunks as he walked and tossing them into his open locker without looking, leaving Clark with a ghost-impression of warm fingers touching his face.
---
( Chapter 4)