Heroes of the Squared Circle 6: High Flying Moves
Title: High Flying Moves
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 4500
Summary: Clark and Bruce practice their first match together, but there are some problems to overcome.
The most important rule of all was to protect my opponent, not myself, because he was putting his trust, his life, in my hands. --Bret Hart
"--let's just skip the hurricanrana," said Clark, sitting in the middle of the ring. "I screwed it up with Guy and--"
"--all the more reason we need to work it in," snapped Bruce. He scowled at Clark from his perch on the turnbuckle where he was sitting in his black trunks. "I'm not working with a partner who's timid on the ropes."
"Look, you can do all the aerial moves you want," said Clark. His voice echoed oddly around the empty civic center, broken up with the occasional clang as the lighting and sound crews set up. "I just prefer to focus on mat work and--"
Bruce made an annoyed sound. "You don't trust me."
"What? No, of course I do. It's just--I messed it up before, and I'm afraid I'll hurt you.."
Bruce glared down at him. "That's bullshit and you know it. The most I'm risking is getting the wind knocked out of me, maybe a broken arm at the absolute worst. You're the one putting your body on the line, the one who's going to get badly hurt if I don't catch you right." He repeated, articulating each word carefully: "You--don't--trust--me." He looked away, shrugging. "Whatever. Let's practice my Senton Bomb instead, then."
He stood up on the turnbuckle, his face intent and expressionless. Clark pulled his sweatshirt and pants off and tossed them out of the ring, then lay down on his back. In the actual match, Bruce would take a moment to preen and brag to the crowd, giving Clark time to get into the right place while pretending to writhe in pain. But in the dry run, Bruce stood motionless until Clark was in the right spot.
Then he jumped.
The Senton Bomb was an aerial move as elegant as it was simple: a high, arcing swan dive that ended with the wrestler rotating to land on his back on his "hapless victim." Clark would have gasped at the height Bruce got if he hadn't been busy getting his arms and legs in the right positions so that--disguised as a flinch of horror--he could cushion Bruce's fall so neither of them were hurt.
Bruce landed on Clark's chest, his arms spread to distribute the impact as evenly as possible, and Clark brought his legs up as though driven into the air with the force of the blow. The flexible boards of the ring gave with the impact, making a resounding crack that echoed through the civic center.
Bruce bounced to his feet. "Good catch," he said, his bad mood of a moment before seemingly put aside. "Then after that I'll go for the pin, but you'll kick out. And while I'm completely boggled by that, you can pull off your spinning heel kick--we'll have to think of a good name for that move--and we can go home."
Clark shook his head. "Hold on, I think there's a problem there."
Bruce clambered back onto the turnbuckle and squatted there, glowering down on Clark like a gargoyle. "What?"
"I don't think I should win so clean the first time. It should just be a quick roll-up and pin, something almost anti-climactic."
"All right," said Bruce.
"I mean, this is supposed to be the beginning of a long feud, right? So if I give you a good solid beat-down, we lose all the energy from the crowd. They get their catharsis, the rich asshole is beaten, they're replete."
"Right," said Bruce, "I think--"
Clark spoke over him, unwilling to lose the thread of his argument. "--We need to keep putting off the comeuppance Brucie so richly deserves: week after week, you win or I just barely squeak out a win by luck or interference, until everyone's dying to see Brucie get royally trounced, humiliated, mortified. Put it off as long as possible until when it finally happens, the crowd explodes--all that pent-up energy finally reaches its inevitable conclusion. You don't want to give them what they want right away! Make them beg for it, and they'll love us when they finally get it."
Bruce looked down at him, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Kent, I like the way you think." He went into a handstand on the turnbuckle. "It's like foreplay," he said from upside-down.
"Well...yes, I guess so," Clark said. "Though it makes me a little uncomfortable to think of our job as getting an audience off."
"No, you've convinced me. We have to tease the audience, whip them into a frenzy until at the sight of you humiliating me they'll finally achieve their longed-for climax."
Clark felt his face getting hot. "There's no reason to make it sound so dirty," he muttered.
Bruce--impossibly--snickered. Then he dropped out of the handstand and back into his crouch. "Let's do that Senton Bomb again."
They practiced it seven more times, and each time Bruce landed perfectly in Clark's buffering arms. The last time, as the resounding thwack finished echoing through the arena, it was joined by the sound of someone clapping. Clark looked up to see Selina Kyle, A.K.A. Catwoman, Billionaire Brucie's valet, walking down the ramp. Despite wearing jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her signature black leather, she moved as though she owned the place. "Nice work," she said. "You look good."
Bruce leaned over the ropes. "Selina, you want to kick Kent in the balls?"
She raised a perfectly-groomed eyebrow. "My goodness, what an offer."
"We've been working on our match, and we were thinking near the middle, Clark could throw me out of the ring and I could hide behind you."
"Country Clark would never hit a lady," Clark explained, "So of course he'd have to back off."
"And then you could laugh at him and kick him in the stones," Bruce finished triumphantly.
"Kayfabe, of course," Clark added hastily, and she shot him a laughing look.
"You boys are really having fun, aren't you? I'd be happy to join in," she said. "Though it looks like we might be getting broken up soon, darling," she added to Bruce. "Keith says he's thinking of giving me a push, setting me up in a feud against Vixen. Mrow," she said, clawing the air in front of her.
"About time," said Bruce. "Though I'd hate to lose your firm whip hand."
"Oh, you say the sweetest things," she said with a smiling pout. She pulled a book out of her bag. "Don't mind me, I'm just going to read and watch you practice," she said, going over to the seats near the ring and settling down.
"I'm surprised the bookers let you insist I was going to win this match," Clark said as they ran through a few more basic moves: an Irish whip, a slingshot suplex, Clark's Steel Bar armlock.
"Keith and John are pretty laid-back," Bruce said as they went through the suplex, Clark's body bouncing off the ropes and back into the ring. "That's one of the reasons I've stayed here instead of going to the DCW, though God knows Luthor's called me about it." Clark rolled out of the throw, ran into the ropes, and came back to meet Bruce's clothesline, letting it knock him to the mat. Bruce rolled on top of him and covered him. "They're control freaks at the DCW, you don't get much say in your gimmick or angle at all. Here once they trust you, they'll at least listen to a good argument." They laid there in the middle of the ring for a moment, getting their breath back, and Clark realized they'd gone through a fairly complex set of moves without calling them beforehand, just doing what felt right.
"I still think you need to do something off the top rope," Bruce said. "There are going to be people watching to see if you can or not after that last match. I'm not saying the hurricanrana," he said as Clark groaned. "But just a really basic flying body press." Clark said nothing. "Jeez, I just did almost a dozen Senton Bombs and trusted you to catch me, and you won't do one lousy flying body press?" Bruce thumped Clark's bare chest with his fist. "Some partner."
"All right, all right," Clark snapped, throwing Bruce's arm off and scrambling to his feet. "If it'll get you to shut up about it." He clambered up to the turnbuckle, then turned to face Bruce, who had gotten to his feet. It was one of the most basic aerial moves: just a simple sideways jump. Your opponent catches you and you both tumble backwards. "Okay," he said, nodding.
Bruce sneered at him, lifting a hand to beckon mockingly: come at me, bro.
Clark jumped at him, twisting his body in the air to connect almost diagonally with Bruce. Bruce threw his hands up and they fell backwards together onto the mat.
"That sucked," Selina drawled from her seat. "Do it again, and this time Kent should try jumping like an attacking lion and not a kittycat."
"You heard the lady," said Bruce, shoving Clark's shoulder.
"Attacking lion, right," muttered Clark. He climbed back onto the turnbuckle, fuming at Bruce and Selina but most especially with himself. The flying body press was infinitely easier than a hurricanrana, in which you had to scissor your legs around your opponent's neck, then basically swing your body in a semi-circle around to their back and pull them down with you. The flying body press was a newbie move. Anyone could pull off a decent flying body press. Anyone--
He jumped again at Bruce, and once again they tumbled to the mat as if Clark were crushing him.
"Slightly better," said Selina. "Keep at it."
"Brucie's going to kick Clark's ass after the match is officially over," Bruce called to Selina as Clark scrambled upward again. "We need the referee distracted for maximum heat."
"Who's the referee?"
"We're getting L. Ron to do it," said Bruce. "Need a small guy because I'll be bullying him earlier in the match." He looked back at Clark and nodded, then caught him effortlessly out of the air again.
"Perfect," said Selina.
"L. Ron? I agree," Bruce answered, dashing any hope Clark might have had that she was referring to his jump.
Clark decided it might be better to get back up on the ropes before being told to do so this time. "Why perfect?" he asked as he climbed up.
"I had an angle with him a while ago where I dated him to try and get access to Max," said Selina. "So there's history between us, the fans'll remember that."
Another flying press, another catch and tumble. They repeated it again and again while going over the match with Selina, and Bruce caught him each time until Clark was getting bored of it.
"How's he doing?" Bruce called to Selina. "Are we to lion yet?"
"Mmm," said Selina. "You're getting close to bobcat."
"It'll have to do," Bruce said. "Barda and Tora will be here soon for their practice."
"Bobcats can be pretty fierce," Clark said plaintively, but Selina just laughed and sashayed back up the ramp.
: : :
Eight hours later, Clark was sitting backstage, listening to the muted roar of the crowd, watching Booster and Ted practice card tricks, and waiting for his match.
"Ready?" Clark looked up to see Bruce Wayne in one of his ruffled confections, his unsmiling face framed by black ostrich feathers.
"As I'll ever be." He stood up, dusting off his hated overalls. "If this feud catches fire, I swear I'm using that leverage to get these incinerated." Looking up, he saw Bruce standing with his arm extended toward him, his hand balled into a fist.
"It's a fist bump," Bruce explained when Clark blinked at him. "I've been reliably informed it's a ritualistic gesture of respect performed by partners to express solidarity."
A snort of laughter escaped Clark before he could help himself. "I'm in an angle with Wikipedia," he said. But he extended his fist and gently bumped knuckles with Bruce.
"Let's get them hot and bothered," murmured Bruce, and swept off.
: : :
The crowd was fairly quiet, the mood still dampened by Captain Marvel's defection. Clark stood in the middle of the ring, smiling out at them. From this angle, it was electrifying to see the reaction when Bruce's entrance music hit: a thousand thumbs turned down, a howl of outrage shaking the rafters.
Billionaire Brucie descended the ramp, smiling and waving to everyone, then handed his robe to Selina and entered the ring. Taking the mic from a nervous ring announcer, he turned to Country Clark. "My dear boy," he drawled. "Before we begin the match tonight, I have a bit of a...proposition for you. A business proposition," he added as the crowd rumbled. "You see, my stableboy just quit, and my precious polo ponies...well, I need someone to take care of them." He leaned forward and sniffed the air loudly. "And based on your aroma, I can tell you're just the man to employ for such work."
"Well gosh, Mr. Wayne," said Clark cheerfully. "I'm always happy to help out."
"And I'm willing to pay you handsomely for your services," Brucie said. He leaned forward and put his lips close to Clark's ear, seemingly ready to whisper a figure. "A kajillion dollars," he murmured, too low for the mic to pick up.
"Golly!" Clark emoted shock. "I'd be able to pay off the mortgage on Ma and Pa's farm in no time!" I wish. "When can I start?"
"There's just one...teensy...weensy...little thing," Brucie said, holding up his hands with the thumb and index finger apart to make clear how small. "See, I need to make sure all my servants understand that I expect unquestioning obedience from them at all times." Clark let his cheerful expression start to shade toward dubious as Bruce kept talking. "And so, just to make our relationship crystal clear, I'm going to ask you to lie down and let me pin you."
"What?"
"I'm not in the mood to scuffle about in the ring with my own stableboy," Brucie said sharply as the arena erupted in boos. "Hush now!" he barked at them, evoking even more abuse from the crowd. "I'm attempting to do business here. Something none of you basement-dwelling wage slaves would have any conception of, I'm sure. Perhaps I should slow down," he said, doing just that and articulating his words carefully, "So you can all see how a person who actually earns his money disposes of it." Turning back to Country Clark, he smiled widely. "So be a dear and model for these people the proper behavior toward your betters, would you?"
Clark felt a sudden urge to break into applause: that last line was improvised, and was perfect, making Country Clark a stand-in for the audience themselves, a symbol of all the disrespect they had to take from their bosses and teachers. He bit back the impulse to grin in delight at Bruce and went on to his next line.
"Well, Mr. Wayne, that doesn't seem right," Clark said, taking off his straw hat and scratching the back of his head. "I mean, the good people of Philadelphia have paid their hard-earned money to watch us wrestle." The crowd agreed whole-heartedly. "And it wouldn't be at all fair to them to cheat them out of a good fight." Clark shook his head as the audience cheered him on. "No sir, that just wouldn't be right."
"So you'll pass up the chance to make more money than you'll probably ever see in your pitiful life? To entertain theseclods?" Brucie waved a dismissive hand and the crowd went berserk. "You're even stupider than I thought."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," said Clark. "I just can't do it."
For a long moment they stared at each other: Country Clark apologetic but earnest, Billionaire Brucie gazing down his nose in puzzled disdain. Then Brucie smiled once more.
"Well, you've certainly got your principles, I'll give you that." He held out his hand. "Shake hands and we'll start the match."
The crowd growled with warning; Clark heard a small child's voice shrill out in panic, "Don't do it, Clark!" But a babyface like Country Clark could never turn down a handshake, even from someone so transparently malicious as Billionaire Brucie. So he reached out and put his hand in Bruce's.
Bruce's fingers were cold against his, and his eyes were bright with anticipation.
Then he yanked on Clark's hand, pivoting to throw him to the mat and get him into an armlock.
Clark sold the armlock as the bell rang to start the match, his face twisting with pain and betrayal. The crowd howled as he broke free and unleashed a flurry of offense on Brucie, but the billionaire was too crafty and Country Clark was too straightforward. As the match progressed it was clear Clark was struggling--the offense was all Brucie's, and he took a gleeful pleasure in being as sadistic as possible, focusing on inflicting as much pain and humiliation on Clark as he could.
Clark writhed and flopped and was tossed into the ropes. Now and then he would seem to gain the upper hand, but Brucie always managed to beat him down again. The crowd was a vast sea of faces outside the ring, and Clark was only dimly aware of the waves of sound crashing up against them. All his attention was focused on anticipating Bruce's moves, of syncing their motions and their bodies up. A flicker of the eyes, the faintest of nods, and he could tell which way Bruce was going to move, what action would fit in.
It was like an impromptu dance, if dancing happened to include backhand chops and elbow drops. It was more dangerous than dancing, and far more physical.
It was glorious.
"Going out of the ring now," Bruce muttered as they locked up, and Clark whipped him toward the ropes. Bruce dropped down and slid out of the ring, running around wildly until he found Catwoman. Grabbing her shoulders, he hid behind her, and the crowd went mad.
Clark, racing after him, screeched to a halt as Catwoman held up an imploring hand. "You wouldn't hurt a girl?" her body language screamed. Clark immediately dropped into an "aw shucks" posture, sheepishly starting to apologize to her.
When she stepped forward and kneed him in the groin, he caught her knee between his with no damage--they'd practiced it quite a few times--then sold the hit as hard as possible, doubling over in anguish. Brucie took this opportunity to chop the back of his neck, driving him onto the floor, then scrambled back into the ring.
According to the rules of the match, if Clark couldn't get back into the ring by the time the referee counted to ten, he would forfeit the match. He waited, hunched over in agony, until he heard L. Ron's quavering voice start the countout, then started to stagger back to the ring. It was a challenge to go slowly enough to build up anticipation, but when he finally reached the ring at the count of eight, the crowd popped like mad. Brucie met him at the ropes, kicking at his head, but Clark grabbed his foot and threw him to the mat, and a new set of moves began, a new phase of the dance.
All too soon Clark found himself on the mat as Brucie climbed the turnbuckle, preparing to deliver his devastating Senton Bomb. Bruce stopped and grinned out at the crowd, flexing his arms and seeming to savor the moment as Clark lay helplessly awaiting his onslaught. Then he turned and jumped.
He hung in the air an astonishing amount of time, turning over with an almost lazy grace to come down on Clark's chest. Clark flopped madly as if the air had been knocked out of him, and Bruce rolled over and covered him.
"The crowd is hot," Bruce murmured in his ear, and Clark realized he could barely hear him over the deafening torrent of cheers and boos. "You have to do the hurricanrana."
L. Ron was counting Clark out; at the two-count Clark kicked out of the pin. Bruce jumped to his feet, clutching at his head in disbelief--no one ever kicked out of the Senton Bomb!--and Clark hadn't thought it was possible, but the crowd was even louder now. Clark feinted at Bruce and suplexed him. "No! It's the full body press!" he panted in Bruce's ear.
Bruce rolled away from him, then lunged forward and got him in a facelock hold. Putting his head down so his own arms blocked off his mouth from the audience's gaze, he yelled, "Clark, the crowd is loving this! They're eating out of our hands! You need to go up there and hit that damn hurricanrana!"
He rolled off, glaring at Clark with a fury that Clark suspected was only partially kayfabe. Clark dodged a feint and climbed to the top of the turnbuckle, getting ready to do the full body press as he had planned. It was simple. It was easy. He couldn't possibly screw it up.
The crowd seethed around them as he met Bruce's eyes.
He nodded, the tiniest motion, and saw Bruce start to smile.
And then he jumped out into the emptiness, into the shrieking air, knowing Bruce would catch him.
He locked his legs around Bruce's neck and swung down behind him, dragging Bruce into a somersault. It was a textbook hurricanrana, and the very boards of the ring seemed to be vibrating with the noise of the crowd. Bruce struggled to his feet, shrugging off the impact, and hit Clark with the Gotham Stomp, one of his finishing moves. Clark went down and Bruce covered him again, leaning across his body.
Clark could feel their chests rising and falling together as they both dragged air into their lungs. "Fantastic," Bruce murmured. "Let's go home."
L. Ron was counting him out; Clark kicked out at two-and-a-half and staggered to his feet.
Bruce threw his arms out in melodramatic disbelief: who was this madman and why was he too stupid to know when he was beaten? He whirled on L. Ron in his referee's stripes and began to berate him, yelling about how that was a win, how Clark hadn't kicked out in time. He backed the cringing L. Ron into a corner, screaming insults as the crowd booed him, still ignoring Clark completely.
Clark walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
Brucie turned and his eyes widened with shock as Clark punched him in the jaw: once, twice, three times. As the crowd screamed, Bruce sagged to his knees and Clark took advantage of his confusion to knock him onto his back and roll him onto his shoulders, pinning him.
Bruce kicked wildly, but the pin was solid, and L. Ron happily counted him out. The bell rang.
Country Clark had won his first professional wrestling match.
As L. Ron held his hand up in victory, Clark saw that people had leapt to their feet, cheering. Adrenaline caught up with him, and he found tears coming to his eyes. He blinked hard and wiped at his face, embarrassed at being so moved by what was essentially a fake win. But the triumph wasn't in winning, it was in putting on a match good enough that people were responding to them. He and Bruce were truly victorious.
Then Catwoman beckoned to L. Ron, and Clark remembered that the match might technically be done, but the show wasn't over yet. L. Ron went over to talk to her, and as Clark stood and smiled out at the audience, he heard cries of warning start to cut through the cheers: "Look out!" "Behind you!"
Behind him, Bruce surreptitiously stamped the boards to give him warning, and then whacked him on the back with a steel chair.
The chair connected with his shoulderblades with a shocking thwack: the impact was spread out over the flat part of the chair so it didn't cause any damage, but it still stung painfully, and Clark didn't have to kayfabe his yelp of dismay as he collapsed.
Blows from the chair rained down on him as he protected his head with his hands, the cheers of the crowd changing to deafening anger. Bruce was selling that he was going into a berserk fury at being thwarted, and Clark sold the beating as hard as he could. Finally, the referee insisted Brucie stop, and there was a clatter as he threw the chair aside in pique and stormed out of the arena to jeers and abuse.
Clark staggered to his feet, bruised but unbroken, and the crowd cheered once more as he limped painfully back up the ramp, beaming, shaking hands, bumping fists.
The minute he rounded the corner and was out of sight of the audience, he found himself swept into a hug by Selina. "That was great!"
"Fantastic kick," he said, hugging her back.
"Bea says they showed it on replay like a hundred times," Selina gloated. "You sold it perfectly."
Smiling, he looked up from the hug to see Bruce watching him, his arms crossed. Bruce nodded and walked over to him. "Good match. Told you you could hit that hurricanrana."
"You were right," Clark said with a grin.
"So don't ever second-guess me in the ring again," Bruce said, jabbing a finger at him. "If I say you can do it, you can do it."
Then he turned around and walked away.
"Wow," said Selina. "He must be impressed with you."
"Impressed?"
"I've never seen him so complimentary after a match."
"Complimentary?"
She smirked up at him. "He did say it was a good match, didn't he?"
The other babyfaces bugged him to go out to a bar after the show, but Clark said he didn't feel up to it. Instead, showered and changed, he went to his hotel room. He wanted to read, but couldn't seem to keep his mind on it. He started doing push-ups, grimacing as the sore skin on his back stretched with his motions.
His phone buzzed and he popped to his feet to grab it.
I've got some ideas about our next match. --B
Clark felt a smile tugging at his mouth as he typed his response.
Me too. --C
-------------
Chapter 7: Physical Violence and Bizarre Innuendo
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 4500
Summary: Clark and Bruce practice their first match together, but there are some problems to overcome.
The most important rule of all was to protect my opponent, not myself, because he was putting his trust, his life, in my hands. --Bret Hart
"--let's just skip the hurricanrana," said Clark, sitting in the middle of the ring. "I screwed it up with Guy and--"
"--all the more reason we need to work it in," snapped Bruce. He scowled at Clark from his perch on the turnbuckle where he was sitting in his black trunks. "I'm not working with a partner who's timid on the ropes."
"Look, you can do all the aerial moves you want," said Clark. His voice echoed oddly around the empty civic center, broken up with the occasional clang as the lighting and sound crews set up. "I just prefer to focus on mat work and--"
Bruce made an annoyed sound. "You don't trust me."
"What? No, of course I do. It's just--I messed it up before, and I'm afraid I'll hurt you.."
Bruce glared down at him. "That's bullshit and you know it. The most I'm risking is getting the wind knocked out of me, maybe a broken arm at the absolute worst. You're the one putting your body on the line, the one who's going to get badly hurt if I don't catch you right." He repeated, articulating each word carefully: "You--don't--trust--me." He looked away, shrugging. "Whatever. Let's practice my Senton Bomb instead, then."
He stood up on the turnbuckle, his face intent and expressionless. Clark pulled his sweatshirt and pants off and tossed them out of the ring, then lay down on his back. In the actual match, Bruce would take a moment to preen and brag to the crowd, giving Clark time to get into the right place while pretending to writhe in pain. But in the dry run, Bruce stood motionless until Clark was in the right spot.
Then he jumped.
The Senton Bomb was an aerial move as elegant as it was simple: a high, arcing swan dive that ended with the wrestler rotating to land on his back on his "hapless victim." Clark would have gasped at the height Bruce got if he hadn't been busy getting his arms and legs in the right positions so that--disguised as a flinch of horror--he could cushion Bruce's fall so neither of them were hurt.
Bruce landed on Clark's chest, his arms spread to distribute the impact as evenly as possible, and Clark brought his legs up as though driven into the air with the force of the blow. The flexible boards of the ring gave with the impact, making a resounding crack that echoed through the civic center.
Bruce bounced to his feet. "Good catch," he said, his bad mood of a moment before seemingly put aside. "Then after that I'll go for the pin, but you'll kick out. And while I'm completely boggled by that, you can pull off your spinning heel kick--we'll have to think of a good name for that move--and we can go home."
Clark shook his head. "Hold on, I think there's a problem there."
Bruce clambered back onto the turnbuckle and squatted there, glowering down on Clark like a gargoyle. "What?"
"I don't think I should win so clean the first time. It should just be a quick roll-up and pin, something almost anti-climactic."
"All right," said Bruce.
"I mean, this is supposed to be the beginning of a long feud, right? So if I give you a good solid beat-down, we lose all the energy from the crowd. They get their catharsis, the rich asshole is beaten, they're replete."
"Right," said Bruce, "I think--"
Clark spoke over him, unwilling to lose the thread of his argument. "--We need to keep putting off the comeuppance Brucie so richly deserves: week after week, you win or I just barely squeak out a win by luck or interference, until everyone's dying to see Brucie get royally trounced, humiliated, mortified. Put it off as long as possible until when it finally happens, the crowd explodes--all that pent-up energy finally reaches its inevitable conclusion. You don't want to give them what they want right away! Make them beg for it, and they'll love us when they finally get it."
Bruce looked down at him, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Kent, I like the way you think." He went into a handstand on the turnbuckle. "It's like foreplay," he said from upside-down.
"Well...yes, I guess so," Clark said. "Though it makes me a little uncomfortable to think of our job as getting an audience off."
"No, you've convinced me. We have to tease the audience, whip them into a frenzy until at the sight of you humiliating me they'll finally achieve their longed-for climax."
Clark felt his face getting hot. "There's no reason to make it sound so dirty," he muttered.
Bruce--impossibly--snickered. Then he dropped out of the handstand and back into his crouch. "Let's do that Senton Bomb again."
They practiced it seven more times, and each time Bruce landed perfectly in Clark's buffering arms. The last time, as the resounding thwack finished echoing through the arena, it was joined by the sound of someone clapping. Clark looked up to see Selina Kyle, A.K.A. Catwoman, Billionaire Brucie's valet, walking down the ramp. Despite wearing jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her signature black leather, she moved as though she owned the place. "Nice work," she said. "You look good."
Bruce leaned over the ropes. "Selina, you want to kick Kent in the balls?"
She raised a perfectly-groomed eyebrow. "My goodness, what an offer."
"We've been working on our match, and we were thinking near the middle, Clark could throw me out of the ring and I could hide behind you."
"Country Clark would never hit a lady," Clark explained, "So of course he'd have to back off."
"And then you could laugh at him and kick him in the stones," Bruce finished triumphantly.
"Kayfabe, of course," Clark added hastily, and she shot him a laughing look.
"You boys are really having fun, aren't you? I'd be happy to join in," she said. "Though it looks like we might be getting broken up soon, darling," she added to Bruce. "Keith says he's thinking of giving me a push, setting me up in a feud against Vixen. Mrow," she said, clawing the air in front of her.
"About time," said Bruce. "Though I'd hate to lose your firm whip hand."
"Oh, you say the sweetest things," she said with a smiling pout. She pulled a book out of her bag. "Don't mind me, I'm just going to read and watch you practice," she said, going over to the seats near the ring and settling down.
"I'm surprised the bookers let you insist I was going to win this match," Clark said as they ran through a few more basic moves: an Irish whip, a slingshot suplex, Clark's Steel Bar armlock.
"Keith and John are pretty laid-back," Bruce said as they went through the suplex, Clark's body bouncing off the ropes and back into the ring. "That's one of the reasons I've stayed here instead of going to the DCW, though God knows Luthor's called me about it." Clark rolled out of the throw, ran into the ropes, and came back to meet Bruce's clothesline, letting it knock him to the mat. Bruce rolled on top of him and covered him. "They're control freaks at the DCW, you don't get much say in your gimmick or angle at all. Here once they trust you, they'll at least listen to a good argument." They laid there in the middle of the ring for a moment, getting their breath back, and Clark realized they'd gone through a fairly complex set of moves without calling them beforehand, just doing what felt right.
"I still think you need to do something off the top rope," Bruce said. "There are going to be people watching to see if you can or not after that last match. I'm not saying the hurricanrana," he said as Clark groaned. "But just a really basic flying body press." Clark said nothing. "Jeez, I just did almost a dozen Senton Bombs and trusted you to catch me, and you won't do one lousy flying body press?" Bruce thumped Clark's bare chest with his fist. "Some partner."
"All right, all right," Clark snapped, throwing Bruce's arm off and scrambling to his feet. "If it'll get you to shut up about it." He clambered up to the turnbuckle, then turned to face Bruce, who had gotten to his feet. It was one of the most basic aerial moves: just a simple sideways jump. Your opponent catches you and you both tumble backwards. "Okay," he said, nodding.
Bruce sneered at him, lifting a hand to beckon mockingly: come at me, bro.
Clark jumped at him, twisting his body in the air to connect almost diagonally with Bruce. Bruce threw his hands up and they fell backwards together onto the mat.
"That sucked," Selina drawled from her seat. "Do it again, and this time Kent should try jumping like an attacking lion and not a kittycat."
"You heard the lady," said Bruce, shoving Clark's shoulder.
"Attacking lion, right," muttered Clark. He climbed back onto the turnbuckle, fuming at Bruce and Selina but most especially with himself. The flying body press was infinitely easier than a hurricanrana, in which you had to scissor your legs around your opponent's neck, then basically swing your body in a semi-circle around to their back and pull them down with you. The flying body press was a newbie move. Anyone could pull off a decent flying body press. Anyone--
He jumped again at Bruce, and once again they tumbled to the mat as if Clark were crushing him.
"Slightly better," said Selina. "Keep at it."
"Brucie's going to kick Clark's ass after the match is officially over," Bruce called to Selina as Clark scrambled upward again. "We need the referee distracted for maximum heat."
"Who's the referee?"
"We're getting L. Ron to do it," said Bruce. "Need a small guy because I'll be bullying him earlier in the match." He looked back at Clark and nodded, then caught him effortlessly out of the air again.
"Perfect," said Selina.
"L. Ron? I agree," Bruce answered, dashing any hope Clark might have had that she was referring to his jump.
Clark decided it might be better to get back up on the ropes before being told to do so this time. "Why perfect?" he asked as he climbed up.
"I had an angle with him a while ago where I dated him to try and get access to Max," said Selina. "So there's history between us, the fans'll remember that."
Another flying press, another catch and tumble. They repeated it again and again while going over the match with Selina, and Bruce caught him each time until Clark was getting bored of it.
"How's he doing?" Bruce called to Selina. "Are we to lion yet?"
"Mmm," said Selina. "You're getting close to bobcat."
"It'll have to do," Bruce said. "Barda and Tora will be here soon for their practice."
"Bobcats can be pretty fierce," Clark said plaintively, but Selina just laughed and sashayed back up the ramp.
: : :
Eight hours later, Clark was sitting backstage, listening to the muted roar of the crowd, watching Booster and Ted practice card tricks, and waiting for his match.
"Ready?" Clark looked up to see Bruce Wayne in one of his ruffled confections, his unsmiling face framed by black ostrich feathers.
"As I'll ever be." He stood up, dusting off his hated overalls. "If this feud catches fire, I swear I'm using that leverage to get these incinerated." Looking up, he saw Bruce standing with his arm extended toward him, his hand balled into a fist.
"It's a fist bump," Bruce explained when Clark blinked at him. "I've been reliably informed it's a ritualistic gesture of respect performed by partners to express solidarity."
A snort of laughter escaped Clark before he could help himself. "I'm in an angle with Wikipedia," he said. But he extended his fist and gently bumped knuckles with Bruce.
"Let's get them hot and bothered," murmured Bruce, and swept off.
: : :
The crowd was fairly quiet, the mood still dampened by Captain Marvel's defection. Clark stood in the middle of the ring, smiling out at them. From this angle, it was electrifying to see the reaction when Bruce's entrance music hit: a thousand thumbs turned down, a howl of outrage shaking the rafters.
Billionaire Brucie descended the ramp, smiling and waving to everyone, then handed his robe to Selina and entered the ring. Taking the mic from a nervous ring announcer, he turned to Country Clark. "My dear boy," he drawled. "Before we begin the match tonight, I have a bit of a...proposition for you. A business proposition," he added as the crowd rumbled. "You see, my stableboy just quit, and my precious polo ponies...well, I need someone to take care of them." He leaned forward and sniffed the air loudly. "And based on your aroma, I can tell you're just the man to employ for such work."
"Well gosh, Mr. Wayne," said Clark cheerfully. "I'm always happy to help out."
"And I'm willing to pay you handsomely for your services," Brucie said. He leaned forward and put his lips close to Clark's ear, seemingly ready to whisper a figure. "A kajillion dollars," he murmured, too low for the mic to pick up.
"Golly!" Clark emoted shock. "I'd be able to pay off the mortgage on Ma and Pa's farm in no time!" I wish. "When can I start?"
"There's just one...teensy...weensy...little thing," Brucie said, holding up his hands with the thumb and index finger apart to make clear how small. "See, I need to make sure all my servants understand that I expect unquestioning obedience from them at all times." Clark let his cheerful expression start to shade toward dubious as Bruce kept talking. "And so, just to make our relationship crystal clear, I'm going to ask you to lie down and let me pin you."
"What?"
"I'm not in the mood to scuffle about in the ring with my own stableboy," Brucie said sharply as the arena erupted in boos. "Hush now!" he barked at them, evoking even more abuse from the crowd. "I'm attempting to do business here. Something none of you basement-dwelling wage slaves would have any conception of, I'm sure. Perhaps I should slow down," he said, doing just that and articulating his words carefully, "So you can all see how a person who actually earns his money disposes of it." Turning back to Country Clark, he smiled widely. "So be a dear and model for these people the proper behavior toward your betters, would you?"
Clark felt a sudden urge to break into applause: that last line was improvised, and was perfect, making Country Clark a stand-in for the audience themselves, a symbol of all the disrespect they had to take from their bosses and teachers. He bit back the impulse to grin in delight at Bruce and went on to his next line.
"Well, Mr. Wayne, that doesn't seem right," Clark said, taking off his straw hat and scratching the back of his head. "I mean, the good people of Philadelphia have paid their hard-earned money to watch us wrestle." The crowd agreed whole-heartedly. "And it wouldn't be at all fair to them to cheat them out of a good fight." Clark shook his head as the audience cheered him on. "No sir, that just wouldn't be right."
"So you'll pass up the chance to make more money than you'll probably ever see in your pitiful life? To entertain theseclods?" Brucie waved a dismissive hand and the crowd went berserk. "You're even stupider than I thought."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," said Clark. "I just can't do it."
For a long moment they stared at each other: Country Clark apologetic but earnest, Billionaire Brucie gazing down his nose in puzzled disdain. Then Brucie smiled once more.
"Well, you've certainly got your principles, I'll give you that." He held out his hand. "Shake hands and we'll start the match."
The crowd growled with warning; Clark heard a small child's voice shrill out in panic, "Don't do it, Clark!" But a babyface like Country Clark could never turn down a handshake, even from someone so transparently malicious as Billionaire Brucie. So he reached out and put his hand in Bruce's.
Bruce's fingers were cold against his, and his eyes were bright with anticipation.
Then he yanked on Clark's hand, pivoting to throw him to the mat and get him into an armlock.
Clark sold the armlock as the bell rang to start the match, his face twisting with pain and betrayal. The crowd howled as he broke free and unleashed a flurry of offense on Brucie, but the billionaire was too crafty and Country Clark was too straightforward. As the match progressed it was clear Clark was struggling--the offense was all Brucie's, and he took a gleeful pleasure in being as sadistic as possible, focusing on inflicting as much pain and humiliation on Clark as he could.
Clark writhed and flopped and was tossed into the ropes. Now and then he would seem to gain the upper hand, but Brucie always managed to beat him down again. The crowd was a vast sea of faces outside the ring, and Clark was only dimly aware of the waves of sound crashing up against them. All his attention was focused on anticipating Bruce's moves, of syncing their motions and their bodies up. A flicker of the eyes, the faintest of nods, and he could tell which way Bruce was going to move, what action would fit in.
It was like an impromptu dance, if dancing happened to include backhand chops and elbow drops. It was more dangerous than dancing, and far more physical.
It was glorious.
"Going out of the ring now," Bruce muttered as they locked up, and Clark whipped him toward the ropes. Bruce dropped down and slid out of the ring, running around wildly until he found Catwoman. Grabbing her shoulders, he hid behind her, and the crowd went mad.
Clark, racing after him, screeched to a halt as Catwoman held up an imploring hand. "You wouldn't hurt a girl?" her body language screamed. Clark immediately dropped into an "aw shucks" posture, sheepishly starting to apologize to her.
When she stepped forward and kneed him in the groin, he caught her knee between his with no damage--they'd practiced it quite a few times--then sold the hit as hard as possible, doubling over in anguish. Brucie took this opportunity to chop the back of his neck, driving him onto the floor, then scrambled back into the ring.
According to the rules of the match, if Clark couldn't get back into the ring by the time the referee counted to ten, he would forfeit the match. He waited, hunched over in agony, until he heard L. Ron's quavering voice start the countout, then started to stagger back to the ring. It was a challenge to go slowly enough to build up anticipation, but when he finally reached the ring at the count of eight, the crowd popped like mad. Brucie met him at the ropes, kicking at his head, but Clark grabbed his foot and threw him to the mat, and a new set of moves began, a new phase of the dance.
All too soon Clark found himself on the mat as Brucie climbed the turnbuckle, preparing to deliver his devastating Senton Bomb. Bruce stopped and grinned out at the crowd, flexing his arms and seeming to savor the moment as Clark lay helplessly awaiting his onslaught. Then he turned and jumped.
He hung in the air an astonishing amount of time, turning over with an almost lazy grace to come down on Clark's chest. Clark flopped madly as if the air had been knocked out of him, and Bruce rolled over and covered him.
"The crowd is hot," Bruce murmured in his ear, and Clark realized he could barely hear him over the deafening torrent of cheers and boos. "You have to do the hurricanrana."
L. Ron was counting Clark out; at the two-count Clark kicked out of the pin. Bruce jumped to his feet, clutching at his head in disbelief--no one ever kicked out of the Senton Bomb!--and Clark hadn't thought it was possible, but the crowd was even louder now. Clark feinted at Bruce and suplexed him. "No! It's the full body press!" he panted in Bruce's ear.
Bruce rolled away from him, then lunged forward and got him in a facelock hold. Putting his head down so his own arms blocked off his mouth from the audience's gaze, he yelled, "Clark, the crowd is loving this! They're eating out of our hands! You need to go up there and hit that damn hurricanrana!"
He rolled off, glaring at Clark with a fury that Clark suspected was only partially kayfabe. Clark dodged a feint and climbed to the top of the turnbuckle, getting ready to do the full body press as he had planned. It was simple. It was easy. He couldn't possibly screw it up.
The crowd seethed around them as he met Bruce's eyes.
He nodded, the tiniest motion, and saw Bruce start to smile.
And then he jumped out into the emptiness, into the shrieking air, knowing Bruce would catch him.
He locked his legs around Bruce's neck and swung down behind him, dragging Bruce into a somersault. It was a textbook hurricanrana, and the very boards of the ring seemed to be vibrating with the noise of the crowd. Bruce struggled to his feet, shrugging off the impact, and hit Clark with the Gotham Stomp, one of his finishing moves. Clark went down and Bruce covered him again, leaning across his body.
Clark could feel their chests rising and falling together as they both dragged air into their lungs. "Fantastic," Bruce murmured. "Let's go home."
L. Ron was counting him out; Clark kicked out at two-and-a-half and staggered to his feet.
Bruce threw his arms out in melodramatic disbelief: who was this madman and why was he too stupid to know when he was beaten? He whirled on L. Ron in his referee's stripes and began to berate him, yelling about how that was a win, how Clark hadn't kicked out in time. He backed the cringing L. Ron into a corner, screaming insults as the crowd booed him, still ignoring Clark completely.
Clark walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
Brucie turned and his eyes widened with shock as Clark punched him in the jaw: once, twice, three times. As the crowd screamed, Bruce sagged to his knees and Clark took advantage of his confusion to knock him onto his back and roll him onto his shoulders, pinning him.
Bruce kicked wildly, but the pin was solid, and L. Ron happily counted him out. The bell rang.
Country Clark had won his first professional wrestling match.
As L. Ron held his hand up in victory, Clark saw that people had leapt to their feet, cheering. Adrenaline caught up with him, and he found tears coming to his eyes. He blinked hard and wiped at his face, embarrassed at being so moved by what was essentially a fake win. But the triumph wasn't in winning, it was in putting on a match good enough that people were responding to them. He and Bruce were truly victorious.
Then Catwoman beckoned to L. Ron, and Clark remembered that the match might technically be done, but the show wasn't over yet. L. Ron went over to talk to her, and as Clark stood and smiled out at the audience, he heard cries of warning start to cut through the cheers: "Look out!" "Behind you!"
Behind him, Bruce surreptitiously stamped the boards to give him warning, and then whacked him on the back with a steel chair.
The chair connected with his shoulderblades with a shocking thwack: the impact was spread out over the flat part of the chair so it didn't cause any damage, but it still stung painfully, and Clark didn't have to kayfabe his yelp of dismay as he collapsed.
Blows from the chair rained down on him as he protected his head with his hands, the cheers of the crowd changing to deafening anger. Bruce was selling that he was going into a berserk fury at being thwarted, and Clark sold the beating as hard as he could. Finally, the referee insisted Brucie stop, and there was a clatter as he threw the chair aside in pique and stormed out of the arena to jeers and abuse.
Clark staggered to his feet, bruised but unbroken, and the crowd cheered once more as he limped painfully back up the ramp, beaming, shaking hands, bumping fists.
The minute he rounded the corner and was out of sight of the audience, he found himself swept into a hug by Selina. "That was great!"
"Fantastic kick," he said, hugging her back.
"Bea says they showed it on replay like a hundred times," Selina gloated. "You sold it perfectly."
Smiling, he looked up from the hug to see Bruce watching him, his arms crossed. Bruce nodded and walked over to him. "Good match. Told you you could hit that hurricanrana."
"You were right," Clark said with a grin.
"So don't ever second-guess me in the ring again," Bruce said, jabbing a finger at him. "If I say you can do it, you can do it."
Then he turned around and walked away.
"Wow," said Selina. "He must be impressed with you."
"Impressed?"
"I've never seen him so complimentary after a match."
"Complimentary?"
She smirked up at him. "He did say it was a good match, didn't he?"
The other babyfaces bugged him to go out to a bar after the show, but Clark said he didn't feel up to it. Instead, showered and changed, he went to his hotel room. He wanted to read, but couldn't seem to keep his mind on it. He started doing push-ups, grimacing as the sore skin on his back stretched with his motions.
His phone buzzed and he popped to his feet to grab it.
I've got some ideas about our next match. --B
Clark felt a smile tugging at his mouth as he typed his response.
Me too. --C
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Chapter 7: Physical Violence and Bizarre Innuendo