Heroes of the Squared Circle 9: The End of the Feud
Title: The End of the Feud
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, 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 3700
Summary: Forced to end their feud prematurely, Clark and Bruce do their best to stage an unforgettable match.
“The wrestling business was and always will be filled with bullies, who stripped down and dressed right beside the backstabber, who was next to the clumsy oaf who didn’t mean to hurt you, next to the worker you could trust with your body and your life.” --Bret Hart
Bruce's eyes were snapping sparks as he glared at Max Lord. "If you're pissed about the way we handled the tuxedo match, just tell us. Don't pull a bullshit move like ending our feud just as it's hitting its stride."
"We have the next three shows all planned out," Clark said. "And an arc for the angle that could last a lot longer than that. We're really over right now, Max."
"Keith says that we need to get Brucie and Harvey's new Two-Face gimmick involved in an angle with the Warrior." Keith and John nodded uneasily.
Bruce crossed his arms. "Someone put you up to this," he said. "Someone's jealous we're getting over so well."
"Oh, it's always all about you, is it?" Max sneered. "Get over yourself, Wayne." He waved a hand at Kent. "And you too, while we're at it. The world doesn't revolve around the two of you. I've got troubles you can't even begin to understand, and I'm doing everything I can to keep this promotion afloat. Your feud doesn't mean diddly to me. I'll give you one more match at the next show. After that you're getting booked separately."
"But the next show's in Philly," Bruce said. "We have to end the feud in Gotham, at least. That's only three weeks away. Please, Max," he said, and Clark looked at him in surprise. "Please let me finish this angle in Gotham. The crowd there needs closure. It's my home."
Max Lord shook his head in disgusted wonder. "I swear, sometimes you seem to believe you really are this missing Wayne guy," he said. He jabbed a finger at them. "You finish in Philly next show, and that's final. Now get out of my office."
Bruce slammed the door shut behind them. "This screws up the whole story," he muttered.
"You must have had other angles end abruptly before," Clark said. "How do you usually--"
"--No one would ever work with me long-term before!" Bruce yelled. "Not like you! I've never had an angle last more than a few matches, not a real one, not like ours. And now it's all going to be ruined, because someone has a grudge against us." He slumped against the wall. "I wouldn't mind so much if we could just finish the angle and give the crowd some closure. But it's not going to conclude, it's just going to end. I--" He scrubbed at his face viciously, and Clark realized his hands were shaking. "--I hate when things just end. When there's no closure."
"Hey." Without thinking, Clark grabbed his hands, pulled them down. "We'll come up with some closure. We'll make something work."
Bruce gave him a wan smile. "You're right." He let go of Clark's hands. "Let's go get some pizza or something and talk about it."
"Get some-" Clark shot a glance at Max's closed door. "But faces and heels--"
Bruce shrugged. "--What's he going to do worse than he's already done? Dock our pay?" A lopsided smile. "When was your last paycheck, Clark?"
Clark sighed. "It's been a while," he admitted as they headed for the locker room. "I've got enough saved up to cover the next mortgage payment on the farm, but I don't know what I'm going to do after that."
Bruce pushed open the locker room door and strode inside; the buzz of conversation died out around him. People were looking at them--apparently news had traveled fast. Bruce went to his locker and grabbed his bag, ignoring everyone's looks, but Clark couldn't help looking around, noticing who gave supportive smiles, who looked away quickly. Not that there was any guarantee that the former meant actual support.
Bruce threw his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said to Clark, and they went out into the night, leaving the building together for the first time.
: : :
"Look, Clark," Bruce said staring down at his pizza. "This is kind of--but if you're worried about the mortgage, I can spot you for some cash." He looked up at Clark's snort. "I mean it. I live pretty frugally, I've got a fair amount in savings." He cleared his throat. "I know you're good for it. It would mean a lot to me if you were at least willing to consider it."
Clark sighed. "If things get dire, I promise I...won't rule it out." He looked up at Bruce. "It's funny, something Max said today reminded me...I'm not even sure I know your real name."
Bruce chuckled. "I swear my name really is Bruce Wayne," he said. "Cross my heart and hope to die," making the little motion over his heart and holding up his fingers like a vow.
"Lucky coincidence there," Clark said.
"What can I say?" Bruce said. "I'm a lucky guy." He laughed softly again, more to himself than to Clark. His laugh trailed off and he looked at Clark without speaking for a little while. "Look," he said, "I know I haven't told you much of anything about me--"
"--I know everything I need to know about you," Clark said. "You're a prickly, perfectionistic bastard that no one but me can bear to work with. You're the most brilliant wrestler of our generation, whether people realize it or not. And you're the only person I trust with all my heart in the ring." He shrugged, looking down. "Or out of it, I guess."
"Ah." said Bruce. "Well. That's. Thank you." He cleared his throat again. "Maybe we should talk about how to wrap up our feud," he said.
"We don't have a lot of room to work with," Clark said. "I guess we're lucky we're even given the chance to shoot a promo. He could have just canceled the whole thing."
"So right now Billionaire Brucie is wanting to be Country Clark's friend, but can't bring himself to say it, right?"
"Right."
"And we can't close with them actually becoming friends, because Clark is a true-hearted babyface and Brucie is still a spoiled, selfish jerk of a heel, no matter how much he yearns for friendship. He can't turn face, so...hm." Bruce traced patterns on the checkered tablecloth with a finger, ghost lines and boxes. "I wonder if Max would let us do an 'I Quit' match," he said.
Clark grimaced. An "I Quit" match was a match where victory could only come by forcing the opponent to actually say "I quit" out loud. "Isn't that a little..."
"...extreme?" Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am nothing if not extreme, Clark." He gestured with a jabbing finger, his movements growing more animated as the idea caught fire in his brain. "It's the catharsis the audience needs. You get fed up and finally challenge me to an 'I Quit' match, with the stipulation that it's not just that I quit that one match, I'll quit harassing you, quit bugging you, quit interacting with you entirely. I resist it like crazy, but eventually you force me to give up completely on the idea of ever having a connection with you."
"Hm."
Bruce looked at Clark's expression for a long moment. "It's just kayfabe, Clark," he said softly.
"Oh. I know, I know," Clark said. "I just...kind of hate to humiliate Brucie in the ring like that."
Bruce looked exasperated. "This is not the time to start feeling sorry for a fictional character, Clark! He's done nothing but torment you! He's got it coming! You must be the wrath of narrative judgment, falling on this bully like a lightning-stroke of justice." He reached into the sky like a revival preacher, his fingers straining. "You must be a sword of truth, Country Clark, to punish the wicked who would make the lives of the meek unbearable!"
Clark cleared his throat and Bruce seemed to realize that people were staring at them. He put his hand down.
"Sorry," he said, picking up another slice of pizza. "I have strong opinions about the role of professional wrestling as a modern morality play."
"Okay, okay," said Clark. "We'll do the full 'I Quit' route. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," Bruce deadpanned. His mouth thinned for a moment. "I just wish it were in Gotham. I always want my stories to end in Gotham."
: : :
Country Clark Kent lifted the mic to his mouth and met Billionaire Brucie's eyes squarely. "So if I can make you say 'I Quit,' you'll have nothing more to do with me," he said.
"Sure," beamed Brucie. His eyes glittered with manic fervor as he leaned into Clark's personal space. "And if I can make you say 'I Quit,' you'll stop resisting me and you'll come be my personal assistant...in all things."
"Now, Mr. Wayne," Clark said, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the audience's boos, "You know I don't want to stop wrestling, even to be your friend. Can't I do both?"
Bruce fluffed his latest feathered robe like an angry emu and tossed his head.
Clark sighed. "I'm never gonna quit wrestling, and if this is the only way to make you understand..." He shook his head, reluctant but firm. "I guess I'm gonna have to beat you."
Bruce tossed off his robe, Clark handed his mic to the referee, and the bell rang to start the match.
They had thirty minutes to work with--Max had at least given them that--so they started slow, settling into the rhythm of the match. At about the ten minute mark they left the ring, battling around the perimeter, tossing each other into the barricades. "Let them get a good look at us," Bruce had said. "Let them touch you, feel your sweat on their hands. Heightens audience identification." Indeed, Clark could feel hands slapping his back, urging him on as he struggled to recover after a vicious blow, a benediction and a blessing.
Brucie grabbed him and threw him into the steel stairs; they made a satisfying clang. Clark clutched at his head and writhed on the floor as Bruce gestured to the referee and said for the first time: "Ask him if he quits."
It was the punctuation and rising action of an "I Quit" match--the summoning of the referee, the demand for submission, the rejection of that demand. The referee spoke into the microphone: "Do you quit?" and held it to Clark's mouth.
"No," said Clark, and the audience cheered.
Brucie jumped forward and kicked him in the ribs, slamming him back up against the stairs. Clark responded by struggling to his feet and seizing the stairs, lifting them above his head as if to crush Brucie with them. Brucie flinched away, lifting his hands in entreaty, but when Clark paused in his attack Brucie punched him in the belly so he dropped the stairs with a thunderous crash, reeling backwards.
As he staggered, Brucie grabbed him and threw him into the ring once more, kicking and stomping at his ribs. Clark rolled in feigned agony, blinded by pain. He could feel something warm trickling down his face that wasn't sweat and realized he must have cut his head open on the stairs. He almost grinned: he might not be willing to blade himself, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate the effect some unplanned blood would have on the visuals of the fight. When he heard the crowd gasp, he knew that the match was about to go to the next level.
Bruce had gone under the ring and come out with the pair of handcuffs on a long chain.
As Clark struggled to sit up, Brucie held them up, smirking and twirling them on a finger. He brandished a tiny key on a chain and looped it around his neck, kissing it mockingly like a holy symbol before turning his attention back to Country Clark.
After another "vicious" kick to the head, Brucie grabbed Clark's hand and handcuffed him to the top rope. Clark shook off his daze and seemed to take in that he was trapped: he leaped forward to try and grab Brucie with his free hand, but Brucie danced tauntingly out of reach, like a child tormenting a leashed dog. He skipped forward, giggling, and kicked Clark again. Clark snapped backwards, arms flailing helplessly, and the crowd groaned for him.
There was a feral smile on Brucie's face now. He slithered out of the ring and came back up with a bamboo cane in his hands. As Clark struggled to fend him off, he brought the cane down hard again and again against Clark's back and stomach.
It stung badly, and Clark could tell it was going to leave some impressive welts. Good, that was the point. He slumped against the rope, the handcuffs holding him up, as if he were overcome by pain. "Ask him!" he heard Bruce bark.
The referee held the mic to his lips again. "Do you quit?"
Clark let the mic pick up his ragged breathing for a moment as the crowd cried out its support. "No!" he finally gasped.
Another blow. "I'm not going to stop!" he heard Bruce yell. "I'm not going to stop until you quit!" Another kick, and Clark lolled against the ropes as though about to lose consciousness. "Oh no you don't!" Bruce screamed, hurling the cane away. "Don't you dare pass out on me!" The crowd shrieked as Bruce grabbed a cup of water from a spectator, jumped back in the ring and dashed it in Clark's face. "You're not getting out of this so easily, Kent!" Bruce grabbed his face as he sputtered. "You're going to say it!"
Clark spat the water back in his face and watched as Brucie went livid with anger, the crowd's angry roar changing to a cry of glee. Brucie fell on him as if out of his mind with rage, kicking and punching with blows looked damaging, but were perfectly pulled so they barely brushed against Clark's body, gentle as a caress.
Clark tried to struggle to his feet as Brucie staggered back and beckoned to the referee again. "Ask him!"
"No!" spat Clark before the referee could even ask the question. "You can never force me to quit, Bruce," he snarled--the first time he'd ever called him anything but "Mr. Wayne" in the angle. "No matter what you do, I won't!"
Bruce went from scarlet to white, and Clark took a moment to appreciate his ability to control his color before Bruce attacked him again, raining punches down on him. It was time, Clark realized. Time to go into the big finale. Time to finish the angle and finish their feud.
He didn't want to.
Bruce pulled back and met his eyes, and for a timeless instant they just looked at each other, and Clark read his own emotions mirrored in the other man's eyes.
Then Clark kneed him in the groin and Brucie went down in a heap as the audience howled for his blood.
Clark reached out and grabbed the tiny key from around Brucie neck, fumbling to get to the lock of the handcuffs before Brucie could recover. The crowd started chanting his name--"Clark! Clark! Clark!"--the name changing into a roar of triumph as he got the handcuffs off of the rope.
Clark lunged forward, one half of the handcuffs still around his wrist, and snapped the other around Brucie's wrist.
The gasping shriek of the crowd rose in pitch as Bruce staggered to his feet and realized he was handcuffed to Clark, his jaw dropping over in consternation. Even worse, his right hand was cuffed to Clark's left hand, leaving Clark's right hand free for punching. Clark could hear the announcers selling the situation: "He's trapped now! And Country Clark Kent isn't going to take it any more!" Brucie jumped at him, reaching for the key, but instead the tiny key went skidding away from them both to come to rest in the far corner of the ring.
Clark knew he was a sight--dripping with sweat and blood, his body covered with sharp red welts--and he let Country Clark's friendly demeanour fall away into an implacable fury, as if finally driven beyond endurance. His jaw set, his eyes blazing with incandescent anger, Country Clark reeled Billionaire Brucie in by the handcuffs and punched him in the face.
Brucie screamed and tried to scrabble away, but Clark was possessed by righteous rage at last. He yanked on the handcuffs as if being physically connected to Bruce somehow gave him fresh power, enabled him to throw off all his pain and suffering in one titanic effort. And it was true, but not in the kayfabe sense. As Country Clark delivered the beat-down on Billionaire Brucie that the angle deserved, he could feel the connection between them like a living thing, the energy that flowed between them and powered the match nearly crackling along their connected hands, running between their bodies and their minds.
Brucie dragged at the handcuffs, trying to get away from Clark and to the key lying in the corner, but Clark reeled him closer, step by agonizing step. Holding the chain, he pulled back his hand for a haymaker blow, and Bruce threw up his hand and yelled "Stop! Stop!"
Clark paused, and the referee hurried over to put the mic up to Bruce's mouth. "Do you quit?" the ref asked.
"No," gasped Bruce. "No! But--but I'll pay you, Kent!" he said, desperation written on his face. "I'll pay you anything! I'll buy your parents' farm, I'll move them into a mansion in Gotham, just don't let it end like this!" He met Clark's eyes, his mouth twisting. "It shouldn't end like this, Clark!"
Clark swallowed hard at that last, ad-libbed line. It was no great feat of acting to let his fury drain away and to look, for a moment, merely sad. "Bruce--" he said--
--And Brucie jumped forward to try and knee him in the groin.
Before he could reach him, though, Clark yanked on the handcuffs so he fell to the mat. All his goodwill wiped away once more, he grabbed Brucie and dragged him to the turnbuckle, forcing him to climb it with him as he screamed and struggled. Once they reached the top, Clark took a deep breath and lifted Bruce bodily above his head, facing out at the crowd and the announcer's table far below, ready to hurl them both down.
His arms burned and threatened to buckle; time slowed down as he watched the announcers scrambling, saw the audience react in thrilled horror. A little girl in a Mr. Miracle t-shirt screamed and covered her face with her hands.
And then Bruce screamed "I quit! I quit!" The referee came running with the mic and held it high so everyone could hear Billionaire Brucie begging for mercy. Only then did Clark let him slide down into the ring once more, panting and shaking.
The ref brought the key and unlocked the handcuffs, then raised Clark's hand in triumph as the bell rang to end the match and the crowd leapt to their feet. Clark wiped the blood from his face with his free hand as Brucie staggered to his feet. Clark stepped forward and extended his hand, but Brucie knocked it away with an angry snarl and stalked back up the ramp and out of the arena. Clark didn't watch him go--that would look like gloating--but smiled at the spectators for a little longer until finally making his way out as well.
"He's gone," Guy Gardner said as Clark walked into the locker room.
Clark tried not to look chagrined that he'd been so obvious. "Gone?"
"Bruce booked it out of here. Didn't even stay to shower."
"What?" It slowly started to sink in--Bruce had left without a word to him after their last match together.
It hurt.
"Good match, by the way."
"Yeah. Thanks." Clark showered, his fresh welts stinging angrily under the hot water, and dressed slowly, but there was no sign of Bruce, no message on his phone. Should he send something? No, Bruce would have stayed if he'd wanted to talk.
Limping slightly, he left the locker room with his bag over his shoulder.
"Check it out," said Bea, "It's your match."
One of the monitors in a corner of the room was showing a replay of the end of his match with Bruce. Clark rarely reviewed his matches, and it was eerie to see himself from the outside, see the heat of the moment transformed into a story. He almost shuddered when the camera closed in on his face as he stood on the turnbuckle with Bruce lifted above his head. It was the face of a stranger, of someone nearly inhuman, determined to defeat his foe even if it meant their mutual destruction. He watched as Bruce screamed "I quit," watched as the referee raised his hand and Bruce spurned his touch to stalk away.
And then, as Country Clark smiled at the crowd, Billionaire Brucie paused dramatically at the top of the ramp to look back at him.
The camera closed in on Brucie's face, and for a moment Clark saw there affection, and regret, and a terrible sadness. Then he turned away once more, and the camera went back to Clark, celebrating in the ring, oblivious.
The replay ended and Bea sighed. "He's a really good actor," she said.
"Yeah," Clark said, thinking of Bruce limping back to his hotel, alone in the dark. "A really good actor."
---
( Chapter 10: On the Road Again)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, 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 3700
Summary: Forced to end their feud prematurely, Clark and Bruce do their best to stage an unforgettable match.
“The wrestling business was and always will be filled with bullies, who stripped down and dressed right beside the backstabber, who was next to the clumsy oaf who didn’t mean to hurt you, next to the worker you could trust with your body and your life.” --Bret Hart
Bruce's eyes were snapping sparks as he glared at Max Lord. "If you're pissed about the way we handled the tuxedo match, just tell us. Don't pull a bullshit move like ending our feud just as it's hitting its stride."
"We have the next three shows all planned out," Clark said. "And an arc for the angle that could last a lot longer than that. We're really over right now, Max."
"Keith says that we need to get Brucie and Harvey's new Two-Face gimmick involved in an angle with the Warrior." Keith and John nodded uneasily.
Bruce crossed his arms. "Someone put you up to this," he said. "Someone's jealous we're getting over so well."
"Oh, it's always all about you, is it?" Max sneered. "Get over yourself, Wayne." He waved a hand at Kent. "And you too, while we're at it. The world doesn't revolve around the two of you. I've got troubles you can't even begin to understand, and I'm doing everything I can to keep this promotion afloat. Your feud doesn't mean diddly to me. I'll give you one more match at the next show. After that you're getting booked separately."
"But the next show's in Philly," Bruce said. "We have to end the feud in Gotham, at least. That's only three weeks away. Please, Max," he said, and Clark looked at him in surprise. "Please let me finish this angle in Gotham. The crowd there needs closure. It's my home."
Max Lord shook his head in disgusted wonder. "I swear, sometimes you seem to believe you really are this missing Wayne guy," he said. He jabbed a finger at them. "You finish in Philly next show, and that's final. Now get out of my office."
Bruce slammed the door shut behind them. "This screws up the whole story," he muttered.
"You must have had other angles end abruptly before," Clark said. "How do you usually--"
"--No one would ever work with me long-term before!" Bruce yelled. "Not like you! I've never had an angle last more than a few matches, not a real one, not like ours. And now it's all going to be ruined, because someone has a grudge against us." He slumped against the wall. "I wouldn't mind so much if we could just finish the angle and give the crowd some closure. But it's not going to conclude, it's just going to end. I--" He scrubbed at his face viciously, and Clark realized his hands were shaking. "--I hate when things just end. When there's no closure."
"Hey." Without thinking, Clark grabbed his hands, pulled them down. "We'll come up with some closure. We'll make something work."
Bruce gave him a wan smile. "You're right." He let go of Clark's hands. "Let's go get some pizza or something and talk about it."
"Get some-" Clark shot a glance at Max's closed door. "But faces and heels--"
Bruce shrugged. "--What's he going to do worse than he's already done? Dock our pay?" A lopsided smile. "When was your last paycheck, Clark?"
Clark sighed. "It's been a while," he admitted as they headed for the locker room. "I've got enough saved up to cover the next mortgage payment on the farm, but I don't know what I'm going to do after that."
Bruce pushed open the locker room door and strode inside; the buzz of conversation died out around him. People were looking at them--apparently news had traveled fast. Bruce went to his locker and grabbed his bag, ignoring everyone's looks, but Clark couldn't help looking around, noticing who gave supportive smiles, who looked away quickly. Not that there was any guarantee that the former meant actual support.
Bruce threw his bag over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said to Clark, and they went out into the night, leaving the building together for the first time.
: : :
"Look, Clark," Bruce said staring down at his pizza. "This is kind of--but if you're worried about the mortgage, I can spot you for some cash." He looked up at Clark's snort. "I mean it. I live pretty frugally, I've got a fair amount in savings." He cleared his throat. "I know you're good for it. It would mean a lot to me if you were at least willing to consider it."
Clark sighed. "If things get dire, I promise I...won't rule it out." He looked up at Bruce. "It's funny, something Max said today reminded me...I'm not even sure I know your real name."
Bruce chuckled. "I swear my name really is Bruce Wayne," he said. "Cross my heart and hope to die," making the little motion over his heart and holding up his fingers like a vow.
"Lucky coincidence there," Clark said.
"What can I say?" Bruce said. "I'm a lucky guy." He laughed softly again, more to himself than to Clark. His laugh trailed off and he looked at Clark without speaking for a little while. "Look," he said, "I know I haven't told you much of anything about me--"
"--I know everything I need to know about you," Clark said. "You're a prickly, perfectionistic bastard that no one but me can bear to work with. You're the most brilliant wrestler of our generation, whether people realize it or not. And you're the only person I trust with all my heart in the ring." He shrugged, looking down. "Or out of it, I guess."
"Ah." said Bruce. "Well. That's. Thank you." He cleared his throat again. "Maybe we should talk about how to wrap up our feud," he said.
"We don't have a lot of room to work with," Clark said. "I guess we're lucky we're even given the chance to shoot a promo. He could have just canceled the whole thing."
"So right now Billionaire Brucie is wanting to be Country Clark's friend, but can't bring himself to say it, right?"
"Right."
"And we can't close with them actually becoming friends, because Clark is a true-hearted babyface and Brucie is still a spoiled, selfish jerk of a heel, no matter how much he yearns for friendship. He can't turn face, so...hm." Bruce traced patterns on the checkered tablecloth with a finger, ghost lines and boxes. "I wonder if Max would let us do an 'I Quit' match," he said.
Clark grimaced. An "I Quit" match was a match where victory could only come by forcing the opponent to actually say "I quit" out loud. "Isn't that a little..."
"...extreme?" Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am nothing if not extreme, Clark." He gestured with a jabbing finger, his movements growing more animated as the idea caught fire in his brain. "It's the catharsis the audience needs. You get fed up and finally challenge me to an 'I Quit' match, with the stipulation that it's not just that I quit that one match, I'll quit harassing you, quit bugging you, quit interacting with you entirely. I resist it like crazy, but eventually you force me to give up completely on the idea of ever having a connection with you."
"Hm."
Bruce looked at Clark's expression for a long moment. "It's just kayfabe, Clark," he said softly.
"Oh. I know, I know," Clark said. "I just...kind of hate to humiliate Brucie in the ring like that."
Bruce looked exasperated. "This is not the time to start feeling sorry for a fictional character, Clark! He's done nothing but torment you! He's got it coming! You must be the wrath of narrative judgment, falling on this bully like a lightning-stroke of justice." He reached into the sky like a revival preacher, his fingers straining. "You must be a sword of truth, Country Clark, to punish the wicked who would make the lives of the meek unbearable!"
Clark cleared his throat and Bruce seemed to realize that people were staring at them. He put his hand down.
"Sorry," he said, picking up another slice of pizza. "I have strong opinions about the role of professional wrestling as a modern morality play."
"Okay, okay," said Clark. "We'll do the full 'I Quit' route. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," Bruce deadpanned. His mouth thinned for a moment. "I just wish it were in Gotham. I always want my stories to end in Gotham."
: : :
Country Clark Kent lifted the mic to his mouth and met Billionaire Brucie's eyes squarely. "So if I can make you say 'I Quit,' you'll have nothing more to do with me," he said.
"Sure," beamed Brucie. His eyes glittered with manic fervor as he leaned into Clark's personal space. "And if I can make you say 'I Quit,' you'll stop resisting me and you'll come be my personal assistant...in all things."
"Now, Mr. Wayne," Clark said, forced to raise his voice to be heard over the audience's boos, "You know I don't want to stop wrestling, even to be your friend. Can't I do both?"
Bruce fluffed his latest feathered robe like an angry emu and tossed his head.
Clark sighed. "I'm never gonna quit wrestling, and if this is the only way to make you understand..." He shook his head, reluctant but firm. "I guess I'm gonna have to beat you."
Bruce tossed off his robe, Clark handed his mic to the referee, and the bell rang to start the match.
They had thirty minutes to work with--Max had at least given them that--so they started slow, settling into the rhythm of the match. At about the ten minute mark they left the ring, battling around the perimeter, tossing each other into the barricades. "Let them get a good look at us," Bruce had said. "Let them touch you, feel your sweat on their hands. Heightens audience identification." Indeed, Clark could feel hands slapping his back, urging him on as he struggled to recover after a vicious blow, a benediction and a blessing.
Brucie grabbed him and threw him into the steel stairs; they made a satisfying clang. Clark clutched at his head and writhed on the floor as Bruce gestured to the referee and said for the first time: "Ask him if he quits."
It was the punctuation and rising action of an "I Quit" match--the summoning of the referee, the demand for submission, the rejection of that demand. The referee spoke into the microphone: "Do you quit?" and held it to Clark's mouth.
"No," said Clark, and the audience cheered.
Brucie jumped forward and kicked him in the ribs, slamming him back up against the stairs. Clark responded by struggling to his feet and seizing the stairs, lifting them above his head as if to crush Brucie with them. Brucie flinched away, lifting his hands in entreaty, but when Clark paused in his attack Brucie punched him in the belly so he dropped the stairs with a thunderous crash, reeling backwards.
As he staggered, Brucie grabbed him and threw him into the ring once more, kicking and stomping at his ribs. Clark rolled in feigned agony, blinded by pain. He could feel something warm trickling down his face that wasn't sweat and realized he must have cut his head open on the stairs. He almost grinned: he might not be willing to blade himself, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate the effect some unplanned blood would have on the visuals of the fight. When he heard the crowd gasp, he knew that the match was about to go to the next level.
Bruce had gone under the ring and come out with the pair of handcuffs on a long chain.
As Clark struggled to sit up, Brucie held them up, smirking and twirling them on a finger. He brandished a tiny key on a chain and looped it around his neck, kissing it mockingly like a holy symbol before turning his attention back to Country Clark.
After another "vicious" kick to the head, Brucie grabbed Clark's hand and handcuffed him to the top rope. Clark shook off his daze and seemed to take in that he was trapped: he leaped forward to try and grab Brucie with his free hand, but Brucie danced tauntingly out of reach, like a child tormenting a leashed dog. He skipped forward, giggling, and kicked Clark again. Clark snapped backwards, arms flailing helplessly, and the crowd groaned for him.
There was a feral smile on Brucie's face now. He slithered out of the ring and came back up with a bamboo cane in his hands. As Clark struggled to fend him off, he brought the cane down hard again and again against Clark's back and stomach.
It stung badly, and Clark could tell it was going to leave some impressive welts. Good, that was the point. He slumped against the rope, the handcuffs holding him up, as if he were overcome by pain. "Ask him!" he heard Bruce bark.
The referee held the mic to his lips again. "Do you quit?"
Clark let the mic pick up his ragged breathing for a moment as the crowd cried out its support. "No!" he finally gasped.
Another blow. "I'm not going to stop!" he heard Bruce yell. "I'm not going to stop until you quit!" Another kick, and Clark lolled against the ropes as though about to lose consciousness. "Oh no you don't!" Bruce screamed, hurling the cane away. "Don't you dare pass out on me!" The crowd shrieked as Bruce grabbed a cup of water from a spectator, jumped back in the ring and dashed it in Clark's face. "You're not getting out of this so easily, Kent!" Bruce grabbed his face as he sputtered. "You're going to say it!"
Clark spat the water back in his face and watched as Brucie went livid with anger, the crowd's angry roar changing to a cry of glee. Brucie fell on him as if out of his mind with rage, kicking and punching with blows looked damaging, but were perfectly pulled so they barely brushed against Clark's body, gentle as a caress.
Clark tried to struggle to his feet as Brucie staggered back and beckoned to the referee again. "Ask him!"
"No!" spat Clark before the referee could even ask the question. "You can never force me to quit, Bruce," he snarled--the first time he'd ever called him anything but "Mr. Wayne" in the angle. "No matter what you do, I won't!"
Bruce went from scarlet to white, and Clark took a moment to appreciate his ability to control his color before Bruce attacked him again, raining punches down on him. It was time, Clark realized. Time to go into the big finale. Time to finish the angle and finish their feud.
He didn't want to.
Bruce pulled back and met his eyes, and for a timeless instant they just looked at each other, and Clark read his own emotions mirrored in the other man's eyes.
Then Clark kneed him in the groin and Brucie went down in a heap as the audience howled for his blood.
Clark reached out and grabbed the tiny key from around Brucie neck, fumbling to get to the lock of the handcuffs before Brucie could recover. The crowd started chanting his name--"Clark! Clark! Clark!"--the name changing into a roar of triumph as he got the handcuffs off of the rope.
Clark lunged forward, one half of the handcuffs still around his wrist, and snapped the other around Brucie's wrist.
The gasping shriek of the crowd rose in pitch as Bruce staggered to his feet and realized he was handcuffed to Clark, his jaw dropping over in consternation. Even worse, his right hand was cuffed to Clark's left hand, leaving Clark's right hand free for punching. Clark could hear the announcers selling the situation: "He's trapped now! And Country Clark Kent isn't going to take it any more!" Brucie jumped at him, reaching for the key, but instead the tiny key went skidding away from them both to come to rest in the far corner of the ring.
Clark knew he was a sight--dripping with sweat and blood, his body covered with sharp red welts--and he let Country Clark's friendly demeanour fall away into an implacable fury, as if finally driven beyond endurance. His jaw set, his eyes blazing with incandescent anger, Country Clark reeled Billionaire Brucie in by the handcuffs and punched him in the face.
Brucie screamed and tried to scrabble away, but Clark was possessed by righteous rage at last. He yanked on the handcuffs as if being physically connected to Bruce somehow gave him fresh power, enabled him to throw off all his pain and suffering in one titanic effort. And it was true, but not in the kayfabe sense. As Country Clark delivered the beat-down on Billionaire Brucie that the angle deserved, he could feel the connection between them like a living thing, the energy that flowed between them and powered the match nearly crackling along their connected hands, running between their bodies and their minds.
Brucie dragged at the handcuffs, trying to get away from Clark and to the key lying in the corner, but Clark reeled him closer, step by agonizing step. Holding the chain, he pulled back his hand for a haymaker blow, and Bruce threw up his hand and yelled "Stop! Stop!"
Clark paused, and the referee hurried over to put the mic up to Bruce's mouth. "Do you quit?" the ref asked.
"No," gasped Bruce. "No! But--but I'll pay you, Kent!" he said, desperation written on his face. "I'll pay you anything! I'll buy your parents' farm, I'll move them into a mansion in Gotham, just don't let it end like this!" He met Clark's eyes, his mouth twisting. "It shouldn't end like this, Clark!"
Clark swallowed hard at that last, ad-libbed line. It was no great feat of acting to let his fury drain away and to look, for a moment, merely sad. "Bruce--" he said--
--And Brucie jumped forward to try and knee him in the groin.
Before he could reach him, though, Clark yanked on the handcuffs so he fell to the mat. All his goodwill wiped away once more, he grabbed Brucie and dragged him to the turnbuckle, forcing him to climb it with him as he screamed and struggled. Once they reached the top, Clark took a deep breath and lifted Bruce bodily above his head, facing out at the crowd and the announcer's table far below, ready to hurl them both down.
His arms burned and threatened to buckle; time slowed down as he watched the announcers scrambling, saw the audience react in thrilled horror. A little girl in a Mr. Miracle t-shirt screamed and covered her face with her hands.
And then Bruce screamed "I quit! I quit!" The referee came running with the mic and held it high so everyone could hear Billionaire Brucie begging for mercy. Only then did Clark let him slide down into the ring once more, panting and shaking.
The ref brought the key and unlocked the handcuffs, then raised Clark's hand in triumph as the bell rang to end the match and the crowd leapt to their feet. Clark wiped the blood from his face with his free hand as Brucie staggered to his feet. Clark stepped forward and extended his hand, but Brucie knocked it away with an angry snarl and stalked back up the ramp and out of the arena. Clark didn't watch him go--that would look like gloating--but smiled at the spectators for a little longer until finally making his way out as well.
"He's gone," Guy Gardner said as Clark walked into the locker room.
Clark tried not to look chagrined that he'd been so obvious. "Gone?"
"Bruce booked it out of here. Didn't even stay to shower."
"What?" It slowly started to sink in--Bruce had left without a word to him after their last match together.
It hurt.
"Good match, by the way."
"Yeah. Thanks." Clark showered, his fresh welts stinging angrily under the hot water, and dressed slowly, but there was no sign of Bruce, no message on his phone. Should he send something? No, Bruce would have stayed if he'd wanted to talk.
Limping slightly, he left the locker room with his bag over his shoulder.
"Check it out," said Bea, "It's your match."
One of the monitors in a corner of the room was showing a replay of the end of his match with Bruce. Clark rarely reviewed his matches, and it was eerie to see himself from the outside, see the heat of the moment transformed into a story. He almost shuddered when the camera closed in on his face as he stood on the turnbuckle with Bruce lifted above his head. It was the face of a stranger, of someone nearly inhuman, determined to defeat his foe even if it meant their mutual destruction. He watched as Bruce screamed "I quit," watched as the referee raised his hand and Bruce spurned his touch to stalk away.
And then, as Country Clark smiled at the crowd, Billionaire Brucie paused dramatically at the top of the ramp to look back at him.
The camera closed in on Brucie's face, and for a moment Clark saw there affection, and regret, and a terrible sadness. Then he turned away once more, and the camera went back to Clark, celebrating in the ring, oblivious.
The replay ended and Bea sighed. "He's a really good actor," she said.
"Yeah," Clark said, thinking of Bruce limping back to his hotel, alone in the dark. "A really good actor."
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( Chapter 10: On the Road Again)