Heroes of the Squared Circle 24: Make a Wish
Title: Make a Wish
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Selina Kyle, Jean-Paul Valley, Oliver Queen
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2600
Summary: Clark gets a request that brightens his time apart from Bruce.
Being a babyface even made me feel better as a person. I didn’t have to frown so much in public anymore, for one thing. No shit. I felt like a town sheriff or something, being seen out shaking hands and kissing babies (just kidding). People in public everywhere would pat me on the back and give me thumbs-up or slap me five. Yes, sir, babyface living was my kind of style; just call me Joe Public. --Joe Laurinitis
The days dragged by: the same bus rides, the same training, the same banter and infighting among the wrestlers. Clark got put into an angle with the newest guy on the roster, Jean-Paul Valley, because one of the bookers apparently thought having a hayseed show a brainwashed vigilante assassin how to live a normal life was comedy gold. They shot promos where Country Clark introduced Azrael to pizza and beer (the full face mask made this something of a challenge), helped him do strength training while Azrael made pronouncements about the weight of destiny, and tried to fix him up with Poison Ivy. Hilarity ensued.
The days dragged by.
Updates came now and then from Dick, usually just a quick picture: the neon welter of Tokyo; Bruce getting hugged by Guy Gardner; a huge bowl of ramen with Bruce's hand hovering over it, holding a pair of chopsticks. One picture was of Bruce in nothing but a towel, his hair wet and tousled, his expression caught at the exact moment that "tired" began to shift into "what the hell are you doing?"
"Wait til u c his nu gimmick," one text read, making Clark smile--Bruce had lectured Dick about using text-speak in the past, but it was a losing battle. "So awesome."
A DVD arrived at the Metropolis apartment addressed to him, in an envelope covered with Japanese stamps and labeled in a familiar bold scrawl: "Thought you might be interested. Toss it in the cabinet when you're done with it." Clark popped it into the DVD player and soon was watching Japanese graphics zoom by as announcers chatted excitedly in a language he couldn't understand. But he understood the wailing guitars of the Warrior's entrance well enough, and felt a smile tugging at his cheeks as Guy emerged, his eyes wild as ever, yelling at his Japanese opponent in a mishmash of Japanese and English. The audience was surprisingly quiet, and Clark wondered if maybe Guy's gimmick wasn't getting over there. But then he executed a perfect spinning crucifix toss, and a heartfelt "Ooooh" rippled around the arena, followed by polite but enthusiastic applause.
The Warrior lost after a well-fought match and made his exit in a bluster of incoherently bi-lingual threats: "Ore will crush your karada into dust! Your kokoro is no match for ore no ki of great--of great subarashii...ness!" Clark saw young women covering their mouths to hide their delighted giggles and suspected Guy had plenty of fans in Japan.
The next match was between two people Clark didn't know, and he guiltily fast-forwarded through it to where the ring announcer was introducing a tag team of Japanese wrestlers in sky-blue tights that the audience hissed at earnestly. As they preened in the center of the ring, the announce called another name. Clark couldn't understand most of the introduction, but the announcer concluded with "Eru Murushierago to Robin!"
As Clark blinked at the screen, two figures walked out. One was clearly Dick Grayson in a modified version of the costume he had made for himself, with the addition of a black domino mask that hid his eyes but not his cheeky smile. The other--
The other had a familiar stride, but was wearing black tights. He was bare-chested, but his head was obscured by a black mask that hid his hair and covered the top half of his face. From it protruded two small ears. Behind him rippled a long black cape made of something so fine and silky that it billowed and wavered like smoke. Together he and Robin reached the stage: Robin vaulted over the ropes while he climbed the steps and entered the ring purposefully, no flash or showmanship. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the opposing team while Robin played to the crowd, climbing the ropes and blowing kisses in all directions. He should probably have looked ridiculous.
Somehow he didn't.
As the announcer explained the rules of the match, he detached the cape from his mask and folded it, putting it on the stairs. The announcer asked him something--apparently if he had anything to say, from the way he held the mic out, but Bruce shook his head wordlessly and beckoned to the other team: We're ready for you.
The bell rang and the match started just as Clark finally realized what in the world "Eru Murushierago" was.
El Murciélago, transliterated into Japanese. The Bat, in Spanish.
Clark found himself shaking his head in bemused amazement as Bruce and Dick proceeded to completely capture the audience's attention and win their hearts, if not the match itself. They played off of each other like shadow and light; Bruce's solemnity cast Dick's brightness into sharp relief, while Dick's exuberance made Bruce seem somehow even more threatening. When their opponent cheated and blew poison dust into Robin's face, leaving him twisting and gasping on the mat, El Murciélago stood as if turned to stone at the side of the ring, unable to help his partner, anguish graven into each tense muscle. It was beautiful ring psychology, and the audience was enthralled.
So was Clark.
This was what Bruce was meant to be. Not a preening, grinning fool, but an elemental force, as supple and unbreakable as shadow. It was worth it all, Clark realized, worth the separation and the silence, to see Bruce finally come into his own.
The other matches held nothing for him. He turned off the television and dropped off into an uneasy sleep in which he was lost in an endless field of corn, unable to find a way out, while bats winged in the twilight sky overhead, free and untouchable.
"You're serious?" Clark stared at Jimmy, unable to keep from grinning like a fool. "Me? Someone really asked for me? I mean, for Country Clark Kent?"
"Well…" Jimmy scuffed one foot against the floor. "His first choice was actually Captain Marvel, but…" He shrugged. "You know Batson, said he didn't have time."
Jean-Paul Valley pushed long blond hair out of his face and rolled his eyes. "Billy Batson at a Make-A-Wish Foundation event? That'd be a PR disaster."
"But he specifically asked for you if Captain Marvel was busy, Mr. Kent!" said Jimmy. "He said you were both his favorites."
"Wow." Clark took a deep breath. "Just...wow!" he shook his head in amazement, then caught a glimpse of a small smile on Jean-Paul face. "I'm sure this kind of stuff is really old hat to you," Clark said, "I mean, growing up in a wrestling family and all."
Jean-Paul's smile went somewhat lopsided, as if he'd bitten into something bitter. "Yeah, right."
"Oh," said Clark, taken aback. Valley was an amiable guy; a bit of a stiff worker in the ring but everyone got along with him backstage. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's not your fault," said Jean-Paul. "It's just...I'd rather not talk about it," he said, getting up. "I'm going to hit the gym."
"Way to go, Clark," said Oliver Queen, leaning over the back of a chair. "Didn't anyone tell you not to talk to Valley about his father?"
"Um, I guess not," said Clark. "I knew he grew up in a wrestling family, but--"
"Wrestling cult, more like it. His father was a tyrant," Queen said. "They tell horror stories about how he treated his boys. Raised them to be 'perfect wrestlers.' Beat it into them. Treated it like some kind of religious order."
"You're kidding," said Clark.
"Wish I was. Jean-Paul was the only one who managed to get out of it. He was off in engineering school when his dad got sick, begged him to come back and pick up that Azrael gimmick, save the family business. So he dropped everything and ran back home, sacrificed it all to try and save the promotion. And then his father up and croaked anyway and the promotion went bankrupt. They say he made Jean-Paul swear to stay in wrestling as he was dying. So yeah, he's got some major daddy issues."
"Poor guy," said Clark. "Wrestling should be fun."
Oliver gave him one of his rare genuine smiles. "It is for some of us. For others it's just business. For some it's a burden, and for some an obsession." He cuffed Clark lightly on the shoulder. "You're just a good guy."
Clark was going to retort with something dismissive, but then he saw Selina come through the door. "Selina!" he called across the common room. "Selina, you're not going to believe it! A kid wants to see me for his Make-A-Wish wish! Me!" People all around the room were turning to look at him: Scott and Barda breaking off a conversation with a booker, Luthor glancing up with a raised eyebrow from his phone, Diana and Orion pausing in the middle of a heated argument. "Isn't that the most amazing, humbling thing ever?"
Selina was smiling at him as she strolled over, lazy and affectionate. "I don't know, sweetheart. A Tiffany necklace is pretty impressive."
"Oh, stop it," he said. "This is exactly why I wanted to become a wrestler. Exactly. So I could maybe give some brave, tough kid a little bit of hope, a tiny bit of inspiration. I mean, I know it's not like being a surgeon or a firefighter or a teacher, those are people who really help, but if the thing I'm good at can brighten a kid's day--" He broke off and scratched at the back of his head, suddenly realizing everyone was looking at him: some fondly, some condescendingly. "--It just makes me happy, that's all."
"The kid couldn't have chosen better," said Selina. "But I'd still take the Tiffany."
"--He's a good child," said the nun as she led Clark down the winding corridors. "His parents passed on when he was just a toddler, and he's been with us ever since. He had some severe behavioral problems for a while, but we found that wrestling was a way to get through to him, to give him a way to talk about his fears about his treatment and his hopes for the future." She smiled at Clark. "He speaks often of how you always keep fighting, and how he wants to be like that."
She swung the door open and said "Colin? There's someone here to see you."
Colin Wilkes was a skinny boy with a mop of red hair and eyes that seemed too big for his bony face, but they lit up when he saw Country Clark standing in the door in his overalls. "You came!" he said. "You really came!"
"I said I would," said Clark, smiling. "I didn't want to miss a chance to meet you, Colin."
He gave Colin one of his last remaining Man of Steel t-shirts, and Colin peppered him with questions about whether or not Killer Croc was scary ("He's nicer than he seems"), if Billionaire Brucie really had his own yacht ("I've never seen it, but he says he does"), and if he was ever going to team up with Captain Marvel ("Uh...maybe someday.") After a while, Colin looked down, fiddling with the t-shirt, and asked in a low voice, "When you were fighting Darkseid, and he used the Anti-Life Equation on you, how did you beat him?"
Clark swallowed hard. "Well, I tried to think good thoughts, thoughts about people I loved and things I wanted to do, and it gave me strength." He paused and smiled. "Also, I used a stepover toehold facelock."
Colin thought about that for a while. "Can you teach me how to do that facelock?"
Clark nodded. "I sure can."
It took the rest of the visit to make sure Colin had the move right, but eventually he was able to deliver a stepover toehold facelock that made Country Clark beg for mercy. When the nun appeared in the doorway, he was struggling to break out of Colin's grip; she frowned in mock-severity at them and said, "Colin, you should behave yourself."
"He's a tough kid, Sister," said Clark, extricating himself. "Thanks for bailing me out." He turned to Colin and stuck out his hand. "I hate to go."
Colin beamed at him. "Thanks for teaching me. Maybe when I feel better I'll be able to come to one of your matches!"
"You've got my address--let me know you'll be there and I'll take you backstage and let you meet everyone."
"Oh boy," said Colin. "Promise?"
"Cross my heart." And Clark did so.
Pittsburgh. Cleveland. Akron. Columbus. A new photo from Dick of Bruce asleep in a bus, his mouth slightly open. Tell him the gimmick looked great, Clark sent back.
In Metropolis again when the phone rang and Mercy Graves' cool voice echoed on the line: "Mr. Luthor would like to see you in his office this afternoon at DCW headquarters, Mr. Kent."
Clark frowned at the phone and went to search Bruce's closet for a tie.
Soon, dressed in his only suit and a navy-blue silk tie pilfered from Bruce's surprisingly large collection, he was pushing the revolving door that led into Luthor Towers. He'd never actually been in DCW headquarters--it was a far sight from the crummy cinderblock auditorium rooms Luthor used as ad hoc offices when on the road. The carpets on the top floor were so thick his feet made no sound, and brass and mahogany gleamed everywhere.
Mercy gave him an incurious look as he entered the office and pointed with her chin to a chair as she kept typing. He sat in the overly-soft chair, trying not to fidget as Luthor made him wait exactly fifteen minutes.
The door swung open and Luthor smiled at him. "Come in, Clark. Let's talk."
Clark tried not to hear the quiet click as the door swing shut behind them as particularly ominous.
"Let's cut straight to it, shall we?" Luthor said. "I know we haven't always gotten along, but you're a great worker, Clark, you really are. And I don't think we've been utilizing you enough. I think it's time to give you a fresh start with a new gimmick."
Clark sat up straighter, unsure whether to trust his ears. "Really?"
"Yes, I think you've got a lot of potential this gimmick isn't letting you live up to. We'll shelve Country Clark, give you a little time off to create some space, and then debut you as an entirely new character. More screen time. More storyline possibilities."
No more banjos. No more corn puns. He'd shred the overalls and burn the straw hat and be done with it at last. "I won't let you down, sir," said Clark. "I've got so many ideas--I've been thinking about this so long. I was thinking maybe a red and blue theme, with a cape, like--"
"--That's not quite the direction we've got planned for you," Luthor said. "It's cute, but no." He was still smiling, but Clark felt anxiety suddenly prickle his skin.
"No," said Lex Luthor, "I think it's time for you to have a heel turn."
---
( Chapter 25: Heel Turn)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Selina Kyle, Jean-Paul Valley, Oliver Queen
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2600
Summary: Clark gets a request that brightens his time apart from Bruce.
Being a babyface even made me feel better as a person. I didn’t have to frown so much in public anymore, for one thing. No shit. I felt like a town sheriff or something, being seen out shaking hands and kissing babies (just kidding). People in public everywhere would pat me on the back and give me thumbs-up or slap me five. Yes, sir, babyface living was my kind of style; just call me Joe Public. --Joe Laurinitis
The days dragged by: the same bus rides, the same training, the same banter and infighting among the wrestlers. Clark got put into an angle with the newest guy on the roster, Jean-Paul Valley, because one of the bookers apparently thought having a hayseed show a brainwashed vigilante assassin how to live a normal life was comedy gold. They shot promos where Country Clark introduced Azrael to pizza and beer (the full face mask made this something of a challenge), helped him do strength training while Azrael made pronouncements about the weight of destiny, and tried to fix him up with Poison Ivy. Hilarity ensued.
The days dragged by.
Updates came now and then from Dick, usually just a quick picture: the neon welter of Tokyo; Bruce getting hugged by Guy Gardner; a huge bowl of ramen with Bruce's hand hovering over it, holding a pair of chopsticks. One picture was of Bruce in nothing but a towel, his hair wet and tousled, his expression caught at the exact moment that "tired" began to shift into "what the hell are you doing?"
"Wait til u c his nu gimmick," one text read, making Clark smile--Bruce had lectured Dick about using text-speak in the past, but it was a losing battle. "So awesome."
A DVD arrived at the Metropolis apartment addressed to him, in an envelope covered with Japanese stamps and labeled in a familiar bold scrawl: "Thought you might be interested. Toss it in the cabinet when you're done with it." Clark popped it into the DVD player and soon was watching Japanese graphics zoom by as announcers chatted excitedly in a language he couldn't understand. But he understood the wailing guitars of the Warrior's entrance well enough, and felt a smile tugging at his cheeks as Guy emerged, his eyes wild as ever, yelling at his Japanese opponent in a mishmash of Japanese and English. The audience was surprisingly quiet, and Clark wondered if maybe Guy's gimmick wasn't getting over there. But then he executed a perfect spinning crucifix toss, and a heartfelt "Ooooh" rippled around the arena, followed by polite but enthusiastic applause.
The Warrior lost after a well-fought match and made his exit in a bluster of incoherently bi-lingual threats: "Ore will crush your karada into dust! Your kokoro is no match for ore no ki of great--of great subarashii...ness!" Clark saw young women covering their mouths to hide their delighted giggles and suspected Guy had plenty of fans in Japan.
The next match was between two people Clark didn't know, and he guiltily fast-forwarded through it to where the ring announcer was introducing a tag team of Japanese wrestlers in sky-blue tights that the audience hissed at earnestly. As they preened in the center of the ring, the announce called another name. Clark couldn't understand most of the introduction, but the announcer concluded with "Eru Murushierago to Robin!"
As Clark blinked at the screen, two figures walked out. One was clearly Dick Grayson in a modified version of the costume he had made for himself, with the addition of a black domino mask that hid his eyes but not his cheeky smile. The other--
The other had a familiar stride, but was wearing black tights. He was bare-chested, but his head was obscured by a black mask that hid his hair and covered the top half of his face. From it protruded two small ears. Behind him rippled a long black cape made of something so fine and silky that it billowed and wavered like smoke. Together he and Robin reached the stage: Robin vaulted over the ropes while he climbed the steps and entered the ring purposefully, no flash or showmanship. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the opposing team while Robin played to the crowd, climbing the ropes and blowing kisses in all directions. He should probably have looked ridiculous.
Somehow he didn't.
As the announcer explained the rules of the match, he detached the cape from his mask and folded it, putting it on the stairs. The announcer asked him something--apparently if he had anything to say, from the way he held the mic out, but Bruce shook his head wordlessly and beckoned to the other team: We're ready for you.
The bell rang and the match started just as Clark finally realized what in the world "Eru Murushierago" was.
El Murciélago, transliterated into Japanese. The Bat, in Spanish.
Clark found himself shaking his head in bemused amazement as Bruce and Dick proceeded to completely capture the audience's attention and win their hearts, if not the match itself. They played off of each other like shadow and light; Bruce's solemnity cast Dick's brightness into sharp relief, while Dick's exuberance made Bruce seem somehow even more threatening. When their opponent cheated and blew poison dust into Robin's face, leaving him twisting and gasping on the mat, El Murciélago stood as if turned to stone at the side of the ring, unable to help his partner, anguish graven into each tense muscle. It was beautiful ring psychology, and the audience was enthralled.
So was Clark.
This was what Bruce was meant to be. Not a preening, grinning fool, but an elemental force, as supple and unbreakable as shadow. It was worth it all, Clark realized, worth the separation and the silence, to see Bruce finally come into his own.
The other matches held nothing for him. He turned off the television and dropped off into an uneasy sleep in which he was lost in an endless field of corn, unable to find a way out, while bats winged in the twilight sky overhead, free and untouchable.
"You're serious?" Clark stared at Jimmy, unable to keep from grinning like a fool. "Me? Someone really asked for me? I mean, for Country Clark Kent?"
"Well…" Jimmy scuffed one foot against the floor. "His first choice was actually Captain Marvel, but…" He shrugged. "You know Batson, said he didn't have time."
Jean-Paul Valley pushed long blond hair out of his face and rolled his eyes. "Billy Batson at a Make-A-Wish Foundation event? That'd be a PR disaster."
"But he specifically asked for you if Captain Marvel was busy, Mr. Kent!" said Jimmy. "He said you were both his favorites."
"Wow." Clark took a deep breath. "Just...wow!" he shook his head in amazement, then caught a glimpse of a small smile on Jean-Paul face. "I'm sure this kind of stuff is really old hat to you," Clark said, "I mean, growing up in a wrestling family and all."
Jean-Paul's smile went somewhat lopsided, as if he'd bitten into something bitter. "Yeah, right."
"Oh," said Clark, taken aback. Valley was an amiable guy; a bit of a stiff worker in the ring but everyone got along with him backstage. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's not your fault," said Jean-Paul. "It's just...I'd rather not talk about it," he said, getting up. "I'm going to hit the gym."
"Way to go, Clark," said Oliver Queen, leaning over the back of a chair. "Didn't anyone tell you not to talk to Valley about his father?"
"Um, I guess not," said Clark. "I knew he grew up in a wrestling family, but--"
"Wrestling cult, more like it. His father was a tyrant," Queen said. "They tell horror stories about how he treated his boys. Raised them to be 'perfect wrestlers.' Beat it into them. Treated it like some kind of religious order."
"You're kidding," said Clark.
"Wish I was. Jean-Paul was the only one who managed to get out of it. He was off in engineering school when his dad got sick, begged him to come back and pick up that Azrael gimmick, save the family business. So he dropped everything and ran back home, sacrificed it all to try and save the promotion. And then his father up and croaked anyway and the promotion went bankrupt. They say he made Jean-Paul swear to stay in wrestling as he was dying. So yeah, he's got some major daddy issues."
"Poor guy," said Clark. "Wrestling should be fun."
Oliver gave him one of his rare genuine smiles. "It is for some of us. For others it's just business. For some it's a burden, and for some an obsession." He cuffed Clark lightly on the shoulder. "You're just a good guy."
Clark was going to retort with something dismissive, but then he saw Selina come through the door. "Selina!" he called across the common room. "Selina, you're not going to believe it! A kid wants to see me for his Make-A-Wish wish! Me!" People all around the room were turning to look at him: Scott and Barda breaking off a conversation with a booker, Luthor glancing up with a raised eyebrow from his phone, Diana and Orion pausing in the middle of a heated argument. "Isn't that the most amazing, humbling thing ever?"
Selina was smiling at him as she strolled over, lazy and affectionate. "I don't know, sweetheart. A Tiffany necklace is pretty impressive."
"Oh, stop it," he said. "This is exactly why I wanted to become a wrestler. Exactly. So I could maybe give some brave, tough kid a little bit of hope, a tiny bit of inspiration. I mean, I know it's not like being a surgeon or a firefighter or a teacher, those are people who really help, but if the thing I'm good at can brighten a kid's day--" He broke off and scratched at the back of his head, suddenly realizing everyone was looking at him: some fondly, some condescendingly. "--It just makes me happy, that's all."
"The kid couldn't have chosen better," said Selina. "But I'd still take the Tiffany."
"--He's a good child," said the nun as she led Clark down the winding corridors. "His parents passed on when he was just a toddler, and he's been with us ever since. He had some severe behavioral problems for a while, but we found that wrestling was a way to get through to him, to give him a way to talk about his fears about his treatment and his hopes for the future." She smiled at Clark. "He speaks often of how you always keep fighting, and how he wants to be like that."
She swung the door open and said "Colin? There's someone here to see you."
Colin Wilkes was a skinny boy with a mop of red hair and eyes that seemed too big for his bony face, but they lit up when he saw Country Clark standing in the door in his overalls. "You came!" he said. "You really came!"
"I said I would," said Clark, smiling. "I didn't want to miss a chance to meet you, Colin."
He gave Colin one of his last remaining Man of Steel t-shirts, and Colin peppered him with questions about whether or not Killer Croc was scary ("He's nicer than he seems"), if Billionaire Brucie really had his own yacht ("I've never seen it, but he says he does"), and if he was ever going to team up with Captain Marvel ("Uh...maybe someday.") After a while, Colin looked down, fiddling with the t-shirt, and asked in a low voice, "When you were fighting Darkseid, and he used the Anti-Life Equation on you, how did you beat him?"
Clark swallowed hard. "Well, I tried to think good thoughts, thoughts about people I loved and things I wanted to do, and it gave me strength." He paused and smiled. "Also, I used a stepover toehold facelock."
Colin thought about that for a while. "Can you teach me how to do that facelock?"
Clark nodded. "I sure can."
It took the rest of the visit to make sure Colin had the move right, but eventually he was able to deliver a stepover toehold facelock that made Country Clark beg for mercy. When the nun appeared in the doorway, he was struggling to break out of Colin's grip; she frowned in mock-severity at them and said, "Colin, you should behave yourself."
"He's a tough kid, Sister," said Clark, extricating himself. "Thanks for bailing me out." He turned to Colin and stuck out his hand. "I hate to go."
Colin beamed at him. "Thanks for teaching me. Maybe when I feel better I'll be able to come to one of your matches!"
"You've got my address--let me know you'll be there and I'll take you backstage and let you meet everyone."
"Oh boy," said Colin. "Promise?"
"Cross my heart." And Clark did so.
Pittsburgh. Cleveland. Akron. Columbus. A new photo from Dick of Bruce asleep in a bus, his mouth slightly open. Tell him the gimmick looked great, Clark sent back.
In Metropolis again when the phone rang and Mercy Graves' cool voice echoed on the line: "Mr. Luthor would like to see you in his office this afternoon at DCW headquarters, Mr. Kent."
Clark frowned at the phone and went to search Bruce's closet for a tie.
Soon, dressed in his only suit and a navy-blue silk tie pilfered from Bruce's surprisingly large collection, he was pushing the revolving door that led into Luthor Towers. He'd never actually been in DCW headquarters--it was a far sight from the crummy cinderblock auditorium rooms Luthor used as ad hoc offices when on the road. The carpets on the top floor were so thick his feet made no sound, and brass and mahogany gleamed everywhere.
Mercy gave him an incurious look as he entered the office and pointed with her chin to a chair as she kept typing. He sat in the overly-soft chair, trying not to fidget as Luthor made him wait exactly fifteen minutes.
The door swung open and Luthor smiled at him. "Come in, Clark. Let's talk."
Clark tried not to hear the quiet click as the door swing shut behind them as particularly ominous.
"Let's cut straight to it, shall we?" Luthor said. "I know we haven't always gotten along, but you're a great worker, Clark, you really are. And I don't think we've been utilizing you enough. I think it's time to give you a fresh start with a new gimmick."
Clark sat up straighter, unsure whether to trust his ears. "Really?"
"Yes, I think you've got a lot of potential this gimmick isn't letting you live up to. We'll shelve Country Clark, give you a little time off to create some space, and then debut you as an entirely new character. More screen time. More storyline possibilities."
No more banjos. No more corn puns. He'd shred the overalls and burn the straw hat and be done with it at last. "I won't let you down, sir," said Clark. "I've got so many ideas--I've been thinking about this so long. I was thinking maybe a red and blue theme, with a cape, like--"
"--That's not quite the direction we've got planned for you," Luthor said. "It's cute, but no." He was still smiling, but Clark felt anxiety suddenly prickle his skin.
"No," said Lex Luthor, "I think it's time for you to have a heel turn."
---
( Chapter 25: Heel Turn)