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Heroes of the Squared Circle 2: Handshakes and Opening Bells
Title: Handshakes and Opening Bells
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Mr. Miracle, Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Fire, Ice, Captain Marvel, Maxwell Lord, Iron Munro
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 4100
Summary: Clark graduates from wrestling school, gets a job offer, and meets his new co-workers.
“Hector was adamant about introducing me to every member of the roster from top to bottom. I shook the hand of every person in the locker room and to not do so would have been a cardinal wrestling sin. It’s a tradition that must be followed in every wrestling locker room at every level in every country.” --Chris Jericho
Iron Munro's handshake and smile made Clark Kent's heart pound with excitement more than the little piece of paper he handed over. "Congratulations, Kent. You've graduated from Iron Munro's School of Wrestling, and with your talent it's only a matter of time until you get a job with the pros!" As they walked back toward the ring, Munro clapped him on the back. "I can't teach you any more about the holds and throws, you're almost as fast as Jay Garrick, and you've got the best mic skills I've seen in a generation, son. The only thing you still need work on is--"
"--I know, I know, the high-flying moves," Clark sighed.
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Munro said. "Moves off the ropes are hard to pull off, especially for a big guy like yourself. You have to have complete and total trust in your partner to catch you safely, or your heart will never be in it."
"But I do trust them."
Munro shook his head. "You trust them up here--" he said, thumping Clark's head, "--but you don't trust them here." He punched at Clark's gut and Clark parried the blow, laughing. "No training on earth can give you that instinct, Kent. You just have to find the right partner to bring out the greatness in you. And it's there, son." He waved at the ring. "Now get in there and show off some of your moves to the new kids."
Clark jogged to the ring where John Henry Irons was waiting for him, and together they put on a good show for Munro's new class of students. Clark showed off a new move he was pretty proud of, a variation of the cross armbar he was thinking of calling the Steel Bar, and landed it perfectly. When Irons threw him with his Tiger Suplex, Clark let himself flop like a broken-backed rag doll, his mouth open in a perfect O of agony--one of his greatest strengths, according to Munro, was that he took a bump better than anyone else, and could make other peoples' moves look devastating. Irons hooked his leg and covered him, and Clark whispered "Lariat takedown and let's go home," before he broke the hold with a titanic effort. As he staggered to his feet, shaking his head like a wounded bull, he caught a glimpse of a man in the stands wearing a brown polyester suit and clutching an unlit cigar in his teeth: certainly not one of Munro's students. Press? Either way, best to put on a good show.
Irons was taunting him on the other side of the ring, and Clark lowered his head and charged at him. They met in the center of the ring, and Clark connected with Irons's outstretched arm as if it were a freight train, swinging his feet off the mat and crashing onto his back, arms outflung to achieve the most resonant thump against the flexible boards. He closed his eyes, his mouth lolling open, and felt Irons put his arm across him, waited for the referee to count to three, then rolled over groggily, pushing himself to his hands and knees as the kids cheered him and booed the grinning, smug Irons lustily.
Clark sat on the mat, pretending to be crushed and humiliated, and took a long look around the gymnasium in which he'd learned so much about the art and craft of wrestling: how to take a fall, how to communicate with his partner, how to emote pain and suffering and triumph. Now it was time to find his feet in an actual ring. Munro seemed to have so much faith in him: could he actually make it to the top of the wrestling world, all the way to the DCW? Not that he'd have a chance to start there as a green rookie, but...
"Clark Kent?"
Clark looked over to see the man in the tobacco-brown suit standing outside the ring and smiling broadly up at him. "That's me," he said, standing up to hold out his hand.
"Good moves in there," said the man as they shook hands. "Need a kid who can take a bump in my promotion. It's an east coast circuit, small but growing. I think you'd fit in just fine."
Clark blinked at him. "Are you Maxwell Lord?"
The man looked surprised, then preened. "You've heard of me!"
"Of course I have." Lord's "Loser League" was gaining notoriety in pro wrestling circles--he gathered up young untried talent and wrestlers Luthor's DCW had cast off, then gave audiences brutally physical matches, raw and intense. He called his promotion "The Justice League International," a rather grandiose name for a fairly small organization--but his wrestlers somehow managed to live up to it.
"I think you've got potential, kid," Lord said. "I'd like to see you achieve it."
Clark frowned, pretending he was thinking about it, but the fact of the matter was that he needed a job right away. The Kent farm mortgage was steep, and he didn't want to leave his parents in the lurch. Besides, it was a chance to be seen--and the east coast had more opportunity than wrestling in the Midwest.
"I think you've got yourself a new wrestler, Mr. Lord."
Lord's smile grew even wider, if such a thing were possible, and they shook on it.
: : :
"--And that's Tora and Bea," said Guy Gardner as two beautiful women with improbably dyed hair blew kisses at him. "They wrestle as Fire and Ice, a ladies' tag team." He strolled up to the two with Clark in tow. "Ladies, this is Clark Kent from Kansas, he'll be wrestling with us from now."
Tora and Bea cast him flirtatious glances that Clark knew better than to take too seriously. "Welcome, tall handsome stranger," Bea giggled.
"Who you wrestling tonight?" Guy asked the pair as they walked through the winding back corridors of the Blüdhaven Civic Center.
"Oh, Keith's got us up against the Female Furies again," Tora pouted. "Keith's our head booker," she explained to Clark. "He's got this thing about the Female Furies and wants us to lose in under five minutes. I hate when he sets us up as jobbers."
Guy shrugged. "I hear Barda's being set up for a big babyface turn. I'm betting he breaks up the Furies soon and gives Barda a solo push."
"Big Barda as a babyface?" Bea looked dubious. "I'll believe that when I hear the crowds cheer for her instead of boo."
"I think she can do it," Tora said. "Especially if they work in an angle that uses her relationship with you-know-who."
Bea elbowed her. "We're not supposed to talk about that," she stage-hissed, and they dissolved into giggles.
Guy gave Clark a look that said: Women, am I right? "Well, I'm afraid this is as far as you can accompany us, dear divas," he said as they approached the door of the men's locker room.
Bea and Tora air-kissed Clark's cheeks. "So nice to meet you! Looking forward to seeing your match tonight!" they cooed and strolled off.
Guy shook his head, swung open the door of the locker room--and ran into a man wearing nothing but a towel trying to escape another man who was snapping a wet towel at his backside.
"Michael!" Guy snarled. "Stop chasing Ted around, for chrissakes." He grabbed the towel away from Michael, who shook back a mop of bleached-blond hair and grinned unrepentantly. "Clark," he said with a sigh, "Allow me to introduce Booster Gold and Blue Beetle, our resident babyface goofballs."
Clark shook hands with Michael and--after some arrangement of his towel to keep it in place--Ted as well. "Good kids, but lazy as hell," Guy muttered to Clark as they took off.
The locker room was chaotic, with people talking or arguing in pairs or groups everywhere. There was a bizarre mix of sweatsuits and garish costumes: Captain Boomerang in his bright blue and white with trademark flowing scarf, Count Vertigo adjusting his heavy cloak. Guy made sure Clark met them all, shaking hands with each wrestler in turn and being introduced as "the new guy."
When they came to a man wearing leotard in bright red, yellow, and green, Guy said, "Clark, let me introduce you to--"
"--Oh," Clark said quickly, holding out his hand. "I know Scott Free, of course. Mr. Miracle! The Escape Artist! No hold can stop him!"
Scott Free grinned at Clark. "I hear I'm wrestling you tonight."
"I--you are? Me?" The thought took Clark's breath away.
"It's a dark match," Free said apologetically, but Clark shook his head.
"I don't care if it won't be on television," he said, "Having my debut with you is quite an honor!"
"Kent!" Maxwell Lord's voice boomed from behind them, and Clark turned to find his hand being firmly wrung. "I see you've met your opponent tonight! Here's the angle--see, Mr. Miracle's current storyline is that he's becoming overconfident, everything's coming too easily for him. So we need you to go out there and lose quick and clean, okay? I'm thinking no more than thirty seconds or so."
"A squash match?" Clark tried to hide his chagrin. What exactly had he expected his very first night? "Yes, sir."
Lord clapped him on the back. "That's what I like to hear. Now, about your gimmick."
"I was hoping to be Clark Kent, the Man of Steel," Clark explained eagerly. "You know, with strength beyond that of mortal men? I have this hold I like to call the Steel Bar, and--"
"--No, no, that will never work," said Lord, squinting at him dubiously. "We need something a little lighter." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! You're from Kansas, right?"
"Well, yes," Clark said, his heart sinking.
"I'll have costuming find you a pair of overalls and a straw hat, we'll call you...Country Clark, how's that? Hick babyface, sweet guy, not the brightest. Brilliant, huh?"
He turned away before Clark could answer, heading off to clap backs and shake hands with the other wrestlers.
"Looks like you've got your gimmick." Clark turned to meet the sympathetic eyes of Scott Free. "Sorry, Kent. Lord pays the bills--"
"--Sometimes--" Guy muttered darkly beside him.
"--And so he gets to make the rules. But I'll tell you what," said Free. "I'll let you get in a move against me instead of just squashing you outright. Let you show what you can do a little bit."
"I'd appreciate that," Clark said gratefully.
"What's one of your preferred moves? Not the hold, something more aggressive."
"How about a spinning heel kick? I've got a pretty good one."
Free nodded thoughtfully. "Sure. We can lock up and you can force me to the mat, then as I get up, you hit me with the kick. Put me in the Steel Bar--" Clark felt a wash of gratitude that Free remembered the name of his move, "--and I can break out of it, hit you with a diving shoulder block, and we're done. Simple, clean, and fair. Got it?"
"Got it." It was a quick match and he was being used to get Free over, but there wasn't much else a new wrestler could expect, especially against one of the top babyfaces in the promotion.
Free stuck out his hand again. "I look forward to working with you tonight."
As they walked away, Guy said, "Free's a good guy. You can trust him not to backstab you--well, as much as you can trust anyone," he added with a sardonic grin. "Wish I could say the same about everyone on the roster. And speaking of which..."
He was steering Clark toward a group of people in which one member was speaking vociferously, his hands waving. Clark was surprised to recognize the dimpled, square chin and strong nose of the man who was known as Captain Marvel in the ring. But the wide, gleaming grin was gone, and his voice was sullen and resentful.
"That moron Kord screwed up his move. I could have broken my neck!" he whined, sounding much younger than his in-ring persona's confident assertiveness.
"He wouldn't have had to be improvising if you'd remembered the program," Guy said as they came closer.
"I could have his ass fired," Marvel snarled. "You don't hurt the star of the show."
"Last I heard, Mr. Miracle merchandise was selling better than yours," Guy said. "Kent, let me introduce you to Billy Batson, current holder of the championship belt."
"That's William Batson," Captain Marvel said, glaring at Guy and buffing his knuckles on the huge golden belt around his waist before extending his hand to Clark for a bruising handshake. "And the champion is always the star of the show. Something you'll never be--remember that, Gardner."
"So much for the babyfaces being nice guys," muttered Clark as Marvel stomped away.
Guy made a scoffing noise. "Stick with the heels, buddy."
"And which one are you this week?" Count Vertigo asked him with a grin, leaning over. The vaguely European accent he used to threaten people in the ring was entirely lacking.
"I'm a bonafide heel, baby," said Guy, gripping his jacket collar and tossing his head back. "At least until someone hits me on the head again. That's my new gimmick," he said to Clark, "I have a complete personality change whenever I take a headshot. It's a helluva lot of fun, I have to say. And I guess that's everyone," he said, looking around. "Oh wait, jeez. I forgot Bruce." He sighed. "Come on, let's get this over with."
He steered Clark toward the back of the locker room, where a man in jeans and a t-shirt was sitting in the corner, reading. He looked up as they approached, neither smiling nor frowning, just watching them with icy blue eyes.
"Bruce Wayne, this is Clark Kent. New guy. Babyface, going by Country Clark as of tonight."
A dark eyebrow rose. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Bruce said, and turned back to his book without rising or extending his hand.
Guy rolled his eyes as they walked away. "Don't mind him, he's that way with everyone."
"What's his gimmick?"
Guy looked surprised. "You don't know him? He's one of our top heels. Billionaire Brucie."
Clark stopped dead. "That's Billionaire Brucie?"
"Oh, you have heard of him?"
"Of course I have! It's just--I can't believe that's the same person!"
Guy snorted. "He only smiles in the ring, as far as I know." He shook his head. "Forget about him, we have to get to costuming and get you set up before your match."
Clark groaned. "Not the overalls."
"Don't forget the straw hat," Guy smirked. He clapped the disconsolate Clark on the back. "Gotta pay your dues--we all did."
And with that Clark had to be content.
: : :
Two hours later, "Country Clark" Kent was standing nervously backstage in the Gorilla Position where wrestlers waited for their cue to go on (named, of course, after the infamous wrestler Gorilla Grodd), dancing back and forth from foot to foot and trying not to listen too much to the rustling crowd. The overalls were slightly too big for him--he was deathly afraid they were going to fall down during the match--and the straw hat was itchy on his forehead.
Yet when the ring announcer called out: "Tonight, hailing from Smallville, Kansas: Country Clark Kent!" everything fell away in a surge of adrenaline.
There was no entrance music, no fireworks, no pop from the crowd, just him trotting down to the ring, smiling and waving at people. A few even smiled back and slapped his hand as he went by; apparently his enthusiasm was a little catching.
But not so catching that they didn't turn away from him entirely, breaking into a roar of applause as the announcer called out the name of Mr. Miracle.
Scott Free came down to the ring, beaming and waving, his garish costume and mask catching the spotlight as his theme music blared. He leapt onto the ropes and gestured to the audience, pulling them in, and they surged with joy at the sight of him. Clark took a moment to admire his artistry, the way he could hold the audience spellbound.
Then Mr. Miracle turned to him and extended his hand.
If Country Clark were going to be a heel character, this would be the time for him to spurn the handshake and attack him, according to the pantomime-like traditions of wrestling. But Country Clark was going to be a face, so instead he stepped forward and shook Mr. Miracle's hand, to a smattering of applause. Scott Free smiled at him from under the full-face mask. "Let's give 'em a good show," he murmured.
The bell rang and Clark Kent's first match in the JLI began.
It lasted, as Lord had demanded, around 30 seconds, and they followed the basic script Free had laid out for Clark to the letter. The crowd didn't respond much to Mr. Miracle's win--after all, his current angle was that everything was too easy for him--but as Clark lay on the mat with Free's arm across him, he heard Free whisper, "Good job."
Then Free was up and his valet, Oberon, was handing him his cloak as he strolled out of the auditorium. Clark looked puzzled and a little depressed as he ambled back up the ramp, past the cheering fans. That was going to be his character, he decided: someone bemused by his losses, a nice guy who just wanted to do his best.
He had no idea at the time that he would get so much practice at this kind of exit.
: : :
He stayed backstage the rest of the night, watching the matches on the screens and getting a feel for his fellow wrestlers. Fire and Ice made a great team--even losing to Big Barda he could see that they had real skill. Michael and Ted (now Booster Gold and Blue Beetle) cut a comedy promo that ended with Ted doing a pratfall into a table that was wincingly believable. The heel announcer, Glorious Godfrey, interviewed Mr. Miracle about his recent string of victories until his snide insults provoked Mr. Miracle into doing his patented Miraclesault off the ropes onto him, knocking him out.
The last match of the night was between Billionaire Brucie and Orion ("The New God!"), as they were starting a feud between the two of them. Clark blinked as Bruce Wayne emerged from the locker room in a truly astonishing black robe covered with sequins and trimmed with fluffy white feathers. He met Clark's eyes and nodded politely, still not smiling at all as he went to stand in the Gorilla Position. His face was closed off and severe, turned inward as the ring announcer's voice blared: "Hailing from Gotham City, Billionaire Brucie!"
And then the first notes of his entrance music struck and he became an entirely different person.
Before Clark's eyes, a glitteringly flawless smile bloomed across his face, the intense eyes going shallow and vapid. Suddenly he was exactly what his gimmick claimed to be--a stunningly handsome man without two thoughts to rub together. He strode onto the ramp, waving and beaming at everyone, seemingly unaware of the crowd's reaction to him. And the crowd's reaction--!
Clark had never heard such a response, a mighty roar of hatred and contempt from thousands of throats simultaneously. People were screaming and jabbing their thumbs down as Bruce went by, a few so incensed that Clark thought they might actually assault him. Billionaire Brucie went to kiss the back of one woman's hand, and she recoiled, throwing her drink at him. Brucie dodged it gracefully, smiling as if she had swooned into his arms, and swirled his magnificent robe around him as he went to the ring and climbed in.
He stood in the middle of the ring, his arms outstretched as if to soak up adulation, and the crowd rained jeers down on him. Picking up the mic, he began to cut a promo about how tacky Orion's clothing was, and how he could take some lessons from the epitome of style and grace that was Billionaire Brucie. Whenever the fervor of the crowd started to flag, he would gesture languidly with one hand and drawl, "Please hush now!" and the crowd would roar back to life as if he had commanded them to yell instead of the opposite.
He was completely in control of the crowd, playing them like a conductor would play the finest orchestra, and Clark found his jaw agape in astonishment. He had seen Billionaire Bruce's act on television, but in person his heel charisma was much more striking. And when Orion ran in to interrupt his preening and they locked up as the bell rang, Clark noticed something else.
Bruce Wayne was a master of in-ring psychology.
Every move he made, his posture and facial expressions, made part of an ongoing story. He had nothing but contempt for the lunkish Orion, nothing but love for his glorious self, and every moment in the ring was used to get that across. And all the while he was making Orion look good--the audience might not have been able to tell, but Clark could see that the babyface was winded about ten minutes into the match, but Billionaire Brucie sold his punches and his body slams with such vigor that Orion looked dominant the whole way through.
At the very end, Billionaire Brucie dodged a punch from Orion and knocked him out of the ring and onto the floor. As Orion recovered himself, Brucie ostentatiously pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his trunks, snapped it so the crowd could see it, and slipped it into the referee's pocket with a wink. As the crowd screamed its rage, Orion hauled himself back into the ring just in time to meet a kick from Brucie. Brucie pinned him, the referee counted to three with unseemly haste, and the closing bell rang.
Orion was livid with rage, while Billionaire Brucie pranced around the ring, flexing and beaming. Eventually, a woman clad entirely in black leather and holding a whip brought him his sequinned robe, and he kissed her on the cheek and shrugged it on as the crowd howled. Coming up the ramp, he looked down his nose at everyone, his supercilious smile blindingly wide, until the moment where he walked around the corner and the smile fell from his face like a curtain, to be replaced by the familiar glower.
"Great match!" Clark blurted as he walked by, unable to restrain his enthusiasm, and Bruce looked at him with some surprise.
"Thank you," he said, and walked by to the locker room.
His leather-clad valet grinned at Clark and swished her whip. "Charmer, isn't he?"
"Not the friendliest," Clark agreed with a grimace.
The woman frowned. "Don't think for an instant you're going to be able to suck up to him or anything. He doesn't like sycophants." She pondered for a moment. "Or anyone, for that matter." An impish grin changed her from dominatrix to coquette, and then she kissed him on the cheek. "You're cute, though," she said, and wandered off toward the women's locker rooms.
As he was packing up in the locker room, Booster Gold slapped him on the back. "Hey, new babyface, you wanna hit the town?" Booster grinned. "The night is young and the bus doesn't leave until seven tomorrow morning."
Clark hesitated. He was tired, but returning to a bare hotel room didn't hold much appeal at the moment. Besides, he had to start making some friends among the other wrestlers. "Sure thing," he nodded, and threw his straw hat into his duffel bag. It got a little crushed as he zipped it up, but no matter--soon he'd prove himself to Maxwell Lord and this whole "Country Clark" gimmick would come to a merciful end.
He'd be the Man of Steel soon enough.
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Mr. Miracle, Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Fire, Ice, Captain Marvel, Maxwell Lord, Iron Munro
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 4100
Summary: Clark graduates from wrestling school, gets a job offer, and meets his new co-workers.
“Hector was adamant about introducing me to every member of the roster from top to bottom. I shook the hand of every person in the locker room and to not do so would have been a cardinal wrestling sin. It’s a tradition that must be followed in every wrestling locker room at every level in every country.” --Chris Jericho
Iron Munro's handshake and smile made Clark Kent's heart pound with excitement more than the little piece of paper he handed over. "Congratulations, Kent. You've graduated from Iron Munro's School of Wrestling, and with your talent it's only a matter of time until you get a job with the pros!" As they walked back toward the ring, Munro clapped him on the back. "I can't teach you any more about the holds and throws, you're almost as fast as Jay Garrick, and you've got the best mic skills I've seen in a generation, son. The only thing you still need work on is--"
"--I know, I know, the high-flying moves," Clark sighed.
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Munro said. "Moves off the ropes are hard to pull off, especially for a big guy like yourself. You have to have complete and total trust in your partner to catch you safely, or your heart will never be in it."
"But I do trust them."
Munro shook his head. "You trust them up here--" he said, thumping Clark's head, "--but you don't trust them here." He punched at Clark's gut and Clark parried the blow, laughing. "No training on earth can give you that instinct, Kent. You just have to find the right partner to bring out the greatness in you. And it's there, son." He waved at the ring. "Now get in there and show off some of your moves to the new kids."
Clark jogged to the ring where John Henry Irons was waiting for him, and together they put on a good show for Munro's new class of students. Clark showed off a new move he was pretty proud of, a variation of the cross armbar he was thinking of calling the Steel Bar, and landed it perfectly. When Irons threw him with his Tiger Suplex, Clark let himself flop like a broken-backed rag doll, his mouth open in a perfect O of agony--one of his greatest strengths, according to Munro, was that he took a bump better than anyone else, and could make other peoples' moves look devastating. Irons hooked his leg and covered him, and Clark whispered "Lariat takedown and let's go home," before he broke the hold with a titanic effort. As he staggered to his feet, shaking his head like a wounded bull, he caught a glimpse of a man in the stands wearing a brown polyester suit and clutching an unlit cigar in his teeth: certainly not one of Munro's students. Press? Either way, best to put on a good show.
Irons was taunting him on the other side of the ring, and Clark lowered his head and charged at him. They met in the center of the ring, and Clark connected with Irons's outstretched arm as if it were a freight train, swinging his feet off the mat and crashing onto his back, arms outflung to achieve the most resonant thump against the flexible boards. He closed his eyes, his mouth lolling open, and felt Irons put his arm across him, waited for the referee to count to three, then rolled over groggily, pushing himself to his hands and knees as the kids cheered him and booed the grinning, smug Irons lustily.
Clark sat on the mat, pretending to be crushed and humiliated, and took a long look around the gymnasium in which he'd learned so much about the art and craft of wrestling: how to take a fall, how to communicate with his partner, how to emote pain and suffering and triumph. Now it was time to find his feet in an actual ring. Munro seemed to have so much faith in him: could he actually make it to the top of the wrestling world, all the way to the DCW? Not that he'd have a chance to start there as a green rookie, but...
"Clark Kent?"
Clark looked over to see the man in the tobacco-brown suit standing outside the ring and smiling broadly up at him. "That's me," he said, standing up to hold out his hand.
"Good moves in there," said the man as they shook hands. "Need a kid who can take a bump in my promotion. It's an east coast circuit, small but growing. I think you'd fit in just fine."
Clark blinked at him. "Are you Maxwell Lord?"
The man looked surprised, then preened. "You've heard of me!"
"Of course I have." Lord's "Loser League" was gaining notoriety in pro wrestling circles--he gathered up young untried talent and wrestlers Luthor's DCW had cast off, then gave audiences brutally physical matches, raw and intense. He called his promotion "The Justice League International," a rather grandiose name for a fairly small organization--but his wrestlers somehow managed to live up to it.
"I think you've got potential, kid," Lord said. "I'd like to see you achieve it."
Clark frowned, pretending he was thinking about it, but the fact of the matter was that he needed a job right away. The Kent farm mortgage was steep, and he didn't want to leave his parents in the lurch. Besides, it was a chance to be seen--and the east coast had more opportunity than wrestling in the Midwest.
"I think you've got yourself a new wrestler, Mr. Lord."
Lord's smile grew even wider, if such a thing were possible, and they shook on it.
: : :
"--And that's Tora and Bea," said Guy Gardner as two beautiful women with improbably dyed hair blew kisses at him. "They wrestle as Fire and Ice, a ladies' tag team." He strolled up to the two with Clark in tow. "Ladies, this is Clark Kent from Kansas, he'll be wrestling with us from now."
Tora and Bea cast him flirtatious glances that Clark knew better than to take too seriously. "Welcome, tall handsome stranger," Bea giggled.
"Who you wrestling tonight?" Guy asked the pair as they walked through the winding back corridors of the Blüdhaven Civic Center.
"Oh, Keith's got us up against the Female Furies again," Tora pouted. "Keith's our head booker," she explained to Clark. "He's got this thing about the Female Furies and wants us to lose in under five minutes. I hate when he sets us up as jobbers."
Guy shrugged. "I hear Barda's being set up for a big babyface turn. I'm betting he breaks up the Furies soon and gives Barda a solo push."
"Big Barda as a babyface?" Bea looked dubious. "I'll believe that when I hear the crowds cheer for her instead of boo."
"I think she can do it," Tora said. "Especially if they work in an angle that uses her relationship with you-know-who."
Bea elbowed her. "We're not supposed to talk about that," she stage-hissed, and they dissolved into giggles.
Guy gave Clark a look that said: Women, am I right? "Well, I'm afraid this is as far as you can accompany us, dear divas," he said as they approached the door of the men's locker room.
Bea and Tora air-kissed Clark's cheeks. "So nice to meet you! Looking forward to seeing your match tonight!" they cooed and strolled off.
Guy shook his head, swung open the door of the locker room--and ran into a man wearing nothing but a towel trying to escape another man who was snapping a wet towel at his backside.
"Michael!" Guy snarled. "Stop chasing Ted around, for chrissakes." He grabbed the towel away from Michael, who shook back a mop of bleached-blond hair and grinned unrepentantly. "Clark," he said with a sigh, "Allow me to introduce Booster Gold and Blue Beetle, our resident babyface goofballs."
Clark shook hands with Michael and--after some arrangement of his towel to keep it in place--Ted as well. "Good kids, but lazy as hell," Guy muttered to Clark as they took off.
The locker room was chaotic, with people talking or arguing in pairs or groups everywhere. There was a bizarre mix of sweatsuits and garish costumes: Captain Boomerang in his bright blue and white with trademark flowing scarf, Count Vertigo adjusting his heavy cloak. Guy made sure Clark met them all, shaking hands with each wrestler in turn and being introduced as "the new guy."
When they came to a man wearing leotard in bright red, yellow, and green, Guy said, "Clark, let me introduce you to--"
"--Oh," Clark said quickly, holding out his hand. "I know Scott Free, of course. Mr. Miracle! The Escape Artist! No hold can stop him!"
Scott Free grinned at Clark. "I hear I'm wrestling you tonight."
"I--you are? Me?" The thought took Clark's breath away.
"It's a dark match," Free said apologetically, but Clark shook his head.
"I don't care if it won't be on television," he said, "Having my debut with you is quite an honor!"
"Kent!" Maxwell Lord's voice boomed from behind them, and Clark turned to find his hand being firmly wrung. "I see you've met your opponent tonight! Here's the angle--see, Mr. Miracle's current storyline is that he's becoming overconfident, everything's coming too easily for him. So we need you to go out there and lose quick and clean, okay? I'm thinking no more than thirty seconds or so."
"A squash match?" Clark tried to hide his chagrin. What exactly had he expected his very first night? "Yes, sir."
Lord clapped him on the back. "That's what I like to hear. Now, about your gimmick."
"I was hoping to be Clark Kent, the Man of Steel," Clark explained eagerly. "You know, with strength beyond that of mortal men? I have this hold I like to call the Steel Bar, and--"
"--No, no, that will never work," said Lord, squinting at him dubiously. "We need something a little lighter." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! You're from Kansas, right?"
"Well, yes," Clark said, his heart sinking.
"I'll have costuming find you a pair of overalls and a straw hat, we'll call you...Country Clark, how's that? Hick babyface, sweet guy, not the brightest. Brilliant, huh?"
He turned away before Clark could answer, heading off to clap backs and shake hands with the other wrestlers.
"Looks like you've got your gimmick." Clark turned to meet the sympathetic eyes of Scott Free. "Sorry, Kent. Lord pays the bills--"
"--Sometimes--" Guy muttered darkly beside him.
"--And so he gets to make the rules. But I'll tell you what," said Free. "I'll let you get in a move against me instead of just squashing you outright. Let you show what you can do a little bit."
"I'd appreciate that," Clark said gratefully.
"What's one of your preferred moves? Not the hold, something more aggressive."
"How about a spinning heel kick? I've got a pretty good one."
Free nodded thoughtfully. "Sure. We can lock up and you can force me to the mat, then as I get up, you hit me with the kick. Put me in the Steel Bar--" Clark felt a wash of gratitude that Free remembered the name of his move, "--and I can break out of it, hit you with a diving shoulder block, and we're done. Simple, clean, and fair. Got it?"
"Got it." It was a quick match and he was being used to get Free over, but there wasn't much else a new wrestler could expect, especially against one of the top babyfaces in the promotion.
Free stuck out his hand again. "I look forward to working with you tonight."
As they walked away, Guy said, "Free's a good guy. You can trust him not to backstab you--well, as much as you can trust anyone," he added with a sardonic grin. "Wish I could say the same about everyone on the roster. And speaking of which..."
He was steering Clark toward a group of people in which one member was speaking vociferously, his hands waving. Clark was surprised to recognize the dimpled, square chin and strong nose of the man who was known as Captain Marvel in the ring. But the wide, gleaming grin was gone, and his voice was sullen and resentful.
"That moron Kord screwed up his move. I could have broken my neck!" he whined, sounding much younger than his in-ring persona's confident assertiveness.
"He wouldn't have had to be improvising if you'd remembered the program," Guy said as they came closer.
"I could have his ass fired," Marvel snarled. "You don't hurt the star of the show."
"Last I heard, Mr. Miracle merchandise was selling better than yours," Guy said. "Kent, let me introduce you to Billy Batson, current holder of the championship belt."
"That's William Batson," Captain Marvel said, glaring at Guy and buffing his knuckles on the huge golden belt around his waist before extending his hand to Clark for a bruising handshake. "And the champion is always the star of the show. Something you'll never be--remember that, Gardner."
"So much for the babyfaces being nice guys," muttered Clark as Marvel stomped away.
Guy made a scoffing noise. "Stick with the heels, buddy."
"And which one are you this week?" Count Vertigo asked him with a grin, leaning over. The vaguely European accent he used to threaten people in the ring was entirely lacking.
"I'm a bonafide heel, baby," said Guy, gripping his jacket collar and tossing his head back. "At least until someone hits me on the head again. That's my new gimmick," he said to Clark, "I have a complete personality change whenever I take a headshot. It's a helluva lot of fun, I have to say. And I guess that's everyone," he said, looking around. "Oh wait, jeez. I forgot Bruce." He sighed. "Come on, let's get this over with."
He steered Clark toward the back of the locker room, where a man in jeans and a t-shirt was sitting in the corner, reading. He looked up as they approached, neither smiling nor frowning, just watching them with icy blue eyes.
"Bruce Wayne, this is Clark Kent. New guy. Babyface, going by Country Clark as of tonight."
A dark eyebrow rose. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Bruce said, and turned back to his book without rising or extending his hand.
Guy rolled his eyes as they walked away. "Don't mind him, he's that way with everyone."
"What's his gimmick?"
Guy looked surprised. "You don't know him? He's one of our top heels. Billionaire Brucie."
Clark stopped dead. "That's Billionaire Brucie?"
"Oh, you have heard of him?"
"Of course I have! It's just--I can't believe that's the same person!"
Guy snorted. "He only smiles in the ring, as far as I know." He shook his head. "Forget about him, we have to get to costuming and get you set up before your match."
Clark groaned. "Not the overalls."
"Don't forget the straw hat," Guy smirked. He clapped the disconsolate Clark on the back. "Gotta pay your dues--we all did."
And with that Clark had to be content.
: : :
Two hours later, "Country Clark" Kent was standing nervously backstage in the Gorilla Position where wrestlers waited for their cue to go on (named, of course, after the infamous wrestler Gorilla Grodd), dancing back and forth from foot to foot and trying not to listen too much to the rustling crowd. The overalls were slightly too big for him--he was deathly afraid they were going to fall down during the match--and the straw hat was itchy on his forehead.
Yet when the ring announcer called out: "Tonight, hailing from Smallville, Kansas: Country Clark Kent!" everything fell away in a surge of adrenaline.
There was no entrance music, no fireworks, no pop from the crowd, just him trotting down to the ring, smiling and waving at people. A few even smiled back and slapped his hand as he went by; apparently his enthusiasm was a little catching.
But not so catching that they didn't turn away from him entirely, breaking into a roar of applause as the announcer called out the name of Mr. Miracle.
Scott Free came down to the ring, beaming and waving, his garish costume and mask catching the spotlight as his theme music blared. He leapt onto the ropes and gestured to the audience, pulling them in, and they surged with joy at the sight of him. Clark took a moment to admire his artistry, the way he could hold the audience spellbound.
Then Mr. Miracle turned to him and extended his hand.
If Country Clark were going to be a heel character, this would be the time for him to spurn the handshake and attack him, according to the pantomime-like traditions of wrestling. But Country Clark was going to be a face, so instead he stepped forward and shook Mr. Miracle's hand, to a smattering of applause. Scott Free smiled at him from under the full-face mask. "Let's give 'em a good show," he murmured.
The bell rang and Clark Kent's first match in the JLI began.
It lasted, as Lord had demanded, around 30 seconds, and they followed the basic script Free had laid out for Clark to the letter. The crowd didn't respond much to Mr. Miracle's win--after all, his current angle was that everything was too easy for him--but as Clark lay on the mat with Free's arm across him, he heard Free whisper, "Good job."
Then Free was up and his valet, Oberon, was handing him his cloak as he strolled out of the auditorium. Clark looked puzzled and a little depressed as he ambled back up the ramp, past the cheering fans. That was going to be his character, he decided: someone bemused by his losses, a nice guy who just wanted to do his best.
He had no idea at the time that he would get so much practice at this kind of exit.
: : :
He stayed backstage the rest of the night, watching the matches on the screens and getting a feel for his fellow wrestlers. Fire and Ice made a great team--even losing to Big Barda he could see that they had real skill. Michael and Ted (now Booster Gold and Blue Beetle) cut a comedy promo that ended with Ted doing a pratfall into a table that was wincingly believable. The heel announcer, Glorious Godfrey, interviewed Mr. Miracle about his recent string of victories until his snide insults provoked Mr. Miracle into doing his patented Miraclesault off the ropes onto him, knocking him out.
The last match of the night was between Billionaire Brucie and Orion ("The New God!"), as they were starting a feud between the two of them. Clark blinked as Bruce Wayne emerged from the locker room in a truly astonishing black robe covered with sequins and trimmed with fluffy white feathers. He met Clark's eyes and nodded politely, still not smiling at all as he went to stand in the Gorilla Position. His face was closed off and severe, turned inward as the ring announcer's voice blared: "Hailing from Gotham City, Billionaire Brucie!"
And then the first notes of his entrance music struck and he became an entirely different person.
Before Clark's eyes, a glitteringly flawless smile bloomed across his face, the intense eyes going shallow and vapid. Suddenly he was exactly what his gimmick claimed to be--a stunningly handsome man without two thoughts to rub together. He strode onto the ramp, waving and beaming at everyone, seemingly unaware of the crowd's reaction to him. And the crowd's reaction--!
Clark had never heard such a response, a mighty roar of hatred and contempt from thousands of throats simultaneously. People were screaming and jabbing their thumbs down as Bruce went by, a few so incensed that Clark thought they might actually assault him. Billionaire Brucie went to kiss the back of one woman's hand, and she recoiled, throwing her drink at him. Brucie dodged it gracefully, smiling as if she had swooned into his arms, and swirled his magnificent robe around him as he went to the ring and climbed in.
He stood in the middle of the ring, his arms outstretched as if to soak up adulation, and the crowd rained jeers down on him. Picking up the mic, he began to cut a promo about how tacky Orion's clothing was, and how he could take some lessons from the epitome of style and grace that was Billionaire Brucie. Whenever the fervor of the crowd started to flag, he would gesture languidly with one hand and drawl, "Please hush now!" and the crowd would roar back to life as if he had commanded them to yell instead of the opposite.
He was completely in control of the crowd, playing them like a conductor would play the finest orchestra, and Clark found his jaw agape in astonishment. He had seen Billionaire Bruce's act on television, but in person his heel charisma was much more striking. And when Orion ran in to interrupt his preening and they locked up as the bell rang, Clark noticed something else.
Bruce Wayne was a master of in-ring psychology.
Every move he made, his posture and facial expressions, made part of an ongoing story. He had nothing but contempt for the lunkish Orion, nothing but love for his glorious self, and every moment in the ring was used to get that across. And all the while he was making Orion look good--the audience might not have been able to tell, but Clark could see that the babyface was winded about ten minutes into the match, but Billionaire Brucie sold his punches and his body slams with such vigor that Orion looked dominant the whole way through.
At the very end, Billionaire Brucie dodged a punch from Orion and knocked him out of the ring and onto the floor. As Orion recovered himself, Brucie ostentatiously pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his trunks, snapped it so the crowd could see it, and slipped it into the referee's pocket with a wink. As the crowd screamed its rage, Orion hauled himself back into the ring just in time to meet a kick from Brucie. Brucie pinned him, the referee counted to three with unseemly haste, and the closing bell rang.
Orion was livid with rage, while Billionaire Brucie pranced around the ring, flexing and beaming. Eventually, a woman clad entirely in black leather and holding a whip brought him his sequinned robe, and he kissed her on the cheek and shrugged it on as the crowd howled. Coming up the ramp, he looked down his nose at everyone, his supercilious smile blindingly wide, until the moment where he walked around the corner and the smile fell from his face like a curtain, to be replaced by the familiar glower.
"Great match!" Clark blurted as he walked by, unable to restrain his enthusiasm, and Bruce looked at him with some surprise.
"Thank you," he said, and walked by to the locker room.
His leather-clad valet grinned at Clark and swished her whip. "Charmer, isn't he?"
"Not the friendliest," Clark agreed with a grimace.
The woman frowned. "Don't think for an instant you're going to be able to suck up to him or anything. He doesn't like sycophants." She pondered for a moment. "Or anyone, for that matter." An impish grin changed her from dominatrix to coquette, and then she kissed him on the cheek. "You're cute, though," she said, and wandered off toward the women's locker rooms.
As he was packing up in the locker room, Booster Gold slapped him on the back. "Hey, new babyface, you wanna hit the town?" Booster grinned. "The night is young and the bus doesn't leave until seven tomorrow morning."
Clark hesitated. He was tired, but returning to a bare hotel room didn't hold much appeal at the moment. Besides, he had to start making some friends among the other wrestlers. "Sure thing," he nodded, and threw his straw hat into his duffel bag. It got a little crushed as he zipped it up, but no matter--soon he'd prove himself to Maxwell Lord and this whole "Country Clark" gimmick would come to a merciful end.
He'd be the Man of Steel soon enough.
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The art in Last Son of Earth is very nice, too, so thank you. :-)
ETA: Found it! It is an imaginary story from Grant Morrison's JLA #8-9 from 1997. Penciller: Oscar Jimenez. I'm glad that's cleared up. Things like these bug me.
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