Colt tapped his foot impatiently, his wrestling boot click-clacking on the cracked floor. "Ready yet, pardner? What do you think?"
A long pause, followed by the sound of spandex snapping against skin. And then, a deep, deep sigh. "I dunno, cowboy. It's a bit...er...how do I put this? Skimpy."
Colt rolled his eyes. "Come on, J.H., don't be shy about how the Good Lady made ya! Let your tag partner see."
It was probably one of the more unsavory fight venues John Henry or Colt had ever competed in. A burnt out, rinky dink auditorium that looked and smelled more like a dive bar. It was water logged. It was smelly. It was DEFINITELY haunted--but then again it was NoLa, what wasn't? At the very least, it had a dressing room. If you could call a utility room with a moth-eaten curtain partition (for 'privacy') a dressing room, that is. Turned out, Colt and John were top billing on the card, which didn't mean much considering it was a local show. Still, work was work and they were getting paid.
Colt, in his full cowboy regalia- (chaps, hat, gunless holster) wore metallic, silver trunks that left very little to the imagination. Just the way he liked it. He scratched his hair underneath his white cowboy hat, admiring himself in the mirror. "Well? C'mon, John, it's ten minutes to the show!"
John poked his head around the curtain. "I can't go out wearing this!" he growled. He rolled his eyes, threw the curtain back, and allowed Colt to inspect his new gear. "I look like some kinda...male bimbo!"
He looked like a damn god on Earth is what he looked like, Colt thought, his jaw dropping; his sexuality immediately called into question. The man was seven goddess-dammed feet of bulging muscle. He could put some bodybuilders that Colt knew to shame. His silver trunks matched Colt's (which made sense, as Colt had selected them himself). And they didn't hide much!
"HEY! We're called himbos, and we're very sensitive." Colt looked his tag partner up and down. Rarely did he feel insecure about his body, but John's build gave him a run for his money. He blushed. "John Henry Iron, hiding muscles like yours behind an overall singlet is a crime against nature. If you want to be a showman you gotta show off that studly bod!"
"I mean, fair enough. But doesn't this seem more than a little homo-erotic to you? Not that I disparage, mind."
"Nah," Colt said, tossing his partner a bottle of baby oil. "Now, oil me up."
John Henry blinked, looking between bottle and beefcake. "Uh...okay." They must do things a bit different in the big leagues.
Colt admired himself in the cracked, full length mirror--hanging slightly off its hinges. He struck a pose, flexing his biceps. "Damn, I hope the auditorium is fire-proof because we might just burn the damn house down!"
"Colt. You need to stop flexing, because it's hard to put oil on your muscles when they're moving." John Henry sighed, starting with Colt's back. Damn, he really does work out. I bet he has a whole moisturizing routine too...
"Thanks," Colt said, turning around. His eyes went to John Henry's chest, inches away from his face. "WOAH DAMN, I ain't ever seen pecs like yours! Let me squeeze them honkers!"
"C-COLT!" John Henry coughed. Oh Goddess, if it'll make him happy. "Fine...but you better not hold back!"
After a decent minute of chest fondling, Colt turned back to the mirror, wrapping his arm around his new tag partner. "Look at us! You ever see guys this sexy? Absolutely not!"
John had to admit--having never really tagged before that is--that he liked the matching gear situation that was going on, even if it did make him feel like he was running around in his underwear. "Hey, not bad. And I guess I do like the metallic texture. Suits my element. I just don't know how I feel about going out there and feeling like I'm a piece of meat!"
"Friend, that's the best part!" Colt said, taking in the light glinting off his oiled pectorals. A buzzer in the hallway went off, signalling for them to make their way to the arena entrance. "Alright, bad man, you ready to wrassle?"
A wave of liquid metal washed over John Henry's arm. He held it to the light, admiring how the oil on his skin made the metal shine all the more. "Born, ready, cowboy. Let's send these zombie boys back to hell!"
In the chaotic and loosely affiliated federations of the Southern Gold, no ringside commenter's word was gospel more than Ms. Clara. Which made sense, as she herself was a former gospel singer for the New Orleans First Church of the Goddess. A voice of an angel with the charisma of the devil, Clara (last name forever secret) was a buxom, dark-skinned woman with an approachable face, and an endless amount of male fans, who was known for her zingers and jokes on the mic. She was also one of the few lady commentators on the fed.
"Ladies and gentleman!" Ms. Clara boomed for the crowd--though it was a somewhat light house that night. "We have a special treat for y'all, so you better get on your feet and make some noise!"
The crowd, of course, did as told. Meanwhile, The Rougarou--cast in dark shadows and perched on his throne at the back of the auditorium--glowered beneath his top hat, one hand resting patiently on his cane. Naturally, a deep purple jewel (probably fake) sat embedded as its handle. He sneered, waiting for the right moment to release his goons from the dark abyss.
"First up, it's a one-night-only tag team calling themselves the 'Kings of New Orleans'." Clara rolled her eyes. "Now, the only spellbreaker cocky enough to claim that title must be the Texan tornado himself. Here he is with his partner, Mr. Iron!"
Colt burst forth from the cheap looking metallic, hands to the sky and jumping up and down like he was electricity itself. Mr. Iron appeared behind him and smiled, looking a bit more humble.
Poor Ms. Clara's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Oh," she said, fanning herself. "Well now, let me just go ahead and take off this wedding band real quick. Kidding, folks! But hot damn, that is a fine piece of man. Guess we should have made this a ladies' night, huh?"
Strutting down the ramp, Colt motioned for the crowd to join him in his iconic call. "Howdy, howdy, let's get rowdy! The crowd gleefully joined in, of course.
John Henry just waved politely, seeing no need for show-boating. Damn, maybe I should start thinking about a catchphrase.
Colt two-stepped and strutted to the crowd, right up to Ms. Clara's ringside desk. She pretended not to love it, but failed. "Colt, you're just as cute and tasty as piece of sweet potato pie."
Colt tipped his hat towards her. "Aw shucks, ma'am." He then gave her a kiss on the cheek. He knew what he was doing.
"Now Colt, I don't make the calls--that's the ref. You can feel free to sweet talk me all you want though!"
John Henry just nodded to her. "Ma'am."
"And you can just call me Clara," Ms. Clara said, flittering her pretty lashes. "Play your cards right though, handsome, and you can call me whatever you want..."
"O-okay!" John Henry said, grinning awkwardly as he followed his tag partner through the ring ropes. My goodness, this man is like a child hopped on sugar. What was in those backstage drinks? Still, he admired Colt's crowd work. He was theatrical. Larger than life. It was plain to see that he really loved this sport.
Inside the ring, Colt did another infuriatingly charming two-step before he ripped off his chaps to the admiration of all the men and women in the crowd. John Henry, unsure what to do other than stand there and look strong (not a hard ask) was surprised when Colt turned and pointed at him enthusiastically with both index fingers.
"Now THAT'S power," he shouted. "Come on Mr. Iron, show them some love!"
"Heh." Okay, I'll just go for it. Trying to tap into his inner bodybuilder, Mr. Iron struck a double bicep pose for the crowd, going wild, and wilder still as Mr. Iron transformed his arms into shiny chrome. Then, just for that extra pop, John Henry did a most-muscular chest flex, which nearly knocked Colt off his feet.
"Daaamn," Colt said, in awe. "Man, if I'm the lightning then you gotta' be the thunder!" He tossed his cowboy hat to the side, giving the referee a respectful nod in the process. "Now, bring on these brain-dead good-for-nothings! We'll show 'em how the Kings of New Orleans take out the trash!"
John Henry nodded, taking the antics in stride. He pointed Colt out to the man in the purple waistcoat sitting on the ostentatious throne. "That's Rougarou."
"The Rougarou!" Rougarou shouted from across the room, barely audible.
"What?" Colt raised his eyebrow. "You mean, that scrawny white dude?"
"I told you it was an ill-informed character choice!" John Henry shot back.
Not content with this smack talk, Colt hopped up to the corner rope, cupped his hands to his mouth, and whipped the audience up into a chant. "Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead! Bring out yer dead!" He sneered directly at Rougarou on his pompous throne, covered in (very obvious) plastic vines and snakes.
Rougarou's hand tightened around his cane. "Your funeral, cher," he growled. He made a gesture with his free hand, the dark jewel embedded in his cane tip glowing eerily in time with this conjuring.
Suddenly, the lights in the arena went out, sending the crowd into fits of gasps and yelps.
"My Goddess," Ms. Clara said into the (suspiciously still working) microphone. "What has just happened, good people of the audience? What kind of wicked spellwork is this?"
In the dark of the ring, Colt held up his arm, ready to discharge static and light the place up. That was, until he felt John Henry's gentle hand on his wrist. "Not now, cowboy. These are just theatrics."
An eerie, purple glow spread across the canvas like dark ink. The mat disappeared entirely, opening onto a deep, black void of swirling shadow. Two hulking figures--one tall, one bulky, crawled their way out of the abyss, groaning and slobbering all over the mat.
"Oh no! Oh no!" Ms. Clara stammered into the mic. "Hailing from St. Louis Cemetery Number One, it's The Rougarou's zombie tag team--Bruce and Romero! These undead boys have just one thing on their brains--devouring Colt's and John Henry's!"
With gray, rotting flesh, and coveralls soiled with graveyard dirt, the zombie tag team were an intimidating pair. Despite their undead status, they were both shocking muscular, even if some of that muscle was scarred and writhing with maggots. Their rotten faces were covered in an obscuring, shadowy mist--likely at the behest of the censors, and their red eyes burned through the dark.
Finally, the lights came back on, the ref having to force himself between an angry, hulking cowboy, and an angry, hulking zombie, ready to tear into each other.
Ms. Clara whistled at the display of brawn and intimidation. "Folks, this might be the title fight, but it's looking more like Halloween at an All-Male Revue if you ask me. Not that I'd know what that's like!"
From the corner, John Henry whispered to Colt. "Those braindead jerks steal my signature look?"
"I...think they're goin for an undead hillbilly thing? Not sure. But it don't matter. Let's WRECK 'EM!"
The bigger zombie leered hungrily at the ref, lunging at the poor balding man for a bite. From far back in the auditorium, The Rougarou let out a high pitched laugh. "Dinner is served, boys! Looks like it's Texas meatloaf and a big ol' ham!"
He callin' me a ham? John Henry grit his teeth and shook his fist at the evil witch doctor. He regained his cool, and nodded to Colt as he stepped beneath the ropes and took the corner.
"Go first," Mr. Iron said.
"You sure?"
"As if you weren't gonna go first anyway!"
"Of course," Colt nodded to him. "But it's nice that you asked anyway, partner!"
The bell rang. Colt circled Romero--the taller zombie--like an angry dog. They went for the lockup, muscles tensing against each other, hands on biceps and the backs of neck.
"Cold and clammy," Colt spat, trying not to make a face. Unafraid, he dared look into the dark, swirling shadows hiding the zombie's face. The creature narrowed it's glowing red eyes at him.
Something was off about this zombie though...and not just the smell.
Before Colt could put two-and-two together, the shadow-faced zombie went in for a bite--right into Colt's meaty neck.
The crowd gasped. Colt yelped out in pain.
"He's already digging into Colt like a turkey dinner!" Ms. Clara shouted. "What will you do, cowboy?"
Colt's response, of course, was to zap the zombie with a bolt of electricity, pushing him back. The zombie groaned and fell backwards, but staid upright.
"Don't use your magick yet!" John Henry shouted.
Colt rubbed his sore neck and shot Mr. Iron a look. "Hey, I know what I'm doin'!"
John Henry ignored the talk-back, dwelling instead on the zombie's odd reaction. Not that he knew much about dead corpses, but he'd assumed they didn't have much in the way of functioning pain receptors. After all, that's what made these two dead brutes so deadly--they couldn't be submitted!
Colt and Romero traded blows. Stiff kicks followed even stiffer punches. The zombie was slow, but he hit like a truck. Worse, he absorbed every strike like a sponge.
He's gonna tucker himself out. "Colt!" John Henry shouted, extending his hand to the tag-in.
Colt ignored it, determined to wallop the zombie good. He took Romero by the arm, getting in a good grip, and whipped him into the ropes. He was ready to knock him off with a roundhouse kick to the gut. But the zombie was prepared...
"BRAINS!" it moaned as it struck Colt's neck with a hard clothesline.
The cowboy fell onto the mat, stunned, eyes swirling around in his skull. He thought of pushing off the mat, but was swiftly thwarted by a rotting, living corpse on top of him, holding him down and gnawing at his face with a carnivorous rage.
Ms. Clara and the audience had the same reaction--horrified exclamations. John Henry's knuckles tightened on the ropes, and Romero's even bigger, wider partner stared at him hungrily. "This ain't good..."
"Looks like your cowboy is about to be dinner!" The Rougarou called from his throne.
In the ring, Colt managed to elbow the zombie off him, knocking him back down to the mat. The braindead foe responded by lurching up and tagging in his bigger partner. Colt got to his feet and faced him, wiping the foul-smelling zombie spittle from his face. He stared down his much larger foe.
"I can take on this big ol' bastard," Colt spat.
"You can either swallow your pride," John Henry yelled, "or that zombie can swallow your eyeballs. What's it gonna be?"
The thought occurred to John Henry that he was about to watch his new friend's guts get torn right out of him in this ring. Maybe Colt was beyond hope. But he'd underestimated Colt's ability to thwart expectations--the muscle-bound Texan spat onto the canvas, cursed under his breath, and tagged John's hand with the enthusiasm of a punished schoolboy being sent to the principal's office.
John Henry permitted Colt his snivelling, tapping him on the shoulder as he pushed on into the ring. "I need you for the end, kid. Okay?
"Got it," Colt nodded, relenting. He smiled. "Give 'em hell."
Oh, I intend to. John Henry knew the best course was to end the match as quick as possible. The zombies had another advantage on them--they couldn't lose stamina and tucker out like the living. The more time that passed, the lower Colt and Mr. Iron's chances at walking out of this ring with their brains still intact.
Which is why Mr. Iron took on his namesake and transformed the top of his head into solid titanium, effectively turning himself into a human battering ram. He slammed himself into the zombie's gut, eliciting a mighty crowd pop.
From ringside, Colt crossed his arms, but couldn't disguise a proud smile. "Show-off."
The massive zombie fell back into the ropes with a groan. From the top of the stage, Rougarou tightened his grip on his cane and glared down at these two muscle-headed idiots ruining his fun.
"Always did get called a chrome-dome!" John Henry said, getting back to his feet. He wouldn't give the zombie a chance at recovery. He transformed his fist into steel and wailed on him, again and again.
He and Colt failed to notice Rougarou's malicious, toothy grin, and Romero--Bruce's tag partner, shambling up behind Colt. While the eager and distracted cowboy leaned in, pumping his fist in the air in time with Mr. Iron's assault, the cheating zombie wrapped his claws around Colt's throat for a violent chokehold!
"Ladies and gentleman do you see this treachery!" Ms. Clara shouted. "Ref, what are you doing! Get in there!"
The frightened ref looked blankly at her. "They don't pay me enough!" he shot back from his safe spot in the corner.
The audience booed, and John Henry turned just in time to see the evil zombie clawing at Colt's face with his other hand, tearing into his forehead. Blood ran down in streaks, only furthering the undead spellbreaker's appetite. Between the blood loss and the oxygen deprivation, Colt wasn't long for this world!
John Henry growled, slamming his fist into Big Bruce one last time.
"...Ow..."
Mr. Iron blinked. Am I hearing things now? He looked at the zombie, at the thick miasma surrounding its face. His eyes narrowed. What was the deal with that dark, floaty stuff anyway? Sure, there was kids present, but it wasn't like a little bit of gore was bound to scare off the production that badly. Why did these zombies hide their faces behind cloaks of mist?
Colt stamped and struggled, trying to break the zombie's bice-grip. For a dead guy, he was tough! Mr. Iron's eyes travelled from his struggling partner, up to The Rougarou, (clapping his hands with sadistic glee) and down to the glowing jewel atop his cane.
"That gem," John Henry said aloud. Looked like morganlite--AKA 'conjurer's quartz'. It was cheap ore that illusionists and shadow magi were fond of employing for even cheaper tricks. Stage magick, really.
John Henry turned to his partner, intent on freeing him from the zombie's hungry grip. But Bruce got to his feet quicker than expected, wrapping his own giant arms around Mr. Iron's thick waist, trapping him in a reverse bear hug.
John Henry was tough and could turn his abs into metal for a time if need be to stabilize himself, but he was effectively immobile. This wasn't good. Colt's face was turning every shade in the rainbow now!
"I know my minerals, Colt," John Henry shouted. "Somethings off here!"
"Urrrp...grrk..." came the response.
Mr. Iron nodded to The Rougarou. "That jewel. Shoot that jewel. Come on, gunslinger. I know you can do it!"
Truthfully, he didn't know if the Texan could do it at all! Colt had told him he was an expert marksman. But over the last 48 hours, Colt had also said a lot of things, more than half of them exaggerations.
John Henry wriggled in order to free himself, but it was no good. Sadly, both of their fates were in Colt's hands now.
"Draw!" he shouted.
Colt, ready to pass out, formed a gun with his fingers and pointed it at The Rougarou, easily several yards away. A dart of electricity shot out from his finger tips.
It missed the jewel by more than a foot at least.
But, it did not miss Rougarou's hand. The shadow magi shrieked and dropped his cane to the hard floor. The soft jewel cracked upon impact, lighting up the auditorium with a flash of purple.
The mist shrouding Romero and Bruce's faces immediately dissipated, the spell broken. Even their gray, rotting flesh seemed to change towards a more 'natural' hue.
The crowd gasped at the transformation. Far from the living dead, Romero and Bruce were, in actuality, two rather dorky looking local guys. Nothing remarkable about them, maybe, than some lacking dental care.
Atop his throne, Rougarou--AKA Clancy--shook his sore hand, wondering at the audience's outburst. He looked up and saw what had happened. "Uh oh..."
Romero, if that even was his real name, looked around the silent auditorium. Only then did he realize what had just happened. "Tarnation! That there magick spell just done wore off, didn't it?"
"Darn tootin'" Colt, now free, gasped. He elbowed 'Romero' in the gut, grabbed his neck, and then proceeded to flip him over his shoulder, over the ropes, and SLAMMED his head into the canvas.
"Now we're talkin'!" John Henry roared. He transformed both of his hands into iron, turning himself into a hydraulic machine, and broke his way of out of distracted Bruce's grip. He turned around and decked the big dope with his iron-coated fist before the ogre could react.
CRACK!
A tooth went flying into the audience.
"MY Goddess, folks!" Clara exclaimed. "What a turnabout! Those zombie boys are really just good ol' boys! Local lugs who wouldn't know spellbreaking if it bit them on the butt! And it looks like there's punishment in store for both these suckers now!"
Flat on their backs and groaning (in a far more human capacity) the 'zombie' brothers opened their eyes and looked up at the two looking muscle men. Colt and John Henry smiled mischievously down at their quarry, Colt cracking his knuckles.
"You two might not have been brain dead before," Colt sneered. "But you're about to be."
John Henry yanked Bruce up by the head with his infamous Iron Claw, gripping down tight. Veins popped out of the skin in Bruce's reddening forehead, and a trickle of blood travelled down his face as his eyes rolled back into his skull.
"Nah, Iron," Colt said. "These losers don't deserve to be put out with your finisher." He shoved both of his meaty arms beneath the crook of Romero's elbows, forming a manacle, a leaver around his neck, putting him into a full nelson. With little struggle, Colt yanked the squealing, struggling man up off the ground, driving his chin straight into his sternum like a slowly penetrating dagger. And if that didn't ratchet up the pain sufficiently, the next part would finish him off!
"Time to put you down, villain," Colt growled into his ear. "Texas style!"
"N-n-" was all Romero, already buckling under the pressure and pain, was able to say, before 1,000 watts entered his body, making him convulse like a a fish out of water. After a humiliating second of holding the drooling 'zombie' up a moment longer, Colt allowed his knocked out opponent to drop down to the match, where he continued to spasm and twitch involuntarily.
John Henry, a little less brutal than his tag partner, let the barely conscious Bruce back onto the mat, instead pulling him for a tight triangle choke. The veins on his biceps popped, and it didn't take much pressure at all before The Rougarou's henchmen had succumbed to dreamland. The hesitant ref went it for the count, letting the fake zombie's limp hand fall three times before he signalled for the bell.
Satisfied with their victory, the strong man and cowboy positioned Big Bruce on top of his brother, then planted their boots on their backs to signal their defeat.
"Pec bounce," Colt whispered to John Henry. "Pec bounce!"
"Oh right!" John Said, as he gave his boys a good springing up and down, oil and sweat flying off his chest.
For the first time in her career, lovely Ms. Clara at her ringside table was finally speechless She motioned for a staff member to bring her a glass of water. An extra tall one.
Mr. Iron already had a few matches to his name, and had taken down some pretty nasty foes in the past, but never had he felt...well...this much sheer joy from a bout before.
He turned to Colt and smiled. "Not bad, cowboy, not bad." But his joy was short lived, as he caught sight of The Rougarou trying to sneak his way past the ring.
"Aht! Not so fast!"
John Henry pointed a metal finger at the deceitful illusionist, who squeaked and froze in his tracks.
"I SEE YOU, CLANCY!"
But Colt was already on the move. Rougarou shrieked and tried to run away from the wild cowboy, his hair flowing behind him like a lion chasing down an antelope, much to the audience's delight. Colt caught him with a wrench to the gut and then suplexed him right onto the concrete.
Even John Henry winced at that one!
Stunned, but not knocked out, The Rougarou found himself hoisted over Colt's broad back and dumped unceremoniously into the center of the ring. He came to, getting onto his knees and pleading up at the wo men about to become his judges, jury, and executioners.
"P-p-please," he whined, his 'sinister' accent completely dropped. "You can have the prize money, all of it! I was just foolin' around, under--"
John Henry didn't give him the dignity of finishing his sentence. He grabbed Clancy by his collar and lifted him right up off the ground.
"Time to pay up then!" Mr. Iron roared. He threw Clancy clear across the ring, into the ropes. "HERE COMES THE TRAIN!"
SLAM!
A Runaway Train clothesline, complete with iron-hard forearm, nearly ripped Clancy in two. His head spun back, almost 180 degrees, even before his body fell back. Colt caught him as he fell, and shoved him between his legs, holding him high up and inverted in the air. Thunderclouds appeared just beneath the light rafters.
"Here we go!" Mr. Iron said, punching the air. The audience was on the brink of a full-on frenzy! "Hang 'em high, cowboy!"
Colt snarled, full of righteous rage. He truly despised cheats and villains! "Your days of deceit are over, varmint! Any last words, Rougarou!"
"It's the R--"
"Oh, whatever!" Colt shouted, before he jumped into the air, channelled his electricity, and drove Clancy's head into the mat so hard it almost went straight through it.
Steaming and twitching on the mat, Colt jumped down and placed his face right up against the smoking man's. "Well it ain't nothin' now, BOY!"
The ref counted to ten for both Clancy and his men. A swell of music went up, drowned out by the crowd's cheers and whistles, and even Ms. Clara had to compete with the audience to announce the victory.
The ref stood between Mr. Iron and Colt, holding both their arms up in the air in triumph. And John Henry beamed at his new tag partner, who winked right back. If you were in the crowd that night, you might have mistaken the tow men for gods or superheroes. They were forces of the supernatural, and a powerful combination at that.
Mr. Iron exited the ring first, not wanting to steal Colt's thunder--though the cowboy certainly had enough of his own to spare. Colt followed quickly behind, gathering up his chaps and cowboy hat. Before strutting off the ramp, however, Colt turned to a young boy in the audience wearing one of Colt's earlier T-shirts.
"Hey!" Colt said, his eyes lighting up. "That's...I remember selling those out of a van when I was just startin' up!" He nodded to Mr. Iron. "Just a sec, friend."
Colt walked over to the guard rail. His young fan looked up at him with a mix of fear and reverence. Then, Colt smiled warmly, tipped his cowboy hat, took it off his head, and placed it on his young admirer's.
"Yours now," he said. "Just remember what it stands for. Always do the right thing. Even when it feels tough!"
"Y..yes," the boy stammered. "Thanks, Colt."
Colt joined his new partner at the ramp, wrapping his around around his buddie's broad back as they walked back stage.
"Hey, did you just give that kid your hat?"
"Yeah, I can always get another one," Colt laughed. "No skin of my nose. Besides, he'll remember that forever."
Outside the arena, John Henry counted another stack of bills--just to make sure the shady promoters hadn't stiffed them. They hadn't.
The night air had grown cool. In the distance, car headlights through Spanish moss cast strange shadows over the theater's back entrance. Colt stood with one boot on the wall, drinking a beer, taking in the serenity of the southern evening, and unconcerned with money. He refused to take a dollar. Tonight wasn't about him.
Mr. Iron sighed, tucking the cash into a backpack. He wasn't the type of guy who need worry about getting jumped of course.
"I get it, Colt."
"Hm?"
"After tonight, I get why you love this sport so much."
The cool cowboy shrugged, running a hand through his sweat soaked, matted hair (that still made him look damn handsome) "I do," he said. "Which is why I may just do somethin' mighty foreign to me and...take your advice. Get out while it's still fun. Ride into the sunset." He held his beer up to the moon, like an oath.
Then, he turned to Mr. Iron and winked. "Or maybe not! Hey, I'm unpredictable." He looked around the parking lot. Empty. All of the audience has shuffled out quick. This was always the most melancholic part of the night. The calm after the storm, the magick gone dormant again.
Mr. Iron looked askance at Colt. He though he felt a raindrop. The moody cowboy shook his head, before John Henry had the chance to ask.
"Just thinkin'," Colt mumbled. "This wasn't the big fight for me, Mr. Iron. That fight's back home." He chucked his empty beer can into the open dumpster behind him, and gave his friend a wave. "Adios. I got a flight to catch. Shit to work out."
John Henry felt a tinge in his heart. It was too soon for a goodbye. But, he understood.
"Best of luck, friend. I'll be rooting for ya."
Colt suddenly froze in his tracks. Seemed he didn't really want to jet off right away either. "You ever need something for me, just say the word. If we had more men like you in the world...well...hell, we wouldn't be in the sorry state we're in now, would we?"
John Henry crossed his arms, and looked away. Am I really gonna say this? he thought. "Wait."
"Hm? Colt looked at him. "J-John...are you gonna kiss me? I mean, I've never kissed a guy before, but I guess if I had to--"
"No, fool," John Henry laughed. "I was just gonna say..." He mustered the energy. "Something tells me you aren't one to keep secrets with that mile-a-minute-mouth of yours, but...oh hell." He paused. "He was my dad."
"Er....sorry?"
"John Henry Iron Junior," Mr. Iron said in a low voice. He held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet your acquaintance."
The rusty wheels turned inside Colt's himbo brain before it clicked. He smiled, wide-eyed, not unlike his young fan back ringside. "Pleasure's all mine."
It was a rough thing, talking about John Henry's past. His dad...well, there wasn't enough time to put the right words together. It was complicated.
But someone deserved to know. "He didn't die on the tracks like the stories say, after he'd beaten that steam driller. He died young, penniless, and ripped off. And truth be told, Colt, I've been running from his fate most of my life."
"John Henry...I had no idea. We were always told he was a hero."
"And he was. You're right, Colt. You said spellbreaking is about giving people something to believe in. These...characters we become. These heroes. We're just stories, in the end, huh. I guess the question is, what's the reality?"
Colt blinked and pointed to himself. "I don't know if you know this, John Henry Iron, but philosophy ain't my strong suit. But...the way I see it? I'm just a bum trying to do something good and make people happy. Guess that's the best any of us can do, right? Doesn't matter if we live up to the characters we make for ourselves, as long as we try our best."
John Henry nodded in silent agreement.
"Hey, just do me one favor, J.H."
"What's that?"
"Ask Sandra out for coffee." Colt laughed. "I don't care if you have to turn those nuts of yours into steel; John Henry! Do it! Life's too short."
John Henry smiled. "You know what, maybe I will..."
It was more moonlight than sunset that Colt the Bolt walked off to. But it was a hard thing, saying goodbye. And there was even harder road ahead.
"You know," Colt said under his breath, sure as sure he was out of earshot, if he actually did want to kiss me..."
He shook his head, smiling.
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