John Henry's Mettle - Part 4

"No, no, completely wrong!"

Colt's long, sweat-soaked hair fell over his handsome face. He leaned against the corner rope, panting heavily, perspiration dripping down his pectorals and abs, on to the floor. He spit angrily, wiped his mouth, and gave John Henry a wicked look.

"You're supposed to whip him into me so I can turn on the juice!" Colt said, circling his reluctant tag partner.

John Henry, in his signature overall singlet, folded his arms across his chest. He would not be dissuaded. The humid warehouse in which they trained, a rusty shack the locals so boldly called a 'professional spellbreaking gym' was an insult to them both. The heat wasn't helping either John Henry or Colt's mood either, of course. They'd been running drills and training for an hour and a half by now, trying to mold each other's move sets together, get a feel for how the other guy used their body and magick. 

So far, results were not looking great. 

As expected, Colt wasn't keen on feedback. John Henry provided it nonetheless. "And I say you're better using your bulk for most of the match, then using your powers at the end. You are a big boy, Colt, and you hit like a damn steam engine. But when it comes to magick, you're a glass cannon."

Colt reared back and looked at him like he was the most boring soul on Earth. "So, I wait until the end to turn on the lightning? Where's the spectacle in that, John?"

"It's not all about spectacle, cowboy! Hell, this match is gonna more about survival." John walked over to his partner--satisfied that he still had few inches of height (and more than a few pounds of muscle) on top of Colt. He clamped his hands down on Colt's traps-, with a half a mind to nerve claw him into compliance. Instead, he went for the gentle approach.

"Do you want your brains eaten?"

Colt looked into John's face before he removed his tag partner's grip. "Do you want that prize money?"

Damn fool has answer for everything! I should let those zombies eat him alive. "Colt," John Henry began with a prolonged sigh, "You're a good guy. I really love your spark. But have you ever taken a well-intended piece of suggestion from anybody in your whole damn life?"

The 'iron titan' expected another sassy remark. Instead, Colt leaned back against the ropes and looked towards the fanned window, at the bayou's hazy light. "...I just gotta make something of myself."

This was an odd, abrupt, introspective turn, Iron thought. This guy wasn't lying when he said he was like the storm--the climate inside his mind changed at least every two minutes. Still, John sensed he'd lowered his armor. Maybe the last few rounds knocking his skull around had actually worked, in a way.

"Why?" John Henry asked, taking a sip from a water jug tucked under the turnbuckle. 

"Lots of reasons," Colt whimpered. He wasn't making eye contact. 

"Goddess, Colton, I'm not here to be your therapist--I'm your tag partner."  John had met many other spellbreakers during his run, and if there's one thing he knew about them is that none of them were in anyway sane. Fame and adoration drove Colt. That much was certain. It was almost like the man was hungry for it. John Henry could only speculate what void inside his heart all of that glory filled.

"I think you got a lot of talent, cowboy. But you need to work with me here." Then, a lightbulb went off inside John Henry's head. "Hey, I have an idea. Let's nail these moves and then maybe you can...I dunno, teach me a thing or two about showmanship. Deal?"

The hamster on the wheel inside Colt's brain got to work. The handsome cowboy's face transformed from cold indignation to warm agreement. "Deal." And he shook on it too.

He'd be more likable if he was always this agreeable.

Training continued at a brisk pace, and Colt and John Henry both went through offenses and defenses with relatively little friction. After some civil arguing back and forth, and a longwinded dissertation from Colt on the importance and artistry of muscle flexing ("pec bounce to intimidate, bicep flex to get the crowd goin'"), the two men, soaked in their own sweat, sat on the bleachers.

Mr. Iron, for one, was glad they'd rented the place out for a few hours. Dealing with Colt was like talking to a whole party. Still, the fella had warmed to his spirit, despite the fact that he was a constant chatterbox. At least he wasn't arguing back anymore.

 "So," Colt began, "is that magi some kinda witch doctor guy?"

In his own head, maybe, John thought. "Look, you know this industry as well as I do. Managers love spellbreakers with gimmicks, even insulting ones. Clancy doesn't know a lick about voodoo, and a 'rougarou' is actually kind of like a type of werewolf, so I think he's just confused in his messaging."

Colt nodded, though John Henry wasn't sure if his words were going in one ear and out the other. "For me, the cowboy gimmick was easy. Hell, it was a part of my upbringing." Colt splashed his face with water, letting it run down his thick neck. John Henry hated to admit it, but he understood why Colt had so many female--and presumably male--fans. He was one damn fine specimen. 

"So what're you...y'know...supposed to be anyway?" Colt ask, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Oh he thinks he can tease me now, does he? John smiled. "The best gimmick in the whole, wide world. Myself. No, Colt, I could tell you all sorts of crazy shit managers have suggested. I get recommended the 'Tarzan' character a lot--not that I don't look good in animal print, mind--and that's probably the least insulting of the bunch. But one of the reasons I can tell you for a fact that I'm not getting ahead in this career is that...I refuse to play a character."

"Really? But you'd be great! I mean, maybe even as good as I am."

"Heh. I have a lot of pride. Let's just say, this line of work is friendlier to guys like you than it is to me. Besides, I have other aspirations."

"Such as?"

"Well, I'd like to find someone and settle down someday. Maybe start a business for myself. Don't get me wrong, spellbreaking is a hell of a lot of fun." John looked to the ring, the warehouse, and pictured a million different ways he'd make it better, cleaner, modern, and more comfortable for younger spellbreakers. "I'd probably be better teaching it than doing it."

"You sound like you know what you want." Colt nodded and gave his knew buddy a gentle cuff on his enormous arm. "Hey, let's throw a few back tonight. Whaddya say?"

The thought of Colt mixed with alcohol set off John Henry's fight or flight instincts. But he also recognized that they'd trained enough, and any more would just drain them for tomorrow night's match. There was only so much they could do in one afternoon.

"Okay, Colt. You got it. But not Sandra's bar, and no more brawls! Hey, don't look so disappointed..."

The two men decided it was wise to stay off Bourbon Street entirely, instead sticking to the hotel bar. It was a moderately fancy place, just off Canal Street, and free of the boisterous tourists and drunks that might set either of them off. John Henry initially had other accommodations lined up, but Colt insisted he stay overnight, evening going so far as to take the couch instead. Seemed like there really was a generous soul beneath that arrogant façade after all.

After a few rounds of liquor and swapped stories over past victories, Colt placed his glass down on the polished bar and nodded to the casual crowd sitting at the booths and tables. "See, way I see it, we'd be nuthin' without them. No point in spellbreaking if there was no audience."

John Henry was a bit annoyed with all the nicotine in the air--he was sensitive to chemicals--but tolerated it for the good conversation. Colt could hold his liquor, that was for sure, but John Henry was content to nurse his Old Fashioned. "Something tells me you just like the attention," he smirked. They'd gotten to a point where they could tease each other without swinging punches.

Colt shrugged innocently, swirling his brown liquor and looking for answers in a lowball glass. "Eh. Believe it or not, I'm hard as hell on myself. I gotta' go out there and do my best all the time! Show 'em who's the toughest, the coolest. These people pay good money for a show. Hell, if it lets them forget about their troubles for awhile, then I've done my job." He tossed back his drink in one, smooth gulp. "Way I see it--world needs heroes these days, with all that's going on. People need someone to look up to. It's...all an act, of course, but these fine folks don't know it. Better to leave it to the mystery. In the ring, I'm a god! Outside...well...you've seen me..."

A damn mess, John Henry thought, but held his tongue. He nodded. "I know that feeling all too well, friend," John Henry said. He wasn't exactly an open book. "I could never be a heel. I don't have it in me to be mean! And besides, most of those big guys are pussy cats in real life anyway. I just go out there and do what I do because it's fun...and it pays the bills." He raised his glass. "And if it weren't fun, then what would be the point?"

Before Colt could indulge his friend further, a dapper concierge in a handsome bowties tapped Colt on the shoulder. "Phone call in your room, sir."

Colt gave the man a quizzical look, before thanking him, shoving a few dollars into his hands, and walking off without another word. The concierge and John Henry looked at each other in mutual confusion.

After twenty minutes without any sign of Colt, John Henry sighed, paid for both of their tabs (he suspected, somehow, this might happen) and retreated back to his hotel room. Maybe Colt was drunker than he'd thought, and the last thing he wanted was his tag partner falling off the balcony the night before their match.

It was only when John Henry reached their hotel room's door that he realized Colt had walked away with the only pair of keys. 

Damn it. Of course. John Henry looked to the left and the right, just to make sure nobody was coming. He placed his index finger on the keyhole tumbler. Most hotels had enchantments on locks to prevent against magickal theft--this one wasn't one of them thankfully. John Henry only used his powers for the right reasons anyway.

Such as getting locked out of rooms by drunk cowboys. He felt the tumbler with his energy, turned what needed turning, and opened the door into the somber-looking room.

He found Colt sitting at the edge of the bed, right next to the besides table. The phone hung just slightly off the hook. The cowboy stared at the ground between his legs. As he looked up at the intrusion, John noted his red face and watery eyes. The window was cracked just a smidge, and John could hear rainfall outside, when it had been dry as a bone only a few minutes ago.

Colt turned away, wiping his tear streaked face. "Well, this is mighty embarrassing."

John Frowned. "You okay?" He knew that Colt wasn't. He walked around to the other side of the bed, taking a seat on the armchair by the window. The man was in a poor state. "You know, Tex, I never thought there was any weakness in letting it all out..."

Hard words for a man like Colt to take, but he was built a bit different than most. The cowboy looked at him, as if he'd been granted permission, and nodded. After blowing his nose into a kerchief--and nearly blowing John out the window with it--Colt gathered himself. Outside, the rain subsided. John Henry sensed the two events were somehow related.

"It's my wife," Colt said. He dragged his fingers across his face. "She's through with me. I'll be signing the divorce papers when I get back to Texas."

"Oh Goddess, Colt. Sorry to hear that."

"I'm not worried about that so much as I'm worried sick for my son. I've failed, as a husband and a father. All because I'm too busy going out there in my underwear and making a damn fool of myself in front of a bunch of yokels!"

Outside, a peel of thunder heralded another cloudburst. Confused chatter from the street cemented John's theory that this was a byproduct of Colt's powers getting the best of him. Storm magick was rare, and thankfully so--it was volatile. Even big hearted wielders of its glyph were prone to outbursts.

John gestured to the window. "That you doing that?"

"I-I-I'm a very emotional guy, John," Colt said as he burst into another sob. The temperature abruptly dropped.

Outside, a very drunk man said, "Oh Goddess, it's snowin' now! It must be Yuletide!"

"Hey now," John Henry said, getting to his feet and putting his hands on both of Colt's shoulders, offering him some warmth. If he keeps this up, he's gonna drop a cyclone on the French Quarter. 

"It's okay," Colt said, gently brushing him away. "It don't last long. You're right. It's good to let it out. If I'd kept it pent up inside, it would have come out as a flood." he sighed. "It wouldn't have been the first time..." 

Best get a handle on this now. "I...can't speak for your parenting know-how, or your role as a husband. Though...you do seem to hit on women pretty often for a guy that's married." John cocked an eyebrow. "And I assume not in an open marriage?" 

"Oh hell," Colt huffed. "I'm a damn bastard. A cad. A tom cat! She and I both know it's over so it don't matter anymore, but yeah...I've always had a wandering eye."

John handed him a glass of water and nodded for him to continue.

"I grew up with nothing. Dirt poor, with a father who expected too much and wanted me to take on the family business. I made something with my power, turned my back on him, and went too hard in the other direction. It all went to my head, John! I just wanted Buck to grow up absolutely free, with no expectations. Hell, I don't care about him following in my footsteps--in fact, I'd rather he not. Look where it got his pa, anyhow..."

He was rambling, but it all made sense. John Henry lowered his head. "Cowboy, you gotta' know when to walk away."

"You mean...quit spellbreaking?"

"Isn't becoming the champion enough?" John Henry asked. "If something no longer serves you, let it go."

Colt looked at him a long while, his clear eyes like polished emeralds. "Thanks, friend. I guess I should have led a more honest life like yours."

If only he knew. "It's a lonely life, Colt," John Henry laughed hollowly. "I wish it weren't."

Well, so much for not playing therapist. Thankfully, Colt--now more put together than ten minutes ago--was happy to return the favor, whether John Henry wanted it or not.

"You like Sandra, don't you?" He blurted out.

Oh, how the tables had turned. John Henry opened his mouth, ready to give him an evasive answer, but then he decided that...well...he was mostly too damn tired to dodge the question. 

He smiled. "Terrified of her," he said. "So, yeah, I really like her. She's the most amazing woman. But I don't have the charisma and seduction you do, Casanova. Believe it or not, I'm shy as all get out."

"You? Shy?" Colt slapped his knee. Back to normal, now. "Nah, it's always the biggest guys who are the shyest. 'Cept me, of course. But you know something, John? The hero should always get the girl. Now, I've fallen on my face quite a bit. And let me tell you, I've hit on a lot of women. You just gotta go for it...er...respectfully, of course. Even if you lose, you'll win with someone else. Eventually."

It was Cot's turn to pat John Henry on the shoulder. "So, shoot your shot, gunslinger." 

"Well, we'll see if we survive tomorrow night, cowboy. If so...sure." Then, J.H. remembered back to the bar room scrap, and winced. "If she's still willing to talk to me."

Colt nodded. "Cheers to that."

Next Chapter!