*Matt spun the wheel on his iPod, randomly stopping on an album from Fountains of Wayne. Skipping to the song "Hey Julie", he drops the toy onto his lap and presses his head against the window. He hadn't seen windows like these since he went to highschool. The ones where you nearly have to break your fingers pushing in the buttons on each side while simultaneously pulling down and praying. As a matter of fact, this might very well be his highschool bus. Conveniently, the flights were all booked from Rio. Jan at the travel center for TCW said he was the last to get processed since he's the newest employee and that there wasn't enough seating, but he could tell in her voice that she was lying. He'd ask Aaron Keening if there were any spots open on the plane. Stern had it out for him he thought. Nothing personal, just business. He forced her to give him a contract, and she was going to follow that to the letter, not a word more.*

*Matt looked around discretely before slightly unzipping his travel bag. He saw the familiar glint of title gold looking back at him. He inhaled deeply and sighed an exhausted, happy breath. He missed feeling that weight on his shoulder. He forgot how finicky the clasps on the belt were to tighten it around his waist. He forgot what it was liked to run his finger over his engraved name plate. He couldn't read braille, but he could read that just fine. Closing the bag back up, he pulls a sheet of paper out of a side pocket of his bag. The paper is folded and crushed repeatedly, the same thing that happens to any piece of paper left with him for more than five minutes. He unfolds and looks at the match ups this week once again. He mumbles through them, trying not to wake the older couple sleeping in the seat behind him. His voice perks up a bit at match up of DeSean and Inferno. He knew he'd be seeing both of them again. He gets down to his name again and the row of questions marks across from it.*

Matt: Mystery opponent. I'm back for my first week and I'm already playing Clue. "Pat Wow hits Matt with the steel chair in the library."

*Going through the match ups again, he tries to spot any active people who aren't on the list, but can't find anyone.*

Matt: Wouldn't be the first time someone worked double duty, but wouldn't say that's likely. Which means it's either someone's return match, or I'm fighting a new guy. It'd be a hell of a return match. It's what I'd do. Actually, it's what I did.

*Matt taps the paper in time with the music playing in his ears and rubs his eyes. He pushes the paper in between his leg and the wall, throwing his head back and letting the breeze from the window bring some relief from the heat. Still talking in slightly more than a whisper, Matt tries to decompress before falling asleep on the bumpy roads.*

Matt: You can't plan for the unknown. All you can do is be good enough to make the unknown wish it hadn't come out in the first place. Hit hard and hit fast, and it takes away their assumed element of surprise. Maybe keep my back turned to him when he comes out, because he'll have planned the impact of my first sight of him. Take that away from him. Make him flustered. I'm going to be off my game initial, that can't be avoided. I just have to screw him up just as much, then we start even. Maybe throw out some rarely used offense to start it off, get him doubting. This could actually be fun. It's like playing Batman. You win the fights that you plan out, despite the odds and unknowns. Ten parts preparation, one part execution.

*Matt closes his eyes and tucks his iPod away in his pocket. The engine, which sounds more like a death rattle than a purr, does its part to lull him off to sleep. Matt tucks his head in the crook between the seat back and the wall and lets himself slip away. With a smile.*

Matt: I'm Batman.

1970.

The arena was filled with smoke, the ring announcer was filled with cancer, but his voice was strong, and his eyes were filled with light. He held in his hands the kind of stick that could light a fire inside a man. "The following contest is scheduled for one fall!" He lied. "Now entering the ring, from Springfield, New Jersey, weighing at two hundred, and thirty five pounds..." Actual weight, 185. "He stands six foot, two inches." Height true, when the kid didn't slouch into a boxer's stance. He was new, but the audience seemed okay with it. "He's here to make his dreams come true, so let's give him a hand...he is...The Star Spangled Kid!" The booker who had just seen Rocky had met the ultimate Rocky fan, and he was his son. Together, they were possessed of a tin ear, and no sense of shame. The ring announcer, blessed with both, God rest his soul, had tried to tell them nobody was going to cheer for a young Republican against a series of ethnic heels who wasn't completely racist, and been shouted down for daring to call management racist. Looking over the mostly white crowd now, he wished he had. He could sense when a trainwreck was about to occur, and something evil inside him laughed at the wonderful horrible possibilities. He shot a glance at the Kid, who wore a pair of flag shorts, and nothing underneath, and the kid boxed the air in his direction, and looked like he'd happily rip the man apart. Daddy must have told.

"His opponent..." And the other train about to leap off the track. "From the darkest jungles of the city of brotherly love..." No fan could possibly be prepared for this one. Not unless they read the London Publishing rags. "He weighs in at 290 pounds." Actual weight, 245. "And he stands six foot five." Taller than every man in the back, by far. The man wasn't lean muscle either. No, he was built. He was a living breathing Greek statue. "Lock up your daughters, lock up your wives." The announcer paused, and added an ad-lib. "Hell, maybe the men should be locked up too! Ladies, all 6 of you, take away their wallets...." Back to the script. "...the devil's sent his pimp..." And this was the gimmick from Hell. Also from the management. Every head turned to the part of the arena where the lights went out. There, barely visible, was a man who had stepped into the shadows, and made them his own. "He is...the Purple Panther!" The tall dark man stepped into the light, wicked grin on his face, as he watched whitey deal with their Frankenstein. Most of the crowd booed. That wouldn't do. He blew a kiss at one of the ladies, shot her a wink. Looked at her husband, and dismissed him before turning back to look at her.

The man's real friends held him back before security could step in. Now the entire crowd hated him. He'd made it okay, given them an excuse.

Now they could express themselves.

That's the way he wanted it. Honest emotions.

He took his time, entering the ring. He even walked most of it backwards, because he wanted a couple of the bad seats to get a good look at his face. No reason they shouldn't get their money's worth too. The garbage had already started to fly, when he decided to make a slow dance out of it. Crackers were throwing him a ticker tape parade.

He spun around, stepped up to the ring. Looked at the kid he was supposed to carry, looked at the man with the cancer in his body, that nobody would know about until it was too late.

And of the three, there was no doubt at all who had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand. He made it look easy.

Now a chant for the Star Spangled Kid started among the good paying customers. "Get him Kid!" "Tear him apart!"

Well, it wasn't a chant, so much as random shouts from the jury. Star Spangled Kid? Who could make a chant out of that mouthful? Somewhere, management had to be having a seizure. Their pimp had stolen the show, even after they told him he had to do this entrance without bringing any women to ringside.

He decided to help the crowd out, a little. Speaking in a voice that would have made his brother slap him upside the head. "Hey chicken tenders, ya'll gots the wrong idea. You wants to be throwing me off my game, you gots to be more imaginative. Try calling me, the purple pussy cat." The women who got it explained it to their husbands. Laughter. Now the chants were naming him instead. "Skin the cat!" "Fuck the pussy!"

The latter, being dirtier, won out. This is why they only allowed in man children ages 17 and up. Soon the entire arena, minus all the women but two, and an elderly man who had left with a glare, picked up the shout. "Fuck the Pussy!" He looked for the woman he had winked at earlier. She and her husband weren't looking at each other, or the show. She noticed him looking, and shot him a look like an apology. She wished he would fuck the pussy, maybe. She wouldn't be the first. He felt bad for her. Maybe he'd caused her some trouble. Maybe her man would beat her when they got back home. Or worse. That was the kind of a man who wasn't a man, the kind who needed his penis revoked.

He put it out of his mind. Time for the match to begin.

The two men touched fists. Wondertwins unite! Didn't matter that they didn't like each other, they were both in on the conspiracy. From bell to bell, their lives would depend on each other.

First few minutes were unrehearsed. The referee told them they had 30 minutes. He whispered. "I'm going to take a swing, you duck it, and hit me until I fall. Pretend like I insulted you."

"Hit you for real?"

"Not yet. Save it for the knockout spot." It would be to a nine count, and it had to look convincing, or nobody would buy tickets for the rematch.

But until then, it was all ballet...

*****

That was then.

"Mr...Joshua?" A woman. The woman. Stern. She bought and sold dreams.

"That's right." Said the old man. "My mother gave me 3 first names." She was ashamed of her husband. After she found Jesus, she named her first son after Abraham, Moses, and Joshua. "Call me Abe." His voice was weathered, deep and warm, and comfortable. It made people relax.

Most people. Stern never seemed to lower her guard. "We don't fake fights anymore. Our audiences are too smart for that."

"I know."

"Then you must know that we ask you to sign a waiver, absolving us of all legal responsibility - "

"I know."

"...So you aren't doing this for the money, then. Tell me why you are doing it. I want to know why I'm sending an old man into the lion's den."

He thought it over. "Because I want to leave behind a record. Something that can be seen on Youtube, by anyone who's curious. Remind people what Wrestling used to be, who we were..."

"Actors."

"I prefer to think of it as ballet."

"Ballet doesn't have supernatural pimps - you're thinking of a minstrel show."

There. That was the source of the tension in the room. He released his breath, deflated a little. But grinned. No apologies for the bad old days. "It put bread on the table."

"It's past it's expiration date. "The Purple Panther"? You expect me to put that out into the nation's id? They'd tear us both apart. Me, for being racist, sexist, and a few other ists that will occur to me the second I let you go, and you for being able to live down to the gimmick."

"Think of it with irony. I'm mocking it all the while."

"I hear that "n*gg*r" is also ironic these days." She took note of his reaction. "Good, you aren't completely lost to being ironic, some of you still means what you say."

"It feel good for you to say that?"

"No. I wanted to throw up. But you're asking me to hand our fans, some of them too young to vote, a character that's "n*gg*r in every way but the spelling -"

Worst part was, she was right, and he knew it. "I know. But...he's part of me. Like it or not, he's how I'm remembered, when I'm remembered. You can't white wash the history books. Let the new generations judge us, all I ask is for a fair trial."

She flinched. White washed. He'd meant it to hurt. Eye for an eye. Part of him wanted to apologize. He let it go. A larger part wanted to hear an apology. The air was thick with fire and smoke. Things unspoken. He'd had longer to get used to it than she.

"All right." She said. She'd lost her control of the situation. "Let me think about it. In the meantime...stay away from our on air talent. For your own safety. These are dangerous men. I'm going to give you an opponent who can be counted on to be just an opponent. I'm also going to place him in charge of handling your questions, and breaking you in...his name is Matt Strikmore."

"I've seen him." He approved, even if the kid reminded him of someone he had almost broken...

*****

Back in time, and the punch had whiffed, so they did the punch again. Stars in his eyes, blood filled his mouth. The kid had been practicing his boxing skills. The pain had taken him by surprise, and he'd forgotten to take the dive in time to make it convincing.

"He's playing possom, kid!" One fan shouted.

The bell rang, and there was no winner. Not in the books, or in the mind of the audience.

Most people said that the man booked to lose a moral victory had won one instead.

But they weren't allowed behind the curtains.

That victory had been a loss.

And it would be his family that paid the price.

The audience, no the mob, was silent. About to explode...

The Star Spangled Kid looked white as a Klansman's bikini line. "You missed your cue." Shock. What he really wanted to say was, "They're going to eat us alive."

"Assume they think the bad guy won."

That's when everyone involved with the production, the referee, the announcer, the boys in the back, the audience plants who had tried to get the crowd involved in the matches that had no heat, ran for their lives.

That the crowd was so into the performances that they wanted blood, was their only consolation...

Hours later, and from the benefit of being in another state it would be funny as hell.

But still Abraham Moses Joshua, and the demon he brought to life, the Purple Panther, had tasted blood.

Something inside him had awakened.

Something that wanted to know why he took that punch so deadly seriously...

The sunset was hidden behind dark clouds trimmed with silver lining. The storm never quite reached them, though the air grew cold.

They kept a steady pace.

It wasn't long before the interrogation began.

"Mind if I ask a few questions?"

"Not if you don't mind me answering them."

"It was always fake...?"

"We faked it. It was much like prostitution, but it satisifed another need."

"Did the customers know?"

"Only the ones with long memories."

"So it was like boxing?"

"No. Not even close. Want to know a secret?"

"Always."

The sucker punch made contact with the young man's gut. Almost. It whispered in, and was pulled away before he could realize it left no pain behind. But his instincts were trained to retaliate, and take the fight to the finish. His punch made contact before he could reign in the beast. Straight to the wrist. A snap that left a shadow behind. He was readying a second and a third before his eyes saw...

"Are you okay?" The next punch that came wasn't held back. He saw it coming. Let it hit. Accepted the consequences.

Flesh met flesh. The sky went black. For an instant he couldn't see. Just for an instant. His mind told him he was an idiot for letting an opponent strike him when there was a window that wide to avoid it. The part of him that knew all the ways he could tear the man apart.

He buried it.

"Good punch for a dancer." He grinned. Blood gushed from his nose.

"What the hell....no, nevermind. It was my fault for playing magician." Abe reached for his hankerchief, keeping his other arm out of sight. The wrist was hurting worse than the bruise suggested, and he wasn't sure he wanted his opponent to know that a single punch may have just ended their real fight before it could begin. That's when they heard the siren.

"Well, at least we were convincing." Strikmore wondered if he was ever going to get off parole.

But the siren didn't stay for them. The car continued down a hill and out of sight. Followed by a second, and then a third. "Welcome to the real world." Abe smiled. Both wrestlers took a moment to feel small. The world was bigger than them. It was reassuring.

But the moment put their problems in perspective. There were words that needed said.

*****

They were said inside the ring.

The gym had been a detour. Abe's suggestion. Strikmore had attracted too many fans before long, and disappointing them hadn't been in the blood of either. Especially once the younger ones had accepted that the big scary black man was Strikmore's next opponent. They looked at the blood coming from Strikmore's nose, and instantly became volunteer viral marketers, telling all their friends that Strikmore had gotten murdered by the new supervillian in town. Only, being 12 and under, they used words that would make a death row inmate blush.

"At least the fans remain the same." Abe observed.

Strikmore raised his hands in mock protest. "They don't get that from me."

Abe was only surprised the man felt the need to deny it. "They get it from watching their parents watch you."

In the gym, there were no fans allowed. It was the way of fight club.

Abe leaned back against a rope. Felt it spring him back. The human slingshot. "Home sweet home."

"How long has it been since you were in the ring?"

"25 years."

"I can't fight you."

Abe offered a half smile. "You're one of the smart fans. I should have known." He had been shocked to discover professional wrestling even had fans, nevermind that some of them were professional wrestlers.

"How's your wrist?"

"About the same as your nose. It's just bleeding on the inside."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know about you, young man...but I intend to fake it until I make it. Bluffing has taken me this far."

Strikmore thought about it. Thought about it some more. Shrugged. "I know Kay Fabe."

A pause. "Do you now?"

"She said I could stand to learn a few new tricks. I'm just a hooker. No showmanship."

"I thought we agreed neither of us had enough pride to throw the fight?"

"I'm willing to be the bigger man."

Abe thought it over. Thought about all the fights he had thrown. All the time not knowing, just how far he could go. "I'm not willing to carry you."

"Would you rather I carried you, sir?" He cupped his hands together, as if to take the weight of one leg. It skirted the edge of being an insult, but the offer was so earnest that he was instantly forgiven. "Thank you."

"Hm?"

"For not patronizing an old man. I think...I'm too old to believe our fight will prove anything. Try as I might, I can't convince myself otherwise."

"What about that marker?"

He decided to drop all pretense. "The one that says: "Was given a ring, and a dance, but never did catch the young man?" My 15 minutes of fame would be it's own punchline."

Matt got it. Almost. He could feel understanding tickle the back of his mind. "You aren't just doing this for yourself, are you?"

"It's a history lesson, yes."

"No offense, but what makes you different from any other -"

"Mr. Strikmore " He grinned. The devil's grin. "...I believe it's time you met my alter ego..."

What would a white boy say, who never had to think about his own race, when confronted with an act that made race the defining issue?

They both were about to find out.