By day a sales consultant, at night I'm a "boxer" in the upcoming circuit. Well, "boxer" is what I declare for my taxes. They call me the Superman because I'm the strongest fighter known to the city. I've got a match tonight with an up and coming fighter who calls himself "Zed-Odd."
I pack up my stuff from the day job and change into my performance clothes. An undershirt with my logo imprinted on it: a bright red and yellow "S" against the dark blue of the muscle shirt. On top of that, I wear a hoodie embroidered with the same logo. It's a lighter blue, and the red hood compliments the rest of it. I stick with the office appropriate jeans.
Once I'm at the arena, I drape the hood atop my head. I overhear the announcer talking to my opponent. Something about his name not translating well to the American audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a special match up. Club favorite," he speaks almost in a falsetto for this "the SUPERNAN against Zod!"
It's a sleazy club, but it pays well. I'm hoping on leaving that shitty day job, anyhow. The patrons seemed rather interested in the fight. As I step into the ring, I role up my sleeves and unzip the sweatshirt. It displays the logo and my muscles. The act of showmanship excites the crowd. Zod steps in on the other side. I take a sideways stance so I can favor punching with my left. The announcer calls the fight and I start by delivering basic jabs to his face.
"Zod, eh? What's that for?" I ask. He doesn't say but he gives me a cheeky "fuck you."
I back him into a corner, delivering a strong blow to the left side of his face. He's stunned. I then roll the hood off along with the top of the jacket to gloat. The crowd continues to cheer.
Rolling my shoulders forward, hoodie falls into place. I continue a vicious assault. He eventually wises up and stands more guard to block my left hooks. While he continues to hide, I step back and jump from side to side, keeping my heart rate up while insulting his cowardice. His guard goes down briefly. So, I throw a right jab square in his nose. He winces in pain as I pull my fist away. I'm surprised he's still standing after that, the usual fighters fall at the first. I go back to showboating.
"I'm the Superman! The Man of Steel! Undefeated for a reason!"
Once he's returned to his feet, I realize he's more concerned for his current state of consciousness rather than victory. I jump to get leverage over his defense and swing a right hook straight into the side of his skull. Like a child with a pillow, he hides his head in his arms. He keeps blocking so I duck down and uppercut. That was almost the end of him.
To draw in the crowds, the owner of the club likes giving personas and trademark aspects to the fighters. Besides being the best, mine is a steel hammer. I turn to the side, and an assistant hands me my weapon of choice. The hammer's head is facing the opposite direction of Zod. I toss it into the air to flick it around. Using the momentum of the throw, I drive the hammer into his shoulder blade. There's a reason they call me the "Man of Steel."
Following the fight, Jimmy throws me my water. After zipping up my coat and rolling the sleeves back down, I pull down the hood, pop open the bottle, and drink furiously.
"Good fight, Kal-El."
"You know I hate that nickname, right, Jimmy?"
"Would I use it if you didn't?" he says with a distinct air of arrogance.
Jimmy was a friend I've had since high school. We sat next to each other in Spanish, which he miserably failed at. He somehow mistook my name, Clark, for Calvin. Even worse, he shortened it to "Kal" and put "El" at the back of it.
"Still, you should at least make it proper Spanish," I tell him.
"But Kal-El has a better ring than El Kal." He rebuts, looking at me almost too seriously.
"I suppose you're right," I confess, confirming his poorly crafted nickname. "I've got to go, take care, Olsen," I tell him as I wipe some sweat while walking out.
"You know it, Superman!" he shouts.
Next, I must see my therapist. Something about narcissism and denial. Court mandated. I walk into the office and I become immediately distraught. Something about the atmosphere is off-putting. I don't usually feel like I'm at home, but this place amplifies that. I find the receptionist off at a small desk to the left.
"I'm here to see the doctor," I inform the man.
"Appointment? Mr…?" he questions.
"Kent."He types away.
"You're late. Right this way. Leave your jacket out here," he glares at me intensely. I strip down to the undershirt and he rolls his eyes. I draw in the stares from some of the other patients, which was nice.
Once I've reached the room, I'm surprised by how it doesn't appear to be a typical office. Barely any books, no couch I can lie down on and cry. After checking my surroundings, the doctor greets me.
"Hello, Mr. Kent. I'm Dr. Lane, please have a set," she motions to a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Before I take my seat, I notice her giving me the onceover, rightfully so. I pull the chair back and take a seat, crossing my legs to seem more professional.
"So," she starts, "this is your first of at least five court mandated sessions," I give her a smirk as she begins. She's surprisingly attractive, long black hair and blue eyes, similar to the typical broad back home.
"I'd like to begin with the reason you've been sent here. You have a history of fighting. Is that correct?" She leans forward while checking her clipboard, nodding in my direction.
"Enough to make some money off of it," I smirk again. I uncross my legs, spread out, and place my free arms over the back of the second chair. She notices this and jots something down.
"And you fight because you find yourself feeling superior to others?" She's now leaned back.
"Well of course I do," I stand out of the chair and flex. "I'm the bloody Superman!" I intentionally pull the chair around to sit backwards, it's not comfortable but it looks intimidating. She writes for awhile before continuing.
"Superman?" she questions, her pen tapping into her desk as she awaits a response.
"You obviously don't have much of a night life, do you?" I tease. She seems upset, losing the generic doctor smile for neutral look. "Look," I continue, "I'd be more than happy to show you tomorrow if you'd be interested." I extend my arm over her desk with a most charming smile. She pulls her whole body back.
"I'm afraid not," she wheels the chair back to the desk. I flip the chair back around, slouch, and cross my arms.
"Let's start with the root of this, then? What's was your relationship with your parents?" She prepares another page of notes.
"Which ones?" I ask with an edge in my voice. She looks over the initial papers a bit more.
"Let's start with your birth paren-" before she finishes I cut her off, "Dead," I start, more saddened than I thought I would be.
"Could you at least tell me what you know?" She inquires. I don't like talking about this.
"Well," I ease up on the defensiveness, "they were both English and put me up for adoption before I could remember anything about them. You'd be surprised how hard it is to find information on people with 'Krypton' for a last name." I look down to the floor.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she tells me with a generic tone. "And your adoptive family?"
"Called me 'the Last Son of Krypton.' Supportive." I'm beginning to trust her, but probably not for the right reasons, "Fostered the idea of hope and greatness in me." Feeling vulnerable, I look away again.
"So you're parents, the Kents, I presume, were caring then?" I look back up to her.
"Very," I tell her.
"So, then. Where do you think you're narcissism comes from?" Her pen tapping amplifies. It's beginning to be an annoyance. I roll my head around shoulders to get out a few cracks. I brush my hand against my nose, not sure of what to say.
"Rejection, I guess. No girl in high school wanted the pale, scrawny, British kid. After school, there was no way my parents could afford college on a famer's salary. So instead of college, I dedicated myself to this." I wave my hands around my midsection, presenting the muscle. She giggles.
"But you're so tanned!" she exclaims, her voice somewhere between sarcasm and compassion. Dr. Lane seems to understand my dilemma. She's now a tad flirtatious.
"I spent a lot of time working outside." I smile at her and laugh. I look up to the clock and see that time is out.
"Well, Mr. Kent, it was a pleasure meeting you. Try not to be late next time. And Clark," she says shaking my hand and turning to see me out the door, "I'd like to see one of these fights." She stretches out her palm. I rummage around my pockets until I find a wrinkled business card for the club. I hand it to her.
"Metropolis!" She exclaims, "how nice."
I roll my eyes at her comment. Leaving the office, I grab my coat while facing more glares from the receptionist. I go back home to enjoy the weekend. Lots of exercise and practice fighting. I keep a crate in the corner of my apartment with boxing equipment. Why I even own a set of gloves is question I can't answer. The following day, I go to Metropolis to scout the competition. Over to the left near the bar is Zod. He's rolling his shoulder, whimpering as he sees me. He talks to the patrons about how illegal fighting was easier in England.
"Hello, Zod!" I call out. "I think I hurt my shoulder, too, kicking your ass so hard," I tease while mimicking his shoulder motions. I receive glares while he tightens the grip on his drink. The announcer begins to call the next matchup.
"We are introducing a new fighter today! He's unofficially named as of now, but he'll 'put you in the crypt tonight,' the Crypt Keeper!" He yells out. I think to myself how dumb of a name that is. I swivel around in the stool, inattentive of the next fighter. Surprisingly large, the Crypt Keeper destroys his opponent to my dismay. He's dyed his hair green, possibly to inform a stage character later. He showboats like I do, waving his arms in the air, calling out to the audience. With his adversary on the ground, Crypt Keeper bellows his catch phrase. I'm pretty sure "I'll send you to the crypt tonight" may have been literal. The Keeper does a TV worthy finisher, seeming to seriously injure the other bloke.
Unfucking believable, I think to myself. Some assistants come out to help the other guy clean himself up, or send him to the hospital. My Boss comes over.
"Hey, Superman!" he starts, "just the man I wanted to see."
Crossing my arms against my chest, I prepare for his next demand.
"I see you're acquainted with our newest addition," he nudges in my direction, nodding at the Crypt Keeper. Taken aback, I let out a sigh. This old fuck looks like he should run a dying business, not an illegal fighting arena. He extends his arm and I shake it, making sure to give a hard squeeze. He pulls back, rubbing his hand.
"Look," he begins sheepishly, "you're going up against that Crypt Keeper on Wednesday. It'll probably be the biggest event of the year, so look your best. Wash the damn jacket and do something with that hair, that curl looks ridiculous." He flicks my hair for emphasis.
"Right away, Mr. White," I mumble while mocking a half salute. I groan while leaving.
Work sucks for the first half of the week. I left my glasses home once unintentionally. Usually I only leave them home on fighting days. Had to lean uncomfortably close to the computer, which was probably why I needed the glasses in the first place.
On Wednesday night, I combed out the curl and spiked my hair up. I thought it looked nice. Having cleaned the jacket, I layer it over the undershirt and embark for Metropolis.
The sleazy club is full. I suppose Mr. White wasn't lying. I've got the hood down and the jacket zipped up. Making my way to the "backstage," I glance over the room to find Dr. Lane in attendance. She comes up to me, putting her hands up. Nodding towards me, I lightly jab her hands. She winces while attempting to shake away the pain. I nod back to her as I leave for the backstage. Eventually, someone takes the microphone to introduce the fight.
"Welcome to Metropolis's biggest fight of the year!" The crowd erupts into cheer. "Today, we have renowned member, the greatest of all men, the SUPERMAN!" The audience claps and whistles as I jog into the arena. Rolling up the sleeves, pulling up the hood, I finally unzip to reveal the additional logo. I hear a woman scream "I love you, Superman!" over the cheering. I take a stance and throw a few jabs. Beginning my side to side jump, I saunter towards the microphone.
"Greatest of all men?" I question "Greatest of the gods!" I toss the microphone back to the announcer. I smirk at him while he stares in disbelief. There's still an enormous uproar as fans chant. The announcer fixes himself up and prepares the other introduction.
"And the newest inductee, KRYPTONITE!" He points to the back where I can see advertisement posters. Who the fuck is in charge of marketing? Better than Crypt Keeper, but the spelling? He jogs to the arena, no showboating, no costuming, just the jagged green hair.
Once the fight begins, Kryptonite just stands there, overly serious. I start with a heavy left hook, which immediately hurts my hand, and not in the 'I just hit my bare hand against someone's skull' type of pain, but immensely shocking pain. This continues, every time I swing at the man he just takes it, letting his solid body do the damage to me. The crowd is still yelling. Distinctly, there's a "C'mon, Superman!"
I spin away to try and gain momentum on an uppercut, but Kryptonite grabs the coattail and pulls. I fall backwards. Trying to roll out, his grip does not let out so I strip myself of the jacket. With me left in the undershirt, jeans, and hand gauze, Kryptonite chuckles at my appearance. Finally, he lurches forward. With amazing form, the lands blow after blow into me. So this is what Zod felt like. I've taken a knee. Panting, I see him turned to the crowd. He starts his line. When he's about to perform his finisher, I roll out of the way. His elbow slams hard into ring.
Now, I haven't been beaten before, or been knocked down for that matter, but whatever Kryptonite was doing to me worked.
Immediately, he jumps up. Yet, he seems tired. My injuries start to feel devastating. He throws a punch my way, I dodge. It seems with every move he becomes slower. So, I endear. I keep moving, jumping, and bouncing until he's gasping for breath. Then I start my assault, pounding him until he's on the ground. Each hit is still near unbearable. His skin feels like it's made solely to combat my form. But, I endure; I keep fighting until the announcer steps in to call it.
Over to the side, I see someone with the hammer. I shake my head and limp out, my vision blurry, body bruised and cut. I collect my jacket and walk out. Dr. Lane is waiting for me in the back.
"Very impressive," she remarks, "I'm beginning to think your egocentrism is just part of the character." She scans my face for a reaction.
"You'd be wrong," I mutter through gritted teeth. She extends an arm to shake my hand before leaving. I attempt to raise my own but let out a quiet whimper. Biting hard on my lower lip, I raise my arm enough to shake her hand.
"Thanks for this, Kal-El," she says before walking out.
"Tell Jimmy to go fuck himself!" I yell out to her. She waves in my direction without looking as she leaves.
I keep up with the sales consultant crap until I have to return to Dr. Lane's office. Same glares from the receptionist, same outfit for myself. Once I've entered the room, she extends her arm out. Again, I nearly fail to raise my own.
"Is the big, proud Superman injured?" she asks. "You really should to take care of yourself," she says while patting me on the back. Her tone has the same sarcastic yet sweet tinge, though it was more insulting than I assumed she wanted.
"I thought you were supposed to help me, not be a condescending prick?" I retort. She makes a few tsk noises and apologizes. Something about trying to deflate the ego. I don't really care, never was attentive in school. She asks about the next fight and if I may have problems with it, 'psychologically, as you've never felt beaten before, have you?' Bunch a load of shit.
"Next rounds against a bloke named Doomsday. No gimmicks, just a big guy with some mean punches," I explain. She rambles on about more diagnostics and treatments. I finally get to leave, collect the coat and go home.
Soon, it's time to fight the Doomsday guy. I've only seen photos of him before the fight, but in person, this guy's a beast. For today, he created a slight gimmick. Now, he has this spiky grey hair, very intimidating for others, I'm sure. He gets introduced to the ring first. He's Jamaican, interestingly. I was sad not to see a Rastafarian get-up. Once I go up to stage, I grab the microphone. Wanting to counter Doomsday's stage presence, I fake my way through a speech.
"This is for truth," I say while pointing at myself, "justice, and the American way!" The crowd cheers as a crane my neck. I balance the microphone vertically in my palm before tossing it back to the announcer. Doomsday glares in my direction, eyeing me like his prey.
Doomsday assaulted me. More so than usual. Something about his dominance felt like his whole life was leading into fighting me. The bloke wouldn't let up. I tried my best to defend, get in jabs when appropriate, but Doomsday was stronger. Every time I attempted to counter his punches, or defend, he either took the blow on the same level as Kryptonite, or countered my own moves. He wore me out, kept pummeling until I had little energy left. By this point, animalistic instincts activated. I quit form and caution and tried to overpower this monstrosity. For a long time, I've kept my full potential secret, worrying I might go far enough to kill, or, even worse, have my opponent know my maximum. To my surprise, sheer force worked. Really well. I jumped up and punched him in the jaw. We were both panting, trying to stand on either side of the ring. Then, we started approaching each other. At the same time, we put all our energy into a final right hook. They connected, knocking us both to the ground.
I don't remember much after that. Well, except for waking up in a hospital bed with news coverage of how Metropolis was shut down blaring on the TV. There was also something with four imposters trying to capitalize on my image. The robot one seemed interesting enough.
Once I was relatively well off, I was sent to a jailhouse for involvement in the fighting circuit.
"Fuck me," I mutter to myself.
Next: Multimillionaire film director Bruce Wayne reveals his newest project, "Batman," the world's next summer blockbuster.