The host, a young woman with shoulder-length, curly red hair, stepped out of the wings, microphone in hand. "Hello, and welcome to this week's edition of Fandom Death Match, the only show that lets you see your favorite leading characters fight to the death. This week we have the dashing Jack Dawson—"
The camera cut to Jack, who waved tentatively. "Hi."
The camera cut back to the host. "—versus the privileged Caledon Hockley."
The camera cut to Cal, who did a little dance. The camera cut back to the host, who looked just a wee bit disturbed.
"Um…thanks for that. Gentlemen, could you please step to the middle of the stage?"
"That word only applies to one of us," Cal said nastily as he walked to the middle of the stage.
Jack glared at him. "You'd think with all your money you'd own at least one dictionary."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means some words have more than one meaning, you dolt!"
"Okay, okay," the host said, stepping between them.
"Did you just call me a dolt?" Cal asked. "Seriously? That was the word you thought of?"
"I'm cutting back on the swearing," Jack said.
"Uh-huh."
"Let's get started, shall we?" the host suggested. "Okay. Here's how this works—"
"We fight to the death?" Cal interrupted eagerly.
"You know it could easily be your death and not mine, right?" Jack pointed out.
"You've already died once. I'll take my chances."
A deafening, anguished scream shook the building.
"What was that?" Cal and Jack asked in unison.
"That was the sound of fan girls everywhere being reminded of Jack's death."
Jack smiled. "I feel like I've already won." Cal just scowled.
"There is no literal fighting," the host explained. "What we do is take your strengths and weaknesses and try to assess who would win if you fought to the death. So, first trait—money."
"I have lots!" Cal yelled, jumping up and down, waving his hands in the air.
"Uh...yeah...about that…" Jack said.
"Cal gets a point."
"What now?" Cal yelled at Jack.
"It was one point. Might want to rein in that joy," Jack said drily.
"Moving on," the host said. "Home."
"I have a great one. Actually, I have two," Cal said.
Jack rocked back on his heels. "Can I claim the world as my home?"
"No. Point to Cal."
"But I have experience! I have survival skills!" Jack protested.
"I was about to get to that," the host said. "Point to you for survival skills."
Jack grinned.
"It's still two to one!" Cal snapped. "And this shouldn't count—I don't need survival skills because I have all the money!"
"Yes, you do, but money doesn't always last. There's a little thing called the Great Depression that's going to come along in about seventeen years, and those survival skills are going to be useful. So, next—hair."
Jack ran his fingers through his hair. "I think you can see it for yourself."
Cal tried to copy his movement, but his fingers got stuck in his hair pomade. "It stays in place!" he said, trying to salvage the situation.
The host wasn't convinced. "Point to Jack. Okay, clothes."
"I've got this! My clothes are of the finest materials and are hand sewn by my personal tailor," Cal said smugly.
"My clothes have a history," Jack protested.
"A history of being dirty," Cal said.
"Actually," the host interrupted, "I like Jack's clothes better."
"What?" Cal asked, stunned.
"I do. His clothes make him look...they just give him something, okay? Point to Jack."
"I think you're biased," Cal said.
"She isn't biased," Jack said smugly. "She's just not blind."
"Am not biased. Jack, don't make me add the word ass to your name—"
Cal giggled.
"Okay, we'll bring out another judge. Rose!"
Rose stepped out of the wings. "Yes?"
Jack waved excitedly. Her face lit up, and she ran over to him. Cal scowled.
"Rose, which of them has better clothes?"
"Jack," she answered.
"I'll give him the hair point, but how can you say he has better clothes?" Cal asked.
"It's hard to explain...I mean, sure, he only has the two outfits—"
"Can only afford two outfits," Cal muttered.
Rose ignored him. "And I'm pretty sure he wears the same pair of pants the whole time, so he really only has two shirts—"
"That's implied," Jack interrupted. "When I get on the ship I'm carrying a good-sized bag, but no one ever sees it again."
"True," Rose says. "But it doesn't matter because I like your clothes best. Especially the shirt you're wearing that last night on the ship..."
"Wasn't he wearing a rag?" Cal asked.
"Was he?" Rose asked dreamily. "I just know it...it clung..."
Jack grinned. "Point to me?"
The host nodded. "Point to you. Next, ability to get along with others."
"I am a very charming person."
"You're a very fake person," Jack retorted.
"I have good breeding."
"Behind which you hide your psychotic nature."
"You're a pansy."
"What is so wrong with not hitting women?" Jack demanded. "Seriously?"
"Nothing," the host said soothingly. "That's why the fan girls tend to have so much trouble sympathizing with him."
Cal scowled. "I have depth, you know. It isn't my fault the movie never explores that."
"Point to you both," the host said. "Jack gets one for not being violent. Cal gets one because the script doesn't acknowledge his depth. Okay, special skills?"
"Well, there are my survival skills, and my artistic ability," Jack said.
"So you can draw pictures!" Cal snapped. "I can shoot!"
Rose glared at him. "Yes. We know that."
Cal frowned. "That wasn't the best idea, was it?"
"Okay, Jack gets a point for being an artist. Cal gets no points because trying to kill people is not a special skill. Anyone can shoot a gun, and besides, you missed," the host said.
"But the script never says anything about me!" Cal protested. "It's like the depth. It could be there. It's just never shown."
"Cal, I can't keep giving you points for things that may or may not exist. We know Jack's an artist, and we know how much that excites the fan girls."
Rose scowled and grabbed Jack. "They can't have him."
Cal rolled his eyes. "Next?"
"Most likely to be killed by rabid fan girls."
"Guess that's you," Jack said gleefully, pointing at Cal.
"Actually, it's both of you," the host said.
"What?" Jack and Rose stared at her.
"Yes, many fan girls do want to torture and kill Cal—" Cal paled. "—but it's also pretty likely that if they ever got their hands on you they'd end up tearing you to pieces in a massive fan girl fight."
"Oh. I never thought of that."
"Love kills," Cal said. "And you should know—it's what killed you!"
"I died of hypothermia," Jack said through clenched teeth. "If you want to get philosophical about it, classism killed me. I am a metaphor for the way the privileged classes dehumanize and destroy the unprivileged classes."
"So, what you're saying is you were killed by a really big glass of ice water."
"You know what? Fuck you, Cal! Let's go, right now! Fight to the death!"
"Um..." Cal looked nervous. "Yes. I've never actually been in a fight before...could I get someone to fight you in my place?"
"And you wonder why I left you," Rose said disgustedly.
"Yeah, Jack, calm down," the host said. "This might be a good place to end this week's episode. So, tune in next week and see two more leading characters go head to head on Fandom Death Match."
Jack and Rose skipped off stage, hand in hand.
"Looks like Jack won," the host said. "Points or no points."
Cal watched them go, a frown on his face. The host laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay."
He shook his head. "I do love her...in a strange, often unhealthy way."
"I know. I wrote a story about it."
"That you've yet to finish."
"Hey, it still exists."
Jack yelled from offstage, "Yeah, and in that story Rose is only sleeping with you because my death left her emotionally crippled and basically dead inside."
Cal thought about replying, but turned to the host instead. "Hey, you've got red hair, too." He stepped closer and put an arm around her. "And you've tried to find my depth."
She looked at him for a moment and shook her head. "Um…yeah...no..." She walked offstage, Cal following.
"But I have depth, remember? We're perfect for each other—you have student loans, I have money! C'mon!"
The End.
