Posted on Monday, 22 June 1998

Author's note: I have been so inspired by all of the fabulous Deathmatches out there, that I had to attempt one myself! I hope you like it!

Fitzwilliam Darcy was not sure how he came to be in this situation. All he knew was that he was challenged; and by whom and for what he had no idea.

He had woken up this morning in his London Townhouse, but not in bed with his wife as he should have been; he had found himself on the stairs. This was strange enough in itself, but when he found a piece of paper in his pocket, written on in red blotches, he had become even more alarmed.

"Blood!" he had thought, until a soggy french fry fell out of his pocket as well. "Oh-never mind, it's just ketchup."

He had risen off the stairs, groaning because of his stiffness, let alone a powerful headache. Bringing the note over to the light, he adjusted his blurry eyes and read:

Mr. Elton hereby challenges Mr. Darcy to a Deathmatch, in order to determine which is the greater good: weeniness or non-weeniness.

And there, under the message, there was his own signature and that of Mr. Elton's.

Feeling more completely at sea than ever, Mr. Darcy wracked his brain to remember what he had done last night. The message and the headache pointed to drunkenness, but he had not gone to a bar last night, as far as he could remember. He read the note again, not understanding any part of it except for "Deathmatch." The word "weeniness" he had never heard of, and who in God's name was Mr. Elton?

He shook his head, trying to clear his clogged head, and decided to go upstairs to find Elizabeth. He shuffled down the hall, and slowly opened the bedroom door.

There she was, looking like an angel with her dark hair framing her fair face, mingling with the white satin pillow. "Elizabeth," he greeted her softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

She made a sound like "Mmmm…" and turned over.

"Elizabeth," he said, a little louder, leaning over the bed.

To his surprise, a pillow hit him hard in the face and he spun around, crashing down on the floor. Gone was the Sleeping Angel, in her place was an enraged young woman.

"Elizabeth!" he cried. "What in the world?"

She stood up walked stiffly over to where he was crumpled on the floor. "How dare you!" she screamed. "The third night after we're married and you don't even come home all night? Where were you?"

"But I did come home," he insisted, readjusting his jaw where the pillow had knocked him. "I just didn't come into the bedroom."

"Why ever not?"

"I don't know… I woke up on the stairs this morning."

She looked at him strangely for a minute, but the confusion turned to anger. "Fitzwilliam Darcy, that is the worst story I've ever heard! You were probably out getting drunk, weren't you? Oh, I just can't believe you!"

"No! Elizabeth, I swear I wasn't anywhere near a bar! You've got to believe me…I don't know what happened."

She sighed and sat back down on the bed. "All right, tell me what you know."

"All right. The last thing I remember is going out last night to meet Bingley at his house after dinner. Then, I don't know what happened, I must have blacked out…but the next thing I knew, I was on the stairs and it was ten o' clock this morning! Then I reached into my pocket and found this." He handed her the note.

"Yuk! Is this ketchup?" she said, holding the note at arm's length.

"As far I know. Here, care for a fry?" He pulled another one out of his coat pocket.

She looked disgusted. "I'll pass…." But as she read, her face grew solemn. "Darcy, this is serious! A Deathmatch? And you don't remember any of this?"

"I don't even know who Elton is!" he cried, burying his face in his hands.

Sighing, Elizabeth placed her hands on his shoulders. "Well, my dear, I am not happy about this, but there is no date or time here, so I assume you're in the clear. This 'Elton' probably doesn't know what he did last night either. Just lay low, and mark my words, nothing will come of this."

"And if something does come of this?" Darcy asked nervously.

"Then you'll have to get ready to rumble, that's all," she told him matter-of-factly.

A day passed, and then another and another, and Darcy was almost feeling himself to be out of the woods when a card bearing the name "Elton" was left upon his table. In a flutter of spirits, Darcy showed it to Elizabeth, and said hurriedly, "Oh my God! He's here! What do I do?"

"Hide! Hide!" she advised him, and he ran to the nearest available hiding place: under the couch.

A servant announced the visitor. "Mr. Elton to see you, Mrs. Darcy."

"Actually, I'm looking for a Mr. Darcy, ma'am. Is he here?" asked Elton.

"Um, there's no one of that name living here," Elizabeth said nervously.

Elton looked at her closely. "But your servant just announced you as Mrs. Darcy. I assume there's a Mr. Darcy.

"No…" Elizabeth began, searching for an excuse. "This is the Marcy residence. I am Mrs. Marcy."

"So…Fwood does not live here?"

"No, just Fwoom," she said with a fake smile.

He apologized and would have left directly, if the underside of the couch had not given a sudden sneeze due to the dust. Mr. Elton ran immediately over to the piece of furniture and pulled up the frill on the bottom.

"Uh…hi," Darcy began.

Elton grabbed Darcy's hand and pulled him out from under the couch. "You coward!" he admonished.

However, Darcy was pleased to see that if this was indeed the Mr. Elton, he had a good six or seven inches on the guy, and probably about twenty or thirty pounds. "How do you do, Mr. Elton," he greeted civilly, extending a dusty hand.

Mr. Elton blew off the dust and shook his hand. "You haven't forgotten our engagement, have you? Tonight at the Deathmatch arena?"

"Uh, to tell you the truth…" he said awkwardly, "I don't know how that happened. I mean, I woke up with this note in my pocket-" he pulled it out for Elton to examine-"But I am at a loss to remember what circumstances led to it."

"What? Can you have forgotten?" Elton asked incredulously.

"I don't think I ever knew," Darcy admitted. "Please, tell me what happened!"

"All right, but you might want to ask your wife to leave the room…" he said ominously.

Oh, crap, Darcy thought to himself. What did I do?

Elizabeth, with a not-too-kindly parting glance towards Darcy, exited the drawing room.

"Okay," began Elton, "It started as you were walking down Barnes Avenue…."

~ ~ ~FLASHBACK~ ~ ~

Darcy trotted along the street, rubbing his hands together. He had planned to take the carriage over to see Bingley and his wife, but thought a brisk walk in the cold air might clear him up. He was feeling a bit foggy, even though the dinner wine was not strong.

Lost in thought, he failed to notice a form in his path until he tripped over the small man. "Hey! Watch it!" the man exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, Mr…"

"Elton, of Highbury."

Darcy bent down. "What are you doing on the ground, Mr. Elton?"

"I've lost my wedding ring," Mr. Elton exclaimed, inspecting the cracks in the pavement. "It fell off and now I can't find it."

"Hmmm, pity the light is so bad. Here, I'll help you look."

It must have made a very funny picture, two gentlemen on their hands and knees crawling on the London street at night. Soon enough, however, Darcy saw a bit of something gold-ish just inside the sewer drain, looking like it had gotten a little oily, but still with the courage to shine a bit.

"Here, is this it?" Darcy asked, holding the object up.

"Yes, give it here! Oh, thank you so much, sir," Elton gushed, but even as he did so, the oil caused the ring to slip from Darcy's fingers and fall deeper into the drain.

"Oh, now look what you've done!" Elton cried. "You clumsy oaf!"

"See here, I was helping you!" Darcy explained.

"It would have been better if you hadn't at all! I'll never get it out now!"

Darcy tried to appease the angry man. "Sir, I will gladly replace the ring if you will only stop yelling at me."

"Oh, sure," Elton said sarcastically, "You rich boys always think your money can solve anything. But not this!" Before he knew what he was doing, he hit Darcy upside the head.

The blow was not enough to make Darcy fall down, but he was enraged. "How dare you, sir!" he yelled, and gave Elton a punch in the stomach.

"Oooff!" said Elton, reeling backwards into the alleyway. With much difficulty, he stood up, doubled over and said, "I'll tell you, sir, this means war!"

Mr. Darcy folded his arms over his chest. "You're too much of a weenie to go through with it."

"Oh, a weenie, am I?" Elton finally stood up straight. "Well, that's mature. And may I add that weeniness is not necessarily a bad thing."

"Well, I'll wager ten to one that a non-weenie man can beat a weenie man in a fair fight," Darcy countered.

"A Deathmatch, then, you say?" proposed Elton, staring at Darcy defiantly.

"Very well." He and Darcy shook hands firmly when a tempting aroma tickled their noses.

"Say. Do you smell french fries?"

"I do, which is very strange considering they do not exist in Regency England."

Elton fished around for some money in his pocket, and suggested they go and have some. Over their treat, they drew up the agreement in ketchup, and parted.

~ ~ ~BACK TO THE PRESENT~ ~ ~

"Hmmm," mused Darcy, "That knock on the head you gave me must have affected my short-term memory. I must have gone home after that."

"So, does that ring a bell?" asked Elton, sipping some tea.

"Yes, I remember now. And I do believe we can call the whole silly thing off, don't you? I mean, it is immature."

Elton slammed his fist down on the table. "A ha! Backing down, are we? Who's the weenie now?"

"Hey-I'm not a weenie!" Darcy sputtered. "Come on, I was tired, and not in my right mind! There's no reason to fight over it."

Elton strutted around, making chicken noises.

"All right, that's it! I could beat you any day of the week. In fact, give me a truckload of weenies, and I'll beat them all!" Darcy thundered.

"Consider it done!"

Elton stood up and towards the door, turning back only to say, "Tonight, Mr. Fwood, you won't know what hit you. The Weenies will rule the Earth!!"

"Fine! Gather all the weenies you can, and see if I care!"

"Very well." At the door, his final comment was "Good day to you," and stepped out.

Unfortunately for Elton, but true to his weeniness, he mistook the room's exit for the coat closet, and locked himself inside by accidentally turning the locking bar the wrong way.

Sometime that afternoon, Elizabeth heard his frantic pounding on the door and opened up the closet door.

"Mr. Elton? What are you doing in there?" she asked in wonder.

"Madam," he said as he bowed, "I believe I must be leaving now." He finally exited the room, leaving Elizabeth in a state of bewilderment.

Now, Mr. Elton had a crusade: he had to round up as many Austen Weenies as he could before the end of the day. He started with Sense and Sensibility.

"You, Edward?" said Elinor Ferrars in a mortified voice. "Why must you go and fight in a Deathmatch? You're not a weenie."

"Oh yeah? Have you ever seen me in Nine Months?" her husband countered as he packed his suitcase for the trip.

"But you are Darcy's friend! I just don't understand it."

"Just-ask Meesh, I don't know! I've got to go." He kissed his wife, locked his suitcase, and started out the door.

Elinor, still stung by this injustice, decided to do as Edward had suggested, and turned to face the computer monitor.

"Marie Michelle, why did you send Eddie to fight with the weenies? There are other weenies in this story, you know. Take Colonel Brandon instead! He's a soldier, and a better fighter!" Elinor shouts indignantly.

Sorry, Elinor. His nose always gets in the way.

"Then what about Willoughby? He's bad, and Edward is good! Send him instead!"

Sorry, bad or not, he is just too attractive! God forbid he get a scar or something.

"But it's not fair, Meesh!" Elinor shrieks.

Hey-isn't Emma Thompson supposed to be sleeping with one Greg Wise?

Elinor reddens. "All right, you win. Just bring Ed home in one piece, okay?"

Consider it done.

Elton also managed with greater ease to round up William Collins, Frank Churchill, and William Walter Elliot, and then he was out of time. But still, five weenies…not bad!

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the DEATHMATCH!!!" Cheers went up around the room as Dan gave the warm-up speech. "Tonight, we have a good, although slightly uneven match for you…."

"Oh, I don't know about uneven, Dan," said Stan. "The opposition are clearly weenies."

"That's right, Stan," continued Dan. "Now, let's welcome our first competitor….in right corner, let's give it up for F.W.D.!"

The crowd went wild as Darcy stepped into the ring in his little blue wrestling uniform, flexing his muscles. Frank Churchill licked his lips, and an audience chant began: "Fwood! …Fwood! ….Fwood! … Fwood!…"

"And over in left corner, let's give it up for THE WEENIES! We've got Elton! We've got Churchill! We've got Ferrars, Elliot, and Collins!" Dan continued as Mr. Collins' short, pudgy legs tried to keep pace with the rest of his group. He ended up getting tangled in the strings that edged the Deathmatch ring.

"Uh, little help?" he shouted to Mr. Elliot, who had to use all of his strength to pull Collins free of the ropes. The audience roared with laughter.

They were an oddly dressed group; Mr. Elton in a red wrestling uniform with one of those ridiculous hats on his head, Frank Churchill in all velvet (as usual), Edward Ferrars in Bermuda shorts, William Walter Elliot in a three-piece suit and tie, and Mr. Collins in black tights.

Still, five men against one was enough to make Elizabeth Darcy a little uncomfortable. She was gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, and Charlotte Collins, who was sitting next to her, tried to calm her down.

"No worries, Elizabeth, Darcy will be fine. He's got more brainpower than all five put together, except perhaps Edward Ferrars. Why is he there? I thought he and Darcy were friends. Meesh?" called Charlotte to the monitor.

Yes, Charlotte?

"Why is Mr. F. fighting against Darcy?"

Talk to Elinor.

Still, Elizabeth fingered the plastic lining of her tortilla packet, and took heart. If Darcy were in any real trouble, she could fling those things like there was no tomorrow.

Stan, up in the announcer's box, gave the final call. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are seconds away from the start of the ultimate fight: the dominance of weeniness or nonweeniness!"

"That's right Stan," said Dan, "And I see that tonight, we are joined by an exclusive club, the FanFic writers of RoP!" A cheer emanated from one side of the arena.

"Uh, Dan? They're here for every Deathmatch."

"Oh. Well, that changes things, now doesn't it? And Stan?"

"Yes, Dan?"

"Have you ever noticed that our names rhyme?"

Stan looked in awe at his co-announcer. "No, I have never noticed that. What a coincidence! But I suspect it's time to begin our match. Ladies and Gentlemen? LET'S GET READY TO RRRRRRUMBLE!!!"

Darcy rushed towards his opponents, hoping to come on strong and gain the advantage. However, he stopped short when he saw Edward Ferrars among those hoping to defeat him.

"Edward!" he cried in surprise. "I thought we were allies! Doesn't Ferrars-Bingley Incorporated mean anything to you? The FBI will be so disappointed! Anyway, you're not a weenie."

Edward sighed. "Haven't you ever seen my movies? My entire comedic agenda consists of falling down and looking lame."

"All right, you've got me there," Darcy acknowledged. "Still, you're a good guy. Meesh?" he called at the monitor.

*sigh* Yes, Darcy?

"Why is Edward fighting against me?"

All right, that's it! No more! I had it up to here with these accusations. I'm leaving! .

"Then who's going to finish this story?"

*silence* Good point.

Anyway, Darcy rushed towards his opponents, hoping to come on strong and gain the advantage. Edward Ferrars, using his best defensive strategy, fell down, and the audience laughed heartily. Mr. Collins made circular motions with his fists, Mr. Elliot cowered in a corner, and Frank Churchill waved his cane about in random gyrations.

Then, in a surge of motion, Mr. Elton threw himself on Darcy's back, trying to drag the larger man down. "A Deathmatch is a Deathmatch," he said between pants of exertion, "But a Deathmatch on a Darcy?!"

But Fwood wasn't having any of that. He grabbed Mr. Elton around the waist and threw him down in a well-timed body slam. The vibration caused Edward Ferrars, who had just risen up from the floor, to fall again.

"Go, Edward!" shouted Elinor. "Show 'em how to fall!" Then, in an aside to her sister Marianne, "Lord, he is a weenie.

It seemed to all in the audience that Darcy had no competition, except for possibly Frank Churchill. He got in a couple of good cane shots on Darcy, probably because of his recent Jedi training. "Take that! And that!" Frank shouted. "The chances of successfully defeating me are approximately 3, 720 to one!"

"Never tell me the odds," panted Darcy in true Han Solo style.

While Frank was trying to remember the line that came after that in the movie, Darcy turned his attention to William Walter Elliot in the corner. Elliot panicked as Darcy drew closer, unable to put together a coherent sentence.

"I must warn you-" he said in a high-pitched voice, "My baronet is an uncle!"

This had no effect on Fwood, who was still bearing inexorably towards him. "Uh…my…Unnet is a Barcle?" Elliot tried again.

Darcy picked him up as if he were a mere french fry, and threw him out of the ring. Well, one weenie down, four to go.

Behind him, Frank Churchill called out, "I've got it! The next line is when C-3PO screams AAAH! because they're in an asteroid field!" And with that bit of genius, Frank launched himself on top of Darcy. The audience didn't like this; tortillas started flying wildly.

Mr. Collins grabbed a few and started snacking, because it had been almost a whole half hour since his last meal, but his dinner was upset when Darcy heaved up and knocked Frank away.

Now Elton rushed him, but all Darcy had to do to avoid him was duck out of the way. The chant started up again, "Fwood!…Fwood!…Fwoooooooood!"

Darcy quite felt himself to be the winner and grand champion when he heard a strange hissing noise behind him. Startled, he turned around to see Frank cradling a green light saber.

Oh, crap, thought Darcy for the second time that day.

However, from his left, he heard a "Psst!" He looked down and saw Han Solo, knee-high boots and all, handing him what appeared to be a blaster gun.

Darcy took it as Frank called out, "FwDarcy, are you prepared to duel?"

"Um…hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster by your side, kid," Darcy quoted. He looked over to Han, who gave him the thumbs-up sign.

The crowd fell silent as Darcy and Frank began to spar with their Star Wars weapons. Every time Frank made a pass with his light saber, Darcy shot off the blaster and deflected it.

"Oh, my," gasped Elizabeth, straining to see what was happening. "Those are deadly weapons! Someone could get killed!"

"That's why they call it a Deathmatch, honey," said Charlotte unsympathetically. "Come on, Darcy, stick it to 'em!"

Frank Churchill had fought Darcy back to the corner of the ring when Fwood made an unexpected move. He hooked his arm around the back of Frank and shot cleanly, slicing off half of Churchill's hair.

"My hair! My precious hair!" Frank screeched, and in doing so, dropped his light saber, which rolled out of the ring.

"Trust me, kid, you needed the haircut," Darcy quipped, then handed Frank a handful of cash. "Here, go buy a pianoforte."

Frank slumped over. He knew when he was beaten.

However, Elton, Mr. Collins, and Eddie Ferrars began to advance on Fwood, who was getting very tired of this whole fighting thing. He was bruised from Frank's cane, and had a ringing in his ears from the roar of the crowd. So, he devised a plan.

"Stan, the microphone, please?" requested Fwood, and the device was promptly handed over by a bewildered Stan. This sort of thing had never happened before.

Darcy took a deep breath. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I have learned something tonight, fighting the Weenie forces. We should not be enemies! For even I-yes, I know it will surprise you-even I have some weeniness in me! Yes, it is true, I myself am a weenie man. And I'll wager that if you all look inside yourselves, that every man, woman, and child is a little bit weenie. So can't we all join together? Can't we unite in a kinder, gentler, weenier world? I believe that weenies are the future, so let them lead the way!"

The audience slowly began to applaud, and slowly began to stand up in recognition of Darcy's speech. His competitors were mellowed; Elton was teary-eyed, Frank Churchill was hanging his head, Mr. Collins was pondering the religious implications, and Eddie was leaning against the ropes, stuttering, "Uh, well, that is, um, very true. Yes, I, uh, would have to, uh, um, agree."

Darcy viewed his subdued opponents and grinned. Now was his chance. Picking them up one by one, he threw them out of the ring and proclaimed himself the winner.

The crowd went absolutely wild at Darcy's brilliant tactic. Tortillas, flowers, and even some panties were thrown into the ring as Dan held up Darcy's right hand. "The Winner and Grand Champeen, Fitzwilliam "Fwood" Darcy!!!"

Women poured up onstage for kisses and congratulations, and for a while there he felt like Colonel Fitzwilliam. He searched the crowd in vain for his wife. She must have ducked out to avoid the crowd.

Finally, he distinguished her among the masses and caught her eye. "Fitzwilliam!" he called out. Then, rethinking, "Wait, I would be Fitzwilliam. You would be Elizabeth, right?"

"My dear, that was a very weenie thing to do," she said as he swept her into his arms and held kissed her dramatically. "My husband, Ruler of the Weenies!"

"It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" Fwood replied, and carried his dear wife out of the building in his arms.

~ ~ ~Epilogue~ ~ ~

Well, after the fight, everyone indulged in french fries and ketchup, including all the Fanfic writers. However, one prevailing question unsettled them: where was Colonel Fitzwilliam? His cousin was fighting; he ought to have been there.

The answer was soon forthcoming as Darcy took to his microphone again, explaining that the Colonel was at a GAA meeting for his Shirley Temple addiction. ("Hello, my name is Colonel Fitzwilliam and I am," *sniff* *sob* "A Ginger Alecoholic!")

Mr. Elton went home to his wife, and made himself another wedding ring out of tin foil.

Edward Ferrars was discovered by talent agents and given his own show, The Show in Which Edward Falls Down.

Mr. Collins ate too many tortillas and had to be surgically removed from his black tights.

William Walter Elliot was considered an object of interest because his name contained so many "L"s.

Frank Churchill bought his pianoforte, but had to give it up to Jabba the Hutt because of bounty taxes.

And Fwood went contentedly home with his prize, a little crown with a cocktail sausage on top, which sits proudly in a little glass case in the entranceway of Pemberley.

Finis