Authoress' Note: This Deathmatch is tied in with our story Mansfield Revised, but even if you have not read the story, you can still read the Deathmatch!--for those of you that have not read MR, Tim refers to Tom Bertram and Melissa refers to Mary Crawford--however, Melissa and Tim are from the 1990s while the story takes place in the Regency period.

Melissa happily agreed to leave, and went to fetch her pelisse in the separate hall, where she was surprised to meet up with Tim.

"Can you believe Edmund?" he asked, attempting to laugh. "He must be very in love with you!"

Melissa would not have blushed had they been in the middle of the bustling parlor, but she could not help blushing now. "No, of course not. How silly of you!"

"Why is that silly? Any man could fall in love with you, I think, and as amusing as Edmund can be, he is a man."

Melissa did not reply. She felt her throat tighten as she heard Tim, and she pretended to be interested in brushing off her red pelisse. "Look at this," she said, affecting to laugh. "It is a mess--perhaps there is something in Edmund's theories about dusty roads."

Tim brought his hands over to the silk pelisse to help her clear away the dirt, finding his way to her hand in the process. For a moment he held his hand over hers. Melissa did not move, but merely stood there before stealing a glance at him. He caught her eyes--caught the expression in them--and unknowingly, his hands traveled from the red to her shoulders, then to the back of her mass of curls. Their faces grew closer together, but before they could touch, the sound of a door opening was heard . . .

The shocked personage who had opened the door was Edmund.

"Miss--Miss--Miss Crawford? T--T--Tom?" he stuttered, extremely shocked.

Tim released his arms from around her, but retained his hold on a hand. "Yes, Edmund?"

"Tom? Miss Crawford?" he stuttered in reply.

Tim continued to stand defiantly. "Yes?"

Edmund began to shake where he stood, emotions boiling so furiously in him so that he could not control his tongue. Melissa, watching with a slightly alarmed glance, tried to take her hand from him, but Tim would not allow it.

"You--you--you!" cried Edmund, seething. His voice conveyed its anger eloquently enough--there was little need for more to be said.

"Yes, I."

"You--you rake, you!" he cried, contempt, anger and outrage plain. He quickly stepped over to his brother, and slapped his full across the face. "I challenge you to a Deathmatch!"

"And I accept!" returned Tim boldly, standing his ground and taking the blow without a move. But the more he thought about it, the less Tim liked the idea of fighting Edmund. It was not that he felt that he couldn't beat the Boy. Tim had been an avid boxer in his spare time in London, and though not overly-muscular, had been the fright of the many young men who had to face him. Rather, Tim didn't like the idea of an old-fashioned duel. If I face Edmund in a Deathmatch, I'd rather the fight be more physical, instead of only pulling a trigger from feet away. I'd like it to be in a modern setting, where I can beat him with my fists and pummel him in a corner until the blood drips down his face and mixes with the sweat . . .

"All right! all right!" protest the Madame Authoresses in unison. Partly to prevent his thoughts from giving their story an EB-17 rating, and partly (fine; mostly) because they dote on their creation and follow his every whim, they suddenly transport the characters through time until Tim Brookston finds himself standing alone in a boxing ring, surrounded by screaming fans.

A bright geometric sign hangs above him announcing the event, and an odd sort of music--loud bass mixed with the rhythms of an out-dated synthesizer--fills the air. But not completely, for the smells are terrible, mostly consisting of Old Spice and incense rising up from the brightly-clothed audience members.

Tim looks down to find himself wearing short red shorts with a white stripe running down each side. He is glad to see that his hair is the same short, shaggy dirty-blonde color, and not wildly permed like most of the men in the audience's styles. But that the fight takes place in the 1970s . . .

It is true, for the boxing ring looks half Rocky, half Saturday Night Fever, with the huge sign lifting up to reveal strobe lights and disco balls. Tim breathes a sigh of annoyance, looking up to the raised platform near the ring for help.

There sit two young women, raised powerfully above everyone else, though their clothes are certainly no better. They wear gray pin-striped leisure suits with hideously flared pants. The 1940s gangster-style hats they wear, and the desk messed up with pages from their story and copies of Lovers' Vows they sit behind, hold the audience members in awe, but only make Tim more upset.

"Can I talk with you both?"

"Of course, darling!" one of the girls answers happily, quickly smoothing out her short black hair.

"Come right up--on the elevator," the other says, and proceeds to add more blue eyeshadow to her lids. "I do feel bad for him, Marie," she says, glancing at the other girl through her pocket mirror, "but he looks so cute in those shorts!"

Tim rides the beaded elevator up to the platform, stomping over to he desk and throwing himself into the brown office chair.

"I thought you two liked me!" he exclaims, putting on a boyish pout. "So why did you put me into the 70s instead of the 90s?"

"Well, you must understand," says the blue-lidded girl, putting on her dark sunglasses, "that though you are a favorite, you're still at the mercy of plot. The 70s are just funnier than the 90s. And then there is the Disco King--we're giving him a chance to join the right decade for once . . ."

Tim gets up, paces the floor, and angrily sits down again.

"Rachel, are you saying you want Edmund to win? Against me, your pet?" he said, leaning over the desk with his face near hers.

"Never, hon," she answers with a smile. "We know you'll win anyway; we just want some comedy."

"Selfish whims of the authors, you know," adds Marie.

"ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!"

"ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!"

"PRUDENCE IS THE ANSWER"

and

"PREVENT WAR: PROTECT THE WEAK"

"P.E.T.A.?" asks Tim, confused.

"The way they're treating that llama?" Marie asks. "I should say not."

"ALL WE ARE SAYING IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!!!!"

"Stop! Stop! Before this fight continues, I must speak. On behalf of People for the Ethical Treatment of Edmund, I suggest that you, the audience members, boycott this disgusting match, which can only bring harm to our beloved hero of Mansfield Park, Edmund Bertram. Edmund has many first-rate qualities that these so-called 'Authoresses' are neglecting to show! Edmund would never wear a leisure suit, let alone engage in boxing or even be a Disco King! For the love of decency, humanity, and Edmund, I am forced to threaten to shut this Match down! Edmunds have rights too, you know! Excrete P.U.T.E.! Excrete P.U.T.E.!"

The other P.E.T.E. members join in the cry. "EXCRETE P.U.T.E.! EXCRETE P.U.T.E.!"

Tim's brow furrows as he listens. "Excrete what?"

"Oh, bugger!" cries Rachel, jumping up from her chair and stomping her feet. Her face scrunches up, and she throws off her fedora and pulls the scrunchy out of her dirty-blond hair--the better to shake her head about and throw a temper-tantrum with, of course!

"Excrete P.U.T.E.--the People for the Unethical Treatment of Edmund, of course!" explains Marie.

"Why, I like that!" cries Tim in agreement.

Marie smiles benignly. "Why, of course, my precious!" she replies, and leans over to stroke his cheek lovingly. She sighs deeply, then turns to Rachel, who is now sulking, and says, "C'mon, Rachel. We have work to do--after all, this is our Deathmatch!"

With a sigh, Rachel pulls her hair back up, adjusts her fedora, and the two Authoresses march towards the elevator. Tim sighs for a moment, but quickly turns himself to view the confrontation.

"OK, girls, what's the big idea comin' in like this?" Marie asks.

"Edmund should not be humiliated and degraded in the manner you have been doing in your story, and this Deathmatch! He cannot fight!"

"Cannot or will not? Has he turned . . . chicken? Does he need the big bad P.E.T.E. to save him?" Rachel says provokingly.

Both the girl and her llama stiffen. "Edmund is not chicken! He is perfectly ready to fight, but--"

"Then why isn't he fighting?" Rachel interrupts.

"Now, girls, let's not be unreasonable! You see, we've rented out this arena, a disc jockey, a tortilla seller, and etc to have this Deathmatch, and you can't expect us to let it go at that, can you? C'mon, how about we let the boys just fight it out, and then we can resume enmity later?"

"No, we cannot allow that! There has been far too much Edmund bashing, and it's time that P.E.T.E. put a stop to it!" passionately cries the leader.

"Well, then, I'm going to write you out!" cries Rachel.

Suddenly, Mr. Collins appears, and approaches the group of P.E.T.E. supporters. They begin to run away, with Collins giving chase, and the danger is no more.

"I think that this Deathmatch can continue now, eh?" says Rachel jauntily.

"What did you do that for?" cries Marie. "You just got rid of P.E.T.E.! Now what are we going to do? I was prepared to be nice, to reason with them, and unite us in peace and harmony, but you just had to write them out!"

"Well, it had to be done," says Rachel defensively. "That llama was starting to smell!"

"But what are we going to do for a crowd?"

"Simple!" answers Rachel. "Write them in!"

Suddenly, a whole audience full of people appears, all of the usual Deathmatchers. Bertramites to the left, Timites to the right, and Regular Dwiggies and the usual Jane Austen characters in between, but this time, everyone is in 70s regalia, and many of the people seem pleased by this. The lucky Dwiggies who sit right behind Darcy and his fellow heroes are quite pleased, as the gentlemen are attired in tight polyester. Lurking in the background is Henry Crawford, who is wearing a pin-stripe gray leisure suit as well, but also a white trench coat with faux fur trimming with several gold chains and a few large gold rings, giving him the appearance of a pimp. However, the effect is ruined as his face is bandaged up quite tightly, but his darting eyes fit the aura well as he looks around for Ann.

Again appear the Timites, a noisy group of fans who look quite delighted to see Tim in short red shorts. Many of them hold signs saying things like,

Down with the Disco King!

and

Anhalt, Kick Weenie Butt!

and just

GO TIM!!!!

In desperation, the Authoresses call up George "The Rat" Wickham, who trudges up to the desk in platform shoes and a black leisure suit.

"What's the idea?" he asks, using his hands as he talks. "I was just getting a real good bet down from Knightley . . ."

"Great," says Rachel, "but we're going to need you now for another sort of bet . . ."

"You mean a bribe?" he asks, eyes widening with greed.

Marie nods as she tosses out a wallet onto the desk.

"That's it, kid. We need more fans for the Disco King, or we're gonna be accused of being biased." Rachel looks shocked at the word, disbelieving that anyone could ever accuse them of hating Edmund. Marie continues, "Even though we're the writers, there is still one who can end this match in a second: the all-powerful Mafia Madame, Ann."

Wickham shrinks into the chair.

"Yes," he says, discreetly taking the wallet. "I'll find you some fans. I'll even take Bertram's side, myself."

"Oh," says Rachel, "fine, but don't be too supportive of him. We still mean to humiliate him, you know."

Wickham is not gone ten minutes before he comes back in the building with men dressed in flowered shirts and brightly colored corduroy bell-bottoms. Their hair is furiously curled, but one man, whom the rest affectionately call Johnny Yates, has extraordinarily high curls coming from the top of his short haircut. They all speak in loud voices, and act so dazedly that the Authoresses have to send down the PG Police to check the men for drugs, which have no place in Austen Deathmatches. However, Yates protests that it is their strong cologne that makes them so giddy, and the police do not have to stand near the men for any longer for proof. They acquit them of their suspicion, and go question the especially shady man in the fake fur and bandages.

Meanwhile on the platform, Wickham throws the wallet back on the desk, as full as it was when he received it.

"Didn't you need to bribe them?" asks Marie with surprise.

"Oh, I had to bribe them, all right," says Wickham, long-faced; "I had to give them my supply of Aqua-Net."

"That is why Yates agreed!" cries Rachel with relief. "I knew it would take a tempting proposition to take away his loyalty."

"Then we're ready, we can begin now."

"No! Wait!" Rachel exclaims. "We can't leave out the traditional introduction song. The fighters would be so disappointed. Even Mary Tyler Moore is introduced with a song."

"But that has hat-throwing in it," observes Marie. "If a hat goes out into the audience and hits someone, we could get sued . . ."

Rachel frustratedly shakes her head.

"But there's a rule in the fighter's clause against hat-throwing. They won't throw hats. Besides, we're not even playing that song . . ."

She smiles and pulls out a megaphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to be able to introduce to you that Dictator of Dancing, Bishop of Ballet, that King of Disco, Edmund Bertram!!!!"

Edmund rushes out into the ring. Though he is the Disco King, he looks more like a Disco Diva with the shiny purple-feathered turban upon his head. He has gold-sequined pants and a shirt of white silk, unremarkable in that era but for the cut off sleeves and Laverne-ish 'E' embroidered on his left breast pocket.

In hardly any time, Yates' crowd, the men strung out on cologne and hairspray, begin to clap wildly, practically sobbing with excitement. Of course Edmund thinks the applause is for himself, and he proceeds to show off bits of muscle. He does not even consider that the good reception might possibly be for the men in the middle of the ring, rising from underneath the stage on a raised stage-like, circular platform. The Gibb brothers (for Gibbs they are) have their instruments with them, along with their attire that would have looked impressive had Edmund not been standing by them. Loudly, the group begins to play Edmund's theme song, "Staying Alive."

"A live band?" asks Marie in amazement. Although she doesn't even like the Bee Gees, she can't take her eyes off them.

"A new feature," Rachel says with pride. "You see, from the future we're able to lure stars back in time. It's all these old stars really want--to go back to when they were big. Because now, of course, they're elderly victims of silly comeback albums and cancelled morning television shows."

"Quite touching," Marie says with tears in her eyes, having to reapply her pink mascara.

But the song eventually ends, and the Bee Gees go back through the floor to the cruel 90s.

"Wait 'till you hear Tim's song!" Rachel says with excitement.

Again, out comes the megaphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I take even more pleasure in announcing the other participant in this match. Not a bad dancer himself, he is best known to you as the charmer of hearts, and an overall charmer! Ladies and gentlemen, here he is, that one-of-a-kind cutie, the Authoresses' 'fly guy,'--Tom Bertram!"

A different band appears, and the song "The Joker" begins to play as Tim walks down the aisle to the platform. Many of the ladies cheer appreciatively at his appearance; the Timites shout their support for their hero.

"Go Tim!" calls Maddie from her seat in the stands. "You teach that Disco King a new dance or two!"

Once Tim jumps into the ring, he starts directly to make for Edmund, but the Authoresses interrupt. "No, Tom! Not yet!" they say to him. He duly backs off, and they begin to announce the rules of the match.

"Hmm . . . I can't think of anything. Marie?" Rachel says.

Marie begins to think, and after a few moments' pondering, says, "Gee . . . you know, what, Rachel? I can't think of anything, either!"

"Hmm . . . well, you guys shouldn't kill each other," Rachel says. "After all, we need to keep this relatively PG."

They nod their agreement, and the girls then back off to the sides and shout, "Go!"

Both Yates' friends and the rest of the crowd cheer as the two men start approaching each other. They walk closer, and back up from each other at turns, sizing out their competition. Tim starts the blows, throwing a couple of wide punches as an opening feint. Edmund then starts tap dancing close to Tim, then backs up a little bit as he continues to tap. Tim then gives him a look, and begins to tap fairly himself.

"Ahh . . . it appears that Tim prefers a more Fred Astaire approach to dancing, while Edmund predictably leans more towards being a Lord of the Dance," comments Marie.

"Of course! After all, he is the Disco King. Count on him to be more of a soloist," Rachel replies.

Disco music comes on, and Edmund abandons his tap-dancing for more of a Disco Fever style. Tim freezes, and watches him dancing, more than a little stunned.

"Good form. Nicely executed," Rachel comments.

"Yes! The poise of his arm; its movements are all very clean, very precise. They really don't call him the Disco King for nothing," agrees Marie.

Edmund continues to show off his flashy steps, slowing down a little as he approaches Tim.

"What;" he says with a sneer, "are you afraid to risk your fly guy reputation by dancing? Tom, you're only a silly boy with two very silly girls for managers."

"They're silly," Tim agrees with a smile, "but they're silly girls who adore me." To demonstrate, he turns to Rachel and Marie and gives them a wink, to which they quickly reply with madly blown kisses. The girls in the audience pick up on the affection, yelling things to Tim that only made Edmund's dancing grow more dizzying.

"Tim, will you marry me?"

"Tom!! make me Lady Bertram!"

"Take me to Weymouth with you, Tim! Please!!!!"

Screaming girls have to be dragged from the edges of the ring, and Susan is about to be taken away by the bodyguards until Rachel tells them to let her go.

"You can't blame her," she says.

"Not at all," agrees Marie. "Look at Tim now--he's beginning to disco dance. Hmmmm . . . not bad. He's every bit the Travolta as he is Astaire."

Though not such a violent dancer as Edmund, Tim does move with skill, bringing more of a 60s James Bond flair to his dancing. Both performers (fighters, or what you will) obey the applause and wishes of their crowd: Edmund throws whatever kind of move Yates and his friends call out, requests that grow more crazy each time Yates sprays his hair. Tim, ever the gentleman, satisfies his fans with shakes of the hips. However much both crowds together scream, there are some who are not enjoying themselves.

Wickham and his Rat Pack (or separately, though they are rarely separate, known as Willoughby, Elliot, Thorpe, and Elton. As the name suggests, Wickham is the leader,) slide over to the big desk in their black clothes and tall shoes.

"What's the story, girls?" Wickham asks. "You know that this dancing isn't gonna help our bets any."

"We're betting against the Bertramites," Billy Elliot explains, pointing to Yates and his crew. "We're trying to win the Rat's hairspray back."

Sheepishly, Wickham feels the need to further explain.

"You see, my hair needs Aqua-Net for all due proper body and frizz. If I didn't use it, my hair could never be the monument of height and stiffness that it is today." The others, with large grins upon their faces, nod; some place their hands upon the tall hair style just to prove their leader correct.

"OK, OK, you'll get your supply," Marie says, slightly annoyed. "Won't they, Rachel?"

"Sure they will," says Rachel as she tries to ignore Willoughby's obnoxious flirtations. "But they are right about the fight. Shouldn't Tim and Eddie-Baby be throwing a few punches now so we can at least pick a winner?"

Marie looks at the fighters, then back at Rachel.

"Well . . . I do like the dancing, but I guess that we need a winner."

"Because the fight is rigged," Wickham tells the Pack with a nudge.

"Is not!" cries Rachel. "We know who will win, of course, but it's not rigged!"

"Is too!" snickers Wickham.

"No, it is not!" repeats Rachel, giving Wickham a quizzical look designed to scare him.

While slightly bewildered, he gives her a quelling look designed to scare her, though not in the same way she means to scare him. "Yes, it is, and that is a good thing, you know!" he hisses.

She then hisses back, "No, it is not!" and ends this by wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at him.

"Arugh!" screams Wickham, and jumps to the floor, his Pack quickly following suit. "OK, OK, it's not rigged! It's not!" Tentatively, he peeks his head over the edge of the desk, and jumps up, resuming his cool ssurance. "Never do that again--it's creepier than Collins!"

"So I've been told," Rachel replies, slightly amused. "Don't worry, Georgie, you'll get your Aqua Velva."

"Aqua Net. I am more of a Brut man myself," he replies, shaking slightly in disgust.

"Whatever," replies Marie, then waves at him with her arm as she looks away. "Now, go away, Wickham, or people will really begin to suspect that this match is rigged."

"Whatever you say, doll," he replies, and grabbing her hand, kisses it. After he and his Pack slink away, she discreetly wipes it furiously off on her jacket. "Icky," she murmurs to herself.

The girls then turn back to the Match, which was developing along interesting lines.

"Whoa!" says Marie, surprised. "Look at Tom--he's doing the Twist!"

Indeed, his hip-action had developed into the full-blown Twist, and the girls were screaming even louder. Edmund quickly runs over to Tim, and starts furiously doing the Bump. With a few Bumps, he quickly knocks the Fly Guy over, and then shouting, "Belly flop!" throws himself onto the fallen figure. Accordingly, Yates and his friends, after spritzing more Aqua Net into the air, begin to cheer loudly.

Tim, however, had learned a thing or two, for he quickly pulls at Edmund's turban, and runs his fingers through Eddie's hair, completely messing up the coiffure. Johnny Yates boos loudly, aghast at such barbarity as the Rat Pack chuckles appreciatively.

Quickly, Edmund rolls off him and starts moaning, fixing his hair frantically. Tim takes the opportunity to jump up, and flashes a look at the audience that makes even Lise grin foolishly. Then, he pulls on his boxing gloves, and walks over to Edmund.

"All right, I've had enough of this. We've fought this your way, and now we're going to fight my way." He throws a pair of gloves at Edmund, who quickly puts them on.

"Uh-oh!" calls out Rachel. "Now they're going to box--I think the Disco King is going to soon lose his crown!"

Edmund, clearly unfamiliar with the sport, initially ducks at Tim's well-aimed blows. He runs around the ring, frantically uttering the cries of the chased deer. Once Edmund has escaped his punches, though, Tim doesn't even bother trying to run after Edmund, for the laughs have already started.

"Fight like a man!" The Rat Pack yells to the Edmund cowering in the corner with the gloves protectively covering his face.

Tim stands on the other side, hands on his hips.

"What do I do now?" he yells up to the authoresses.

After a pause, Marie instructs him to insult Edmund. "That will be the quickest way to start up a real fight."

"Yeah," agrees Rachel, "and if you can't think of insults for him, ask me. I have plenty!"

Tim grins, and steps up to Edmund, gloves poised.

"Edmund, where is Miss Crawford? Didn't you let her come, or is she too embarrassed to see her fiancé defeated?"

Edmund glares through his hands, jumping up to the same level as Tim.

"Tom, you're still jealous! You think she likes you, but if she could only see all the girls you're flirting with. . ."

"Better than flirting with the guys," retorts Tim.

"HEY!" Yates yells from the audience. More boos come from his crowd, giving Edmund confidence. He starts to swing his arms wildly, once in a while actually succeeding in hitting Tim. The opponent starts to punch Edmund with force until the weaker of the two is unable to fight back any more.

"Finally!" The Rat cries. "A winner!!! Edmund loses--Johnny Yates owes me ten cans of Aqua-Net."

"Aww . . . wasn't that cute?" comments Rachel. "Tim wins! and look at him, his hair is still looking good!"

Indeed, Tim standing over Edmund, his hair still looking scruffy and perfect, not at all sweaty, presents quite a picture. Just imagine it to yourself, and you can then imagine what the other girls in the auditorium are feeling right now.

Yes, they are ready to tear themselves apart in the pursuit of Tim.

"Yes, Tim!" they cheer loudly, and rush towards the platform as the live band starts playing "God Save the King," or, at least, the disco version of it. However, Tim does not pay attention to the drooling, screaming mass of lecherous women. He goes towards the side, and begins to look for the woman for whom he fought the match: Melissa.

"Melissa!" he shouts to the audience as he looks, hoping to find her. "Melissa!"

Suddenly, he hears a faint cry of "Tim!" He turns, and then sees Melissa.

"MELISSA!" he shouts loudly, which only makes the screaming women yell "TIM!" louder. Suddenly, however, Melissa makes her way to the front of the crowd, after some biting and kicking.

"Tim! Hi!" she says, and he grins his most alluring, darling grin at her.

"Hello," he says in a very seductive voice.

Suddenly, another voice is heard through the crowd. "Oh, liberty!" calls a man, having fought through the crowds, who immediately crosses to Melissa's side.

Tim watches, horrified. "Yates?" he says.

The man grins, and pats his hair. "C'est moi, c'est moi, I blush to disclose; I'm far too noble to lie," he warbles. Melissa grins, and pats him on the arm.

Tim watches, horrified. "Melissa? Yates?--Melissa and Yates??" He looks ready to throw up.

She looks a little contrite. "I'm sorry, Tim, but I wandered in with Henry," she indicates the figure still lurking in the back, "and I wandered towards the Bertramite section, because he," here she indicates the bleeding mass on the platform, "was my fiancé, after all, but then I saw Johnny," here she indicates the figure next to her, "and his whole 70ishness quite captivated me. So, I've decided that I'm going to marry Yates instead--isn't that right, my little Baron?" she says, turning to him and patting his cheek lovingly. She then wipes her hand off on her clothes, and turns back to Tim.

"But--but--but I love you!" he pleads, quite abashed.

"I hate to say it, Tim, but I really don't love you anymore. Sorry!" she says, and taking her new fiancé's arm, walks out of the auditorium, leaving Tim's mouth wide open and his puppy-dog eyes even more puppy-doggish than was ever believed possible.

Naturally, now that Tim had faced the ultimate disappointment of having his love spurn him, all of the females in the audience are ready to console him, including the Authoresses, who were right next to him.

"Awww, Tim . . ." croons Rachel, quite affected by his appearance.

"She's . . . she's . . . she's . . ."

"Yes, Tim, she's gone," says Marie, sneakily sliding her hand around his waist. He quickly turns to face them.

"You did this to me!" he accuses them. "You had me fight, and then you made her go off with Yates! How could you do this to me? I love her! She loves me!"

"No, she loved you, but now she loves Yates," Rachel said consolingly, and starts to pat him on the back.

This time, he does not throw off the comforting gesture. "She's gone," he says forlornly.

"Well, Tim, it was destined to happen. We couldn't stop it," says Marie, slipping her arm around his waist again.

He then sniffles, and with a sob, turns to Marie and throws himself against her. "She left me!" he moans, and begins to weep, his head against her shoulder.

The girls in the audience, perceiving his distress, begin to cry also.

"Aww, there, there, Tim," she says sweetly, patting him on the back with a little glee, more than happy to have him so near.

Rachel sighs, realizing when she's beat, and turns away when she perceives a figure at the back. She jumps down from the platform, and runs to the back, where there lurks a figure.

"Henry Crawford!" she exclaims.

"Not so loud!" he hisses, his eyes darting around the audience. "Do you want Ann to hear?"

"She's not here; don't worry."

He then looks at her, annoyed. "You know, you did this to me," he says, using his cane to gesture at the bandages. "You had Rushworth sit on me, you had Edmund pull my hair, throw Bibles at me, and you prompted Ann to beat me up! What did I ever do to you? I admit, if Maria Bertram did this to me, I would have expected it, but what did I do to you? I never seduced you, or any of your family, certainly--not even your great-great-great-grandmother, I'm sure! What did I do?"

She, hearing this injured man lecture her, feels suddenly moved. "You were too cute for your own good, Henry! Come with me, and I will write you ultimate happiness!" she cries, and throws herself at the louse. Shrugging, he accepts her embrace as the crowd starts chasing Edmund out of the building in the background.

But let us suffice to say that Melissa and Yates sailed off into the Deathmatch sunset, taking tours of all the clothes stores near the auditorium with complete bliss. Melissa soon forgot all about her old fiancé and even Tim, and grew as fond of Yates' hair as her own, which she had styled in a very similar way.

But the Rat Pack did not end so happily, for as soon as they were out the door with their retrieved stash, they were caught in a giant Rat Trap maneuvered by Ann. She was glad to have defeated them, and rather roughly showered the trapped louses with such displays of cheerfulness that made them all sick.

Left behind was the bloodied body of Edmund, exhausted from escaping the hateful mob. But as he crouched there on the sidewalk in pain, P.E.T.E. came back to rescue their hero from Deathmatch death. The leader ran to him, hoped that the llama would reach him in time, and Edmund lifted his heavy eyelids to catch sight of a stunning vision of purple. He fell in love at once. Edmund could not stop himself from lovingly embracing the llama, and so P.E.T.E., disgusted beyond their nobility, abandoned the pair at once, which made Edmund all the more glad, and he took the purple llama to his bower with amorous feelings.

Naturally, the Authoresses won the best fates, though they may protest that their heroes did. But with the powers given to the story's writers, Rachel and Marie wrote themselves and the young men walking down the Champs-Elysées in Paris, and the girls' ugly leisure suits were soon exchanged for Givenchy gowns. Henry wore a fine tailored suit, but Marie chose to keep Tim attired in his red shorts. He looked so adorable in them that she didn't even mind his crying on her black and white dress.

Henry in black, and Rachel in pink, stopped off at a corner cafe, where Henry flirted with the Authoress like a Crawford. It was more than fun for her, but when the other pair went past them, the inevitable happened: Rachel became jealous and longed to be near Tim's good looks, and Marie started to envy Rachel for sitting with such a charming man. But before any more Deathmatches were started, they both agreed upon their each taking Tim and Henry in shifts, and soon all were happy again.

While they are so blissfully occupied, we must now give the Deathmatch Disclaimers:

1) Neither Rachel nor Marie were around in the 70s, and are not overly familiar with the decade, so if they captured anything inaccurately, please ignore it. Also, if they happened to describe and make fun of an outfit that you might have worn and loved then, they apologize heartily!

2) The writers of this little story are not Jane Austen; they are not exactly sure how the good Authoress' characters would act had they lived in modern times, though they have endeavored to guess. For instance, Wickham may not have actually even liked Aqua-Net or Brut, and could have been a Windsong man instead. Again, Rachel and Marie are sorry.

3) Even though they are avid Edmund-haters, the Authoresses must admit that Edmund Bertram could never fall in love with a purple llama. Maybe a blue one, but not purple . . .

4) And lastly, if you were confused by Tom/Tim, Melissa, or any other parts in this, read Mansfield Revised!!! Today!!!

Finis.