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Prologue
Johnny chugged a Coors Banquet and chucked another dart at the dartboard on his wall.
“BOOM! Right in the eye, LaRusso!” he cheered, then gleefully went to retrieve the three darts from a picture of Daniel LaRusso’s stupid face he’d taped in the middle of the board. It had been a satisfying evening.
Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door cut through his comfortable haze. He grudgingly set down his beer and went to answer it.
Outside stood a squat little man with his face set in a stony grimace, dark sunglasses obscuring his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just handed Johnny a thick envelope, then turned and scuttled away, disappearing into the passenger seat of an impossibly long, impossibly shiny black stretch limo. When his door slammed shut, the limo peeled away so quickly that Johnny wondered if he’d been hallucinating. Wouldn’t be the first time.
He went inside, and looked at the envelope in his hand. He ripped it open unceremoniously, dumping its contents on his kitchen table. There was a letter inside, written in shining gold ink on some fancy-ass paper.
Dear Mr. Lawrence,
It is my pleasure to inform you that you’ve been selected as one of this year’s award recipients at the Fanlove Awards presented by Fictional Characters Kicking Off Famous Futures. In three days, our representative will meet you at your home to escort you to our headquarters, where you will make your acceptance speech and receive your award. Please be ready at 8pm, your local time.
There was no signature, just a gold wax seal emblazoned with the acronym, “FCKOFF”.
Johnny read it over a few more times, then muttered to himself. “Now I’m definitely hallucinating.” He looked over at LaRusso’s face on the dartboard. “If this is your idea of a practical joke, it blows, man.”
Three days later, he was speeding along in the back seat of the massive, shiny black limo, heading for destinations unknown.
_____________
He stood in the entrance foyer before me, hands in the back pockets of his slim fit, dark wash jeans, shoulders hugged just right by a handsome leather jacket over a well-fitting grey t-shirt.
He was eyeing the room like he didn’t quite know what to make of it. I took a second to appreciate the view. His age sat well on him, the expression “like a fine wine” coming to mind. I walked briskly toward him, ready to be every bit the professional.
“Hello Mr. Lawrence. Welcome to our studio.” I held out a hand in greeting, and he took it in a firm grasp. I didn’t miss the way his ocean-blue eyes looked me over, not rudely, but appreciatively. Apparently even absurdly unlikely occurrences weren’t enough to set him off his game.
“Hi. Call me Johnny. Nice to meet you…” he trailed off, waiting for my name, but I’m not so easy.
“I’m one of the character liaisons here at Fictional Characters Kicking Off Famous Futures. It’s my job to get you set up in the studio, make sure you’re comfortable, and present your award.” I met his eyes directly. “I see they’ve already gotten you dressed?”
“Dressed?” he asked.
“Yes, it looks like you’re already wearing the outfit the committee selected for you. Very expedient; I’ll have to commend my team.”
“Oh, uh...no. I mean, these are clothes from my closet. I just got here.”
It was my turn to look over him appreciatively, and I didn’t hide it, making a small sound of approval. “Well done, Mr. Lawrence.” I began walking down the corridor with authority, pleased to hear him fall into step behind me. I called over my shoulder. “I’m also here to answer any questions you might have. This can be an off-putting experience. Feel free to ask away.” I heard his steps falter and turned to look at him.
His brow knit in light confusion. “Yeah, actually, I have a lot of questions. First of all--”
“You want to ask about the whole ‘fictional character’ thing?”
“No, no, that’s WAY too big of a question. I don’t wanna know about that. What I really want to ask first is, am I actually getting an award from an organization called ‘fuckoff’? ‘Cause I’m not really sure how I feel about that. I mean, on the one hand, badass acronym. But on the other hand, is this some joke? Did LaRusso put you up to this?”
I stopped him there. “Mr. Lawrence, understand this-- Daniel LaRusso wishes he was nominated for this award, though he’d never have a hope of winning. He has no more control over our organization’s decisions than you do, and he has absolutely nothing to do with this.” I sighed, then gave Johnny a conspiratorial look. “Come with me. There’s something you need to see.”
My quick steps echoed in the bright, white-on-white corridor as I led Johnny to our control room. He followed in a daze, barely keeping up, until we reached the door. I entered a typed passcode followed by a voice recognition sequence ( “fuck off, haters” ), and the door activated and slid aside.
The control room was huge, and I knew how impressive it looked. Johnny stood behind me, gazing speechlessly at the rows of workers manning computer stations, all arranged in concentric circles. In the center floated a hologram of an oversized globe, its landmasses shimmering with dots of colored light.
“What the fuck …” I heard Johnny mutter under his breath. He was wide-eyed, fascinated, staring at the giant hologram that only a teen of the ‘80s could fully appreciate.
“How much do you know about fan works, Mr. Lawrence?” He looked confused. “When people consume media-- movies, books, TV-- some of them love it so much that they feel the story needs more. Then, they create it. Some post their works publicly. Some only write them in a notebook, or even more secretly, just keep them in their minds. We make it our business to archive and record all of those stories. We keep track of fans’ favorite characters, their opinions on character trajectories, which ones they love, or love to hate, all of it. If it’s happening in fandom, we know-- often even before the fans themselves know.” I gestured to the globe. “The lights show every fan dedicated to fan works. The colors indicate their preferred medium, be it fan fiction, fan art, or any other. We catalogue these exhaustively here in the control room, and archive that information indefinitely.”
I turned to look at Johnny. “Once a year, we extract information from this database to determine our award recipients, the fictional characters who have hit special milestones over the past year. You’re here because fans have decided you’re the most redeemed character of the year.”
He looked confused. “What? That’s, that’s just...I’m not...you’re sure they mean me ?”
“They’re proud of you, Johnny.” His eyes widened, a soft, open expression on his face. He blinked repeatedly. I smiled. Sometimes it was so easy to remember how we’d all fallen for him in the first place, delightful garbage fire that he was.
“Follow me. It’s time for your acceptance speech.” I turned on my heel.
“Speech? What do I say ?” He followed.
I led him to our broadcast studio. “This is where we’ll film your acceptance speech. I’m here to coach you through it, and to provide assistance.” He walked in, surveying the small, nearly-empty room. He was looking nervous, his weight shifting from foot to foot.
“Oh. So this isn’t, like, a live awards show? That’s a relief.” He still seemed on edge, pacing slightly. “I’m, ah, still not sure what to say.”
I gave him a radiant smile. “We’ve taken care of that for you. The camera is here--” I gestured, “and right here is the teleprompter. We’ve written you a gracious speech, three-point-five minutes long, at our estimate. You only need to ad-lib after that, when you decide who you want to thank. Your mark is here.” I walked over and stood on an X, marked on the floor against the wall with black tape. “All you need to do is stay on your mark, recite your speech, and be sure to hold the award in-frame. The camera will film you from the waist up only. Also, you’re mic’d near your shirt collar, so don’t turn your head from side to side, or the sound balance will be off. And finally, your award.” I handed him a trophy, some amorphous metal-and-glass shape with a plaque on its base. “Keep this in your right hand, in frame, while you’re giving the speech. It’s that simple.”
His nervousness dissipated slightly as he closed his hand around the award, brushing over my fingertips as he took it into his own hand. “I think I can manage that.” His tone was flirtatious again, and his mouth formed a little smirk as he noticed the hitch in my breath.
I smiled at him again, slightly predatory now. “There’s just one more thing, Mr. Lawrence.” He looked at me, and I walked toward him, placing a hand on his chest and pressing against it. He stepped back instinctively, and I backed him up against the wall, directly over his mark. “Your fans are proud of your redemption arc. They love it. But they love your degenerate side, too. They want Johnny, the redeemed, lovable dumpster fire, not Johnny the saint. On that note, we’ve decided to make your acceptance speech a bit more...interesting.” I rested both hands on his hips, pushing him flush against the wall, hearing his breath catch a little as I did. I skimmed my lips along his neck, smelling his scent combined with the aroma of leather from his supple jacket, and tilted my head up to whisper in his ear. “If that’s agreeable to you, of course.”
He brought his lips close to my ear, whispering roughly. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
I raised an eyebrow and gave my version of his patented jerk-smirk back to him. “The camera only films from the waist up.” I ran my hands down his thighs, digging my fingers in slightly on the way back up. I saw his chest begin rising and falling more rapidly in response. As my hands skimmed down a second time, I began to sink to my knees. “So I’ll be down here. Your job is to give your speech, in one take, without letting on that I’m here. My job is to make sure you fail.” I made eye contact with him, his deep blue eyes blown dark and wanting, his lips parted around heavy breaths. “The camera starts rolling in fifteen seconds. It’s your choice, Johnny.”
For a moment, he just looked at me. Then--
“You’re on. But don’t expect me to play fair.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” We got to work.
In the five seconds left before the camera started rolling, I palmed him through his jeans, feeling him already hard under my hand. I made short work of his belt buckle, then started firmly stroking his inner thigh while I worked him free of his pants. I gave a few gentle strokes, and he allowed himself a little hum of pleasure before launching into his acceptance speech. I smiled inwardly as I listened.
“Wow. I’m honored to be here today to accept the Fanlove Award for Most Redeemed character. I’ve gotta say, it’s been quite a ride.”
He was a natural performer, despite his earlier nerves, but I wasn’t here to listen. I drew close, stroking the underside of his cock with my tongue. I felt a nearly-imperceptible shiver, but his words didn’t falter. Game on.
I licked my lips and slid them just over his tip, tonguing gently at his slit. His hips stuttered slightly, and I slid an inch further down, swirling my tongue over the head and sucking lightly. I felt him pressing his ass firmly against the wall, trying his best not to thrust forward. I chose an achingly steady but relentless pace, moving my head forward and back, taking him just a little deeper on each forward stroke, sucking just a little harder on each backward stroke. It was incredibly satisfying, hearing his breaths hitch a little, his voice pitch slightly higher as I worked him.
I felt his fingers fall to my shoulder, stroking absently there, near my neck as he gave in to a mild trembling in his legs that he couldn’t suppress. I took him as deeply as I could without pushing my limits, and started bobbing in earnest while applying a firmer pressure. There was a knock as he tipped his head a little too far back toward the wall, but he recovered quickly and played it off. I could hear that his speech was coming to a close, with only the ad-libbed acknowledgments remaining. Time to empty my bag of tricks. I heard him start to wrap up.
“I’d like to thank…”
I relaxed, sliding farther down onto him until I felt him brush the very back of my throat. I breathed out through my nose, rocking forward and back and working the muscles there to swallow around him rhythmically. His fingers dug into my shoulder, and he couldn’t hold back his exclamation.
“Oh GOD. Yessss, I’d like to thank um, God …”
I’d have laughed if I could. Good catch. Thank the United States and their preoccupation with Christianity for that one. He somehow kept on, finding more people to thank, and I kept at it, though he had his own ideas. He clutched roughly at the hair near the nape of my neck, and though I knew he couldn’t thrust into my mouth without giving the game away, he did the next best thing, pushing and pulling roughly to show me what he wanted. The control he’d taken back seemed enough for him to keep his cool to the end of the speech, and he wound it up beautifully while I deepthroated him to the rhythm he’d chosen.
“Finally, I want to thank all my fans, for liking me JUST how I am--” he punctuated the ‘just’ with a hard thrust, pressing my head closer and holding it there as my tongue continued writhing. A wrecked moan came from my throat, and he somehow covered all of this with a tilt of his head, “--and I just want to say, you’re alright .” He gave a smile and a wink to the camera, released me just a little, and came HARD, letting me draw back just enough to suck it all down and swallow greedily. He drew back from my mouth and hauled me up by my chin, pressing me against the wall and kissing me, hard and deep, tasting his come on my tongue. He pulled back, then wiped a dribble from the corner of my mouth as I gave him a feline smile.
“Well done, Mr. Lawrence. Your fans will be thrilled.” He tucked himself back into his jeans, looking little worse for the wear, and gave a small laugh.
“What? I thought the point was to make the speech so they wouldn’t know what was going on?”
I looked back over my shoulder at him. “That’s the game, yes. But I’m afraid they’ll all know, after I write it.” I winked and sauntered out the door.
_____________
Epilogue
The next week, a new trophy appeared on the shelf at Cobra Kai. Miguel popped his head into the office one day after class to ask about it.
“Sensei? Why do you have a trophy out there that’s engraved ‘Mr. Fuckoff’?”
A satisfied grin crept over Johnny’s face, and he leaned back in his office chair, feet kicked up on the desk.
“Long story, kid. Loooong story. Let’s just say they LOVE their acronyms.”