Contrary to popular belief, Lionel Luthor is not so conceited as to think that he will live forever. Perhaps, and even more so than anyone else, he appreciates the hold of mortality, the promise of finiteness. He likes to think that it is because of this understanding that he is able to drive himself and others to greater heights. Only one who embraces the endgame can fathom the need of leaving a lasting legacy.
Every person wants to leave a mark in the world-parents in their children, teachers in the memories of their students, politicians, kings and Nobel laureates. Ever since he can remember, Lionel Luthor has made it his sole desire to leave a mark in the annals of time, it is possibly his only hubris. Obscurity is not an option, never an option.
Sometimes he imagines himself dying in various ways, each scenario grander and more memorable in turn. Perhaps heroically dying under the watchful, awed eye of the world's press, sometimes just something out of a romantic tragicomedy that is no less preposterous and could probably spawn a few dozen movie franchises. He sometimes dreamed of dying in a blaze of glory. And more than once a dream of being hemlock-and-daggered out of this world by his own son. Nothing speaks like history and legend like patricide-the best Greek epics are made of it.
Other times, he dreamed of passing away on the night of a new corporate conquest, dying after a job well-executed. A well-earned death. Or, his liver might finally give way, and he will have died as he has lived, fearless and unapologetic. He might probably die in the height of ecstasy, and be remembered for his evergreen virility and strength, burning with unquenchable passion. Or maybe he might just slip quietly into the night, a serene smile on his face, a perfect coda to his unstoppable life.
He has never, however, dreamed or even thought of dying this way: pure stupidity with no one to blame but himself. Of dying due to the foolishness of not looking both ways before crossing. He has conquered boardrooms, donated tax-deductible billions to charities and museums. He will have statues and plaques erected in his memory, and stories of his acumen will feature as case studies in graduate schools in the same breath as Sun Tzu. But as pigeons fly overhead, he fears that he might be remembered as that hairy billionaire who steps from behind a parked garbage truck into incoming traffic, a perfectly serviceable pedestrian crossing just a couple of paces away.
Lionel knows he has lost a handful of days to injury and medication. His first lucid moment is greeted by his son's mirthfully smirking face. Already the yellow press are having too much fun with his demise. Lex shows him the 72-point headline asking "Why did the Billionaire Cross the Road? Investigators Rule Out Foul Play".
"Is that true?" he manages to ask.
"For once, it's not anybody wanting to off a Luthor, hard though it is to believe."
"Are you sure?"
"He didn't even hit you all that hard. It was just bad luck that you twisted the wrong foot, fell the wrong way, injured yourself in the most spectacular way." Lex says, casually studying the medical chart at the foot of the bed, frowning at a particularly indecipherable scrawl of words across the page. "Anyway," Lex replaces the chart by the bed, crosses the short distance towards the window."Not like we can ask him, since he's dead now, wrapped around a tree trying to avoid killing you, it seems. Legal and PR are knee deep trying to cover every angle, make sure his family won't be haranguing us for revenge or money." A pause. "Guy's a nephew of Gary Spencer." Oh. Only one of the most hard-assed lawyers in America. Only a lawyer who has never lost a case in his fifty-year career. Who at the ripe of of eighty five can still flay LuthorCorp to pieces in any court given sufficient motivation. Not that the old man will come out of retirement, but Lionel figures it's not wise to push his luck.
"There are probably a million CCTV capturing the incident." Really, Metropolis has turned into a surveillance society; it's very annoying. There's something in Lex's voice that hints at a future series of public service advertising being made about the perils of jaywalking, with Lionel Luthor in a starring role. He imagines it being broadcast again and again and again-in-between Superbowl hotdog runs, sandwiched between Old Spice and GMC Motors commercials. He imagines seeing himself on one of the hundreds of AirportTV sets while surrounded by anxious fliers await their red-eye connections. CCTV-mined footage of his demise might resurface one day, in boisterous elementary school classrooms delivered by harried community traffic wardens as an object lesson of safe pedestrian practices.
Suddenly he feels very tired, the wound of his pride is probably more painful than these broken bones and blinding pain. "I'll rest now if it's all the same to you."
Lex's reply is swallowed by the sound of a sharp creak of rusty hinges. "Lex!" a hushed whisper.
His son turns around and watches tension bleed slowly away from Lex's rigid posture. "Clark." Lex's enunciation on the Kent's boy name is the only invitation needed. The door creaks a little more and reveals a boy who is so intent on Lex that he doesn't seem to take notice of the actual patient in the room. Either that or the boy just doesn't care, as he strides straight towards Lex by the window. A quick brush of cheek to cheek. "I came as soon as I could," a low whisper which made Lex chuckle with mirth dancing in his eyes.
"Bet you did," Lex gives a veritable leer. "Naughty boy, it's not even six yet." To which the Kent boy blushed prettily.
"Har har," Clark mock pouted. "Everything's innuendo with you, Lex." A peck on the other cheek, the boy straightened up fractionally to lean against the nearest wall. "I left as soon as I was able." A pause. "How's he?"
"Better than expected," Lex replies, intently studying their reflections in the mirror before finally turning around. The Kent boy turns around as well, looking a little surprised to find out that the real patient is present and accounted for.
"Oh Mr. Luthor," Clark adds belatedly.
"Well, say goodbye to Mr. Luthor, Clark," Lex says mirthfully. "We have a reservation." Lex doesn't wait, just steps around the bed towards the door. "Bye, dad."
A male nurse comes in to check, offers more medication 'to manage the pain' which Lionel declines. He has some thinking to do, and pain helps him to focus. His physician follows a moment later. He answers the questions in short answers, then makes them leave the curtains open. They leave quietly, he watches the sun set. He notices the newspaper by his right thigh, moves his leg and nudges it off the bed. Something sharp shoots up his spine and knocks the wind out of him.
He lies huffing, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.