Author's Note: Inspiration for this story comes from two places, for the most part. One of them is the film version of 'The Godfather', which if you believe such things, I've only just seen recently. Mea culpa. The second source is the Jeph Loeb Two-Face circle of stories--Batman: The Long Halloween and Batman: Dark Victory. Those two stories, which deal on the surface with Dent's transformation into the villainous Two-Face, also deal with an essential change in the status quo of the DC Universe: a passing of the guard if you will, away from organised crime and corruption and toward superheroics and 'freaks' in costumes doing the villainy. It's an essay on growing up, sort of like Peter Pan, I think: dealing with the future, 'moving on', one's life and role in the universe. These things are important and provide some fascinating dramatic soil in which to dig. So with this story, I wanted to attack the sort of 'pre-existing mafia' part of the DC Universe and its violent death at the dawn of the age of superheroes. Recall in Batman: Dark Victory the Gazzo family, one of whom was gunned down by none other than The Joker. We already know what happened to the mafia in Gotham City: mowed down mercilessly in a cycle of death and revenge, courtesy of Harvey Dent and Alberto Falcone. This story feeds into that idiom. More precisely, it deals with the final death of organised crime in Metropolis--ordinarily, a city not reserved for the kinds of dramatic plot that mafia stories involve. Anyway. The usual narrative goes something like this: Luthor comes out of deepest darkest Metropolis to control the city, until Superman in his own mysterious arrival, heralds the age of superheroes. What this story is, then, is an attempt to explain the glorious lack of a Metropolis mafia, courtesy of Lex Luthor and the Man of Steel. It also takes significant cues from the mid 1980s Superman reboot: notably, Luthor's backstory and the mentions of woebegone mayor Frank Berkowitz. Elsewhere, I've dispensed with this notion of a floating timeline and approximated our heroes and villains to a somewhat sensible chronology here: Superman's first appearance then happens in the very late 80s, followed soon after by Batman and the rest. The idea is that someday I'm going to get around to my own silly treatment of the DC Universe, and the settling of the timeline is my own slight start to that opus. I've also painted our dear Man of Steel in less than heroic light. The idea is that we're seeing him through Luthor's narration--for a cognate I would direct you to the excellent miniseries Lex Luthor: Man of Steel by Brian Azzarello. I hope you enjoy this one, Readers.

There is no magic left in the world. Not that there was much to begin with, but before the so-called 'Age of Superheroes', homo sapiens at least had the good sense to think they were the vanguards of this world. They were, for a time. With nothing else than his mind and the funding to support it, Man had split the atom, crushed Communism, decoded our own genetics. Scientific tokenism that mere mortals heralded as the onslaught of the 20th century. To the extent people talked about modernity, at some point in the last 30 years, everyone started believing it. Finally.

It changed in the late 1980s, though. There was some shift, some difference in perception of who humans were and how we fit into the new schema. All of the sudden, science took a leap forward. Technology curves exceeded Bradbury's wildest dreams. Political ambitions stayed the same, but mankind seemed to finally be growing into itself. Gone were the notions of guilt, or servitude. Golden age might have been a tad too gratuitous a term for it. But you could see that coming.

The world was changing. It was a breath of fresh air.

And when a strange visitor from another world saved the shuttle Constitution late in 1988, the air turned sour.

Humankind bent over and grabbed their ankles.

They allowed a superhuman terror, masquerading as one of them, to save them. From falling buildings, from kitties in trees. From themselves.

Humans, for all our leaps forward and stunning brilliance, were at once self-destructive, self-interested beings. Narrow-minded morons who thought we ran a tiny sliver of a planet hurtling through a tiny sliver of the universe. Thinking ourselves happy and masterful of that little swatch of land and water and air. And as the HG Wells line goes, blissfully unaware that minds vast and cool and calculating were drawing their plans against us.

Not space aliens. Not even environmental collapse, which we all figured was going to happen sooner or later. No. As it turned out we came to be destroyed by minds tinier than our own. Tinier in different ways.

And more powerful.

At the end of the 1980s something terrible happened on this planet.

When the alien came to Metropolis, men stopped caring about themselves.

Everyone just sat back and let it happen.

"And now all these idiots have a gimmick, Tom. It vexes me. Greatly vexes me."

"So you call me down from the Palisades for some, uh, mediation on the future?"

"No," Luthor said. "I wanted to speak freely. And I understand you've got some problems of your own?"

"Yeah," Gazzo said. Ran a hand through thin black hair. "Yeah I do."

"Well, let's hear it then. Let it never be said I'm not a friend to the Venetians."

Gazzo waited a moment. Gathered his thoughts.

"My people are gettin knocked off. One by one. Falcone took two to the head last year, sure you heard about that. And who the hell knows what happened to his damn son: goes off the fuckin deep end and guns down Maroni in prison. Meanwhile, Skeevers' losin themselves in the H, y'know? Jefferson's off his fuckin rocker, thinks some Bat character's huntin his ass down Gotham way. Vitis are dead, too, Chicago's up for grabs. And now we've got this, uh, this thing. This guy in the red pants flying around, savin space shuttles and busty newsladies. Damn odd, don't you think? This clown even have a name?"

"Superman," Luthor said and crossed the office. Toward the liquor cabinet, housed in a waist-high globe. "The Daily Planet is calling him Superman."

Gazzo ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus Kee-rist."

"The families are dying."

"Shit," Gazzo said. "They're already dead. You're lookin at the last one left."

"That's a complaint?"

"S'why I came here, Luthor," Gazzo said. Murmured. "I been tryin to get out the business for years. Now I'm finally in a place to get serious about it. I got a blank fuckin check in my pocket here, and I'm ready to give it all over to you."

Luthor thought about it for a moment. Mostly as a courtesy to Gazzo's mind, painfully slow in its way.

"Tom, I'm going to be difficult for a second here. There is precious little your family can give me that I don't already have. I came up out of the worst this ungrateful little city had to offer. I've done in eighteen months what ninety years of dirty Italian immigrants couldn't. I've got half this city bought and paid for, and another half well on the way. The police can do nothing. Berkowitz can do nothing. The only thing stopping me is a square-jawed do-gooder in red underoos, in whose hands these idiots have blindly placed their fortunes." Luthor upended the Scotch tumbler, taking it all in one swig. He looked back at Gazzo and did not blink. "Superman won't touch the gangs. He believes they're beneath him. Now maybe if we were in Gotham and had everyone from the garbage-man to the mayor on the payroll, this would be a different conversation. As it stands now, Tom, you're not exactly inspiring me. You want to sell off what's left of the Gazzo family in this town, to me more precisely, and go retire in New Jersey cow country? I say...you're full of shit, Tom."

Gazzo put his hands up defensively.

"Look," he said. "I was quit when I came in here. Okay? My brother got his head blown off down Gotham last month. Some two bit whackjob in a purple suit, if you believe that."

"I've heard the rumours," Luthor said. Poured another two glasses of Scotch and walked one over to Gazzo. Kept the other for himself.

"Yeah," Gazzo said. Chortled. "Guess a guy like you would." After a moment: "I mean. It used to just be the family doin business. Y'know, nothing personal. We were the rackets and life was good. Now?" He shook his head. "Damn. Guys dressin up like bats and joker cards. Idiots in primary colours flyin around out there and puttin the crunch on my interests. What the hell's goin on out there, Lex?"

Luthor smiled. "So-called aliens coming in and deciding to save us from ourselves." Wistfully: "They tell me Superman is bulletproof."

Gazzo was silent. He touched a hand to his forehead, nursing some coming pain.

"Lex," he said at last, and looked at Luthor. His eyes were teary and red. "We're dinosaurs. And these costumed morons. They're gonna kill us."

Luthor had taken to staring out the window again.

Thomas Gazzo was what remained of the Metropolis rackets. The rest had been blown away—'somewhat mysteriously' said the Daily Star, 'in gang violence in Gotham City last month'. Or co-opted by Luthor himself.

Fact of the matter was, the buyouts were necessary. And Gazzo was right.

Those rackets were dying. Organised crime was suddenly social antiquity. In a world of Super Men and Wonder Women, the gamblers and prostitutes were losing their markets.

Luthor for his own part wanted to see that end.

An end to obsolescence.

"You're right," Luthor said. "Crime in this town was never a severe industry."

Couple of white-collar indictments every year. Public officials on the take. The Diamond Dog hooker industry on 45th Street. Couple of low-end dealers and gangbangers, high-school dropouts with four-bangers and cheap dreams who the cops could handle in spades. Abusing children was big in 60s Metropolis, too. Luthor knew it firsthand. Took the solution into his own hands, too.

Sorry Mom and Dad. You're just too boring for this new world.

Then it was the 80s and suddenly Metropolis exploded. The great big world beyond Suicide Slum's urine-stained borders lay within Luthor's grasp. As soon as his bank account allowed, Luthor strolled right back into Metropolis at the age of 30. Took the bitch back.

The rackets never stood a chance.

"You're tellin me," Gazzo said. "We kept out of the drugs, okay? We did the whore-houses and the casinos up in the Slum. Ran the unions and fucked the scabs. The whole run. Now this Superman's running around pickin up SUVs with his bare hands. Stoppin bank robberies in the blink of an eye. It's damn odd is what it is. And no one seems scared."

"They should be," Luthor said distantly. "A dishonest buck is getting harder and harder to make."

Everything had lined up so well. Costumed nuts in Gotham were killing each other, and turning their guns on Falcone when there was no one else to kill. For the ever myopic Gazzos of Metropolis, formerly of Venice, it was all bad news. Thy wanted to bestride the East Coast. Take their empire from Metropolis to Gotham and Hub City and beyond, and it went fairly well. At first.

Gazzo was right about something though.

Times, they were a-becoming quite different.

Luthor always thought himself the vanguard of a new Metropolis. What he wanted, what he promised the rackets that were willing to listen? It went far beyond drug-running and political favours. Luthor wanted it all. And, at least in the early days, he had been willing to share it.

Then Superman happened.

"Superman," Luthor said. And looked back at Gazzo. "Comes out of the sky and saves a space shuttle and they love him for it. And then we hear about this bat character. Whatever the hell a 'Flash' is, out in Missouri. It's all bad news, these idiots running around unlicenced and overpowered. I sympathise, Tom, I really do."

He was silent for a long moment, staring out at the pastel streaks cutting across the horizon. Metropolis at dusk. Twelve blocks away the Daily Planet's crowning globe twisted on a hidden axis, the fading sunlight reflecting its last rays off the globe's edge.

A red streak zipped out from the building, making a wide arc up 5th Avenue.

Luthor's eyes narrowed.

"Tomorrow, I'm told the Daily Planet is running a piece called 'The Dawn of the Age of Super-Heroes'. Doesn't that terrify you?"

Gazzo nodded slowly. Distantly. "This is it, isn't it?"

Luthor nodded. "I believe so. But I also believe we can do something about it."

Gazzo's eyes lit up. Now, here was a man desperate. Advantage—Lex.

"Like what?" Gazzo asked.

Luthor kept his eyes on Gazzo's. "How much are you worth? Currently."

Gazzo looked at the ceiling. Mumbled to himself and ticked off four fingers. "Twelve million." Then he looked embarrassed. "It's, ah, it's been a bad year."

"Berkowitz not taking your checks?"

"Well," Gazzo said. "Bobby had a lot tied up down Gotham. The lawyers tell me it stays with him, or goes into some post-mortem escrow or some damn thing. I don't know."

Luthor pulled the top drawer on his desk open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. A contract. Slid it in front of Gazzo and supplied a pen.

"Well, you've convinced me, Tom," Luthor said. "There's no longer a place for organized crime in Metropolis. When a bunch of sideshow villains start shooting the dons in the head, it's time to call it a career. Sign on the solid line and LexCorp can have you tanning on a beach in Santa Prisca by tomorrow afternoon. You have my guarantee that your interests will be looked after."

Gazzo produced a pen, some cheap Bic from the Wal-Mart in Bixby, no doubt. And he hesitated.

"What," he said. "Um. You're sure you can help me?"

"Tom," Luthor said. Made it sound just sympathetic enough. "I'm a friend to the downtrodden. You know what it's like out there, ever since these vigilantes decided to start dressing up and do right. It's a mad, mad world, and you happen to be talking to its cure."

"I don't know."

"You think Morgan Edge and his little TV studio up the street are interested in bringing crime back to this city? You think Superman hasn't already put in an appearance there, warning him?"

Gazzo sunk into the chair and sighed. "Him."

Luthor allowed a wan smile. "Tom," he said and stood. Extended a hand to Gazzo, who stood with him. "Leave Superman to me."

Gazzo glanced at Luthor in that moment and his face was alternately distant and determined.

Quickly, he signed the contract and slid it back to Luthor.

"I want to live," Gazzo said. Choked back the tears. "I don't want any trouble."

"Yes," Luthor said. "I'm sorry about your brother. For what that's worth."

Gazzo smiled, a meek affair.

Luthor put the contract back in his desk. "Now, Tom. I'll have the car out front waiting for you. It'll take you to the airport. My partially lovely assistant out there will book you on the next flight to Miami, and from there you can get down to Santa Prisca or Key West or wherever you want to go. Alright?"

Gazzo shuffled toward the elevators, the bronze prairie squares on the doors glinting in the fluorescence. Luthor watched him go. Mock saluted him and smiled at him.

Then he sat in his chair and pressed the call button. Teschmacher's voice, a pleasant soprano, came through the speaker.

"Yes, Mr Luthor?"

"Well, Eve, shall we do the diligence?"

"Ready when you are, sir."

"It's a thin list, today, Eve, but I appreciate your zeal. First, call the chief of police. Tell him Tomàs Gazzo is fleeing the country and should be arrested. Second, Berkowitz needs some realignment: get him in here for a three o'clock."

"Anything else, Mr Luthor?"

"No, Eve," he said pensively. "And call me Lex, dear. You're new, but you'll learn."

"Understood, Mr Lu—Lex."

"The last member of the Gazzo crime family exiled from this sordid little burg." Luthor allowed himself another smile. "A chance to make the mafia dinosaur well and truly extinct. It's a dream come true. And it gives me even greater leverage to use in the war against Superman." He paused again, rubbing his lips in the old alcoholic's trick. Smiling. "That's all for today, Eve. I'll see you tomorrow."

Luthor pressed the call button again, disconnecting Teschmacher.

Leant back in his chair and swivelled it around to face the city beyond.

A series of glass panes, six feet by six feet and 3 inches thick, comprised the north wall. Bulletproof, earthquake shielded, motion sensors in the ceiling tracking to detect unknown visitors of a particular flying type.

Luthor pressed a button on his desk. Two of the panes slid out and back. Allowed face to face, air to air contact with the self-styled Man of Steel. Privately, Luthor wondered if that title was another one of Lois Lane's ham-handed labels.

Superman hovered there, motionless except for the minor fluttering his cape did in the breeze. His arms were folded motionless over his chest, partially obscuring the ostentatious diamond S. "You've been busy," he said.

"Wiping out organised crime with nothing more than clever psychology, Man of Steel? Yes, you might say that."

"Absorbing the mafia remnants is one thing. Playing on a man's paranoia is another."

Luthor scowled. "Oh, what's an old mobster to do, Superman? Poor Tomas needed some assurance that a world full of Bat people and fastest men alive wouldn't be the end of life as we know it."

"I've been content to stay out of your way, Lex, as long as you kept yourself. So here's the deal. The minute you do something I don't like, I'll drop you from forty stories up. Deal?"

Luthor waited.

So did Superman. Hovering there in, with the dim shades of dusk behind him, his cape hanging lamely about him. His eyes glowing in some old world monkey display of power.

Superman almost sneered at him. Then said, "I'll be watching."

And he was gone.

Luthor scoffed, a subdued affair. "So will I."

The End...