LEX
Throughout my life, either through rumors, fiction, truths or a speculation made in person, people have had their opinions of me.
I am not a pretentious person and this arises from two main reasons: the first being that I don't give a shit about what people think of me. The second would be the fact that sometimes it's better to remain a mystery.
Suffice it to say that having had a bad reputation in Metropolis for various escapades and less credible incidents would result in being held in distrust in the eyes of most of the people here in Smallville. That, and having to suffer in the result of my father's disregard for some of the residents' personal properties, years before my time, true, but people don't forget.
The result being that I could do a mountain of good here, but people will still seek out and revel in the bad. But I do take pride in the fact that I've managed to breed uncertainty in their minds. Am I a Savior or Satan? Who knows? Who cares?
And with this pride, and the little bits of joy I've felt within the confines of this town that I could not achieve with the most expensive drug or the best nightclub in Metropolis, I've found a kind of contentment in Smallville.
Lord of a tiny town, surely a joke, but better that than being a dog under my father's heel in Metropolis.
So I'll admit to having a God complex when it comes to this town. It's the little mannerisms from people: a hesitant smile for some, open stares for others. I take every day trips to the plant, and you can't blame me for feeling Godlike there. Upon my arrival, I start with my tour around the plant with courteous greetings following my path. I would have my plant manager on my side, speaking with open respect and little dishonesty, and I would meet employees suitably intimidated by my presence with a slightly tensed air about their persons and jittery in their quickness to comply with my requests, and nervous at making me upset.
I rarely get upset, contrary to everyone's beliefs. Anger fucks up your mind, diminishes your ability to see straight. But the fear is there, nonetheless.
And I'll conclude again with my second reason: it really is best to stay a mystery.
I never smile at anyone, not if I can help it, and I never do so with my employees. This includes my plant manager, Gabe Sullivan.
But today is different. Today, I find myself smiling at him. Awkwardly.
He looks twice, and gives me a 200-watt grin, not unlike Chloe's smile.
I wonder if he knows that I'm accompanying his daughter to her Prom tomorrow night and am suffering from the results of a sleepless night, aroused by unclean thoughts of her in his kitchen.
As is customary, we stop by my office while my personal assistant hands me my mail and fill me in on the usual appointments and reminders of the day.
I was halfway through an appointment with Mr. Connor at 10 a.m. and an invite to some dinner the following Saturday, when she said, "Don't forget that you're supposed to pick up a corsage tomorrow, sir. The florist in town has the biggest collection for the Prom tomorrow night. I also need to ask, Mr. Luthor, would you be requesting any specific type of flower for the bouquet arrangement you ordered?"
I'm well aware of the curious look this reminder of the day incites from Gabe Sullivan, thanks to my babbling personal assistant.
Acute embarrassment, and a sore temptation to fire my personal assistant, washes over me but I stay calm and reply, "Lilies."
I glance at Gabe who remains expressionless, but I'm guessing that the whole plant will start buzzing about the fact that their boss is attending the Prom as soon as I leave the area.
In fact, they might just keep buzzing about this for years. Add to the fact that I'll be interviewed for this, by my own date, of all things.
My mystery might as well be fed to the fucking sharks.
And just when I think that it's safe to leave my office to resume my check- up with Gabe, my personal assistant, extra helpful today, turns around and inquires, "Oh, and would you like the bouquet delivered directly to Miss Sulivan's house?"
The shell-shocked expression on Gabe's face only confirms what I have guessed: Chloe failed to inform her father on just who exactly was her date for the Prom.
For reasons that I don't care to own, I decide to cut short the routine check-up and hide in my office.
CHLOE
I guess I didn't have to worry so much over the ongoing debate in my head on whether or not I should tell Dad who my date for the Prom is because apparently some smart-ass at the plant decided to make my decision for me.
I knew it the moment he came home. He usually comes in with a sigh, hangs up his jacket and hat and puts his car keys on the table, calls out, "I'm home!" then we'll go into our daily debate of whether we should cook dinner or order pizza, the latter being the favorite choice.
Today, he came home, called out an urgent, "CHLOE!" then found me in the kitchen and sat down in front of me, jacket and hat still on, a desperate don't-tell-me-it's-true look on his face usually reserved for when Principal Kwan calls him to complain about my 'tabloid' journalism.
And I knew, with a certainty, that he knew, and that I was dead.
"I've heard something, Chloe," he said, gravely.
"Conspiracy at the plant?" I guessed, feebly.
"Oh, it's a conspiracy alright," he said grimly.
I decided not to touch on that one. Better to just lean back and let the bombs start dropping, or whatever.
"I've heard that you're going to the Prom with Lex Luthor. Is that true?" He held his breath.
Since shock disables people from making ordinary speech, I nodded.
The bomb dropped. "Lex Luthor? MY BOSS?!"
"Er." Still disabled from speech.
And with that, Dad went into his Rant. Very much like my own rant, except better, since he has years of experience. My Dad is an amiable and good- natured man, but when he gets really REALLY pissed, he explodes in the manner of a Hiroshima-type bomb, in danger of doing what the meteors couldn't years ago: wiping out Smallville.
I couldn't quite catch what he said but I got the general gist of it. About daughters who date her father's boss and how young I am and inexperienced and how Lex Luthor is a man, with a very unknown past, which is never good, and not only is he a man, he's his BOSS. At some point in time (I think it was after the tenth time that he reminded me that Lex was his boss), he finally grew tired.
"Chloe," Dad shook his head and sighed loudly. "Why, Chloe? Of all the boys in Smallville, what possessed you to choose my boss?"
Well, he was the only one who asked, but I wasn't going to tell Dad that.
"Yes, BUT," I said.
"This better be a good 'but'."
"It's not what you think. I didn't have a date and he just agreed to escort me! It's nothing like- like- THAT. It's just, um…" Dad gave me the suspicious eye, and I squirmed like a person convicted for murder, having had very disturbing thoughts of Lex Luthor himself last night involving whipped cream in this very kitchen. "It was, er, Clark's idea."
And so, my Dad went off into a new rant, this time involving unethical farm boys, and although I wasn't totally in the clear, his anger had been misdirected long enough for me to take a deep breath, which is all good. Plus, Dad would never get angry with Clark to his face. He loves Clark.
However, in these circumstances, his only daughter, the apple of his eye, turned into a victim in this wrongdoing and since Lex Luthor is his boss, Clark got the blame. Oh, well.
The rant went right through our pizza until I decided that sneaking out of the house for some solitary peace and lots of caffeine and to keep out of Dad's hair was definitely the best plan, and so I left. Quickly.
Where does one go for peace and solitary now? Ironically enough, the one place where you usually couldn't find any form of peace or good service on a Friday night, before the Talon graced itself with its reformed presence: the Beanery.
The Beanery was empty, and after ordering a mochaccino, I took a seat, and prepared myself for some quality solitude and peace of mind, while thinking up questions to ask the great Lex Luthor, my Prom date, tomorrow night.
Not ten minutes later, the great Lex Luthor himself, my Prom date, slides into the seat opposite mine and with that swift movement, destroys all hopes for quality solitude.
And seeing how good he's looking in that black jacket, my peace of mind too.
Throughout my life, either through rumors, fiction, truths or a speculation made in person, people have had their opinions of me.
I am not a pretentious person and this arises from two main reasons: the first being that I don't give a shit about what people think of me. The second would be the fact that sometimes it's better to remain a mystery.
Suffice it to say that having had a bad reputation in Metropolis for various escapades and less credible incidents would result in being held in distrust in the eyes of most of the people here in Smallville. That, and having to suffer in the result of my father's disregard for some of the residents' personal properties, years before my time, true, but people don't forget.
The result being that I could do a mountain of good here, but people will still seek out and revel in the bad. But I do take pride in the fact that I've managed to breed uncertainty in their minds. Am I a Savior or Satan? Who knows? Who cares?
And with this pride, and the little bits of joy I've felt within the confines of this town that I could not achieve with the most expensive drug or the best nightclub in Metropolis, I've found a kind of contentment in Smallville.
Lord of a tiny town, surely a joke, but better that than being a dog under my father's heel in Metropolis.
So I'll admit to having a God complex when it comes to this town. It's the little mannerisms from people: a hesitant smile for some, open stares for others. I take every day trips to the plant, and you can't blame me for feeling Godlike there. Upon my arrival, I start with my tour around the plant with courteous greetings following my path. I would have my plant manager on my side, speaking with open respect and little dishonesty, and I would meet employees suitably intimidated by my presence with a slightly tensed air about their persons and jittery in their quickness to comply with my requests, and nervous at making me upset.
I rarely get upset, contrary to everyone's beliefs. Anger fucks up your mind, diminishes your ability to see straight. But the fear is there, nonetheless.
And I'll conclude again with my second reason: it really is best to stay a mystery.
I never smile at anyone, not if I can help it, and I never do so with my employees. This includes my plant manager, Gabe Sullivan.
But today is different. Today, I find myself smiling at him. Awkwardly.
He looks twice, and gives me a 200-watt grin, not unlike Chloe's smile.
I wonder if he knows that I'm accompanying his daughter to her Prom tomorrow night and am suffering from the results of a sleepless night, aroused by unclean thoughts of her in his kitchen.
As is customary, we stop by my office while my personal assistant hands me my mail and fill me in on the usual appointments and reminders of the day.
I was halfway through an appointment with Mr. Connor at 10 a.m. and an invite to some dinner the following Saturday, when she said, "Don't forget that you're supposed to pick up a corsage tomorrow, sir. The florist in town has the biggest collection for the Prom tomorrow night. I also need to ask, Mr. Luthor, would you be requesting any specific type of flower for the bouquet arrangement you ordered?"
I'm well aware of the curious look this reminder of the day incites from Gabe Sullivan, thanks to my babbling personal assistant.
Acute embarrassment, and a sore temptation to fire my personal assistant, washes over me but I stay calm and reply, "Lilies."
I glance at Gabe who remains expressionless, but I'm guessing that the whole plant will start buzzing about the fact that their boss is attending the Prom as soon as I leave the area.
In fact, they might just keep buzzing about this for years. Add to the fact that I'll be interviewed for this, by my own date, of all things.
My mystery might as well be fed to the fucking sharks.
And just when I think that it's safe to leave my office to resume my check- up with Gabe, my personal assistant, extra helpful today, turns around and inquires, "Oh, and would you like the bouquet delivered directly to Miss Sulivan's house?"
The shell-shocked expression on Gabe's face only confirms what I have guessed: Chloe failed to inform her father on just who exactly was her date for the Prom.
For reasons that I don't care to own, I decide to cut short the routine check-up and hide in my office.
CHLOE
I guess I didn't have to worry so much over the ongoing debate in my head on whether or not I should tell Dad who my date for the Prom is because apparently some smart-ass at the plant decided to make my decision for me.
I knew it the moment he came home. He usually comes in with a sigh, hangs up his jacket and hat and puts his car keys on the table, calls out, "I'm home!" then we'll go into our daily debate of whether we should cook dinner or order pizza, the latter being the favorite choice.
Today, he came home, called out an urgent, "CHLOE!" then found me in the kitchen and sat down in front of me, jacket and hat still on, a desperate don't-tell-me-it's-true look on his face usually reserved for when Principal Kwan calls him to complain about my 'tabloid' journalism.
And I knew, with a certainty, that he knew, and that I was dead.
"I've heard something, Chloe," he said, gravely.
"Conspiracy at the plant?" I guessed, feebly.
"Oh, it's a conspiracy alright," he said grimly.
I decided not to touch on that one. Better to just lean back and let the bombs start dropping, or whatever.
"I've heard that you're going to the Prom with Lex Luthor. Is that true?" He held his breath.
Since shock disables people from making ordinary speech, I nodded.
The bomb dropped. "Lex Luthor? MY BOSS?!"
"Er." Still disabled from speech.
And with that, Dad went into his Rant. Very much like my own rant, except better, since he has years of experience. My Dad is an amiable and good- natured man, but when he gets really REALLY pissed, he explodes in the manner of a Hiroshima-type bomb, in danger of doing what the meteors couldn't years ago: wiping out Smallville.
I couldn't quite catch what he said but I got the general gist of it. About daughters who date her father's boss and how young I am and inexperienced and how Lex Luthor is a man, with a very unknown past, which is never good, and not only is he a man, he's his BOSS. At some point in time (I think it was after the tenth time that he reminded me that Lex was his boss), he finally grew tired.
"Chloe," Dad shook his head and sighed loudly. "Why, Chloe? Of all the boys in Smallville, what possessed you to choose my boss?"
Well, he was the only one who asked, but I wasn't going to tell Dad that.
"Yes, BUT," I said.
"This better be a good 'but'."
"It's not what you think. I didn't have a date and he just agreed to escort me! It's nothing like- like- THAT. It's just, um…" Dad gave me the suspicious eye, and I squirmed like a person convicted for murder, having had very disturbing thoughts of Lex Luthor himself last night involving whipped cream in this very kitchen. "It was, er, Clark's idea."
And so, my Dad went off into a new rant, this time involving unethical farm boys, and although I wasn't totally in the clear, his anger had been misdirected long enough for me to take a deep breath, which is all good. Plus, Dad would never get angry with Clark to his face. He loves Clark.
However, in these circumstances, his only daughter, the apple of his eye, turned into a victim in this wrongdoing and since Lex Luthor is his boss, Clark got the blame. Oh, well.
The rant went right through our pizza until I decided that sneaking out of the house for some solitary peace and lots of caffeine and to keep out of Dad's hair was definitely the best plan, and so I left. Quickly.
Where does one go for peace and solitary now? Ironically enough, the one place where you usually couldn't find any form of peace or good service on a Friday night, before the Talon graced itself with its reformed presence: the Beanery.
The Beanery was empty, and after ordering a mochaccino, I took a seat, and prepared myself for some quality solitude and peace of mind, while thinking up questions to ask the great Lex Luthor, my Prom date, tomorrow night.
Not ten minutes later, the great Lex Luthor himself, my Prom date, slides into the seat opposite mine and with that swift movement, destroys all hopes for quality solitude.
And seeing how good he's looking in that black jacket, my peace of mind too.