[360 Restaurant, CN Tower, 11:30 a.m. - Conference Day One]
Normally, Lex preferred to eat a light lunch. Afternoons tended to be busy -- filled with meetings, conferences and such. While he did have a full schedule (this was a WORKING lunch), he marvelled at the engineering feat that was the CN Tower, the tallest free-standing structure in the world.
Only North Americans would have the balls to build something so bold, Lex thought. He finished off his sliced prosciutto and noticed that the waiter was bringing his main course.
"Lemon herb-crusted salmon with whipped horseradish, dilled potatoes, and buttered snap peas," the waiter beamed.
"Compliments of Macdonald and Associates," Douglas Macdonald, Certified Accountant, remarked. "I've requisitioned the records as we discussed. Our team noted any ... discrepancies. I'm curious, Lex ... why not ask your corporate accountants to do this research."
Lex savoured the piece of dilled potato and swallowed. "Hmmph, excuse me. Why? Doug, you've known me a couple of years. You probably know the answer."
"You figure they answer to Lionel and won't be upfront with you," Doug replied as he carved into his AAA Canadian striploin steak.
"Precisely," Lex paused for a sip of water. "Guess which accounting firm handled those international accounts?"
Doug gasped. "Bullshit! Not ..."
"Arthur Andersen, Enron's book cookers!" Lex snickered.
"I caught your little confrontation at the conference this morning," Doug muttered as he chewed on another morsel.
Lex closed his eyes as he savoured the salmon. "My father caught the unfortunate spectacle on CNN. Now, Larry King's got the Nicaraguans crying foul at my mere presence here."
He recalled this morning's heated phone call. "Yet again you screwed up, son," Lionel had declared, "I'm trying to solidify our power base on Capitol Hill. I can't do that if you're going to make a fool of yourself! You're there to put a good face on our empire before the rabble."
"The only thing I regret is that you weren't here to be personally put in your place by the Nicaraguans. Wait a minute, who else are you pissing off this year. The South Africans? The Belgians?"
"You have your job. Do it!" Lionel had snarled on the phone, "and keep an eye on Wayne, that goddamn prima donna."
Lex hated it. The lack of respect. The brash ignorance his father flaunted. As if I had no part in the sustained success of Luthor Corp.
Lex slammed his fork onto the table. Curious lunchers peered at his table.
Doug leaned towards his old school chum from Upper Canada College. "Lionel's just like our old headmaster. Ya gotta know how to play him like a fiddle. Don't let him get under your skin."
"I got kicked out of UCC precisely because I made a fool of our headmaster," Lex finished off his peas. "The stakes are higher this time."
Doug pulled out his laptop and launched an Excel spreadsheet. "This might brighten your day."
Lex examined the columns. "Records of our shipping transactions. Nothing unusual here. Manufactured goods from Asia to Africa. Raw materials from Africa to Asia."
"Look closer," Doug nodded.
One ship in particular stood out. Many of their ships would stop at the Luthor warehouses in Hong Kong. To resupply, refuel, replace crew. This one didn't. It seemed to take a circuitous route -- avoiding major shipping ports in Malaysia -- and finally docking in
Thailand.
"Our shipping division is based in Montreal," Lex noted, "I want ship manifests, inventories, the whole deal. Tomorrow."
Doug signed the lunch bill. "Compliments of Macdonald and Associates," he grinned. "I'll tell the guys you said hello."
"It's good to see you again, Doug," Lex shook his hand. As their elevator descended, Lex continued to grin.
Time to go fishin' for some dirt, he thought.
On dear old Dad ...
[Intersection of Yonge and Queen, 11:45 a.m. -- Conference Day One]
Clark walked with the rest of the student delegates. The Smallville gang marvelled at the party-like atmosphere of the 'Solidarity Parade'. Activists were banging drums, shaking tambourines and chanting slogans.
"Dignity for the poor!"
"The G-8's not so great!"
"Don't label me. I'm only human."
One protester seemed to be tired of the chanting, and simply yelled. "Hey Dubya, you suck!"
Pete cringed, as a group of bandanna-covered socialists swore at a group of businessmen. "When did those guys join the parade?"
"It's freedom of assembly, Pete," Chloe replied, "Everyone has a right to express their opinions -- no matter how far-fetched they may seem to us."
Some protesters freely expressed their disgust with The Gap by hurling eggs and tomatoes at one of their stores. A khaki-clad sales associate cursed, as he wiped the disgusting mess off the display window.
"Now, everyone, when we get to University Ave.," Mr. Shanahan, the civics teacher, instructed, "we all meet in the Hilton lobby for a head count!".
"I was kinda hoping we could see the rally at Queen's Park," Chloe grumbled.
Pete noticed that the 'socialists' now wore their bandannas around their faces. "I think Mr. Shanahan expects some trouble."
They were at the corner of University and Queen now. They could see the U.S. Consulate now.
Clark noticed a group of dark-clothed protesters -- all masked -- rush north to the barriers around the consulate.
"Now!" Liesl barked. The anarchists pulled out their duffel bags and opened them. In moments, several of them hurled Molotov cocktails at
the security barrier.
Someone had announced "No violence!" but they were drowned out by the shattered glass of the flaming bottles.
The police force around the consulate lobbed tear gas canisters into the rowdy crowd. There appeared to be several scuffles between the radical wing of protesters and the moderates. The police weren't sure which group belonged to what.
"Everyone! The hotel! Now!" Mr. Shanahan yelled. Pete shielded Lana from the rolling fog of tear gas.
Chloe pulled out a camera and began snapping photos of the confrontation. Clark yanked her arm.
"Now's not the time to do the reporter thing!" Clark screamed.
Chloe continued to snap photos. "I'm not about to let a minor street fight rob me of a good story. I'm sure one of the Toronto papers would love a first-person perspective of this!"
Clark turned around. Lana was perched over Pete, who was coughing harshly. "He's having trouble breathing!" Lana mumbled under the scarf wrapped around her mouth.
In the distance, Clark noticed an anarchist lunging with a steel pipe. Chloe, dazed amidst the thickening tear gas, did not notice as an officer swung with his baton to deflect the blow.
The baton knocked her camera onto the ground. The force of the blow caused her to stumble.
Another Molotov cocktail sailed through the confusion.
"Chloe! Look out!" Clark screamed. He squinted.
A 'SMASH!' Someone was engulfed in flames ...
"Chloe?" Clark coughed.
Chloe!!!
Normally, Lex preferred to eat a light lunch. Afternoons tended to be busy -- filled with meetings, conferences and such. While he did have a full schedule (this was a WORKING lunch), he marvelled at the engineering feat that was the CN Tower, the tallest free-standing structure in the world.
Only North Americans would have the balls to build something so bold, Lex thought. He finished off his sliced prosciutto and noticed that the waiter was bringing his main course.
"Lemon herb-crusted salmon with whipped horseradish, dilled potatoes, and buttered snap peas," the waiter beamed.
"Compliments of Macdonald and Associates," Douglas Macdonald, Certified Accountant, remarked. "I've requisitioned the records as we discussed. Our team noted any ... discrepancies. I'm curious, Lex ... why not ask your corporate accountants to do this research."
Lex savoured the piece of dilled potato and swallowed. "Hmmph, excuse me. Why? Doug, you've known me a couple of years. You probably know the answer."
"You figure they answer to Lionel and won't be upfront with you," Doug replied as he carved into his AAA Canadian striploin steak.
"Precisely," Lex paused for a sip of water. "Guess which accounting firm handled those international accounts?"
Doug gasped. "Bullshit! Not ..."
"Arthur Andersen, Enron's book cookers!" Lex snickered.
"I caught your little confrontation at the conference this morning," Doug muttered as he chewed on another morsel.
Lex closed his eyes as he savoured the salmon. "My father caught the unfortunate spectacle on CNN. Now, Larry King's got the Nicaraguans crying foul at my mere presence here."
He recalled this morning's heated phone call. "Yet again you screwed up, son," Lionel had declared, "I'm trying to solidify our power base on Capitol Hill. I can't do that if you're going to make a fool of yourself! You're there to put a good face on our empire before the rabble."
"The only thing I regret is that you weren't here to be personally put in your place by the Nicaraguans. Wait a minute, who else are you pissing off this year. The South Africans? The Belgians?"
"You have your job. Do it!" Lionel had snarled on the phone, "and keep an eye on Wayne, that goddamn prima donna."
Lex hated it. The lack of respect. The brash ignorance his father flaunted. As if I had no part in the sustained success of Luthor Corp.
Lex slammed his fork onto the table. Curious lunchers peered at his table.
Doug leaned towards his old school chum from Upper Canada College. "Lionel's just like our old headmaster. Ya gotta know how to play him like a fiddle. Don't let him get under your skin."
"I got kicked out of UCC precisely because I made a fool of our headmaster," Lex finished off his peas. "The stakes are higher this time."
Doug pulled out his laptop and launched an Excel spreadsheet. "This might brighten your day."
Lex examined the columns. "Records of our shipping transactions. Nothing unusual here. Manufactured goods from Asia to Africa. Raw materials from Africa to Asia."
"Look closer," Doug nodded.
One ship in particular stood out. Many of their ships would stop at the Luthor warehouses in Hong Kong. To resupply, refuel, replace crew. This one didn't. It seemed to take a circuitous route -- avoiding major shipping ports in Malaysia -- and finally docking in
Thailand.
"Our shipping division is based in Montreal," Lex noted, "I want ship manifests, inventories, the whole deal. Tomorrow."
Doug signed the lunch bill. "Compliments of Macdonald and Associates," he grinned. "I'll tell the guys you said hello."
"It's good to see you again, Doug," Lex shook his hand. As their elevator descended, Lex continued to grin.
Time to go fishin' for some dirt, he thought.
On dear old Dad ...
[Intersection of Yonge and Queen, 11:45 a.m. -- Conference Day One]
Clark walked with the rest of the student delegates. The Smallville gang marvelled at the party-like atmosphere of the 'Solidarity Parade'. Activists were banging drums, shaking tambourines and chanting slogans.
"Dignity for the poor!"
"The G-8's not so great!"
"Don't label me. I'm only human."
One protester seemed to be tired of the chanting, and simply yelled. "Hey Dubya, you suck!"
Pete cringed, as a group of bandanna-covered socialists swore at a group of businessmen. "When did those guys join the parade?"
"It's freedom of assembly, Pete," Chloe replied, "Everyone has a right to express their opinions -- no matter how far-fetched they may seem to us."
Some protesters freely expressed their disgust with The Gap by hurling eggs and tomatoes at one of their stores. A khaki-clad sales associate cursed, as he wiped the disgusting mess off the display window.
"Now, everyone, when we get to University Ave.," Mr. Shanahan, the civics teacher, instructed, "we all meet in the Hilton lobby for a head count!".
"I was kinda hoping we could see the rally at Queen's Park," Chloe grumbled.
Pete noticed that the 'socialists' now wore their bandannas around their faces. "I think Mr. Shanahan expects some trouble."
They were at the corner of University and Queen now. They could see the U.S. Consulate now.
Clark noticed a group of dark-clothed protesters -- all masked -- rush north to the barriers around the consulate.
"Now!" Liesl barked. The anarchists pulled out their duffel bags and opened them. In moments, several of them hurled Molotov cocktails at
the security barrier.
Someone had announced "No violence!" but they were drowned out by the shattered glass of the flaming bottles.
The police force around the consulate lobbed tear gas canisters into the rowdy crowd. There appeared to be several scuffles between the radical wing of protesters and the moderates. The police weren't sure which group belonged to what.
"Everyone! The hotel! Now!" Mr. Shanahan yelled. Pete shielded Lana from the rolling fog of tear gas.
Chloe pulled out a camera and began snapping photos of the confrontation. Clark yanked her arm.
"Now's not the time to do the reporter thing!" Clark screamed.
Chloe continued to snap photos. "I'm not about to let a minor street fight rob me of a good story. I'm sure one of the Toronto papers would love a first-person perspective of this!"
Clark turned around. Lana was perched over Pete, who was coughing harshly. "He's having trouble breathing!" Lana mumbled under the scarf wrapped around her mouth.
In the distance, Clark noticed an anarchist lunging with a steel pipe. Chloe, dazed amidst the thickening tear gas, did not notice as an officer swung with his baton to deflect the blow.
The baton knocked her camera onto the ground. The force of the blow caused her to stumble.
Another Molotov cocktail sailed through the confusion.
"Chloe! Look out!" Clark screamed. He squinted.
A 'SMASH!' Someone was engulfed in flames ...
"Chloe?" Clark coughed.
Chloe!!!