[Scotia Plaza, lower concourse, Yonge and King Sts., 1:10PM]
Lex and a few associates - with matching Hazelnut medium coffees, low fat milk only -- from Luthor Corp CANADA, scanned the electronic stock boards.
"There!" one of his associates noted, "LCP."
Lex studied the share prices carefully. "We've dropped a few dollars. My father's accounting missteps of late are affecting our NASDAQ numbers." He read the front page of the Globe and Mail.
'QUESTIONS RAISED ABOUT LUTHOR SHIPPING TIES TO ILLEGAL TRADE'
"I'm going to have to cut short my trip here in Toronto," Lex dialed his cell phone. "Hello? Doug? You'll have to courier those documents to Luthor Corp. Metropolis. I've got to put out some fires before this thing in the Globe gets too hot."
"I'd suggest you stay put in Toronto," Doug stated - between sips of coffee, "V.P. Operations at Galleon HQ just got a frantic call from your people in Metropolis. Where are you now, Lex?"
"Financial district. Scotia Plaza," Lex replied. Galleon: our shipping division? He studied the share prices again. Wayne Corp. - WYN.EP - rose a percentage point. The Europeans rejected Lionel's attempts to scuttle Wayne's transatlantic deal. Yet another round for Gotham's favourite son.
I've got to get out of my father's shadow, Lex thought. "I've got to tie up some loose ends, Doug. I'm planning to catch the corporate jet to Metropolis this afternoon ... unless you can convince me my time is better spent here in T.O."
"Your offices are in First Canadian Place, right?" Doug verified, "I can be there in 10 minutes. After what I've got ... I think you'll be spending the better part of a week in town!" He hung up and quickly packed away his laptop.
"I can't make heads or tails of this underground path," Lex muttered. He glanced at his associates. "Upstairs. We can make it to First Canadian in five minutes out on the sidewalk."
Lex held up his hand to stop a streetcar, as he crossed King Street - followed by half a dozen of his Toronto associates.
He had to put out a smouldering fire.
[Metro Convention Centre, 3:40 PM - Conference Day One]
Two thousand student delegates from across North America attended the Youth Conference in the North Building. (The debt relief delegates were conducting seminars in the South Building.)
The mayor of Toronto had just delivered his keynote address to the students. Many students napped against the wall, or quietly chatted with their friends.
Chloe eagerly opened her envelope. "Yay! I'm on the European Commission team!" She waved the circular-starred blue flag of the European union.
Pete opened his envelope. "Pete Ross, you've just won yourself citizenship with the Australasian bloc. How bout you, Lana?"
Lana peeked into her envelope. "I'm with the central African delegates." She glanced at Clark.
Clark clumsily ripped open his envelope. A little star-spangled banner fell out. "Looks like I'm still with Uncle Sam this time."
The program director, an international law professor from U of T, spoke at the podium. "Student delegates. I understand you've been briefed on standard procedures in the U.N. General Assembly in your classes over the past few weeks. You have one hour to co-ordinate with other members of your assembly teams. Review the information packets on your respective countries or voting blocs." He opened a plain white envelope.
"The topic for this meeting ..." the professor paused dramatically, "... is Crisis in the Congo. A messy dispute ... with the Rwandan genocide, Congo civil war, illegal diamond and ivory trade, post-Cold War politics. Let's see if you guys can propose a solution - and teach the politicians something, too."
Chloe raced to the European team. "Okay, guys, I say we steer clear of any references to our colonial misdeeds in Africa ... and focus on the human rights issue."
Pete strolled to the Australasian team. "G'day, mates," he joked.
Clark still struggled to sort out his assembly documents. Lana grinned. "Two minutes, and already the Americans are paralyzed by the complexity of the issue. We'll see you at the assembly, Mr. Ambassador." She crossed the hall to meet with the African team.
A stream of debt relief delegates passed by the hall. Bruce Wayne paused. "Clark?"
"Uhh, hi, Bruce." Clark shuffled and reorganized his documents.
"I hope your stuff's more interesting than my seminar," Bruce flipped open his file, "I've got 'Corporate Responsibility: Peace over Profiteering' I suspect the multinationals are going to gloss over the issue with empty platitudes. I'm hoping the 'soft power' movement will shake things up."
"I'm on the 'American team'. Trying to sort out the crisis in Congo. Any suggestions?"
"Cold War alliances won't play," Bruce explained, "the Europeans have little clout - what with their colonial past. The Congo's in a civil war. 20,000 Rwanda soldiers planned for demobilization. Key word there is 'planned'. Some of them are afraid - quite justifiably - that they'll be arrested for war crimes. That genocide. It's a no-man's land. Illegal trade ... diamonds to fund the Angolan war, elephant tusks to please merchants from Antwerp to Shanghai."
He unrolled the papers under his shoulder. Globe and Mail. Daily Planet. Gotham Times. "Some extra reference material for you."
"That's a lot to chew on," Clark replied.
"I don't envy your position," Bruce smirked, "American foreign policy played one African country against another, depending on whether they took their orders from the Kremlin. Or if they differed from the State Department's agenda. Now, we're the only superpower. And the players keep changing, with revolutions, assassinations ... well, I've got to bloody a couple of greedy corporate noses. I'll be in touch." He sprinted to catch up with the delegates on the escalator.
"Thanks, Bruce," Clark smiled. He sat with the American team to craft a made-in-the-U.S.A. solution to the Congo problem.
He skimmed the headline of the Daily Planet. 'LUTHOR LINK TO IVORY TRADE? MOUNTIES INVESTIGATE MONTREAL SHIPPING HQ'
Truth is stranger than fiction whenever the Luthors are involved, Clark grumbled.
[Crowne Plaza Toronto Centre hotel, beside the Metro Convention Centre, 4:30 p.m. - Conference Day One]
The hotel had hurriedly hired a dozen temporary cooks and chefs this week. About 1,000 invitees were to attend the Prime Minister's Dinner. The menu had to reflect the diverse tastes of delegates from over 100 countries. The new sous chef quickly donned her white cooking cap and apron. She had the opportunity to work as a chef -briefly - during university. Her overseas experience outclassed most of the applicants from the nearby George Brown College chef's program.
She saw herself as more of a student of history than a purveyor of foodstuffs. She recalled one course - something about 20th century European politics - that explored the impact of the so-called "war to end all wars": World War I. In 1915, the Germans began a new phase in warmaking during the second battle of Ypres in France. They tossed cylinders of poison chlorine gas against the Allied forces. Until the West began using its own nerve gas weapons, the mere thought of such weapons struck fear throughout the frontline trenches. Those unlucky soldiers who faced such fearsome weapons suffered tremendously. Severe skin blisters, temporary or permanent blindness, painful damage to the lungs ... even immediate asphyxiation.
An unseen and mindless enemy that struck without mercy. Without remorse. Chemical warfare put an end to the ridiculous 19th century notion of gallantry and honour among soldiers. How could one speak of common honour ... when faced with the barbarism of mustard gas?
Such is the purity of humanity's evil against itself. The new chef thought of those poor soldiers - those mindless servants of European aristocracy - fighting essentially the last 19th century conflict for empire. Where counts, barons and dukes strutted about in their gaudily-dressed uniforms. Defending their pathetic fiefdoms like Napoleon a century before them.
Now those lords have been replaced by the new order: bankers, corporate executives, lobbyists and subservient world leaders.
The new chef's name was Liesl, a German student who had become disillusioned with the greed of Western, capitalist society. In the kitchens of the Crowne Plaza, she would have access to every platter served at the dinner.
Every drink.
Every spoon.
Some of those soldiers in 1915 had died of asphyxiation - as their lungs burned inside them - before they even left their trenches. Without masks, they had no refuge then.
Liesl prepared the delicate main course and covered it with a sterling silver dome.
These world leaders and their Big Business comrades-in-arms, performing before the Western media with empty promises and lies. Cowards.
They would have no refuge now.
Lex and a few associates - with matching Hazelnut medium coffees, low fat milk only -- from Luthor Corp CANADA, scanned the electronic stock boards.
"There!" one of his associates noted, "LCP."
Lex studied the share prices carefully. "We've dropped a few dollars. My father's accounting missteps of late are affecting our NASDAQ numbers." He read the front page of the Globe and Mail.
'QUESTIONS RAISED ABOUT LUTHOR SHIPPING TIES TO ILLEGAL TRADE'
"I'm going to have to cut short my trip here in Toronto," Lex dialed his cell phone. "Hello? Doug? You'll have to courier those documents to Luthor Corp. Metropolis. I've got to put out some fires before this thing in the Globe gets too hot."
"I'd suggest you stay put in Toronto," Doug stated - between sips of coffee, "V.P. Operations at Galleon HQ just got a frantic call from your people in Metropolis. Where are you now, Lex?"
"Financial district. Scotia Plaza," Lex replied. Galleon: our shipping division? He studied the share prices again. Wayne Corp. - WYN.EP - rose a percentage point. The Europeans rejected Lionel's attempts to scuttle Wayne's transatlantic deal. Yet another round for Gotham's favourite son.
I've got to get out of my father's shadow, Lex thought. "I've got to tie up some loose ends, Doug. I'm planning to catch the corporate jet to Metropolis this afternoon ... unless you can convince me my time is better spent here in T.O."
"Your offices are in First Canadian Place, right?" Doug verified, "I can be there in 10 minutes. After what I've got ... I think you'll be spending the better part of a week in town!" He hung up and quickly packed away his laptop.
"I can't make heads or tails of this underground path," Lex muttered. He glanced at his associates. "Upstairs. We can make it to First Canadian in five minutes out on the sidewalk."
Lex held up his hand to stop a streetcar, as he crossed King Street - followed by half a dozen of his Toronto associates.
He had to put out a smouldering fire.
[Metro Convention Centre, 3:40 PM - Conference Day One]
Two thousand student delegates from across North America attended the Youth Conference in the North Building. (The debt relief delegates were conducting seminars in the South Building.)
The mayor of Toronto had just delivered his keynote address to the students. Many students napped against the wall, or quietly chatted with their friends.
Chloe eagerly opened her envelope. "Yay! I'm on the European Commission team!" She waved the circular-starred blue flag of the European union.
Pete opened his envelope. "Pete Ross, you've just won yourself citizenship with the Australasian bloc. How bout you, Lana?"
Lana peeked into her envelope. "I'm with the central African delegates." She glanced at Clark.
Clark clumsily ripped open his envelope. A little star-spangled banner fell out. "Looks like I'm still with Uncle Sam this time."
The program director, an international law professor from U of T, spoke at the podium. "Student delegates. I understand you've been briefed on standard procedures in the U.N. General Assembly in your classes over the past few weeks. You have one hour to co-ordinate with other members of your assembly teams. Review the information packets on your respective countries or voting blocs." He opened a plain white envelope.
"The topic for this meeting ..." the professor paused dramatically, "... is Crisis in the Congo. A messy dispute ... with the Rwandan genocide, Congo civil war, illegal diamond and ivory trade, post-Cold War politics. Let's see if you guys can propose a solution - and teach the politicians something, too."
Chloe raced to the European team. "Okay, guys, I say we steer clear of any references to our colonial misdeeds in Africa ... and focus on the human rights issue."
Pete strolled to the Australasian team. "G'day, mates," he joked.
Clark still struggled to sort out his assembly documents. Lana grinned. "Two minutes, and already the Americans are paralyzed by the complexity of the issue. We'll see you at the assembly, Mr. Ambassador." She crossed the hall to meet with the African team.
A stream of debt relief delegates passed by the hall. Bruce Wayne paused. "Clark?"
"Uhh, hi, Bruce." Clark shuffled and reorganized his documents.
"I hope your stuff's more interesting than my seminar," Bruce flipped open his file, "I've got 'Corporate Responsibility: Peace over Profiteering' I suspect the multinationals are going to gloss over the issue with empty platitudes. I'm hoping the 'soft power' movement will shake things up."
"I'm on the 'American team'. Trying to sort out the crisis in Congo. Any suggestions?"
"Cold War alliances won't play," Bruce explained, "the Europeans have little clout - what with their colonial past. The Congo's in a civil war. 20,000 Rwanda soldiers planned for demobilization. Key word there is 'planned'. Some of them are afraid - quite justifiably - that they'll be arrested for war crimes. That genocide. It's a no-man's land. Illegal trade ... diamonds to fund the Angolan war, elephant tusks to please merchants from Antwerp to Shanghai."
He unrolled the papers under his shoulder. Globe and Mail. Daily Planet. Gotham Times. "Some extra reference material for you."
"That's a lot to chew on," Clark replied.
"I don't envy your position," Bruce smirked, "American foreign policy played one African country against another, depending on whether they took their orders from the Kremlin. Or if they differed from the State Department's agenda. Now, we're the only superpower. And the players keep changing, with revolutions, assassinations ... well, I've got to bloody a couple of greedy corporate noses. I'll be in touch." He sprinted to catch up with the delegates on the escalator.
"Thanks, Bruce," Clark smiled. He sat with the American team to craft a made-in-the-U.S.A. solution to the Congo problem.
He skimmed the headline of the Daily Planet. 'LUTHOR LINK TO IVORY TRADE? MOUNTIES INVESTIGATE MONTREAL SHIPPING HQ'
Truth is stranger than fiction whenever the Luthors are involved, Clark grumbled.
[Crowne Plaza Toronto Centre hotel, beside the Metro Convention Centre, 4:30 p.m. - Conference Day One]
The hotel had hurriedly hired a dozen temporary cooks and chefs this week. About 1,000 invitees were to attend the Prime Minister's Dinner. The menu had to reflect the diverse tastes of delegates from over 100 countries. The new sous chef quickly donned her white cooking cap and apron. She had the opportunity to work as a chef -briefly - during university. Her overseas experience outclassed most of the applicants from the nearby George Brown College chef's program.
She saw herself as more of a student of history than a purveyor of foodstuffs. She recalled one course - something about 20th century European politics - that explored the impact of the so-called "war to end all wars": World War I. In 1915, the Germans began a new phase in warmaking during the second battle of Ypres in France. They tossed cylinders of poison chlorine gas against the Allied forces. Until the West began using its own nerve gas weapons, the mere thought of such weapons struck fear throughout the frontline trenches. Those unlucky soldiers who faced such fearsome weapons suffered tremendously. Severe skin blisters, temporary or permanent blindness, painful damage to the lungs ... even immediate asphyxiation.
An unseen and mindless enemy that struck without mercy. Without remorse. Chemical warfare put an end to the ridiculous 19th century notion of gallantry and honour among soldiers. How could one speak of common honour ... when faced with the barbarism of mustard gas?
Such is the purity of humanity's evil against itself. The new chef thought of those poor soldiers - those mindless servants of European aristocracy - fighting essentially the last 19th century conflict for empire. Where counts, barons and dukes strutted about in their gaudily-dressed uniforms. Defending their pathetic fiefdoms like Napoleon a century before them.
Now those lords have been replaced by the new order: bankers, corporate executives, lobbyists and subservient world leaders.
The new chef's name was Liesl, a German student who had become disillusioned with the greed of Western, capitalist society. In the kitchens of the Crowne Plaza, she would have access to every platter served at the dinner.
Every drink.
Every spoon.
Some of those soldiers in 1915 had died of asphyxiation - as their lungs burned inside them - before they even left their trenches. Without masks, they had no refuge then.
Liesl prepared the delicate main course and covered it with a sterling silver dome.
These world leaders and their Big Business comrades-in-arms, performing before the Western media with empty promises and lies. Cowards.
They would have no refuge now.