Chapter 2: I like my coffee Stan-free

Lana set the cup of coffee down by Chloe, who was typing angrily on her laptop. "Here's your coffee, Chloe. Black just like you wanted it."

"Bite me, Lana," Chloe said without looking up. Lana stared at her in confusion. "Is something wrong Chloe?"

"No, it's all just peachy keen. Now go away."

"Okay..." Lana retreated back to the counter and smiled in relief as she saw Clark come in with Pete in tow. "Hi," she said pleasantly. "Is something wrong with Chloe, Clark?"

Clark looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. "Not that I know of, why?"

"She just seems--"

"Bitter?" Pete filled in. "Vitriolic? Like a ball of black twine wrapped around someone's neck and choking him?"

Lana nodded. "I think something's bothering her."

"Oh, not something. Someone."

Clark gave Pete a look. "What do you mean?"

"She got Stan, aka, Dr. Depression to fill in for you at the Torch."

"Stan?" Clark's expression clouded over as he struggled to remember who that was.

"You know him. Squirrly looking kid, sits next to Chad in English. Works at the school store. I interviewed him."

Recognition dawned. "Oh! Him!"

"Yes, him. I told Chloe not to do it but she didn't listen," Pete explained as they headed towards Chloe.

"Oh, come on, Pete. He can't be that bad," Clark said.

"No, he's worse," Chloe said bitterly.

"Hi, Chloe, how's it going?" he asked her, trying to sound happy.

"Go to hell, Clark," Chloe responded without missing a beat. "I'm in no mood for your bowl full of cheeriness today."

Clark glanced at Pete, who gave him a pitying look but offered no help. He sat down at the table. "I hear you've gotten Stan of School Store Fame to help at the Torch."

"Yeah, no thanks to you."

"So...is it going well?"

Pete and Chloe broke into gails of bitter laughter. Clark suddenly felt like there was some sort of private joke he wasn't privy to between the two of them. "Is that a no?" he guessed.

Chloe stopped laughing and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Thanks, Clark, I can always rely on you for some comic relief."

Clark wasn't sure if she was joking or really meant it so he said, "I wasn't joking."

Chloe's smile disappered. "Oh." A look of despair covered her face. "He's hooorible. Stan. I can't stand him. Anytime I'm in the same room with him, I feel like--."

"All the happiness is being sucked out of you," Pete finished.

Chloe looked at him in appreciation. "You know."

"Of course I know! I warned you about him. When I finished interviewing him last year I wanted to pop some advil."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Clark said.

"By some, I mean a family sized bottle," Pete informed him.

"And by advil, he means anti-depressant," Chloe added.

Clark simply could not believe this. "How can you guys talk about him like that? You don't even know him."

"I don't want to know him," Chloe said vehemently.

"Chloe, let me handle this," Pete said, ever the diplomat. "If you think we are being unfair towards Stan in anyway, then by all means, Clark, go and talk to him."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Chloe responded. "I can't wait to see you after half an hour with him." She got up and started to pack her stuff.

"Wait, where're you going?" Clark asked.

"To help Stan," she said sweetly, "with the school store."

Pete went with her and Clark was left alone with his dark feelings of foreboding and Lana trying to catch his attention from the counter.

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Another day, another pair of pens and packet of paper sold. I guess I should add the whole school paper thing to the list but it's not worth it. That addition is hardly worth bragging of. The only good thing about it (if it can be called good) is that it keeps me away from home all that much longer.

You may ask: But Stan, why don't you want to be at home? And I'll just call you a blithering idiot who hasn't been paying attention to a single word I've said.

I hate being home. It's dark, dirty, and, worst of all, my father's there. My father is officially the most embittered Vietnam Vet in the world. He lost a leg outside of Danang and even though he got an artificial one, he still like's to bitch about it. As for my mom, she stuck it out as long as she could but got the hell out of here when I was four. I don't blame her for leaving though I'm not at all happy about the fact she left me with the bastard.

As I put the key in the lock, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around to tell Chloe off. Only it wasn't Chloe.

"Hi, Stan," Clark Kent said cheerfully. I hate him.

I gritted my teeth. "Why, hello, Reason-I'm-Enslaved-at-the-Torch."

If he caught that he didn't show it. "Say, are you doing anything tonight?" he asked, full of friendliness.

"Other than delving down to a new depth of despair, no. Why do you ask?"

Clark wasn't phased. "Good, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out or something."

I stared at him and repeated what he had just said. "You. Want to. Hang out. With me?" I drew it out as slowly as possible.

"Yes."

I stared at him some more, hoping to ward him off. "Why?"

It looked as though Clark could not fathom why I was asking why anyone would want to hang out with me. You know, cause I'm such a get at 'em guy. "Why not? I'm sure this isn't the first time someone's wanted to hang out with you."

My stare hardened into a glare. "No, Kent. It's the ONLY time."

Clark looked like he couldn't believe this either, so I went on to assure him it was true. "Trust me. I can hardly stand to hang out with myself. If I could I would separate myself from me."

Clark didn't seem any closer to leaving than he'd been when I started. "Look," he said. "Maybe you're mad at me and I can't really understand why because Chloe's the one who hired you, not me. Yeah, I know I quit but still...you didn't have to agree to it."

"You just don't get it do you?" I said, lowering my voice so he'd have to strain to hear it. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to work. "I. Don't. Care. It does not matter to me one bit what you say. All I want is to go inside and for you to go away."

Clark finally seemed to get it but he looked after me with a concerned look on his face as I opened the door, went inside and slammed it shut. My door didn't bounce back open when I shut it either.

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"'A Guide to Manic Depressants'"; Lex Luther read aloud, looking at the book Clark held in his hands. "Every week it's something new, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Clark said as casually as possible. "I'm trying to work my way through every personal crisis before I turn 21. It's not really as easy as it looks."

Lex laughed and sat down across the table from Clark. "It doesn't sound like it would be. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you don't sound like the type to become manically depressed." Lana arrived at that moment, toting Lex's cappuccino and they paused the conversation until she went away.

"Nah, I guess not," Clark finally said, setting the book down. "I'd say it was for a friend but that would be a lie: the person I'm talking about isn't friendly enough to have friends."

"Then why bother?" Lex asked, taking a sip and giving Clark a penetrating look.

"Well, Chloe went and hired him to write the sports column at the Torch and after spending some time with him she turned into Manically Depressed Chloe. Pete swears it was the same way when he interviewed him last year."

"So you're reading this book to find out if there's anyway to explain that or, better yet, anyway to change that."

"Exactly." Clark looked at Lex. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know any really good professional psychologists I could refer him to, would you?"

Lex smiled sweetly. "I don't think so. My family doesn't really strike you as the crazy kind, does it?"

Clark couldn't figure out if Lex was joking or not so he said nothing and prayed Lex would change the topic. Lex complied. "By the way, what's his name?"

"Oh...his name's Stan. Stan Gibson."

Lex wrinkeled his forehead. "Gibson? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I think his dad used to work at the LuthorCorp. I mean, until his wife left him after the meteor shower. They had a really big blow out in the plant the day I visited after my release from the hospital."

Clark frowned. "You don't happen to remember if he was working on any special projects at the time, do you?"

"Nah. I was nine. I didn't give a crap." Clark nodded absently.

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Lionel Luthor sprung through the door to the Torch office. "Miss Sullivan, if we could discuss the final points of our agreement..." he trailed off when he saw Stan sitting in a dark corner of the office. "You're not Miss Sullivan."

"No, I'm not," Stan agreed. "Who the hell are you?"

Lionel ignored the question. "I don't recall ever seeing you here at the Torch."

"No," Stan agreed again.

"Are you new here?"

The boy glared at him. "Why do you want to know? Does it matter?"

Lionel shrugged. "It might. I merely enjoy taking an interest in our community's youth."

"Ah. Yes. The dim light of the future," Stan replied blandly.

Lionel began to feel the chirpy-ness he always felt when propagating a new scam drift away. "I wouldn't call it that," he said frowning at the young man.

"No, you're right. It's not exactly a light is it? More like an unpleasant oder. Rather similar to a rotting corpse, I suppose."

Lionel swallowed and decided to try to change the subject. He wasn't sure what subject they were on but he wanted to change it anyway. "Beautiful imagery," he said smoothly, "I imagine Miss Sullivan has you writing the poetry column?"

"No," the boy's voice cut through Lionel's words like a knife through warm butter only scratchier. "I'm writing the sports column."

"Ah." Lionel felt more uncomfortable with every passing second. He wondered where Chloe was. "A wise choice on her part, I'm sure."

"No," Stan replied with the essence of a man commenting on the weather. "It wasn't." He crummpled a sheet of paper up and threw it at the trash can, missed, and for a moment, Lionel thought he was going to get up and put it in the trash can but his body rose a bit, then collapsed further back into the chair, all his motions giving off an aura of overwhelming dispair. Lionel suddenly felt very wary of any more conversation with this boy. He turned to leave but as he reached the door, a sudden thought occured to him. "What's your name, young man?"

Stan glared at Lionel. "Why do you care? It doesn't matter. Nothing does." He started humming one of the latest pop songs but made it sound like a funeral march.

It clicked in Lionel's mind. "It's Gibson, isn't it?" The boy frowned deeply and continued humming and Lionel felt more despair wash over him. "That would be another botched Luthercorp project," he muttered as he left.