This is when the silliness really starts. If you're taking this seriously,
it's more than I am.
I disclaim. I think you'll be able to tell what's mine.
Segment 3
The truth is very simple: Clark Kent had the best singing voice on the planet, a voice that growled and snarled, that gentled and seduced, that gorged the soul with sweetness and soothed the senses with a silken sound. In a moment, someone else will know this, someone unafraid to exploit it.
His name is Mark. In the music industry, he's known as Mark the Mad because of his attitude to publicity. He thinks any news coverage is good news coverage. He's gunged, gored, gelled and groped his clients for coverage. He's prepared to do anything for publicity. Clark Kent, the singing farm boy from Kansas with a background so wholesome that he seemed to be a 1960s' TV creation, will be a God send.
The beginning was very simple - Clark had been singing to Betsy, his favourite of the remaining dairy cows when Mark, his car engine stalled beyond his mending, walked across the field making his way to the farmhouse. Which would have been fine, except the reason that Clark had been singing to Betsy was because she was feeling the Kansas summer heat and was under the weather. She liked to play with Clark, the boy who had hand raised her as a calf, and now she initiated one of her favourite games - Ride The Boy. Occasionally her weight just became too much for her hooves and she made Clark carry her home. Today was one of those times. She nudged him hard in the ribs, and he, taking the hint before she became yet more insistent, put his hands around her and gently hefted her into the air. He turned around and walked, with her in his arms, barely feeling the strain, back to the barn, singing all the way in his melodious voice.
Now, Mark the Mad had heard of cow tipping, but this was frankly ridiculous.
Realising the potential of this, he grinned. In a cartoon, dollar signs would have appeared in his eyes. As this was Smallville, he simply rubbed his hands together gleefully and stalked after the cow carrying crooner.
I disclaim. I think you'll be able to tell what's mine.
Segment 3
The truth is very simple: Clark Kent had the best singing voice on the planet, a voice that growled and snarled, that gentled and seduced, that gorged the soul with sweetness and soothed the senses with a silken sound. In a moment, someone else will know this, someone unafraid to exploit it.
His name is Mark. In the music industry, he's known as Mark the Mad because of his attitude to publicity. He thinks any news coverage is good news coverage. He's gunged, gored, gelled and groped his clients for coverage. He's prepared to do anything for publicity. Clark Kent, the singing farm boy from Kansas with a background so wholesome that he seemed to be a 1960s' TV creation, will be a God send.
The beginning was very simple - Clark had been singing to Betsy, his favourite of the remaining dairy cows when Mark, his car engine stalled beyond his mending, walked across the field making his way to the farmhouse. Which would have been fine, except the reason that Clark had been singing to Betsy was because she was feeling the Kansas summer heat and was under the weather. She liked to play with Clark, the boy who had hand raised her as a calf, and now she initiated one of her favourite games - Ride The Boy. Occasionally her weight just became too much for her hooves and she made Clark carry her home. Today was one of those times. She nudged him hard in the ribs, and he, taking the hint before she became yet more insistent, put his hands around her and gently hefted her into the air. He turned around and walked, with her in his arms, barely feeling the strain, back to the barn, singing all the way in his melodious voice.
Now, Mark the Mad had heard of cow tipping, but this was frankly ridiculous.
Realising the potential of this, he grinned. In a cartoon, dollar signs would have appeared in his eyes. As this was Smallville, he simply rubbed his hands together gleefully and stalked after the cow carrying crooner.