Temper Tantrum

"We were never afraid of you, Clark, you had a few temper tantrums…" – Jonanthan Kent 'Leech'

"He's at it again Jonathan." Martha said, appearing in the barn, a look of worry etched on her face "I don't know what to do with him anymore."

Jonathan eased his way out from under the tractor he'd brought in out of the rain to repair. "I'll go and talk to him."

"We can't keep doing this."

"What else can we do Martha?" He straightened up and strode into the house followed by his wife.

He moved up the stairs slowly following a trail of small muddy footprints that lead into Clark's room. The small boy was sat in the middle of his bed reading a picture book. He was covered in mud from head to toe, as was the bed, and the carpet.

"Hey son." Jonathan smiled leaning against the door frame.

"I don't want to. You can't make me." Clark said grumpily, not even bothering to look up.

"Clark you're dirty, you need a bath."

"I like being dirty."

"I Know son." Jonathan decided to appeal to his son's sense of male camaraderie. "I like being dirty too. But your mommy likes us being clean. And your mommy feeds us so we need to be clean for her okay?"

The offer of food was often enough to bribe the boy, but apparently not today. "I'm not hungry."

"Really? A growing young man like you not hungry? Well I'm hungry so lets get clean and eat. Mom's made us apple pie."

"No, I don't want to."

Sighing Jonathan moved into the room and sat down on the bed. "The water's going cold. You don't want a cold bath do you."

"You wouldn't." he stated flatly.

"I would."

"You can't make me."

"Can't I?" Jonathan swept him up, catching the boy by surprise. Grasping the wriggling boy by the waist, Clark was powerless against his father who strode towards the bathroom, prepared to throw him in the bath fully clothed if necessary. He was almost there when Clark reached out and grabbed the bathroom door frame with a vice-like grip.

"Okay Hercules, stop it now." Jonathan reached out and tried to prize his son's hand from the door. The boy let go and swung at his father fending him off, catching the man's jaw with his fist.

Jonathan yelled in pain and surprise and Clark wriggled free, pushing his father away from him. The push had not intended to be malicious but it was enough. Arms flailing Jonathan toppled down the stairs almost in slow motion. Unable to catch his balance, he landed at the bottom of the stairs at Martha's feet. He looked up at his wife, his jaw already black and swollen.

"I'm sorry!" Clark shouted from the top of the stairs, before obediently getting into the bath, peering at his parents from over the rim of the tub.

Jonathan started to laugh but stopped when it hurt, "I told you I could get him to bathe." He gloated, mumbling round his swollen face.

"Nevermind that," Martha crouched beside him in worry. "That jaw looks broken, we're going to have to get you to hospital. Jesus," she gasped, "what are we going tell them?"

Jonathan shrugged, "The truth. That I got kicked by a vicious animal."

THE END