An Evening With Pete Ross, 44th President of the United States, Live from the Jerome Shuster Center for the Performing Arts, 23 May 2004:
"Well, you raise a fine point, Paul, but what was and still is most important to me is the effective running of our government. It has a job to do same as anyone else and I think we maybe lost sight of that. Myself included. We were so wrapped up, I think in the mere idea that Mister Luthor who we all knew for years and trusted and who really made Metropolis what it is, I think, we got so wrapped up in that that we forgot kind of the basics. We wanted to think we could be as influential as him. I know I did. You know, being in public service you always wonder if Enough is Enough. If you're really working toward something. I guess I felt like I could do that, be that person. Working with him. I guess that a pretty optimistic view of things, but look, you all know me well enough to know that it's what I believe. Wholeheartedly. Do I think Lex Luthor made mistakes in office? Yeah. But our jobs now are to learn and make sure those mistakes don't happen anymore and, without sounding too cruel, Paul, learn to move on."
Time passed.
The new year came.
Gotham celebrated its reentrance to the Union on December 31, 1999 at the strike of midnight, despite a murder and an arrest: the city's usual bogeyman stopped the Joker only too late after he had killed he police commissioner's wife. The Batman witnessed it, and so did Superman.
From a distance.
Five hundred miles up as usual.
He hovered there and did not move. Felt himself breathe, slow and even, and watched the air curl away from him, crystallise, and shatter. He looked straight ahead, the sun at parallax in the distance. He squinted and saw within the cosmic birth pangs of helium fusion. Atoms smashing together over and over again in agony. Creation itself.
He looked back at the Earth.
And descended.
In a moment he beheld Metropolis, and his home. As Clark Kent, he had a storied career. Beyond his career at the Daily Planet, Kent was author of two Pulitzer-winners, The Janus Contract and Under a Yellow Sun. He served on the Metropolitan Literary Arts Council, and was active with the Tri-State Free Press, a nonprofit that advocated for freelancers and large papers alike on Capitol Hill. It was Kent who had lobbied in the Senate for the Daily Planet and the Daily Star to allow reporters in the No Man's Land. It didn't work but in a world where the always meek Clark Kent could stand his ground at Congress, the very place where the famously useless Bruce Wayne failed to plead his case, it was a step in the right direction. And yet it was not always this way.
Before, there was just him. Just Clark. His day job, and then Superman at night. After his debut all those years ago saving the proto-shuttle Constitution—in the process saving the life of one Lois Lane—he still kept a tight schedule. Work and work, where the latter equalled his time and energy as Superman and the former meant his energy as Clark Kent. To him they were indistinguishable, merely parts of a whole. Certainly he thought of himself as Clark. He supposed his upbringing had the most to do with this state of mind. And supposed further that if he had grown up on Krypton—
Well.
That was a big if.
So.
Here he was.
Landing on his balcony. Thirty-eight storeys up, to an apartment too big for the two of them. Workaholics, dedicated journalists, Clark and Lois, living in this apartment. Three bedrooms, only one of which was their master suite, the other two offices for each. He had moved here after the advance from The Janus Contract arrived, and allowed him to move up an income bracket or three. Then other things happened, with a speed that surprised even him when he thought about it all too long. Criminals from a pocket dimension, criminals so abhorrent Superman had had to break his one valued rule and killed their leader. Exile, during which time he fled to deep space and learned of threats greater than imagined—threats, as well as the courageous beings who faced them. He met the warrior Draaga, and the tyrant Mongul. He learned of the War World and came to understand that the universe was a dark and uncaring place—that people like Mongul could and would conquer and enslave billions and that most other people would keep their heads down while such a thing happened and not get involved. And he came to understand that he could not allow such a thing to happen. Oh, he stopped Mongul, certainly. But he retained the lesson: conquerors could not be countenanced, and would never stop. But someone had to stand up to them.
So he decided it would be him.
He decided he could do more for this cold, complacent lot than maybe they knew.
That was really the start. He almost remembered it fondly. Things seem so much simpler, after all, when they're in the rearview mirror. Hindsight gives us a bizarre sense of knowing, knowing against all odds, and the hubristic elation that comes with having survived whatever you happened to be remembering. But it was not always so. He knew this. His memory was faulty, as everyone's is.
And so he tried in earnest to remember his early days with some modesty. Lest, he imagined, he become part of that cold, complacent lot. The ones who—
Father.
I no longer wish to have these feelings, Father.
But help he did. And would. And could. He had the willpower, and the skill, to help these people, these humans, rise above the baser instincts of their species. He could, and had, helped them be more.
Father.
In the next instant he changed clothes. He had been on the balcony still, in his Superman suit, thinking over all of this. And now he was still on the deck but in the few milliseconds it took neurons to fire in that advanced Kryptonian brain, he was changed. Into Clark Kent's comfortable Levis and tan leather brogues, into Clark Kent's old and comfortable flannel shirt buttoned all the way up but for the top two. Back on the balcony, leaning on the railing holding a cool bottle of Fordham Copperhead.
Feeling the cool air on his face.
He felt alone.
But he forced a smile.
The door opened behind him.
"Hey," she called up and he turned and she was closing the door, dropping her keys on the table, sliding her coat off. All in one slick move. They met each other's eyes and shared a smile, a moment. A pittance.
Little moments, he well knew, made this worth it. Of all his relationships, this was the one most important.
She was his world.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," Lois said and was at his side, leaning on the balcony and breathing in the cool air.
"It's alright," he said. But kept his distance.
"You okay?"
"Sure," he lied. "Just thinking."
She nodded. Slow and even. "Something old or something new?"
"The same," he said. "I guess. I don't mind telling you: I don't know where I am with Lex. And all of this."
She breathed. "If it makes you feel better, I don't know either."
He let out a little breath. Half an amusement. "Look at us."
He put his arm around her and pulled her close. "We help each other," he said. And kissed her forehead. "It'll be alright."
"I know," she said and kissed him again. After a moment: "I know...there are things you aren't telling me, Clark."
He looked away and felt a wrench in his gut. That psychosomatic twist that accompanied guilt or shame. He kind of slumped standing there.
"I'm thinking about going north," he said.
"The fortress?"
"Yeah," he said. "Talk to my father. See if...I can make sense of what's happening."
She looked at him. "Is it Luthor? Or...something else."
"I'm not sure," he said. "I'm not sure I have words for what I'm going through." Then he looked square at her, his body slumped, his face sunken and sad. "I'm sorry."
She hugged him tight, pressed her face against him and felt some tears welling.
Then he was gone.
Lois stood alone on the balcony watching the night sky.
Luthor.
Time passed for him as well. The end of the No Man's Land came and went and with it his own increased political capital. By the summer, it was him. And George. And Albert. Going for the White House.
He hated them both.
The end of the No Man's Land also meant the end of his time in Gotham, and he was glad for the chance to be rid of it. Not least because the Gotham Bat had threatened him, not so subtly, with. Well. Something. Not the first time he'd had to deal with the Batman. And not he hoped the last. But this one was more characteristically full of bluster than most their encounters: the belligerent result of the Bat being backed into a corner. And yet. In a place like quake-ravaged Gotham what chance did simple fear have against the existential dread of civilization on the wane?
In a way, Luthor lived on fear as much as the Bat did. The kind of fear, the kind of power, you couldn't buy. Batman looming over him with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. "Get out of my town, or—"
"Or what."
Luthor had interrupted him. An old trick he learned on the street. Shut them up before they get the chance to have a dick-measuring contest with you. Before they get to pretend they wear the nice suit and own the street. Pretend they're Capone or Rothstein or whoever else they think is In Charge. Luthor figured it out early on.
No one was in charge.
The world was rudderless.
It made him an atheist, and he felt no compunction about taking the strong guys who originally had the block by Carmazzi's and breaking their minds with the knowledge that their world was bleak and meaningless. Good papist boys who loved their mothers. Old school mobsters. Their kids, Luthor found out later, grew up to be Gazzos. The Metropolis Racket who had all died horrible deaths in Gotham because of some costumed nut. Should have stayed home, Luthor often thought. But then, their stupidity was his gain.
He remembers them fondly.
Little Alex Luthor strolls right up to the night shift guy, Fatty Arbuckle except his name is something Gazzo. Alex only calls him that because he reminds him of Fatty Arbuckle, all rolls and a bloated frog face, and a ghastly toothy smile. Little Alex in his dungarees and PF Flyers and a ratty white shirt hanging around a scarecrow frame and he says...
He says, "This block belongs to me now."
Fatty laughs.
"You run along, little boy, before someone decides to do something about you, huh."
Luthor stands still.
Fatty Arbuckle gets up and his rolls undulate as he does. Luthor cracks a smile.
"You little shit," Fatty says. "I tell you to leave, you leave, you stupid or somethin?"
Fatty grabs Alex by the collar and lifts him. The shirt barely holds.
Fatty draws up a fist.
His critical mistake is waiting.
Alex unclenches one hand and jams the shiv into Fatty's neck. He drops Alex, who lands in a crouch and kept his eyes on Fatty as he stumbles backwards. Backwards into an overstuffed grocery cart, backwards onto the park bench. Again his rolls shake, his whole body, a grotesque building whose foundation has just gone out from under it. His eyes go wide and he realizes he's choking on his own blood.
Not dying. Not yet.
"Or something," he says. And jams the shiv into Fatty's throat. Right under his adam's apple.
Fatty's lips move but nothing comes out. He puts out one arm, towards Alex. He slides off the bench, flat on the concrete, and starts shaking and gurgling.
Luthor straddles him.
Fatty closes his eyes. Luthor grabs one and pries it open. He gets close and jams the shiv again into Fatty's cheek, the soft tissue between orbital and jaw, and it goes in so easily, like a pierced ear, like butter, like nothing at all.
Fatty gurgles his last. And then he shakes no longer.
Luthor breathes out once. A mad bull before the run. He stands and turns around. His first taste of blood, and every inch of him is alive with the knowing of it. Yes I've done this. I don't care that I've done it. I'll do it again and again and again until they learn. Until they learn this is what happens when you cross Lex Luthor.
Lex.
He thinks it over. Rolls it over his tongue.
Lex.
Always before it was Alex. Alexei. To mother, Alexander. But here now. Life is so short, and people are so disposable.
Lex.
He looks up.
The newsboys are standing there, this uniform dazed look over the lot of them. Suicide Slum's characteristic and cheerful gang, none the worse for their poverty and homelessness. He looks at them and said, "gentlemen."
Scrapper makes a face and says, "Who the fuck talks like that, Alex."
Luthor cocks his head and walks up to Scrapper. "I do," he says, and punches Scrapper right in the face. The kid falls with no protest and the rest of the group does that often-nervous, always-terrified, backing away slowly thing.
Luthor smiles.
"Gentlemen," says the twelve-year-old. "It's ours."
Tommy looks around. No screams, no one's calling the traffic officer over, for Fatty. No outrage. Not for Fatty. Or for Scrapper. He looks around and takes a breath and he says, "all of it?"
Luthor nods.
Slowly, the gravity of the situation settles in. Tommy starts nodding too. Then the rest of them.
And that was that. As before, he had to remind himself, the world. The world for Lex Luthor. And the fate of poor Scrapper there, for anyone who felt otherwise.
That had happened when he was a kid. All these years later he still carried that righteousness, that fire, within him. He felt it countless times in his youth. Countless times in universities that were beneath him, which he entered on the strength of his prodigious mind and silver tongue. Countless times as an adult ruling this city from the tower. He felt it every time he faced Superman. And the goddamned Gotham Bat. And Lois.
All of them.
He felt it now. Sitting on a front porch in Texas heat, drinking a beer—he hated beer—listening to two idiots talk. He heard them as abstractions, and focused on the sunrise.
Sunrise. Eight in the morning and these idiots were drinking. He didn't mind that part. But he supposed he'd rather have his beloved Glenmorangie with him.
Idiot Number One: "Well, I think we've just got to keep in mind there were mistakes with the previous administration. My administration would not have done what he did to Gotham City. It won't happen on my watch."
Idiot Number Two: "A decision had to be made, George, I'll be honest with you I don't think it was the right one. But it was Congress who overrode the veto. Don't you think they own this?"
"I'm saying y'all own it."
"Everyone except you," Gore said and let out a little snort.
Bush: "You're gettin narrow there."
Gore looked at Luthor: "Mister Lewthor, you wanna jump on in here?"
Luthor sighed and looked over at them. "Well, boys, I think it's a group failure. Humanitarian efforts are funny like that: when you care for everyone, everyone shares the blame."
"Come on now," Bush said. "Don't trot out your Final Night line, Lex, we've heard it."
"Heard it?" Luthor said. "Or have you just gotten tired of hearing it? Because while you were busy losing a baseball team I was saving the planet from an alien and an Air Force pilot run amok."
Luthor took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, lily-white wainscoting between the beams.
"Fine," Bush said. "Al here wants to talk about the environment."
"What about it," Luthor said.
Gore looked at him, his jaw slacked a bit, and he looked at Bush for a reaction. Bush just pursed his lips and looked around. He was, Gore noticed, maybe for the first time, uncomfortable in his own skin.
"Planet's doomed, guys," Gore said. "I don't know how clear I can be on this."
"No," Bush said. "It's not. You're worried your star is falling."
Luthor smiled.
"I'm not," Gore said. "There's data. We're not gonna go live on Mars, guys, we have one planet here. We gotta start thinking of saving what's left. We need to start looking at introducing emissions limitations bills."
"They'll fail," Bush said.
"And take you with them," Luthor said. "You introduce one bill to satisfy the hippies, and flyover country gets angry. I don't mind telling you, Albert, it's a one-term policy."
Gore looked at him. "If you could call me Al? That'd be great."
Luthor leaned in. "Pronounce my name correctly, and we'll see."
Gore sighed and shook his head, a trifle, an annoyance. Luthor narrowed his eyes. He traded a glance with Bush for a minute.
Here he was in cow country, oil country, his time being wasted, while the two contenders bartered pointlessness as policy. He expected that—the lowness he'd killed his parents for.
But.
These people.
Bush said, "We're at the point where it's just the three of us. You sure you don't want to pick a side here, Lex?"
Luthor eyed the beer. "No."
"No?"
"No," Luthor said. "I'm giving them a better way."
"You're being a contrarian," Gore said. "It's childish."
"With respect, Mister Vice President," Luthor said, "No. It's synergistic and I'm afraid you're both too entrenched to see it. A hundred and fifty years of your partisan foolishness and this country is as broke and hopeless as it was when I was young."
Bush looked at him. "That's a real positive message there, Lex."
"It's the world as I find it, George."
Gore said, "Bleak."
"Accurate," Luthor said. "You're both perpetuating a broken system. Fighting for scraps of this world instead of doing the responsible thing. Accomplishing miracles. Sending us to the stars."
"Among aliens?" Bush said. "Not a chance. Not on my watch."
Luthor sneered. "The aliens have been here, George. It's time to make peace with that."
"Now listen," Bush said. "You're not perfect either. But I asked y'all here to see if we could do something together. Whoever wins inherits a poisoned chalice. We need to work together."
Gore looked up at him. "Why?"
"Because," Luthor said, "he wants make sure if he loses he'll still have a place at the table. Isn't that right?"
Bush's scowl was legendary. Not merely disapproving but quite penetrating. Maybe it would have worked on someone else.
Maybe.
Gore stood. "Guys," he said.
"You," Bush said and his steely eyes stayed upon Luthor, "Wouldn't know the first thing about running this country."
Luthor said, "Maybe. Maybe not." He leaned on the railing and folded his arms. "So you can risk some smear campaign against me, both of you. Above and beyond this pointless campaign. By all means, please let me unleash the lawyers."
"Jesus," Bush said.
Gore breathed and paced around. "So damn cocky. Should have stayed back East."
"And you," Luthor said and laid dead eyes on Gore. "Poor Al, tied to Bill's wagon. Tied to Gotham, and Yemen, and poor little Ken Starr. All of those things make a zero-term policy, Albert."
"I know!"
Gore fumed out a perturbation of a sigh and looked away, into the fields. He bowed his head, his body slumped, and he said, "I know."
"Then why are you doing this," Bush asked.
Gore spun around. "I'm doing it because it's right! Because it's decent! Because we deserve someone who can do the job and I think it can be me!"
Luthor was silent. He drummed his fingers against his thigh for a moment.
Bush looked at Luthor. He said, "me too."
Luthor scowled. So help me God he scowled at them, and when Bush caught it he slunk back in place like Luthor had violated him on a personal level. Luthor only said, "Two martyrs. Jesus Christ..."
Bush glared at him again: "You don't give a damn about people, Lex, do you?"
"You might be right," he said. "LexCorp gives their kids scholarships and their parents jobs. Create enough opportunity and everyone looks the other way. Everything else is incidental. It's the millennium. Motives are incidental."
"You can live with yourself," Bush said. His voice crept up at the end, almost a question, almost a surprise. "With everything you've done. You think you can do this job and still be you?"
"Oh," Luthor said. "That is just a question for us all, isn't it."
Gore watched him for a moment. Finally he said, "What the hell are you talking about?"
Luthor got in his face and whispered. Tranquil fury. "Long term change," he said. "Lex Oh Four. Lex Oh Eight. Lex Twelve. Lex Sixteen. Lex Twenty. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Superman Forever? Hm. Luthor Forever."
Gore sunk back into the seat. His gaze was stuck on Luthor. Next to him, Bush had checked out, watching the sunrise.
Gore wiped his mouth.
Bush said it first:
"You're insane."
"Hm," Luthor said and looked at the ceiling. "Such a small word. For a small mind."
"We'll stop you," Gore said.
Luthor was down the steps. Heading toward his car. "No," he said. "You won't."
Continued...