Smallville Fanfiction

Comfort Food - G - Spoilers for 'Drone' - Lex and his comfort food. Some brain power involved.

Exile - R - Spoilers for 'Drone' - Lex is exiled for defying his father.

Late Night Call - PG - No Spoilers - Lex calls Clark at night.

Catullus' Poem 76 - PG13 - Spoilers for 'Hothead' - Die Superman Die! And how Lex would respond.

Size Matters - R - No Spoilers - OmarG said it best. "Look, I may be of the straight persuasion, but even I buckle under the weight of the Lex Charisma. It's strong and powerful and so wrong, it's right. Oh, Lex. Take me out of this Kansas farmtown before I wilt like a hothouse flower!"

Redemption - G - No Spoilers - Lionel's dead, Lex's not guilty.

Some Have Greatness Thrust Upon Them - G - Spoilers for 'Hothead', 'Shimmer - More Lionel and Lex bitching.

Everybody Wants - G - Spoilers for 'Hourglass', 'Zero', 'Jitters' - "Cuz everybody wants and everybody needs / Everybody begs for self-esteem. / Why don't you get your mind out of the past? / And everybody takes and everybody steals / Everybody's been kicked by other heels…"

Killed - G - Spoilers for 'Vortex' - FutureFic. Meeting between enemies. Again.

The Sexy and Pool - R - Spoilers for 'Hourglass' - Established relationship. Clark and Lex bicker. Clark and Lex make up.

Sonnet 18 - PG - Spoilers for 'Pilot' - Shakespeare, Clark, and Lex, you do the math.

Press Conference - G - Spoilers for 'Prodigal' - Lex addresses the Topeka incident.

Post-Crush - G - Spoilers for 'Crush' - Lex swims in guilt after events in Crush.

A Talk by the Firelight - G - No Spoilers - Lex lectures Clark on his ambivalence towards pursuing the object of his affections. Only, Lex doesn't realize that he is the object of Clark's affections.

Misunderstandings - G - No Spoilers - Clark talks about something. Lex thinks he's talking about something else.

Untitled #1 - G - No Spoilers - Lionel and Lex talk, argue, and reach an impasse. What's new?

Of Cars and Man - PG13 - No Spoilers - Lex lusts after Cl…I mean, cars.

Untitled #2 - G - No Spoilers - Lex gets pissy at his workers for doing an incompetent job (read: refused to follow his inhuman and unreasonable orders). Being the rich brat that he is, Lex decides to chew out said worker only to end up besmirching his already tarnished name. Clark, the ever-present boy-scout/best friend/Jiminy Cricket, decides to take it upon himself to help Lex clear his name. What better way to show your affection for the people than reaching for your plebian roots? And nothing can humanize an icon better than seeing said icon eating away at a drippy ice cream cone.

Back to Main

Lex stared morosely into his crystal of scotch. Feet propped up against the leather ottoman, he sank deeper into the leather easy chair. Closing his eyes, Lex squeezed the bridge of his nose, attempting to rid himself of the memory of Clark's artless look of innocence when Lex questioned him on his amazing feat of "adrenalin". A pretty boy who told pretty lies, sweet mouth that spouted honeyed gainsays. Only eyes belied that guileless face.

The crystal shattered against the wall of the fireplace, spray of alcohol causing the flames to flicker and dance wildly.

"Temper." His father's voice drifted over the back of the chair, fomenting his aggravation.

"Hello, dad." Lex greeted the reprobate with less than his usual enthusiasm. He rose to pour another finger of scotch as his father lowered himself into the couch beside him.

"You should know by now that your excessive drinking is less-than-salubrious to your health," Lionel admonished.

Lex threw back the drink and glared at his father. "Did you drive three hours from Metropolis into the heartland of Nowhere, Kansas just to reprimand your prodigal son or was there some other reason for this unexpected and most unpleasant visit?" He addressed his father bitingly.

"Your perfunctory attitude is an act easily seen through, Lex. I thought I have taught you better than being ruled by your emotions as such." Lionel replied sharply, volleying his reproach back to his son.

"I've long ago given up hope in acquiring your approbation, father." Lex delivered his line smoothly, barring the bitterness from bleeding into his response. "Now, why are you here?"

"I heard you've appropriated yourself a 'friend' here in Smallville," Lionel answered. "This Clark, is he legal?"

"It may shock you to hear this," Lex sneered, his aplomb fading with each successive derision, "but I do not attempt to mount everything on two legs, or according to some calumny, four."

Lionel's hearty laugh reverberated across the empty hallways of the castle. "Luthors don't have friends, Lex. We make useful acquaintances. Now tell me, what is his use?"

"As hard as the concept may be for you to comprehend, dad, father, Lionel," the syllables skipped across the tension between the two men, "companionship is reward enough in of itself."

"Companionship," Lionel spat, "is a sentimentality perpetuated by the likes of Hallmark, it's reward clearly defined by the rising stock points." Rising regally, he turned to leave, entering into the tortuous hallways. "Drop the boy, Lex. He's nothing but trouble."

Lex stared after his father's deliquescing figure, knuckles white around his glass.

Lex sighed as he dug out a spoonful of macaroni and cheese from the large lavender bowl that nestled comfortably in his lap. The velvety texture of melted cheese lulled him into a soporific stupor. The events of the day had called upon him to resort to drastic measures, that was to enter the cavernous, stainless steeled alcove which passed as a kitchen and make, from scratch, his only comfort food. It was also the only dish that he knew how to make, microwave dinners notwithstanding.

Taking another bite, Lex chewed morosely, contemplating the conundrum that is Clark. For one who had such an ingenuous belief in "Truth, Justice, and that 'other stuff'," Clark held more secrets than the files secured in the military data bank at the Pentagon. Lex can aver to this. He has checked. A local boy hero who was always at the right place at the right time, waltz past top of the line security to enter Lex's medieval abode, walk away unscathed after colliding into a Porche at sixty miles per hour, and he still manages to find time to stalk, and secretly lust after, the town's fairy princess. Lex was stunned that the town could over look the mountainous intrigues that defined Clark. Smallville indeed.

Sadly, Clark's mysterious, but nonetheless enjoyable, appearance at his castle today was cut short by the appearance of his father. Lex supposed that three months really was overdue for the bimonthly visit, the sole purpose of which was to give Lionel the chance to disparage his son. Sensing tension between parent and offspring, Clark had made a hasty retreat, leaving Lex to face down the elder Luthor's bombastic speech of the many horrors of Lex's iconoclastic business ethics and the grandiose strut of unmitigated fury alone. Lex often wondered if his father was more upset over the fact that his son was a refractory manager in the family business or the fact that he was unable to raise the tractable heir that he wanted. Knowing his father, it was most likely the inability to make his progeny into another craven drone to do his bidding that has Lionel notably vexed.

The last spoonful shoveled away, Lex shook himself from his stupor and deposited the ceramic in the wonder of technology known as the dishwasher. Shedding his clothes as he went upstairs to his room, knowing the servants would clear the garments by morning, Lex yawned deeply. When the sun rise in a few hours, Lex will return to the world filled with deceit and manipulations, but for the wee hours of the night, he will indulge himself in the silken sheets and dream of thick, creamy bowls of macaroni and cheese.

"I most certainly will not follow your orders!" Lex shouted into his father's placid face.

Lionel remained unmoved in the face of Lex's outburst. With aplomb, he settled himself comfortably into one of the many leather office seats and stared at his refractory son.

"Lex," he addressed the raving young man before him, "You should be well aware that acquiring the Hardwick Enterprise is an exigency. As the sole heir to Luthor Corp, I had expected you would jump into this assignment with solicitous fervor."

"You. Are. Asking. Me. To. Sleep. With. The. Enemy." Lex delineated the situation with carefully enunciated words. "I will not whore myself out for you."

"Oh ho, I am not asking you to sleep with Victoria Hardwick, son." Lionel repudiated with a chuckle. "I am ordering you to be much more entertaining than that in bed."

Lex groaned in frustration. His father's specious arguments were going to be the death of him, assuming he doesn't die at the hands of Victoria first. His notoriety from the rebellious days had left him enough of an obstacle in the corporate world without needing to add the stigma of his father's officious plots at hostile takeovers.

"You will have to hold your attempts at appropriating the Hardwick Enterprise in abeyance," Lex informed his father coldly.

"An experienced chef knows that to create a masterpiece, one must not stint on the spices simply because it may be unpalatable for the plebeian masses."

Lex gawked at his father, unsure what to make of this desultory subject. Unsettled, he stood back and waited for his father to continue.

"I am not going to cater to your antediluvian sense of morality and risk the welfare of Luthor Corp." Lionel informed him with a cold smile. "I suggest you either accept your assignment now or prepare for exile."

Cringing at his father's horrid analogy, Lex conceded to being truly fucked. Biting the bullet, he made his decision. He would rather be the fool than a craven stooge of Satan.

"In that case, I shall go pack my suitcases."

Lex was drunk.

Clark should have realized this when the phone trilled at two thirty in the morning and, when he picked it up, was greeted with, "Clark, my father is an unmitigated bombastic bastard." He was well acquainted enough with the alcohol roughened timbre to be able to pick it out from amongst a roomful of New Year's Eve cacophony, but his sleep-fuzzy mind couldn't process the information fast enough. Instead of agreeing with alacrity about Lionel's truculence towards his son, he could only manage, "Lex?"

"Tell me Clark, does living in penury stunt the growth of your brain cells," Lex hic-ed ebulliently, "or is the art of fatuous questionings endemic to the Kent clan? Because I can assure you that I was not trying to dissemble my identity at any time."

Clark concentrated hard to follow Lex's slurred comments. He pondered at the evidence before him. Lex was calling him in the middle of the night, talking like a thesaurus, and was currently making jollies of both his and Clark's family. Finally, the pieces clicked into place.

"Lex. You're drunk."

Clark could hear a dull thud from the other end, followed by what sounded like rustling of papers. Or it could be clapping of very unsteady hands.

"Congratulations! Your attenuated public education serves you well at last!" Lex giggled hysterically.

"Why are you drunk and why are you calling me?" Clark chose to ignore the insult, instead concerned himself over Lex's lack of stolid demeanor that he usually possessed.

"Because my father's a bombastic bastard," Lex answered.

"You said that already," Clark pointed out. Then, when he received no reply, he sighed and asked, "All right, why is he a bombastic bastard?" There were thousands of different answers that he could have anticipated, but none could have given his invulnerable heart a heart attack as the answer Lex spilled.

"Because...because he wants me to live an ascetic life in deference to him and be deprived of pretty farmboys to play with."

Clark could hear the petulant pouting from over the line, but restrained himself from commenting. Although he couldn't understand the first part of the explanation, the meaning of the last part had him choking on his own saliva, so not much restraint was required after all.

Before Clark could form a coherent response, Lex's voice intruded into the silence. "It's late and all good little farmboys should be in bed. I'm sorry, goodnight Clark." Then a wet sound that could only be Lex kissing the mouthpiece of the receiver or the air before it traveled over the phone lines. Blissfully the line clicked silent. Clark groaned into his pillow. His next meeting with Lex was going to be very interesting indeed.

"Nam quaecumque homines bene cuiquam aut dicere possunt
aut facere, haec a te dictaque factaque sunt.
Omnia quae ingratae perierunt credita menti.
Quare iam te cur amplius excrucies?" (1)

Lex's lips curved into a sorrowful smile as he stood before the grave. Only he would quote Catullus for Superman's elegy (2). The irony lost, no doubt, on the many spectators, who had expected Metropolis' multibillionaire to give a perfunctory eulogy, praising the Last Son of Krypton's probity and countless good deeds. Perhaps a disingenuous speech, typed up by his secretary, or even one of the first year interns. But these members of the plebian masses were not privy to the esoteric memories under the Kansas blue sky in a field of corn. A memory filled with complaisant alacrity from a gentle farm boy trying to soothe his irascible moods after a visit from a disparaging father. These woolgathering masses had only seen a phlegmatic hero, ignorant to the precipitate teenager that had lurked beneath; the capricious teen that had defied his father and joined the football team to win the favor of a girl. Nor were they connoisseurs in the delights of rural naivety, knowing only the worldly wisdom of a stolid messiah.

While Metropolis mourned the loss of Superman, Lex mourned for his beloved boy.

(1)Translation:
"For whatever man can either say or do well
for anyone, this has been said and done by you:
having been entrusted to an ungrateful heart, all that perished.
Therefore, why do you now suffer more?"
(Source: http://aphrodite.jaze.net/~catullus/text2/e76.htm)

(2)Catullus' poem 76 (from which snippet is quoted) is written in elegiac couplets, otherwise known as an "elegy". Yes, it's a pathetic pun, shut up.

Whoever said size doesn't matter obviously has never met Lex.

Clark came to this conclusion one cozy afternoon, sprawled across Lex's leather couch in the middle of his entertainment room, watching Lex sitting across from him, his bald head occluding the multi-colored light filtering through the mosaic windows. Gesticulating wildly, Lex attempted to explain the opprobrium that had plagued his father's actions.

"…and he's a megalomaniac. Granted, the plebian masses are an augmentation of phronemophobic organisms, it still doesn't excuse…"

Feigning diffidence, Clark allowed Lex continue with his diatribe about the many reasons his father is the devil incarnate, noticing that Little Clark was agreeing with felicitous alacrity. As Lex forged ahead with his garrulous speech, Little Clark became quite happy indeed.

"…his punishments for the recalcitrant isn't ameliorating the situation at the plant, but does he listen? No, of course not! He just expects plasticity from his panphobic drones, I'm surprised they haven't been diagnosed with cyanthropy! Yesterday alone…"

With each long rolling invective word, Little Clark jerked with empathy, rising to the occasion to show unfaltering support for his best friend. Mortified, Clark surreptitiously dragged his backpack over his lap and prayed to the gods that Lex was too busy delineating his father's shortcomings to notice.

"…wonder about my ambivalence towards him. But really, if your father constantly informed you that your 'opinions' were ultracrepidarianisms that he could do without, what would you do? What am I saying? It's probably all just floccinaucinihilipilifications to you…"

He choked on a whimper and shuddered. Clark was most emphatically going to do his laundry for the rest of the week. He gave a fleeting thought to whether he could get away without explaining why he must keep his backpack at crotch level when he exits the room, but quickly gave up the frivolous hope. Resigned, Clark continued to give Lex the expected attention, even as he solidified his recent revelation.

When it comes to Lex and words, bigger is better.

Lex gazed at the mendacious businessmen, prevaricating men who spoke only chicanery. He could hardly judge, himself commensurate in dissembling. Was he not at this officious mourning of his father's passing holding his secretary's scripted dirge for the elegy? Disgusted with his inchoate sentimentality, Lex's eyes rested on Clark, dressed in flannel yet in possession of his equanimity amongst the Metropolitan elites. Sensing his scrutiny, Clark weaved his way through the plethora of expensive garments to Lex's side and gently whispered, "Don't feel guilty. You have reason not to mourn him."

Lex smiled thanks at Clark for exculpating his soul.

"Don't attempt to denigrate me any more." Lex stared at the despicable face that currently stared down at him. "I don't need your harangues about my personal life. You haven't been interested in it for twelve years, why take up a sudden interest now?"

"Now, Lex, I understand your ambivalence about being sent into the edges of the Luthor Empire, but it's for your own good." Lionel attempted to sound sympathetic towards his son's plight, only to have a disparate effect. Pausing for emphasis and gaining Lex's attention, Lionel continued his grandiloquent speech. "You've borne the stigma of the billionaire playboy for too long in Metropolis. I'm only trying to help you over come that. The work you do here in Smallville will lead to greatness in the future. Here you will prove yourself to me and the world that you are a worthy heir of Luthor Corp; that you are capable of the responsibility that comes with that power. Your destiny is to be the buttress of a company that will control the welfare of millions of lives, a burden that is heavy and you are not yet prepared for."

"Save your bombastic tirade, father." Lex sneered from leather seating, glaring into the eyes of Satan. "I was too obdurate for you to control and you needed to teach your scion how to heel. So you attenuate my position by sending me to the middle of this cow town and attempted, unsuccessfully I might add, to pull all my connections. What are you afraid of? That I'll beat you at your own game?"

"You're far to tender to beat me." Lionel looked down his nose at his wayward son. "Perhaps you think me harsh, son, but remember that greatness is reserved for those who survive the most heated flames."

Lex chuckled mirthlessly. "After all the castigations I've received? This rural hell will be a walk in the park."

Seeing his son was not taking his lesson seriously, Lionel turned to leave, but not before leaving with one last warning. "Remember Lex: 'Some are born great, some achieve greatness'. You currently are neither."

"No," Lex agreed with a shake of his head and stared out the window, waiting for the sound of his father's steps to fade. Gently he mused, "No, and 'some have greatness thrust upon them.'"

Lex gritted his teeth as he swung upside-down in midair. The rush of blood was bringing back unpleasant memories of the last time a certifiable sociopath attempted to extract justice from the Luthor heir. He couldn't remember if that had happened before or after the Desiree debacle, but decided that he could excuse himself for his anachronism, since the pooling of blood in his head wasn't helping his thinking process at all. In fact, his eyes were starting to see things with a slightly red tinge. From experience, Lex realized that the blood vessels in his eyes were rupturing from the excess volume of blood, but as panic slowly set in, his desultory logic backed out and gave way to hysteria.

"Well, well, what do we have here? Long time no see Lex." A familiar voice rumbled above him. Or was that below? Lex's current suspension was hell on his sense of direction.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Lex demanded with as much decorum as he could manage under the circumstances. It'll be a cold day in hell before a Luthor bows in deference to a threat.

"Don't remember me? It's okay." An upside-down maniacal smile settled in front of Lex's face. Idly, Lex wondered if his current position made that a maniacal frown, reassuring him that his hysteria is making itself quite at home. "I don't suppose you remember the little people."

"I've met thousands of people," Lex answered thickly. "I'll need a photographic memory to remember every face."

"Yes, that is the problem isn't it? No one is as important as a Luthor. Everyone else is just a fixture, a thing. Used then thrown away." The face moved away from Lex's visual range, but the sneer in the voice was unmistakable. "So tell me, how many would mourn the Luthor scion's death, hm? Who would read a dirge when they find your brains splattered on the buttress of a warehouse in some kind of Roche ink stain?"

Lex blinked and tried to clear the fog from his mind. "Don't you mean 'Rorschach Inkblot'?" His tone was just this side of patronizing. "I see not only are you missing a few synapses in your medulla oblongata, but you've stinted on your education too." Perhaps he shouldn't antagonize his captor, but his hysteria was slowly giving way to righteous anger and he'll be damned if he suffer the indignation without getting a few jabs in himself.

The dull thud of the punch and the consequent violent swinging averred to his previous hypothesis. Lex closed his eyes and willed the nausea to subside and tried to think how he's going to get out of his predicament alive. Ever since he's moved to Smallville, he's been beaten, threatened, blackmailed, and almost blown to pieces by a methane buildup in his plant by people who had a grudge against Lionel Luthor. He had managed to survive by a hair's breadth through the Lex-abuse that seems to be endemic to the cow town. Naturally, his father just had to chose this place as his locale of exile. Sometimes it just sucked to be Lionel Luthor's son.

A gun was in his face now.

"You think you're so smart huh?" Just beyond the barrel of the gun, Lex could make out a fuzzy outline of his captor's face. "Well, let's see how smart you are when you get that expensive brain blown out of you. And know what? No one's going to care."

Lex closed his eyes against the dizzying blur of colors. His captor was right. Only one person had seemed slightly solicitous of his health and that had only been because of a half-dead soothsayer. He began to wallow in self-pity, not caring anymore what became of him. Lex was so deep into his own mind that he wasn't aware of the sudden rush of air, or the sickening, bone-crunching snap, or even the shrill shriek of pain coming from his captor. However, the familiar voice dragged him from the depth of his maudlin musings.

"Lex? Lex! Wake up."

Begrudgingly Lex peeled his eyes open and stared into the familiar green of Clark's eyes, slowly realizing that he was in a horizontal position instead of vertical. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he broke down into hysterical laughter followed closely by abstemious tears.

"Lex?! What's wrong? Talk to me. Lex? Lex!" Worried eyes traveled over his body, checking for broken bones and bruises, confusion mingled in its midst.

"I'm okay." Lex gasped, attempting to keep the rising hysteria in abeyance. "Really, Clark. Just get me the hell out of here."

Nodding, Clark gently picked Lex up, cradling the still bound body to his own and tucked the bald head under his chin. Lex chuffed a soft puff air against the warm skin, not minding being manhandled after the ordeal. He'll have time enough to ask how Clark had saved him, again, from the hands of another victim turned murderer. For now, he was content on just concentrating on being alive. In a voice filled with sardonic humor, self-deprecation, and genuine awe, he whispered, "My hero."

Cape fluttering, Superman gently set the multi-billionaire dressed in impeccable Armani onto the top of a building safely out of range from the scorching heat emanating from the bomb that was built by said multi-billionaire. Condemnatory blue clashed with desiccate slate as Superman glared at his once best friend and current mortal enemy.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about, Luthor? Or am I going to just get another tortuous answer?" Superman demanded through forced calm. Stolid by nature, he couldn't seem to help becoming irascible when faced with this infuriating bald man, who once offered dating advice and now offered glowing green suicide. Superman may endeavor to avoid Lex Luthor's attempts to enervate him with Kryptonite, but Clark Kent was undeniably drawn to the truculence. A glutton for punishment, Superman berated Clark.

"Save your garrulous speech for those who can't exculpate themselves, Superman. What specious proof of my involvement you may think you possess wouldn't hold up in court," Lex sneered at the hero, his facial muscles contorting his features into something unrecognizable. "Or do you propitiate that guilty conscience of yours when you disparage those you deem morally inferior?"

"You've killed thousands," Superman bit out each laconic word through clenched teeth. "How do you live with yourself?"

"No, I'm responsible for thousands, millions of deaths. I've only killed one," Lex corrected with aplomb. Suddenly, the mask of indifference cracked slightly, the cool gray brightened to impassioned silver, belying the disinterested voice that whispered, "I killed to save you."

Lex stared at Clark's reproachful glare, unaware what he had done to earn the austere look. Stepping out of his newly acquired Enzo Ferrari, Lex quirked a brow in askance to which of his prodigal behaviors had incurred the abstemious Wrath of Clark.

"I thought we agreed you're going to drive slower," Clark began before Lex had a chance to lock up.

Holding up his hand, Lex occluded the rest of Clark's tortuous reprimand. "Please, Clark, you averred that I would drive slower. I never concurred, nor would I ever concur, to such an outrageous demand. Besides, Ferraris aren't meant to follow speed limits. I'd rather be repudiated by my father than watch a car of the Enzo's caliber be forced into staying within double digits."

Clark snorted at Lex's obdurate refusal. "As if being disowned by your father won't be a dream come true."

"I won't attempt to dissemble." Lex raised his hands in the universal I-surrender position. "I must concede that relieving myself from my father's influence would be a welcomed respite. However, removal from the Luthor name also means that my finances will unfortunately fall on a never before encountered paucity and that translates to no more rides in new cars that have The Sexy."

"You know, Lex," Clark continued as he followed the older man into the cold castle hallways. "Most of us stay friends regardless if said friends own cars that have 'The Sexy'."

"Of course," Lex dismissed offhandedly, leading the way into his office where a game of pool was perpetually awaiting the arrival of one Clark Kent. "However, having an ostentatious rich playboy as your friend-slash-mentor has its perks. Case in point," Lex paused and grabbed a cue.

Gesturing with the cue's length, he pointed at the neatly racked balls lying patiently on the purple felt. "C'mon farmboy. Think you're up for a game? Same stakes."

"Winner gets a blow-job? I'm always up for that." Clark winked as Lex's stolid features faded into an amused smile.

"Don't be so prodigal with your talents, Clark." Lex tapped his lips in emphasis, eyes turning predatory. "You, my friend, are. Going. Down."

"In more ways than one," Clark agreed, the game already forgotten.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

The desultory question pulled Lex's attention reluctantly away from the unruly curls. However, the ingenuous attempt to dissuade further physical explorations made him aware of the lush, full lips reciting the classic conundrum instead. Reverently, an ivory thumb traced the cushion of cherry flesh and he murmured, "Because Poe wrote on both."

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

The Press Room burst into an officious cacophony as the wave of reporters weltered in their fatuous attempt to denigrate the newest President of the United State. Like vultures, the reporters hovered eagerly over their recorders, throwing out barbed questions in hopes of seeing the usually stolid mask slip from the man who now stand before them.

Lex graced the hounds with a disingenuous smile, keeping his equanimity amongst the barely veiled reprobation. A roomful of inchoate fledglings in the game of dissembling, these measly muckrakers think they could possibly out wit him. The very preposterous notion almost sent Lex into a fit of giggles. He had not been playing this game since birth to be out-maneuvered by a handful of hypocritical hypesthesics. Comparing to the shark tank that had became his natural habitat under Lionel's tutelage, these perfunctory public addresses were merely an annoying mosquito bite. An itch obstructed some of his greater plans and refused to take leave no matter what he tries, but nonetheless harmless in the long run.

"Mr. President! According to private sources, your handling of the Topeka incident leaves the issue of morality in wanting. How do you respond to the criticism that you've purposefully allowed the citizens to live in penury and failed to provide them with the necessary protection that you could have easily arranged?"

With a grandiose cursory sweep of his eyes, Lex quickly dismissed the obvious rookie. Showing one's hand at such an early stage placed oneself in a tenuous position, revealing all the strengths and consequentially the weaknesses, leaving oneself open to attack where one is most vulnerable. A hard learned lesson from Lionel, it had served Lex well in his empleomania, allowing him to deal with such soporific attempts to challenge him with ease.

"My response, you may print in tomorrow's paper, is that when faced with ideophobic conservatives who fail to recognize that there exist plans that surpasses the needs of the individuals, traditional methods of dealing with catastrophe is not only jeopardizing the nation's interests, but extremely inefficient. I came into the Oval Office to lead a nation to greatness, not to win the public's approbation."

The tortuous response finished, Lex turned to the plethora of anonymous journalists, each one eager to castigate him, yet none could qualify as a felicitous adversary. Perhaps that is why he kept Superman around. He couldn't save the world or himself from what he had become, but maybe Superman could save both.

Lex stood alone in front of the fresh grave. Miles away, in the Smallville cemetery, the entire population of Smallville no doubt has already congregated to give a loquacious eulogy lauding the many virtues of Mr. Fordman. But no one would be here to mourn the passing of a woman who had lived her life in fear for the sake of a boy who was not her own. No one would mourn those who bore the stigma of a Luthor, just as none had mourned his mother.

Head bowed, Lex allowed the guilt to wash over him, making him tractable as he had not been when Pamela had first approached him looking for forgiveness. He remembered the laconic words he had delivered when he first saw her, thinking she was the perfidious liar that his father had painted. He had allowed his father's bombastic lies to once again attenuate his better judgment. Like a fool he had believed, that his beloved nanny, whom he looked upon as a second mother, had been nothing more than a malingerer making false promises to gain his mother's precious stock bonds.

Disgusted with his plasticity in his father's hands, Lex quickly turned from the headstone that rested quietly next to his mother's plaque. He could only hope that the only two women whom he had loved would be able to forgive him for his aberration. It was not Pamela who had needed to seek forgiveness, but Lex himself. As he retreated from the memorial, Lex made a hasty compendium of all his past offenses and summarized that his past transgressions was beyond exculpation. He was thankful that they had not been witness to those moments of his life, knowing well that he would not be able to look into the disappointed eyes.

Slipping into his car, he willed his heart recondite and swiped fiercely at the tears that threatened to fall, the pain of loss burning acidic in the back of his throat.

Clark watched entranced as Lex manipulated the colored marbles between nimble fingers. The disparate play of firelight over skin and glass distracted him from the assiduous effort to delineate different ways to ameliorate his rather pathetic love life.

"If you don't pursue Lana with alacrity when opportunity rises to avoid effrontery towards your parents or because your small town morals deem it an opprobrium, then your probity is going to doom you to an eternal ascetic life," Lex lectured with veracious concern.

Clark listened with fraudulent deference, hiding his jealousy for the round bibelot behind a vacuous stare.

"I hate to break this to you, Lex, but I'm afraid your strut is going to need a lot of work."

Startled at the desultory disparage, Lex paused awkwardly in mid-stride, wondering what he has done to provoke the artless criticism. Holding his falling foot in abeyance, Lex did a perfect parody of a flamingo at rest.

"What exactly is wrong with my strut that it needs work on?" Lex queried, still balanced on one foot, unsure how to proceed with his usual erudite sophistication called into question.

Clark shrugged dispassionately, attempting to prevaricate for reasons that eluded and perplexed Lex to no end. Unable to endure the capricious behavior for much longer, Lex followed through with his temporarily aborted step and sank into the leather couch with his usual grace. Settling his limbs in a comfortable position, he continued to prod Clark with his intractable questioning.

"Clark, I was hoping that after all this time you'd see me as a friend. If you have salubrious advice to impart on me, I'm not going to be refractory towards your efforts. On the contrary, I'll be more than happy to appropriate my time to learning just exactly what is wrong with my 'strut', as you so eloquently put it. Now are you going to stop your transparent efforts at dissembling and tell me what seems to be the problem?"

Hearing Lex's grandiloquent pronouncement of his intent at self-improvement, Clark couldn't help rolling his eyes in a gesture that belied his guileless façade. Only Lex would be so obstinately concerned with his public image.

"Geez, Lex, calm down. You're perfect, no need for improvement." Then smiling, Clark gestured towards the half finished miniature of LexCorp's office building that was still sprawled across Lex's coffee table from the morning. "I was talking about the model."

"Would you care to apprise me of what exigency led to this impromptu disruption of a meeting with my board members?" Lex's laconic inquiry greeted Lionel's appearance in the recently emptied office.

"I come bearing felicitous news," Lionel replied, his eyes gleamed with reprobate intent. "A connoisseur of the mortician art has expressed an interest in recruiting you into their esoteric community of intellectual elites."

"Hm, yes," Lex murmured ostentatiously, making a production of drawing out his next statement. "This sudden interest in persuading me to join the Cult of Death has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that their little 'group' is willing to raise over half the funds necessary for the next buy out, which is in four days. Really, dad, you underestimated my cogent reasoning abilities."

"Preposterous," Lionel blatantly denied. "I would never allow business to come before family."

"Oh, give it up," Lex exasperated, allowing his erudite mask to fall slightly before slamming it back firmly in place. "I know you and your iconoclastic ways. Everything is business with Luthors, even our elegy is made of stock reports."

Lionel stared dispassionately at his son's flippant retort. When the noise died down, he asked the question again, "Are you or are you not going to let this opportunity pass?"

"I'll pass," Lex drawled. Then, before his father could continue, he pressed the call button. "Meeting adjourned. Charity, my next call please."

"It's a car, Lex." Clark stared in shock and awe at the artless look of unadulterated lust plastered on the bald billionaire's face. The mendacious mask of dispassionate stoicism faltered in favor of child-like excitement that now graced Lex's face.

"I know it's a car," Lex responded with his vituperative voice, one that was saved for unbearably slow children and his father. In this case, however, Lex was willing to make an exception and included Clark amongst the esoteric members on the list. "But it's not just any car. This is a fucking Ferrari." And yes, Lex just swore, but the welter of emotions this sexy piece of machinery had brought about is something transcending mere human existence and falls disastrously close to a religious experience. If Lex weren't quite so overwhelmed by the sheer beauty being exuded by this absolutely gorgeous instrument of modern technology, then perhaps he would have been able to express his feelings in a more acceptable manner concerning the audience involved. As is, he was only capable of gaping open-mouthed while salivating in a Pavlovian response to the aerodynamic body.

"Yes, Lex, it's a Ferrari. Which you already have, remember? The red one that you lent me?" Clark rolled his eyes in exasperation. Though it was rare to see Lex enjoy such a moment of unfettered happiness and the Ferrari 575M Maranello with its power output of 515 CV at 7250 rpm accelerating from zero to sixty-two in four-point-two seconds was one very sweet ride indeed, Clark hardly thought Lex's ingenuous gaiety was in such a state of indigence, that his eyes were required to brighten like Christmas lights at the sight of a high-performance car.

"A Berlinetta," Lex responded absently, his eyes still glued inexplicably to the leather wrapped V12 engine, his perspicacious mind already spinning out scenario after scenario concerning him getting to know the chic vehicle intimately with great alacrity. "The Berlinetta's great, a cute little car, something bought during my iconoclastic youth. But this…" This was a Maranello with a leather interior that's begging to be caressed, petted, and fondled by a pair of hands enclosed in butter-soft deerskin driving gloves. "Excuse me, Clark. I need to find those craven sales representatives and make a purchase."

Clark stood stupidly next to the temporarily abandoned model, knowing better than to gainsay Lex's precipitate decision. When Lex is on a hunt, nothing varying from honest persuasion to prevaricating chicanery is going to him from his goal. Nothing that is, Clark observed as Lex stumbled to a sudden halt, other than a McLaren F1 GT.

Lex occluded a recondite smile behind an ice cream cone that was more properly commensurate of a Clark-sized appetite than his own. He knew he should have proscribed from using invective vocabulary in his castigation of a recalcitrant worker, seeing as such behavior was not endemic to this antediluvian cow town. However, Clark intransigence insistence to exculpate his name from the afternoon's debacle resulted in his current indignant parade through the local ice cream parlor. Seeking revenge, Lex daintily licked a long stripe lengthwise along the cold dessert and smiled in satisfaction at the airy gasp.