This afternoon, in what would have been a lunch break for anyone else, Lois Lane typed another entry as usual into the portfolio of her inevitable Pulitzer Prize. Despite interruptions from junior staffers, she was able to maintain her concentration, relating another improbable but true adventure of humans beyond humans.
“So how about that Superman?” middling journalist Clark Kent interrupted, stupidly, jaw simultaneously square and slack.
Setting a professional example, Miss Lane ignored his vague and unnecessary question, instead writing a vivid description of the malfunctioning cyborg that destroyed John Kennedy Luthor Elementary School this morning. Mr. Kent, lacking emotional intelligence, dignity, or both, continued to harass Miss Lane with dull conversation, begging for the attention surely denied him by his adoptive mother.
“Have you seen him lately? What do you think of him? He’s pretty great, huh?”
Miss Lane, growling a dismissive affirmation, checked her notes for a quote from one of the hundreds of freshly grieving parents. “I’m glad Superman got there before the fire spread, but that doesn’t bring back my daughter.” She couldn’t use that one. Superman wouldn’t like it, and she had to maintain her exclusivity.
“Aside from his powers, don’t you think he’s handsome? You should reward him for all he’s done for this city sometime. I’m sure you’d enjoy it, too.”
Lois Lane looked up from her typewriter. Her face was unambiguous. Angry, annoyed. Even as dense as the hayseed reporter was, he knew that he had gone too far, and left her alone to finish her article. If she had had heat vision of her own, the man would be cinders.
She’d tell Superman about this. He’d deal with the problem. She was certain.
Post Modern Existential Horror 