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The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
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| JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #15 - August, Year 2 | by Bertram Gibbs |
Martian Manhunter |
Blue Beetle |
Booster Gold |
Plastic Man |
By mid-day, the workers in the LexCorp Building were somewhat used to the oddities with the computer system, but had managed to work around them. After all, the work still had to be done.
True, it was somewhat disconcerting to access a file on, say NASA’s current shuttle launch and find an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies on a window of your monitor, or pull up data on mineral deposits found on Mars and see animated Chippendale dancers gyrating across your screen (though the majority of the women and a few male employees found the animation enjoyable), but being the consummate professionals they were, they made do with what they had to work with. It took them a little longer to do their work, but, at the very least, it made the day fly by.
Greg Philby’s task was to investigate the political structure in Pakistan and its effect on the country’s computer businesses. He ignored the dancing baby on his screen and was making notes in his Palm Pilot, which was not connected to the LexCorp mainframe. Henry Dennison was nose deep in his study of the depletion of the ozone layer, also making notes in a similar Pilot. Both men were of genius level, which was why they worked for LexCorp, Luthor always getting the biggest bang for his buck.
‘NAA-NAA-NAAH, NA NA NA NA NANA’!
Philby looked up from his Pilot and watched an animated Superman fly across the screen.
“Three o’clock, Henry,” said Philby to his cubical buddy from his workstation. “Time for break.”
Dennison stood from his chair and arched his back. “Think Mr. Luthor will keep this once the system is back to normal?” he asked.
“What do you think?” asked Greg.
“I can dream, can’t I?” groused Henry.
Lex Luthor had a walk-in closet the size of Rhode Island. Hanging from built-in-the-wall hangers were hundreds of suits of different styles and colors, for every occasion. In a separate section of the closet hung leisurewear of every conceivable description. Polo outfits, tennis outfits, golf clothes, boating gear, and numerous items for when he just wanted to dress down. Next to the suits hung shirts and ties that decoratively contrasted with the suit in question. Lining the floor beneath the suits, shirts and ties were enough shoes and boots that would make Imelda Marcos green with envy. The closet was climate controlled and a light potpourri scent came from the vents, making sure that the closet and the clothes were springtime fresh. After a single use, Luthor deposited the suits in a basket, where they were taken by his private service for dry cleaning. Each suit, shirt and tie was returned in a paper wrapper, while a group of men (paid by the hour) polished each pair of shoes to a high gloss.
When you’re Lex Luthor, appearance was everything.
Luthor limped out of the shower, having banged his hip when the elevator went into free-fall, and uttered a stream of curses when he pressed a button on his vanity, opening the two sets of double doors that encased his closet, having used his damaged finger to do so.
He was tired. He was angry. He was in pain. Someone had managed to breach his security and tamper with his fine-tuned system. No one did that. No one could do that. No one should have been able to do that. But someone did and he meant to find out whom.
He glanced into the vanity’s mirror and winced when he saw how discolored his eye was, and how much of the purple-with-unattractive-green- highlights-bruise on his cheek had spread.
What’s that smell? He wondered, checking his armpits for the offending odor. He picked up a bottle of cologne from the vanity and spritzed himself.
Due to the latest mishap, he had missed his meeting at the country club, which meant a daily loss of 3.4 million dollars. A minor setback, since he had Hope reschedule the meeting for next week. Still, it shouldn’t have happened.
He had Desmond Tertwilliger, his chief of security, scanning the security tapes, looking for . . . anything that would explain what was going on. Miller and Rasmussen still hadn’t found what caused the glitch in the system, even after Hope and Mercy had their . . . talk with them.
Luthor hated not having answers. And what is that smell?
He glanced at his Rolex and smiled. He had a date with the actress from that Surf Watch show in an hour. A relaxing dinner filled with vacuous conversation, followed by a little dancing, followed by a little something-something. Regardless of him not looking his best, he needed a diversion from the day’s insanities.
“I think the blue suit would be appropriate,” he said to himself, trying to push away his sour mood. He turned to the closet and felt his eyes (or eye) water.
The light scent of potpourri was no longer coming from the vents.
Old, stale cheese was closer to the truth.
His face scrunched up as he took out his suit. He moved away from the closet and shut its doors. He dressed quickly to escape the offending odor and walked out of his suite.
As Luthor walked down the long hallway, he absently greeted the milling employees, as he normally did. Several times, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed their faces registering . . . something. Whenever he chose to turn back, they had a nervous smile on their faces. He shrugged and focused on his date and the something-something.
Tertwilliger came out of an office, saw Luthor and attempted a retreat, but since their eyes met, any attempt at escape was slim. He stood his ground and waited until Luthor, who was a whole head shorter than he and several pounds heavier, caught up to where he was cowering. As was Tertwilliger’s normal appearance, he appeared to have finished a twenty-mile jog.
In the Sahara…
“Mr. Luthor!” he exclaimed.
“Tertwilliger, walk with me” he replied, momentarily wondering if the actress was a real blonde. “What do you have for me?”
“Uh, nothing, Mr. Luthor,” the man nervously whispered, trying to keep in step.
Luthor stopped in his tracks, his mood shattered, but not broken. Tertwilliger kept moving for three more steps, then slunked back to where his employer was standing. Luthor was used to asking that very same question to all of his employees and receiving a satisfactory reply.
This was not a satisfactory reply, by any stretch of the imagination.
As he reached the spot Luthor stood in, the taller man spun on him and lowered his face to his level. Tertwilliger recoiled slightly.
“That is not what I want to hear, Tertwilliger,” Luthor said in a soft, yet menacing tone. “I want to know who got into my system. Better yet, I want to know how they got into it and what they used to corrupt it. I need this information, do you understand me Tertwilliger?”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor!” He sniffed.
“This is destroying all productivity, and it is your job to correct it.”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor!” the man repeated. He sniffed and his eyes narrowed.
“As a matter of fact,’ Luthor said as if the concept suddenly came to him, “Isn’t it your job to make sure something like this couldn’t happen?”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor!” Tertwilliger answered. Again, he sniffed, trying to move his head further back.
“Then why, may I ask, is . . . “ Luthor’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something troubling you, Tertwilliger?” he asked.
The man’s eyes widened. “NO!” the man exclaimed. “I mean, no, Mr. Luthor,” he said in a normal voice.
“Tertwilliger,” Luthor said. “You are sniffing. In my presence, you are sniffing. You know my policy on germs, do you not?”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” the man replied softly.
“Do you have a cold?”
“Uh, no, Mr. Luthor,” he answered.
“THEN WHY IN HEAVEN’S NAME ARE YOU SNIFFING?!?!” he bellowed.
“Because you smell like cheese!” the man blurted out, slapping both hands across his offending mouth.
Luthor stood upright, staring at the man expressionless.
“What?” he asked in a small voice.
“It’s probably me, Mr. Luthor,” Tertwilliger said in a rush. “I mean, it’s probably my sinuses acting funny, but that doesn’t mean I have a cold, or the flu, or anything like that, and it’s probably because . . . “
“I smell like, what?” Luthor asked in a dead tone.
“I mean, it’s probably . . . “
“I SMELL LIKE WHAT????” Luthor screamed.
Tertwilliger’s eyes canted in several directions. Part of him hoping that there was no witness to his dressing down, the other part hoping there was someone who could extricate him out of this tender moment. The hallway was unusually vacant.
“I said, Mr. Luthor,” Tertwilliger said in a voice smaller than a gnat’s toe, “You smell like cheese.” He closed his eyes, expecting his jaw to be suddenly dislocated, or to be picked up and flung across the hallway, like a sack of flour. The sudden enraged and repeated scream of ‘WHAT DO I SMELL LIKE?!?!’ made him open his eyes.
Luthor was bursting into all the offices, asking what he smelled like, leaving men and women alike shaking in tears. Tertwilliger watched Luthor literally kick in the door to his private suite and stalk inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Seconds later, he heard the sound of things being thrown around the room and Luthor bellowing the word ‘CHEESE!’ over and over.
This was not the first time Tertwilliger considered working elsewhere.
By the time Hope and Mercy reached the suite after receiving a call from Tertwilliger (who sounded like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown - at least, more than usual), Luthor’s suite was trashed.
Suits upon suits were flung everywhere and hung from lamps, the corners of chairs, and in piles on the floor. Their boss was stalking the length of the massive closet, grabbing a suit off of the rack, burying his face in it, screaming ‘CHEESE!, then flinging it aside.
“Uh, Mr. Luthor?” asked Hope hesitantly.
“CHEESE!” screamed Luthor, tossing an Armani over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Sir?” asked Mercy.
Luthor grabbed a blue silk suit from a hanger, held it to his face, then stalked over, grabbed the young woman by her head and pushed her face into the material.
“What does that smell like?” he rasped.
Mercy pulled her head back and opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. She took the suit from Luthor, who stood there glaring, and held it out to Hope. Hope frowned and dipped her head forward and sniffed. Mercy then held the suit under her nose again, sniffing deeply. Hope crooked a finger and Mercy held out the suit to her partner. The woman dipped her head forward again, nose pressed against the material.
“WHAT DOES IT SMELL LIKE?” Luthor barked.
“Swiss?” offered Mercy.
Hope shook her head. “More like cheddar.”
Mercy shook her head. “Not as sharp as cheddar. More like . . . “
“IT SMELLS LIKE CHEESE!” screamed Luthor, ripping the apparel out of the red head’s hands and throwing it on the floor. He began to leap up and down on it, screaming ‘CHEESE!’ Luthor grabbed both women by their hands and dragged them to the closet, wincing as he pressed against his finger. He released their hands and grasped both women by the neck and pushed them face first into a group of suits, waited a few seconds, then pulled them out.
“They, uh, all smell like cheese, Mr. Luthor,” Hope said softly.
“LIKE, DUH!” Luthor bellowed. “Every single thing I own smells like cheese! How am I supposed to go out tonight smelling like soured milk?” he exclaimed.
“Well,” offered Mercy, “It isn’t that noticeable.”
Luthor’s teeth clenched.
“Well, it is that noticeable,” amended Mercy.
“Do I hear any suggestions?” Luthor asked in an overly sweet voice.
“Uh, have the clothes cleaned?” offered Mercy.
“And do you think that my suits, any of them, will be ready for tonight’s dinner?” he asked.
“Buy new clothes?” asked Hope, hopefully.
Luthor tilted his head and smiled darkly. “Then get to it!” he said. “I’m going to take another shower.”
They quickly backed out of the suite, watching Luthor disrobe to the buff on his way to the shower. As they closed the doors, they heard the rush of the shower being turned on.
Which was followed by a blood-curdling scream.
“Too hot?” asked Hope. “Too cold?”
“You want to be the one to find out?” asked Mercy, closing the door behind them.
* * * *
In record time, Lex Luthor had his suit for the evening. Luthor’s personal tailor stood patiently by, his chalk, pins and sewing machine at the ready, fit the suit to perfection. Mercy picked up a black silk shirt with a button-up high collar, which contrasted nicely with the steel gray two-piece. Not wanting to dare the fates (or the smell of defeat), she had also picked up a pair of alligator shoes.
“How do I look, Ladies?” Luthor asked, preening in front of the mirror.
“Sharp as a tack,” Hope replied.
“Fantastic,” grinned Mercy.
“Is my limo ready?” he asked.
When there was no response, Luthor looked at them through the mirror’s reflection.
“Ladies?” he said turning.
“Because of the muck that filled the gas tank, its going to take some time,” Mercy said, preparing for an explosion.
Luthor sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m in a very good mood, all things considered. Call a cab and have it waiting for me downstairs.”
“The Imperial?” Hope asked.
“Of course!” Luthor grinned. “Always the best, and the best makes for a dandy first impression.”
“Will the actress be meeting you there, or will do you want the cab to pick her up along the way?” asked Mercy.
“The young woman is meeting me there,” Luthor replied. A dark look crossed his face. “Reservations have been made, haven’t they?”
Mercy beamed. “Three days ago, Mr. Luthor!”
“Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Call for the taxi, please.”
“At once, Mr. Luthor!” they sang in unison.
Luthor waited for the women to leave before walking to his vanity and opened a drawer. As he ordered, there was a container of stage makeup waiting for him. He gingerly dabbed the flesh colored makeup to his discolored skin, wincing when he pressed too hard.
He hummed a song from Phantom and smiled.
Luthor stood waiting in front of the LexCorp Building, still tapping his foot to the song. A cab turned the corner and he walked to the curb to meet it.
It continued along the street and disappeared out of sight.
He frowned slightly.
Another taxi turned the corner and that also drove by him.
Followed by two more cabs, which also continued on its merry way to parts unknown.
His frown deepened. He could see the last two drivers staring directly at him as he held up his hand to attract their attention, yet neither of the cabs stopped. As a matter of fact, they seemed to speed up when they saw him.
Mercy and Hope came out of the building and swallowed deeply, seeing their boss standing there.
“Problem, Mr. Luthor?” Hope asked.
“You did call for a taxi, did you not?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Luthor!” Mercy replied.
He turned to look at the women. “Then why am I still here?” he asked.
Both women stared at the skin around his damaged eye, noticing the slight sheen of makeup.
“Ladies?” he said in a harsh rasp, bringing them to attention.
Before they could say a word, another taxi turned the corner.
“That’s probably it,” Mercy said.
Luthor raised his arm to hail the cab. The driver automatically turned towards the curb, then straightened and sped down the block.
Luthor stood there vibrating, his arm still raised above his head.
“There has to be some explanation,” Hope whispered.
“Well,” Luthor said, a tic developing in his good eye, “I’m waiting to hear it?”
Both women swallowed again.
Another taxi turned the corner.
Luthor once again hailed it at the same time Hope and Mercy darted into the street, their guns held in front of them.
The driver turned towards the curb, then began to pull away when he saw the two .45’s aimed at him. He screeched to a stop about a foot from where the women were standing.
While Hope opened the passenger door to allow Luthor access, Mercy, weapon still in her hand, stood next to the driver’s window.
“You’re not going to tell me you didn’t see Mr. Luthor, are you,’ she asked in a threatening tone.
“Uh, n-no,” he said.
“Or that you didn’t recognize Mr. Luthor?”
“I’m j-just following orders from dispatch, lady,” the man said nervously, his eyes glued to the black abyss in the weapon’s barrel.
“Orders?” asked Mercy.
“Y-yeah,” the man stammered. “We was told not to, under any circumstances, to pick Mr. Luthor up!”
Mercy lowered her head to the man, who slid away in his seat as far as he could go and still be behind the wheel.
“Why?” she asked.
“We was paid,” he said.
“Paid?”
“Yeah!” he exclaimed. “All the cab companies were given fifteen large not to pick up Mr. Luthor!”
“Why?” Mercy asked.
“I don’t know, lady!” he whined. “You know how weird these rich guys can be!” He glanced into the rearview mirror and swallowed when he saw Luthor staring back at him. “No offense!”
“Who paid you?!?” hissed Luthor, leaning forward in his seat.
“Uh, you did, Mr. Luthor!” the driver said in a child’s voice. “Please don’t kill me!” he whimpered, burying his face in his hands.
After a long silence, Luthor muttered, “Take me to the Imperial.” His eyes turned inward, he turned to Hope standing by the passenger door, and to Mercy, who was still standing by the driver’s window. “I want to know who is behind this.”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” they replied.
“By the time I return!” he snapped.
The cab pulled away.
To Be Continued...
