NOT The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #16 - September, Year 2	by Bertram Gibbs

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To call The Imperial a ‘restaurant’ was less than accurate. It was compared to California’s Spago’s and the now defunct Studio 54. It contained a restaurant, a bar, a large dance floor (live music - no piped in Muzak), a meeting room and took up half a city block in the ritzy section of Metropolis’ uptown. Enjoying the luxury of the Imperial was by reservation only, and even then there was a thirty-minute to one-hour wait to be seated.

And that was after you were allowed entry by the three linebackers that greeted you at the door. These men, who were dressed in expensive clothes, yet looked like cleaned up Hell’s Angels, would allow the rich and notables in before the tourist trade.

A velvet rope was stretched along the building’s wall where people lined up. One of the gorillas would walk down the line of people, eyeballing those who would be allowed entry and those who wouldn’t, based on their notability, their manner of dress, and look of urgency (usually when a mug wanted to impress his/her date). It would not be uncommon for flesh (containing a C-note) to be pressed to move further up the line. In those cases, said gorilla would pocket the cash and keep on truckin’, thanking the poor sap for the donation, but not allow said sap to enter.

And Heaven help the moron who tried to debate the issue with men wearing size 50 and larger jackets.

Needless to say, but I’ll say it just the same, the Imperial was always packed to maximum capacity.

Pricilla Andrews was drop-dead gorgeous, in a silicon enhanced, bleached blonde sort of way. Her sea blue eyes (contacts) stared dreamily (or vacantly, depending on who you spoke with) above pouty lips (cosmetically enlarged) that encircled iridescent white teeth (caps, and a whitening polish). Her incredible hourglass figure (silicon, a few surgical tucks, and hours of exercise) was covered in a white sheer skin-tight mini-dress. She stood in the foyer of the Imperial, signing autographs for the drooling young men who abandoned their respective dates for a chance to be within mauling distance of the television star/model/centerfold.

Luthor had to elbow his way through the crowd to get to her.

“Pricilla!” he exclaimed. “I must apologize for my tardiness.”

“That’s okay, Lexy,” she said in a happy tone (speech therapist). “I was just saying ‘hi’ to my fans.

As Luthor took her arm and escorted her to the maître d’ to be seated, he felt daggers of eyes piercing his back and heard a groan of disappointment come from behind.

“Francis!” he exclaimed.

The wiry little man with the penciled mustache turned and grinned at Luthor.

“Mr. Luthor!” he exclaimed. “What brings you here this evening?”

“Fantastic, Francis!” he replied, not even remotely listening to the smaller man, his eyes glued to Andrews’. “My usual table, please.”

Francis stared at the names on the reservation book in front of him and his pupils dilated.

“Uh, Mr. Luthor,” he whispered, a small tremor filling his voice. “You did not make reservations?”

Luthor’s eyes darted to the smaller man. He grinned at Andrews, who grinned back. “One minute, Pricilla,” he said. He turned to Francis and smiled. “Of course reservations were made, Francis,” he said. “Please check again.”

As Luthor turned back to Andrews, he heard Francis whisper, “There are no reservations for you tonight, Mr. Luthor.”

“Surely you’re mistaken, Francis,” Luthor said softly. “Please. Check. Again.”

The man responded with an audible gulp. “I did, Mr. Luthor.”

Luthor placed a firm arm around the smaller man’s shoulder. “Reservations were made three days ago, Francis. An obvious mistake has been made.”

Francis flipped the pages of the reservation book and tapped a page with his finger. He looked up at Luthor, grinning.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Luthor,’ he replied. “You canceled it.”

Luthor’s grip on the man’s shoulder tightened enough to slow down the blood circulation.

“I. Did. What?” he asked, his grin becoming more shark-like as the seconds ticked by.

“You cancelled it?” Francis asked.

Luthor lowered his head closer to the man. “Francis,” he said softly. “Repeat after me, ‘Do you want fries with that?’”

Francis swallowed. “Excuse me, Mr. Luthor?”

“Because if you do not seat me and my guest in the next few seconds, you will be saying those exact words in every state, in every country in this wide wonderful world of ours. Am I understood?”

“B-b-but your table is presently occupied, Mr. Luthor,” the man stammered. “I can seat you at a different table tonight, but not your usual.”

Luthor had visions of pulling the man’s head from his shoulders. “Please do so, Francis,” he whispered.

In a matter of seconds, Luthor and Pricilla Andrews were seated at a table and a waiter rushed over to take their orders, starting with drinks and appetizers.

Luthor leaned forward to the young woman and smiled his sure-fire Bay-Bee-Bay-Bee-Ah-Want-You smile at her. Her highly polished smile was returned with similar intensity.

“I again must apologize for my being late, Pricilla,” he said in his low baritone.

“Oh, Lexy,” she gushed, waving his apology away with designer manicured fingers. Her other hand picked up a caviar filled cracker and seductively brought it to her mouth, taking the barest of a bite. “You’re such a busy person. It’s understandable. It’s not like you canceled, or anything.”

Luthor smiled. “Cancel an evening with you?” he asked, looking like the concept was unheard of. “Nothing could have kept me from your side.”

She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes (fake) at him.

“Would you like to order?” he asked.

She glanced at her unopened menu. “I haven’t even looked to see what they have,” she said.

Luthor beamed. “Then allow me to order for you,” he said. He turned his head and scanned the bustling restaurant, searching for their waiter. His eyes landed on a table in the far corner of the room, only because one of the three men seated was wearing a garishly brilliant red jacket. The other two were dressed in less obnoxious colors; one wore a stylish navy blue blazer and the other in a brown silk suit that showed gold highlights. The men were quietly eating and softly chuckling over something he could not hear.

“Is everything okay, Lexy?” Pricilla asked.

Luthor turned and looked at her, his left eyebrow raised. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re frowning,” she replied.

Luthor blinked a few times and smiled.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he said. “I just thought I recognized someone.”

“Well,” she said with a chuckle, “We are at the Imperial! The place is probably filled with people you know.”

“You’re right, you know,” he said. But there was something about the men that reminded him of . . . something. It was on the tip of his mind, but he couldn’t for the life of him, bring the thought to the forefront. He saw their waiter and flagged him down. The man dodged between other waiters, all carrying trays of drinks and food, and stood at attention at Luthor’s shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” he said in an official tone, “Are you ready to order?”

Luthor smiled at the man. “Yes,” he said. “Please bring me my usual, and another for the lady.”

Two feet away, a waiter was rolling a four-tiered rack of various desserts for another table.

“Right away, Mr. Luthor!” the waiter exclaimed and disappeared into the crowd.

“Now,” began Luthor slyly, “I was thinking about what we are going to do after we finish our dinner.”

Pricilla leaned forward, placing her (cosmetically altered) dimpled chin on her entwined fingers.

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” she purred.

Luthor grinned. “I’m pleased that we are of like mind,” he said in a low voice, locking his eyes with hers. Behind his eyes, he was still thinking about the men at the far table. He did not recognize them, but there was something glaringly obvious about them.

Luthor’s hand snaked out and held the young starlet’s. She leaned forward and inhaled deeply, her expansive bosom rising for optimum effect.

“So, Pricilla,” Luthor said, breaking the silence between them (and trying to push his thoughts about the men for another time), “What are you presently working on? Besides the show, that is.”

“Well,” she grinned, throwing back her head, allowing her hair to cascade around her shoulders, “I have the lead role in a feature that begins filming next week. I play a FBI agent who is on the trail of a serial killer. The whackjob has this crush on me . . . “

“Which is understandable,” Luthor interjected.

Andrews giggled. “And he is killing people in the most horrific ways, just to impress me. So it’s a race against the clock for me to find him before he kills again.”

“Sounds interesting,” Luthor lied, his mind split between dessert and the men at the table.

“Kevin Spacey is in it,” she said. “He plays the serial killer. So is F. Murray Abraham, who plays my boss, and Blythe Danner. She plays my mother, who the killer kidnaps to get me to come to him.”

“What’s the name of this film,” Luthor asked, his fingers slowly stroking Andrews’ knuckles.

“It’s called . . . oh, crap!”

At the very same moment Luthor paused to question the film’s title, his mind’s eye saw the red, blue and gold test pattern on his monitor, causing him to suddenly turn towards the far table.

But versus seeing the three men, he saw the desert rack tilt towards him, and the plates of various deserts slide in his direction. In seconds, he was covered in sticky cream, chocolate and meringue. Comically, a single cherry stuck to the top of his head.

Ignoring his present condition, Luthor stood and stared at the far table, which was now empty. His head turned this way and that, sending a spray of goo in either direction.

The three men were no longer in the restaurant.

The waiter with the dessert rack rapidly expressed a multitude of apologies.

Luthor’s waiter, who was coming towards their table with their dinner tray in his hand, moved forward quickly. Suddenly, the waiter eyes widened and he fell forward, the tray filled with Luthor’s usual hitting Luthor in the puss, sending him flopping backwards into the muck on the floor. The waiter picked himself up from the floor and took one look at Luthor and saw his sizable tip sink slowly in the West.

Pricilla stood up immediately, looking down on her soiled date, fighting back laughter. She sat down on a chair that suddenly slid away from her delectable posterior, sending her backwards, her flaying hands instinctively reaching for something, which happened to be the tablecloth on the table next to them. She accidentally pulled a dinner composed of pasta with red sauce on her, along with a bottle of champagne, two glasses, two tumblers of ice-cold water, and a place setting for two.

Simultaneously, Luthor and Andrews stood up quickly; both temporally blinded by food, desserts, and the fact that both her contacts were knocked out in the brouhaha. Legally blind without her contacts, she called his name for assistance. Luthor turned at the same time her hands shot out in his direction, the nails from her left hand opening a gash on his cheek, while her right accidentally punched Luthor in his sore eye, sending him backwards into a waiter holding a tray of flaming Cherries Jubilee. The flaming tray landed on the table of the couple that was originally contemplating what desert to have, setting their table on fire. Several waiters, all armed with fire extinguishers, doused the table with foam, putting out the fire.

No one noticed two hands, which were flat as paper, slid across the floor and retract across the room.

After all was said, done and destroyed, the room fell into an uneasy silence.

Except for the three-part BWAH-HA-HA chorus that was heard clearly in the Imperial dining area.

As one would expect, Lex Luthor never received his desired (and by this time, earned) something-something.

The 1812 Overture woke Lex Luthor up.

Actually, it was only the final cannon and church bell section.

He burst out of the suite, waking up the sleeping Mercy and Hope, who were now on 24-hour detail.

From their cots they sleepily watched their boss stride down the long hallway, wearing nothing since Luthor did not sleep clothed, take a potted plant and smash in the glass of the emergency fire station, withdraw an axe, then return to the room, slamming the door behind him. They heard the sound of him screaming curses and chopping at the walls. Several minutes later, the music, cannons and church bells stopped.

“I’m seriously considering asking for a raise,” muttered Hope from under the pillow she placed over her face.

“When do you intend to do that?” Mercy asked staring at the ceiling.

“When I’m on vacation, and out of the country,” she answered. “Via email.”

“Let me know,” groaned the redhead. “I’ll join you.”

Still vibrating from his wake-up, Luthor stared at his reflection in the mirror of his bathroom. Aside from the puffiness in his wounded eye, which was just beginning to open, and the shadow of a beard forming, there was a cut on his forehead and a gash under his other eye, courtesy of the long manicured nails of Pricilla Andrews. The good eye stared back at him insanely. He resembled a mugged psychotic. He threw cold water on his face and winced when the water touched the open skin. He looked back at his reflection. He didn’t look any better. He now looked like a wet mugged psychotic.

He sighed and plugged in the electric razor. He switched it on, hearing a soft humming sound and felt the razor’s vibration run down his forearm.

Who were those men, he wondered. Why were they out to get him? What had he done to them to deserve such punishment? From the way they were sitting in the restaurant, he couldn’t see their faces, only the color of their suits (red, blue, green) and the color of their hair (brown, black, blonde). Since they were sitting, he couldn’t gauge how tall they were. Based on that limited information, he couldn’t even have Hope or Mercy check their files for a matching description.

He sighed again and held the razor to the stubble on his cheek.

An animal like howl brought Hope and Mercy into the suite, their guns held firmly in their hands. They looked around and were immediately stunned by the wreckage. Lex Luthor had chopped the speakers out of the wall and had thrown the broken pieces around the room like the garbage they now were. A second and more pained scream came from the bathroom. They ran to the door and kicked it open.

The edge of which met Luthor’s nose, breaking it and sending him flying backwards, the small of his back striking the edge of the basin. He slid downward, striking the back of his head against the polished chrome edge. He lay on the floor, unconscious.

The women’s sudden urge to change their names and head for Madagascar came and went. They looked at their boss and saw that there was a large bleeding cut on his chin (aside from his rapidly swelling nose, which was pouring blood). The room was silent except for what sounded like a hedge clipper on acid. At the man’s feet was the electric razor, which was skittering like mad across the tiled floor.

“I’ll call the doctor!” said Mercy.

“I’ll check the want ads!” said Hope.

“A WHAT!?!?!” screamed Luthor from the couch in his private suite as his doctor added the seventh and last stitch in his chin.

“Please stop moving around, Mr. Luthor,” the doctor said softly, trying not to add a stitch where it wasn’t necessary.

Tertwilliger swallowed. “A massive power surge, Mr. Luthor,” he whispered.

Luthor stared at the man, his body vibrating enough to stir paint. He now had two butterfly bandages; one for the gash in his cheek and the other for the cut on his forehead, a sizable lump on the back of his head, a finger in a splint, stitches in his chin, a taped nose, which was discolored and swollen, one eye partially shut, a swollen and discolored cheek, and two black eyes. He looked like someone who went to a baseball bat fight, sans a bat of his own.

One eye slid to the doctor, who was snipping the end of the suture with a small pair of scissors.

“Are you quite finished here, Doctor Lloyd?” he asked sweetly.

“Yes, Mr. Lu . . . “

“GOOD!” he screamed. “GET OUT!”

Dr. Lloyd stuffed his instruments into his bag and ran out of the office.

Luthor turned to Tertwilliger, who wanted very badly to join the doctor.

“This . . . power surge,” Luthor began slowly, “Were any other section of the building affected?”

“Uh, no, Mr. Luthor,” Tertwilliger said. A small grin appeared on his round face. “That’s the funny part, Sir,” he said. “The surge seemed to be centralized and only hit your bathroom.” The man’s smile disappeared seeing Luthor was not sharing his concept of humor.

“Tertwilliger,” Luthor began menacingly, “I want you to do two things for me.”

“Certainly, Mr. Luthor!”

“First, I want you to assemble a team and scan this entire building, every computer, every machine, and every employee for a bugging device of some kind. And whatever you find, no matter how seemingly harmless and inconsequential, I want brought directly to me. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” Tertwilliger said nodding. “And the second thing?”

“I want you to see payroll, pick up your final check, pack your things and get out.”

“Right away, Mr. Lu . . . “ Tertwilliger said turning towards the door, then turning back around. “But, Mr. Luthor . . . “ he whimpered helplessly.

Luthor pushed himself to a standing position, then slunk slowly back down, having pressed down on his splinted finger. His face took on an unattractive shade of purple.

“Hope,” he whispered. “Mercy. Please make sure Mr. Tertwilliger follows my instructions to the letter.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” they replied.

“And give him an example of what will happen if he doesn’t.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” they repeated.

“B-but . . . “ Tertwilliger stammered.

“Out,” whispered Luthor.

“B . . . “

“OUT!” he screamed.

Tertwilliger ran out the door, followed by Mercy and Hope.

“Ladies?” said Luthor. “A word?”

Both women came to a sudden halt and turned to face him very slowly.

“The . . . incident of this morning,” he said. “Tell me one more time how this happened,” he lightly touched his nose and winced even at the feather-like touch. “All I can recall is waking up with Lloyd standing over me.”

“We heard you scream,” said Mercy in a flat tone.

“We came in,” said Hope in a matching nature.

“The bathroom door was locked,” said Mercy.

“We kicked it in,” said Hope.

“We found you on the floor,” said Mercy.

“Out like a light,” added Hope.

“You were bleeding heavily,” said Mercy.

“And your nose looked broken,” said Hope.

“We figured you were in such pain you blindly ran into the door,” said Mercy.

“Breaking your nose in the process,” added Hope.

“You fell backwards from the impact,” said Mercy.

“Banging your head against the bathroom sink,” said Hope.

“Rendering you unconscious,” said Mercy.

“We called the doc and Tertwilliger,” said Hope.

“Anything else, Mr. Luthor?” they asked.

During this exchange, Luthor’s head turned from one to the other, looking like he was watching an intense tennis match between the Williams sisters. His one eye blinked several times.

“No,” he said, thoroughly confused. “That will be all.”

Both women sharply exited the suite and looked at each other.

And exhaled deeply in relief.

At ten-thirty that morning, Lex Luthor received his first bit of welcome news.

His office was repaired.

Mercy and Hope followed Luthor down the long hallway to his office, the other employees first frowning, then quickly turning away, seeing the man’s condition. Luthor stood in front of his large double doors and waited, his hands folded in front of him.

The women opened the door and entered, holding two scanning devices that would begin to emit a shrill beeping noise should it detect a bug of any type. He stood from what he felt was a safe distance in the outer office, gnashing his teeth as he watched the women, now on opposites sides of the massive room, run the instruments up one wall, down another, across his bookcase, in between the furniture, and across and inside the giant fireplace that was built into the wall. They both turned to Luthor and shook their heads, Mercy adding a thumbs up gesture. It was only then did Luthor enter his office.

But he entered it tentatively, as if he was walking across a minefield, his eyes canting from one section of the room to the other.

When he reached his desk, he quickly ran around it and peered underneath it, looking for something, anything out of the ordinary. Seeing nothing, he sat down in his high-backed chair, then suddenly stood up and checked the underside of the furniture. Satisfied nothing was there, he returned to a sitting position.

His hands automatically went to his personal computer, but pulled back as if the keyboard was wrapped in barbed wire.

“The system was checked, Mr. Luthor,” Mercy said over his shoulder.

“No bugs, or surveillance devices were found,” added Hope.

Luthor looked at them with a scowl on his face, which seemed to be his permanent expression of the last few days. His fingers gently tapped out his personal code and the monitor showed the LexCorp logo. He accessed his database, and then pulled his hands back, expecting to receive a sudden electric shock.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened.

He stared at the monitor for several seconds, then looked around the office.

Nothing.

His eyes shot to the ceiling above him, waiting for boiling tapioca pudding to pour from the vents.

Nothing.

His eyes returned to the monitor, expecting . . . he didn’t know what to expect, but all he saw was the information from his database.

It was only then did he realize he had stopped breathing, and exhaled.

And smiled.

Based on the multiple injuries to his face, it wasn’t a pretty picture.

“Good job, Ladies,” he said. “Fantastic job!”

“Thank you, Mr. Luthor,” both women replied, each breathing their own personal sigh of relief.

“Leave me now,” he said, shifting comfortably in his seat. “I have work to catch up on.”

Both women gave each other a small smile and left.

Three men walked into Metropolis’ Cuban Embassy and to the reception desk. All three wore very expensive suits and dark glasses. The one with brown hair had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, which moved from one side to the other; the blonde man was chewing gum. The one in the middle sauntered directly to the secretary at the desk.

The woman, olive skinned and long dark hair pulled back in a very severe bun, looked up and quickly stood at attention.

“Mr. Luthor!” she exclaimed.

“Inez,” the bald man said quietly.

“The ambassador was not expecting you this morning!” she exclaimed nervously.

“Is the ambassador busy?” he asked. “This won’t take long.”

“Well,” she said with apparent unease, “He is in a small lunch meeting right now, but it should be ending in about fifteen minutes.”

The tall bald man sighed. “Inez,” he said with forced patience, “It is quite important that I speak to the ambassador. Right now.”

The secretary sat down and pressed the intercom.

“Inez,” came Maceo’s voice, “You know I’m bus- “

“Mr. Luthor is here to see you, Ambassador,” she whispered urgently.

“. . . Luthor?” the man asked. “Here? Now?”

“He said it is very important.”

There was a silence on the other end. “Give me a minute to wrap up here,” Maceo said and disconnected the line.

“The Ambassador will be right with you, Mr. Luthor,” the secretary said.

The bald man reached out and took the secretary’s hand, brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you, Inez,” he said, smiling darkly.

Through the woman’s dark toned skin, she visibly flushed.

A minute later, the door to the ambassador’s office opened and three men walked out, giving the three standing men a disapproving glance, followed by the ambassador.

“Lex!” the ambassador exclaimed. “What am I . . . “

“It would be in your best interest to keep your mouth shut and listen to me very carefully,” hissed the bald man, leaning over the smaller ambassador.

The ambassador’s guests, who were walking down the hallway of the embassy, stopped to listen to the exchange.

“Your illegal activities and your money laundering, have been reported to the FBI, the CIA, and the Internal Revenue Service,” the taller man said seriously, “not to mention your superiors. Federal marshals will be here within the hour to arrest you. They have copies of signed agreements, copies of your telephone records, and copies of your bank statements, showing unusually large deposits.”

Maceo’s ruddy face paled considerably and his mouth moved like a fish suddenly transported to dry land.

“And just in mentioning,” the bald man said with a hint of a smile, “photos of you and your secretary in very compromising (and near physically impossible) conditions have been sent to your wife.” He looked over to the secretary, whose color had drained from her face. “Inez, my dear,” he said shaking his head sadly, “I thought you had better taste than that. I mean, bondage, kielbasa, and non-dairy desert topping. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He returned his attention to Maceo, who had glanced over his shoulder at his associates who also wore a similar shocked expression. When he returned his jittery gaze to Luthor, he saw the man was smiling.

“H-how . . . ?” he stammered.

“How?” the bald man repeated, now grinning. “Simple, Maceo. I told them.”

The ambassador’s pale complexion turned a beet red.

“You?” he gasped. “Why?” he asked. “Why would you . . . ?”

“Because I can, sweetums.”

“I will tell our other ‘friends’, Luthor,” Maceo whispered. “You will not get away with this!”

“Maceo,” the bald man said patiently, removing two cigars from his pocket, placing one in the ambassador’s mouth and the other in his own. The brown-haired man and the blonde one quickly removed lighters and lit the ends of both stogies. “I already have.”

As the three men turned, a loud bang was heard. Maceo stood there with an exploded cigar in his mouth, three quarters of his face dark with soot, his brown eyes staring madly.

“Have a nice day!” called the bald man, walking out of the embassy, his assistants at his heel.

As the three men left, four men with Federal Marshall windbreakers walked in. Maceo’s flushed expression turned to a lighter shade of pale. He turned to Inez, who was staring back.

“That file I asked you to keep in case of emergencies?” he quickly whispered. “Call the names on it and tell them what has happened.”

“Ambassador Maceo?” said one of the marshals, all four looking less than pleased at being there and all wearing matching mirrored sunglasses.

“Quickly!” hissed the ambassador.

Luthor’s telephone had twelve lines, which he mostly used for his moneymaking conference calls.

All were lit and blinking, waiting to be picked up.

Luthor was sitting at his desk, staring into space.

Well, at least one eye was staring; the other was closed shut again.

Mercy slowly opened the door to his office.

“The Daily Planet is on the line again, Mr. Luthor,” she said softly. “It’s Perry White.”

His one good eye slid in her direction.

“No calls,” he whispered.

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” she said, backing out of the doorframe.

“Mercy?” he whispered.

“Uh, yes, Mr. Luthor?”

“How much is it up to now?” he asked in a voice void of emotion.

The redhead’s alabaster skin paled. “Five more government contracts, Mr. Luthor. About one-twenty.”

Before he could respond, she had shut the door.

Her haste wouldn’t have mattered for Luthor said nothing.

One hundred and twenty million dollars lost in the span of two hours.

One hundred and twenty million.

One hundred.

And twenty.

Million.

Gone.

He had sent Hope out to investigate and found that it all started with the arrest of Ambassador Maceo. She had spoke to his secretary and she had very harsh words to tell, all revolving around his visit to the embassy a few hours ago. But based on his present physical condition, he had not left the office, nor had intended to.

Someone had impersonated him.

Worse, someone had found out his arrangement with Maceo, reported him, and impersonated him.

And in retaliation, Maceo had called a few others that Luthor was doing business with, and they had pulled out of their deals, severing their illegal ties with him.

The burnt bridges could be repaired, and the money recouped, but it would take a while. But that was then.

This was now…

And to make matters worse, the blue, gold and red test pattern showed up on his monitor.

And that irritating ‘NAA-NAA-NAAH, NA NA NA-NA NANA’ began to blast from the building’s public address speakers again.

And right before the ceiling began to cave in around him, he received a telephone call.

All he heard was ‘BWAH-HA-HA! BWAH-HA-HA! BWAH-HA-HA!’ on the other end.

And no one could explain who was behind it, and why.

Not Mercy. Not Hope. Not Miller, nor Rasmussen. Nor their replacements. Nor Tertwilliger’s replacement.

He heard a soft knock on his door and raised his eye to see Mercy standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Luthor,” she said in a child’s voice, “One-fifty.” She stared at him with a pitying gaze and closed the door.

“One hundred and fifty million dollars,” he whispered.

He hadn’t felt like crying since he lost that sled when he was eight.

He rested his head on his hands, which were flat on his desk, feeling a pounding migraine filling his skull. Things were going so well. Things were great until he went to see that idiot . . .

His head shot up and his one eye stared, a mad tic vibrating in the corner of his good eye like a trip hammer.

“Gardner,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

But would he have the stones to attack him this way? Luthor shook his head. The man was a step up from a thug. Stewart? It was obvious he didn’t like him, and he had already proved that by recording his remarks to his moronic companion. Who else, he wondered? His eye slid to the monitor and the tri-color test pattern blinked off and on.

The Blue (blue) Beetle. Booster (gold) Gold. But the red? Who was the red? The Kryptonian? No. He would never do that. This wasn’t his style. That freak from Gotham? No, the colors were too bright and he would confront him directly. His mind considered the red to mean Gardner (he of the red hued locks) was involved, but remembered the three men at the Imperial. The man in the red had black hair, so Gardner was out. The Kryptonian had black hair, so maybe he was involved in some way. And the man was smaller in build. But he felt he could start with the Beetle and Gold.

He felt a burning anger flow through him, and that anger turned to energy. He hit the intercom.

“Mercy!” he bellowed.

She opened the door and stared uneasily at her boss, who was grinning insanely and giggling likewise. He scrawled something on a slip of paper and held it out to her.

“Here is the name of the hotel that I gave to those two spandex that came to the office the other day,” he said, grinning broadly on one side of his face; the other too swollen to form any semblance of a smile. “Get Hope. Find them. Bring them here.”

“You think that they had something to do with all this?” she asked.

Luthor’s eye went dark, and he shook his head. “No, Mercy,” he said in a very dark tone. “I know they had something to do with it. But there is one more involved. Find them and feel free to do whatever is necessary to get them to talk. Am I understood?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. Luthor,” she said, returning his smile and closed the door behind her.

“And when they get here,” Luthor said out loud to the empty room, “they are going to pay me back for all that they have done, and all that I have lost. And then some for good measure,” he added with a grin. Luthor glanced at the LED readout on the clock. It was almost two-thirty. “Within the hour, I will have them and then, then they will pay!”

When the clock’s dial showed it was four, Luthor, who was beginning to wear a groove in his new carpet from pacing, called Mercy on the cell.

“Yes, Mr. Luthor?” she answered.

“Mercy, my sweet,” he said way too sweetly. “Do you know what time it is?”

After a beat of silence she replied, “Uh, it’s around four, Mr. Luthor.”

“Then maybe,” he said, “just maybe, you can tell me one thing?”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor?”

“WHERE ARE THEY!?!?!?!” he screamed.

“Uh, we checked the hotel and they weren’t registered.”

Luthor gnashed his teeth. “They’re not there?”

“Uh, no.”

“And you and Hope are doing what?” he asked.

“We’re checking other hotels to find them.”

Luthor exhaled deeply. “Very well,” he said softly. “You will call me once you locate those reprobates?”

“Of course, Mr. Luthor,” she replied.

He disconnected the line.

“Small setback,” he said to himself. “They’ll find them. And when they do . . . “

By six-fifteen, the twelve lights on his desk phone had stopped blinking and the continuous ringing from the telephones in the waiting area had ceased. He picked up the cell and dialed again.

“We’re still looking, Mr. Luthor,” Hope answered without waiting for Luthor’s obvious question.

He hung up.

“Fine,” he said to no one, his one eye rattling in its socket. “They’ll find them.”

He turned to the monitor and flinched. The red, blue and gold test pattern was now reduced to a border. In the center of the monitor was an episode of The Andy Griffith Show.

“So, O-o-opie,” stammered Floyd the barber, “W-w-want some candy?”

Luthor hands shot out and ripped the external speakers from the hard drive and flung it across the room.

The clock showed seven fifty-nine, then eight o’clock.

‘NAA-NAA-NAAH, NA NA NA-NA NANA’

When the zeroes changed to zero-three, Luthor poured another tumbler of bourbon, this being his fourth. His hands held the glass, both shaking enough to cause the amber liquid to splash over the rim.

Just as he reached for the cell, there was a knock on the door. His eyes (or eye) lifted and a grin spread across half of his face.

“Finally!” he exclaimed. “Now we . . . “

There were raised voices coming from the outer office. He frowned with the one working side of his face. He walked slowly across the room, opened the door and peeked outside.

A pair of angry eyes stared back, causing him to recoil and clip the side of his head on the door.

In the outer office were five men and two women arguing, each holding bags of something, each jockeying for position for the office door.

“What in hell is going on out here?” Luthor demanded.

The seven people began to speak at once, sounding like the road tour of the Tower of Babel.

Luthor held up his hand for silence, but none of them were paying any attention. He calmly walked around the group and went to Hope’s computer, lifted it off her workstation and threw it against the wall, where it crashed noisily. The yammering cut off and they all turned in his direction.

“What is going on?” Luthor said quietly. When they all began to speak at once, he held up his hands. “One at a time, please!”

A small Asian man stepped forward and held out a bag under Luthor’s nose.

“An order of General Gau’s Spicy Chicken,” the man said. “Eight-seventy-five!”

The man behind him, who looked Hispanic, said, “Large order of Szechwan Beef, large order of beef with ginger and scallions, small order of Peking ravioli. Thirteen-fifty!”

A small woman wearing a running suit pushed forward. “Beef Tow-Goo and shrimp with snow peas! Sixteen-eighty!”

The second woman elbowed the first, pushing a dripping bag in Luthor’s hands.

“Too-Goo Har!” she exclaimed. “And two large House fried rice! Twenty-twenty-five!”

And so it went. Order after order stated, all demanding their money. Luthor’s eye went from delivery person to delivery person like a pinball banking off the machine’s flippers.

“WAIT A MINUTE!” he screamed over the voices. “I didn’t order . . . “

The Asian man stepped through the small crowd and went nose to nose with the taller man. “You Rex Ruthor?” he demanded.

It took Luthor a second to realize the man had accented his name. “Yes, but . . . “

“You order, you pay!” he screamed in his face.

“But I didn’t . . . “ he began.

“Someone call the cops on this bum!” cried a voice in the crowd.

“Look,” said Luthor, trying to put a calming smile on his face. “A serious mistake has been . . . “

“Don’t call the 5-O!” cried a voice. “Call the Planet! Tell ‘em that this rich bum is trying to cheat us!”

All seven delivery people pushed forward, pinning Luthor to the door.

“ALL RIGHT!” screamed Luthor, digging into his pants for his wallet, pulling out hundred dollar bills. “HERE! TAKE THE MONEY! JUST GET OUT OF HERE!!!”

The room fell into an eerie silence.

A Black man with a baseball hat turned backwards stared at Luthor with unconcealed hostility.

“You better have change, man,” he sneered.

Luthor’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. “It’s all I have?” he said in a feeble voice.

No one said a word. The look of lynching in their eyes said it all.

“Take it!” cried Luthor. “Take it all! Call it your tip!”

All of a sudden, the group smiled and dropped the food on the workstations and grabbed the bills out of Luthor’s hand before he could change his mind, and walked to the waiting elevator.

The outer office now empty, Luthor stared at the bags and Styrofoam containers of food that littered the area.

The combined smell of which made his stomach turn.

He opened his door and was about to slink back into his office when the elevator bell chimed. Before he could turn around, he heard a familiar voice call from behind.

“Hey, Rubber-neck! I got your order!”

Luthor turned in slow motion and saw the man from Paulie’s Pizza standing there with a small hand truck filled with pizza boxes. He walked directly past him and left the pies in a stack in the center of the room. He came back out and grinned at Luthor.

“Sixteen pineapple and anchovy pizzas,” he said. “With extra cheese. That’ll be two-hundred and sixty-five-fifty. Not including delivery charge and tip, of course.”

Luthor stared at the man.

“You rich mugs got some intrestin’ tastes,” he said.

Luthor continued to stare at the man.

“Hel-lo?” the man said, waving his hand in front of Luthor’s face. “Anybody ta home?”

“I don’t have any more money on me,” Luthor said in a far away voice.

The man frowned. “Ya got plastic?” he asked.

Almost as if his hands were not his own, he removed a credit card and held it out to the frowning deliveryman. The man picked the card from his fingers and went to one of the workstations, removing a credit card authorization machine from a pouch on his belt. He unplugged the cord from the telephone and plugged it in the rear of the machine. He slid the card through and waited.

Seconds later the machine emitted an off-key beep.

“Declined, Rubber-neck,” he said. “Got another?”

The twitch in Luthor’s eye increased. He handed the man another card.

“Declined again,” he said. “Care to try for three?”

Luthor handed him his last credit card.

“Three for three, Rubber-neck,” he replied, his frown deepening.

“Bill me,” Luthor said softly.

“No can do, Rubber-neck,” the man said. He plopped in a chair. “Guess I’ll just sit here and wait for you to make good.”

Luthor walked like a zombie into his office, opened up his safe and pulled out a small handful of hundreds and handed it to the man.

The deliveryman counted out the money and looked up at Luthor. “You gonna want change back?” he asked.

Luthor turned and walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

“Works for me, Rubber-neck!” the man said. “Happy eatin’!”