Clark pulled on the heavy white cotton shirt, checking how it looked in the mirror. His distinctive costume was obscured by the weighty cloth, anything too thin and the bright primary colours would be visible through shirt's material, which defeated the idea of wearing street clothes over his indestructible suit.
He walked across the bedroom of his small rented apartment. Glancing out the window he looked across to the towering skyscrapers of Troy State Island, Metropolis.
Plainly decorated and spartanly furnished ; a bed, a side table, a set of drawers and a wardrobe.
Opening this he removed the first of six identical suits hung inside. Each was a dark flat navy blue, nothing garish he had insisted on that. The tailor had made him up a bulk order; loose fitting, but conservative - the material still looked a little crumpled, the shop had held the fabric ream for a long time; it hadn't sold particularly well; and Clark had managed to negotiate a good price.
Taking the pants, he pulled them over his tights, and hitched up the suspenders. The pants hung a little short and too big.
Clark stooped, bending his knees slightly, he lost height, at the same time he pushed out the muscles of his stomach, distending his mid rift so his navel sat tightly against the waistband; giving the appearance of a rounded pot belly. He checked out his reflection.
In terms of height he had effectively shrunk a couple of inches, and at the same time this stoop - the angle of his shoulders - made him look less impressive; creating the illusion of a narrower frame.
For an average man holding this position for any length of time would be impossible, but Clark possessed incredible muscle control and effectively felt no fatigue; for him it was as easy as combing his hair a different way.
Clark did that too, his distinctive kiss curl was pushed up and back, and a plainer flatter look achieved.
Socks covered his red boots, oversized shoes fitted on top of both.
Dark tie, added to the sober conservative look, then the loose fitting suit coat further softened his physique.
Clark reached into the inside pocket and drew out a simple pair of thick lensed glasses, the large round frames softened his face, and lenses effectively eliminated the deep blue sparkle of his eyes. Tensing and relaxing his facial muscles added lines and an impression of age to his youthful features.
Finally a suitably worn fedora hat completed the transformation; gone was Clark Kent mid western beefcake, in his place was Clark Kent resident of Metropolis, a big but soft looking bookish man, who was the image of mundane conservative urban living.
Hitting the street Clark kept his head down and his pace regular, weaving through the morning hustle and bustle he made his way to the print district of Metropolis. Clark had formed a plan.
He was searching for a Star.
Clearly visible to the naked eye, it was a symbol that sparkled by day and shone at night; this was one of down town Metropolis's noted landmarks. The Star was the symbol of that great metropolitan newspaper, and king of the print district, the noted Metropolis Daily Star; the Star was a huge logo installed as the pinnacle of twenty-five stories of office space which in turn sat on top of large factory sized arched halls housing huge printing presses and a distribution centre, garaging trucks and vans.
Clark could smell the ink, the gasoline, paper and hot metal, the stink of hard working blue collar men, and he could hear over the noisy clatter of the presses their blue collar language.
Of course for rest of the people milling around the impressive Deco entrance hall of the Star Building these colourful details were lost behind tons of concrete and steel.
Clark entered an elevator. The bus boy waited for instructions, other travellers chimed in with various floors.
“Daily Star News Room please.” Kent added.
The Star News Room was a floor in itself. The Elevators emptied into a reception lobby, distinct from the main News Room by virtue of partially glazed partition on three sides.
Clark made his way forward.
“Help you there?” He was a big man, heavy set, clearly building security. He had the uniform – one reminiscent of Metropolis City Police Department, and a side arm. Private security was a fact of life in the big city.
“Good morning.” Clark purposely adopted a softer tone, with a hint of a mid western accent.“I was hoping to see Mr Taylor, Mr George Taylor.”
“Were you now, that would be Mr Taylor Editor in Chief of this here Newspaper.”
“Yes that's right.”
The guard reached for a notepad, he opened it. “You'd be on my list then, having an appointment and all?”
Clark shook his head apologetically. “Sorry Sir, I don't have an appointment, I was hoping he could find the time to see me – I'm happy to wait obviously.”
“Obviously.
“You've got a hot story to tell him, some piece of gossip, a crime going down?”
“Errrm, actually I was looking for work..”
“Okay. Let me give you a piece of advice, this here depression means there isn't any work for nearly a quarter of the men in this city on any given day; so unless you've got some connections, you're not going to get anywhere – especially here.
“So really fella there is no point in cluttering up my lobby hanging around for an opportunity that ain't going to happen.”
“Mister, look I've got to get a job in this paper... it's a matter of great importance...”
“Look here Okie. I've tried been nice, now I'm going to tell you straight; turn around and walk, or else I'll have to help you, and bub that's a helping hand you don't want.”
“First up, I'm from Kansas, not Oklahoma, and second,...”
“Trouble Dan?”
The perfume hit Clark like an express train, he'd already smelled her long before she'd arrived, but he'd been distracted by the Guard. It was Chanel No.5, he could see the bottle in her purse - now that he was looking, and boy Clark was looking.
“Nothing I can't handle Miss Lane, this Okie is panhandling for a job – and he's just about to be leaving.”
Lois Lane was immaculately dressed, fashionable, coordinated, her green suit was stunning, her raven hair shone, and her confident unusual violet eyes were piercing.
“Kent, Clark Kent.”
Lois didn't take his hand. “Well Mr Kent, Clark Kent, you better get used to being called Okie, that's what Metropolis calls country people regardless of which corn-belt state they hail from.”
Lois removed her gloves, not looking at Dan the security man's wide smile as he opened the door for her. Clark stepped forward to follow her. Dan's other arm blocked him.
Mean time Lois strode away.
“Dan. Mr Kent is with me. Let him come on in.”
Dan's mouth dropped open. Lane had just called back to them, she wanted Kent to come in!
Of course what Dan did not know was Clark Kent was not only able to throw his voice, but he could pretty much impersonate anyone at the same time – both skills acquired through a childhood interest in practising magic; further facilitated by his ability to precisely control his supernatural vocal chords.
“You heard!” Clark said, side stepping Dan with unexpected smoothness he turned and winked at the Guard as he closed the News Room door behind him.
“Well I'll be damned.” Dan said under his breath.
“Miss Lane.” Clark called out, his walk an excited shuffle.
Lois turned around surprised. “How did you get past Dan?”
“I guess he had a change of heart.” Clark replied.
“I doubt that.” Lane replied. She frowned.
“Sure he did - he was totally persuaded by my magic sweet talking country ways.”
Lois remained unconvinced, she saw nothing magical about this mediocre rather chunky man.
“So Kent, Clark Kent, what can I do you for?”
“You could do me the favour of pointing me in the direction of George Taylor.”
Lois laughed. “That I will do, but that's no favour Kent - throwing Christians to lions. He's over there, that big office in the middle.
“And Kent, you didn't hear anything from me.”
Clark had seen the name on the office door before he'd even entered the News Room; Lois was frosty and intriguing; but she had a darling laugh when she forgot to be hard nosed; and he was not going to pass up the opportunity of catching her attention; and if he were honest he felt a tinge of regret at disguising his masculinity, and playing down his good looks.
Taylor's secretary wore a specialist telephone receiver around her neck, and a head phones.
“I'm here to see Mr Taylor.”
“Mr Taylor isn't expecting anyone until after lunch... Mr...”
“Kent. Errr, Lois Lane sent me over here.”
“Miss Lane. Very Well. What's this in connection with Mr. Kent?"
"A job."
Taylor's secretary appeared genuinely surprised, but she flicked a switch on her desk. “Mr Taylor, a Mr Kent; he says Miss Lane has sent him to see you about a job.” She flinched as Taylor barked a response, before gesturing to Clark to go ahead. "You may see the Editor now, but if you ask me you are wasting your time."
"There's nothing like trying!" Kent said to her as he rapped on the frosted glass of the Editors office door.
Taylor bellowed. “Come in!”
“Yes – who the devil are you?”
“Kent, Clark Kent.”
“Don't know you. Haven't heard of you. What do you want?” Taylor barely glanced up, he was pouring over early proofs for the evening edition.
“Mr Taylor, Sir I know I'm new to Metropolis.
"I know I haven't any experience Sir, but still, I think I'd make a good reporter
"All I'm asking for is a break, an opportunity to prove myself.”
“Lane sent you here!” Taylor spluttered. “What was that woman thinking!”
“I wouldn't say that she exactly vouched for me, she just gave me directions to the lions den as she put it.”
Taylor laughed. “That's Lane all right. He interspersed words with a cigarette; drawing deeply each time.
“How did you get past Security Kent?”
“Same way I got around Lane Sir, charm.”
Taylor stood up. He looked Kent over. “Charm you say, damned if I see it Kent, but you're here; and by rights I should have Dan across dragging you out of here, but.” Taylor jabbed a finger at Clark.
“You're clearly not the fool you look.
“And I didn't get to be Editor of this here grand old lady, without recognising what makes a good story.
“And you Kent, well there's a story in you, I can smell it.”
“Thank you Sir - I think.”
“Look here Kent before you get excited - the truth.
“Sorry fella, can't use you.
“You've told me you're green, and I need hardened news hounds that can bring me stories that'll sell papers. But.”
Taylor scribbled a number on a piece of paper.
“I'll do you a deal.” he said, passing the note to Kent.
“This is the direct number to the news desk. You find a story, ring it in. Say your name, I'll warn the desk – so they'll take your call. If it's good, and we print it, on any page – then you can get paid per word - one story at a time.
“But fella if it's bad, and the guys on the desk are hard to please Kent, then you'll be blacklisted, and that's it – no more chances. Okay.”
“Thanks Mr Taylor.”
“Your welcome Kent. Now close the door on your way out.”
“Mr Taylor.”
“What? Still here Kent?”
“What happens if I make the front page.”
Taylor looked up at Kent, he was half way through the door – his face serious and earnest.
“You got to be kidding me Kent! Seriously if you bring in a front page I'll do better than pay you by the word, I'll properly hire you. - Now Get Going!”
Once outside the Daily Star Kent turned down a side alley. In the shadows Clark considered his options; his plan from the outset was a simple one – if he could get news stories promptly he would be in a better position to help people. I've got to get that job, he told himself.
Clark was not surprised with the frosty reception he received at the Daily Star. The Star's Guard Dan hadn't exaggerated the starkness of the this deep economic depression; the reality was clear to see; lines of unemployed men testified to the desperate times, and yet Taylor had come through in the end by giving Clark a lucky break of sorts.
Kent felt while he had shown initiative in getting this far, and he had done so without compromising the mild mannered persona he wanted Metropolis to see as Clark Kent. Equally he recognised that the offer Star's Editor had made was on the face it a real long shot - Clark needed to secure a front page story; and only then, providing Taylor was as good as his word, would Clark Kent have a real position at Metropolis's top newspaper.
Quickly he scanned the immediate area before removing his street clothes; first he drew a oilskin bag which was concealed inside a hidden pocket in his coat lining. At speed he folded and compressed his suit and shirt into neat package within the waterproof satchel, along with his tie and hat. Then his shoes folded flat with pressure, and slid into two pockets on the bag.
Standing at his full height he stretched his muscles, before springing upwards and catching the edge of the nearby building the caped man elegantly floated up and over onto the flat roof. Stashing the oilskin satchel here, he leapt upwards once more, powering himself into the void towards the Daily Star Building.
Hurtling through the air his aim was true and sure, and making contact with the concrete lintel his steely grip held him against George Taylor's office wall. Through the glass his super-sensitive hearing and x-ray like vision tuned into the goings on in the Newsroom, the caped man waited patiently.
Taylor was drinking bourbon, and occasionally cursing poor grammar and lousy syntax in the drafts in front of him.
His phone rang.
“Taylor here.
“What's that?
“Mob attacking Baker County Jail?
“Ah! Right get it - that's the trigger guy from the Kennedy Murder
“You don't say, thanks for the head's up, you're back on my Christmas list.”
Taylor hit the intercom switch. “Alice get me Lane, tell her the Kennedy murder is making the news again! Tell her to hustle!”
On the side of the building a caped man launched himself in the air using the height of the Star building to further extend the huge reach of his mighty muscles. The hurtling red and blue figure covered the New Troy State Island in a series of tremendous leaps, slowing himself with his elastic cape - or so he believed - so that his impact on the individual buildings didn't cause unnecessary damage.
Clark Kent Reporter was thinking about the story, a headline which would impress Taylor, but his heart was driving him; the caller had made it clear there was an ugly lynch mob seeking to dispense it's own brand of vengeance – the man of tomorrow was driven by a sense of fairness and justice; simply, he hoped that he could get there in time.
Peering forward his superior eyesight made out the rabble who were attacking the jail's barricaded doors with a makeshift battering ram. The mob were chanting angrily, crying out; the man of tomorrow's superb hearing honing in the ruckus was able to make out the racial slurs and curses - the lynching was all the more sinister for it.
As the caped man descended closer, he recognised the sound of wooden doors breaking as the jails defences were breached.
Making landfall he made another tremendous leap, at the apex of his climb he saw the mob had all too quickly being able to get hold their intended victim – or rather the Jailers had all too easily given him up, he suspected the latter.
“Lemme go!” The terrified man begged. “I'm not guilty, I tell ya.”
“Shut up nigger.” A fist followed the insult.
“That'll teach ya, shoot a white fella would ya, think that give yer the right to be with a white woman?“
“She's going to fry tonight, for her part – and did you think we'd let ya live another day longer than her?”
“Should thank us Sims – you and her going to see each other real soon - you're both going to be burning in hell.”
Sims cried out. “I'm innocent I tell ya, don't kill me!”
“That's right Sims! beg for mercy!”
“It won't do you any good. You're a dead man!”
Sims was dragged by the angry mob to a tree, where other conspirators had readied a rope and noose.
“Don't do this to me! Please – please!” Sims wept as the noose was slipped over his head.
The leader of the mob, the hammering fist, the lead accuser, stuck his angry face into that of his victim. He held up a Bowie knife. “Hanging is too good for you! Going to draw and quarter you all medieval like – then we're going to string up what's left of you!”
The mob whooped in appreciation.
Suddenly a fantastic figure hurtled down into the midst of the crowd. Hitting the ground hard, figures fall around him, shaken off their feet by the impact, those watching are shocked by the thunderous arrival of the caped man.
He stands defiant.
Men curse in disbelief.
“Disperse!” His voice is deep and resonates with authority. “Go on – Scatter!” He bellows stepping forward – one man faces the mob of sixty three committed men. Clark Kent Reporter notes.
“This prisoners fate will be decided in a court of justice. Return to your homes.”
“Rush him!” The cry goes up.
The costumed figure dances through the mob, each blow a blur of controlled and measured force; men armed with bats, and bars, struggle to find their target, and when they do their blows simply do not matter for the blue and red man of steel shrugs all aside; and throws his attackers back, or else knocks them forward; others he hurls up and over, sending men limbs flaying, barrelling into one another; so that the mob tumbles into the dirt like so many skittles.
Quickly the fight is ended. Not a single man who stood with mob is left standing - every one of them is grounded with bruised bodies, and bruised pride; and at the same time not one man has suffered a beating serious enough to warrant the attention of a doctor. Equally none of them has the stomach for a second round with this incredible pugilist. Cautiously they get to their feet, individually or with help, shocked and disbelieving the evidence of their own defeat. The lone cloaked figure stands triumphant between them and liberated Sims.
“Disperse.” He commands. This time they obey him – meekly limping away.
As the mob dissolves, the Guards from within the Baker County Jail emerge; the senior man approaches Sims and addresses his rescuer.
“Hey Mister – I don't know who you are; or how you did this – but you've got my thanks.”
The man of Tomorrow turns and considers his answer, and he cannot but help feel disdain for these officers of the law. He could see although they were armed they hadn't drawn their weapons to defend a man in their custody who remained innocent until proven guilty.
“I'm,.. I guess you can say I'm with the Press. A reporter - Who are you?”
“I'm the Chief here, I head up Baker County Jail, and Sims; well he's my responsibility. I kind of need him back please.”
“Very well - you should get Sims back inside his cell - if only for his own safety.”
“Sure – of course.” The Chief waved to his men to take hold of Sims. “By the way fella that's some fancy get up you're wearing. Are you some sort of Acrobat or something.”
“Yes – I'm something all right. I want to talk to Sims.”
The Chief considered this wasn't really a request. “Sure, I can't see why not.”
Clark Kent reporter, should have by rights interviewed Sims, but his city clothes were still miles across town. So the costumed hero talked with the battered African American, and Sims was more than happy to talk.
“You saved my life Mister, and I'm not forgetting that in a hurry, listen I've a doozy of a story to tell ya; so listen up. I reckon you're the only guy who's big enough to believe it.
“I'm a good guy right, never done no one any real harm, but I was framed as the trigger man in this shooting.
“They reckon this sweet dame by the name of Evelyn Curry paid me to whack her main squeeze, this fella called Jack Kennedy – made out she was paying me in more than dollar bills if you follow me.
“I did a runner see; knew I was done for, I was been fingered for shooting a white fella and messing with his broad. Well long story short they caught up with me hiding out here in Bakers, but Evelyn, they had her from the start – she's been up in Court and found guilty; and they're going to electrocute her tonight.”
“Tonight! And you say she's innocent.”
“As God is my witness. I swear to you, neither me nor that girl had anything to do with Jack Kennedy getting done in.”
As Sims talked his heartbeat remained steady and constant.
“Okay I believe you are telling the truth. So who is the murderer?”
“A singer over at the Hilow Night Club goes by the name of Bea Carroll. I worked there as a runner and go to fella sometimes. Any ways Jack used to pay Bea some attention, but then Evelyn appeared on the scene and he really fell for her, Bea hated that, worse Jack would bring her to the club, on account of it being his favourite hang out.
“So Bea gets me to come over to her dressing room, and she meets me outside, and she's telling me this story about an errand she wants me to run, so she gives me this envelope which I put in my pocket, and then suddenly she has this gun – she puts it into my hand; I'm like - lady what's the iron for?
“Next moment she throws the door open the door and there's Jack Kennedy shot in the back laying on her dressing room floor, and she's screaming blue murder, getting everybody to come running; and she's telling them all - saying I've shot him. Do you see?”
“Yes I do - The gun would have your prints on it – and the envelope; what was that?”
“Money – and a note, something Evelyn must had written saying thanks – something about a part payment and thanks for the help - don't know how Bea got hold of it. Worse of all I threw the envelope away in the club when I ran."
“I follow. You are seen by witnesses at the Hilow holding the gun; the Police recover the money in that envelope, and along with an otherwise innocent note; and this adds up to damning evidence against Curry.”
“Sure Mister; I felt awful when I heard Evelyn had been found guilty, I never thought it would come to that. Turns out Bea made out she and Jack were getting together and Evelyn was getting the push, giving the cops a motive to pin on Evie.”
Turning to leave the man of tomorrow thanked Sims. “I'll make this right – don't worry you'll be a free man again soon enough.”
Taylor responded to the buzzing intercom. “Yes Alice. What is it”
“You wanted the News desk to ring through as soon as someone got back to them with the story from the Bakers County Jail riot...”
“Lane already, that's great.”
“It's not Lane Sir, it's someone called Kent.”
“Kent!
“Fine, put him through.
“Hello Kent? How the heck did you get yourself over's to Bakers?”
Clark ran through events of the lynching, except he skipped over his own part in the story.
“You're saying the guards, assisted by some civic minded citizen who persuaded the mob with and I quote 'a powerful argument' managed to save Sims from a lynching and put him back into Jail.
“And all this happens after the lynch mob have busted that poor black fella out and are about hang him from the nearest tree?”
“Sure Mr Taylor.”
“That's an argument I'd have like to have seen; they're a belligerent crowd over at Bakers.”
“That's not all Sir, according to Sims, both he and the Curry girl are innocent; it was frame, and he's named a Bea Carroll as being responsible.”
“Carroll the singer – why Lois Lane interviewed her. She gave evidence against Curry at her trial. Lane wasn't happy with Carroll's story; and that fact alone gives me pause for thought.”
“I believe he's telling the truth Mr Taylor.”
“Okay Kent I could see myself buying into this story – but while you might believe Sims, and it's a big but; a court has ruled different - and that pretty Curry girl is due to be executed tonight.
So Kent - good work - so far. If you want to make this a great piece of work, you'll need to prove that Sims is telling the truth, deliver me that story – and it'll lead tomorrow's morning edition – get it to me in time for the presses - and you can report to work tomorrow.
“That's on the books Kent, a Salary, a Press card the works.”
-'S'-
Lois paid the cab fare.
She stood outside Baker County Jail – and could see it was a wreck, the front double doors hung awkwardly, battered and broken, windows were smashed, and the evidence of the earlier mayhem was littering the street.
She picked her way up the steps to where the splintered doors were smashed wide open.
“Hello.
“Any one alive in here.” She edged her way in.
“Hey Lady. What can I do you for you?” The Guard nonchalantly blocked her progress.
Lois smiled. “Well, you could help a girl out couldn't you?”
“Sweet potato like you, sure what's it's to be?”
“Just the low down on what happened here?”
“Hey... What's that to you? You're too good looking to be stuck with deadbeat jailbird.”
“I'm Press.” Lois flashed her card. “Just looking for a cute story. So is that Sims fella ok?”
“Sims? That's one lucky son of a gun; I tell you they had him all trussed up and ready to go, til that fella turned up.”
Lois reached into her purse, note pad ready she battered her eyes. “What fella was this?”
The guard relaxed leaning against the wall, he smiled at the girl reporter. “Beats me – a strongman, maybe; any ways he was in something like a circus outfit, an acrobat even, sure moved like one.
“If I'd not seen him – well I wouldn't believe it, taking on the mob like that - lady there was like a hundred men maybe; they came at him from all sides, and he's like this blur, knocking seven bells out of them. Trust me doll I've been around and I've seen nothing like that.”
Lois folded her pad.
“Sure. Nice story.”
“Hey. That's what happened straight up – you can ask anyone.”
“How about Sims?”
“Sims is out of bounds lady. Now I've told you straight, you can believe what you want.”
His body language had changed; gone all cold and stand offish. Lois was surprised, she assumed he had been messing her around, but instead he seemed offended she hadn't bought his tall tale.
“But Sims is ok?”
“Told you that, he took a beating, but he'll live.”
“So you're on the level? Sims was about to get lynched and this one man appeared and fought off a mob?”
“Look lady, I shouldn't say anything more, especially to a reporter, your butter and egg fly, but I can't afford to lose this job, so cut out the act.”
Lois looked hurt.
“If you want to talk to some people hit the Baker boy's club, I reckon they'll be a few fellas there that 'might' have seen a something.
“But, just so you know; it's no a place for a lady.”
Lois stopped in by a phone box.
Taylor took her call.
“Chief. Sims is still alive, he's back in his cell...”
“That's old news Lane, I've got that story.”
“What?” Lane spluttered. “Who else did you have on this boss?”
“Now... Lois, don't spit fire; you're still my number one girl. A freelance called the story in – you know the score.”
Taylor left the call.
“Alice?” Lois asked.
“Miss Lane.”
“Put me through to the News desk again.”
“Desk.”
“Jake?”
“Yeah Lois. What can I do you for?”
“Who called in the Sims lynching story?”
“Wait a second... New guy, new freelance, a fella called, let me see, yeah Kent, Clark.”
“Clark Kent?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Yeah I think I know him.” Lois said slowly.
“Thanks Jake, catch you later.”
“Sure thing, go get 'em Lane!”
Lois strolled into the Baker boy club, it was thick with smoke. Men drank beer huddled in booths, or perched on stools by the long bar. On closer examination a good number had bruised faces with as many wearing ripped and dirtied clothes. She crossed to the bar.
“Buy you a drink sweetheart?”
Lois smiled. “Bourbon - on the rocks.”
The guy chuckled; but it was the empty kind of laughter that comes along with drink. He gestured to the Bar tender. “We don't see many sweet dames like you in this place. ”
Lois waited for her drink. She took it, and downed it before replying. “That I'm sure of. Besides fella – I'm one of a kind.”
He whistled. “Now is that a fact.”
“Bet your life. Now tell me something, a beefy kind of guy like you – how is it you got that eye.”
His lips drew thin, and he drank from his glass.
Lois persisted. “Looks kind of sore to me; makes me wonder what the other guy looks like.”
“What's you heard, and why you asking.” He said bluntly.
“Okay I'll play this straight with you - I work for the Star.”
“I'm not talking to the papers lady.” He said brusquely as stood to leave; he was shaky with drink.
“Wait.” Lois grabbed his arm. “I'm not looking for a quote, or any names, I just want to hear from somebody what happened over at the Jail. Look what the guard over at County told me – well it was hard to believe.”
“You wanna know! He slurred.
“Okay I'll tell you. One guy! One stinkin guy! Took all the baker boys on and rolled with us, took all us down without breaking a sweat.
“Satisfied lady?” He stumbled away.
Lois turned to the Bar. “I'll take another.”
“Some advice?” the Tender suggested.
“Drink.”
“Okay. Just one drink, and one piece advice.” He said as he poured a shot of Bourbon.
“There's some sore fella's in here tonight; body and soul. No one can quite believe what went down today, and they certainly don't want the world to know about it either.”
“You were there?”
“I wasn't and I was, I saw enough.”
Lois took a drink. “And?”
He folded his arms.
“Sooner I know – sooner I'll go, no names, no quotes, you have my word.”
The Barman nodded.
“I'll tell you this much: One man, bright blue suit, red cape, arrived like he'd fallen from the sky, last time I saw anything move like him, they was in a boxing ring.”
“Sure the guard said he was like acrobat strongman.” Lois sipped her cold liquor.
“Yeah that's fair – then again the last time I saw a get up like his was in one of those Saturday outer space serials.”
Lois frowned. “And he beat back a mob; well these guys - single handedly.”
The barman nodded once again. “Things I saw, I don't want to say. But the main thing I remember about him was this great big S symbol on his chest.”
“S? What did that mean?”
The barman took her glass; he looked over to the exit. Lois reached for her bill fold. He took her dollar.
“The S? Wondered that myself. Truth is Miss - your guess, is a good as mine.”
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