"Jimmy?!"
Lois' voice sheared through the normal low roar of the newsroom like a lance. People stopped in their tracks at her outburst. Conversations died in mid-word. It became, for one surreal moment, a still-life painting before the wrath of Mad Dog Lane.
Oh dear. Is she having a Godzilla-doll moment on her return to the newsroom?
That had been thirty-six hours ago. Thirty-six long, terrifying hours. Thirty-six hours of not knowing if he was dead or alive.
You dated part 13 with Oct. 4th, during the day sometime, I’m guessing. Which would make this very late evening. Shouldn’t the reporters have gone home for the night, considering they start at 9 or 10 in the morning?
Until he realizes that Clark would rather die than become his puppet.
Yes, but our little Pinochio is vulnerable, so Trask can thread thread through his limbs. Thus, he wouldn’t have much choice.
"You haven't eaten anything since nine am. That's twelve hours ago."
Wow, it’s really quite precisely 36 hours later. Why is the newsroom still busy?
She folded her arms on the tabletop and pitched forward, laying half atop the polished wood. She groaned in despair.
![[Linked Image]](http://cosgan.de/images/smilie/traurig/k055.gif)
The conference room looked like a warzone. […]
And the torn body of Ralph was oozing in one corner where it had fallen after Lois repurposed his bottle of booze.
Lois was mildly surprised that the man hadn't tried to dissect Clark like a frog in a high school biology lab.
No spare frogs.
He seemed to have aged twenty years in the last thirty-six hours or so when Lois had burst into his office in tears and, blubbering, had told him what had happened to Clark.
Not even chocolate, her favorite food in the entire world, could have possibly been appetizing to her.
Four food groups according to Lois
Michael
