Chapter 19: Puppy Lovin’
Greatest case of puppy lovin’ you ever saw
--“A Dog’s Life”
****
When I got to the Planet in the morning, I found the businessman talking to Lois. Nervous I might be recognized as the Red-Blue Blur—how foolproof was my disguise anyway?—I planted myself somewhat far away from them. But Jimmy noticed me observing them and rushed over.
“He just got here,” he explained. “Evidently, there was a bank robbery last night, and the Red-Blue Blur showed up . . . . Only, he didn’t stay a blur this time. The guy actually saw his face.”
I raised my eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Really?”
“Yep. When he came in and said all that, I pointed him straight to Lois. I thought about trying to take on the story by myself—to try to get Perry off my back—but I knew Lois would kill me.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “You’re probably right.”
I watched for a few minutes before going to get some coffee. Lois was listening to the man with rapt attention, hanging on his every word—but also interrupting frequently to ask for clarification on something. I wanted to use my special hearing to listen in, but I forced myself to give them some privacy. When I noticed Lois handing him a pen and paper, however, I couldn’t help but watch and use my enhanced vision.
The businessman drew a picture of the Kryptonian symbol that had been on my chest. He was no artist, but it was a passable effort. The shape of the pentagon he drew was slightly off, and the “S” lacked its crook at the top, but it would do for the Planet’s purposes, I was sure.
When the man left, Lois worked frantically, and then she disappeared into Perry White’s office with her story. I couldn’t help but use both my x-ray vision and my enhanced hearing to witness their interchange.
Lois first handed him the picture the businessman had drawn.
“What in the Sam Hill is this?” asked the editor, staring at the paper in his hand.
“The symbol on the Red-Blue Blur’s chest according to an eyewitness at a bank robbery last night,” Lois proclaimed triumphantly.
The Chief Editor’s head whipped up. “You mean—they saw what he looked like?”
“Exactly,” Lois said, slapping her story down on his desk. “According to my eyewitness, this man can fly and move incredibly fast, and he has the strength of at least ten men.”
“And you say he was seen at a bank robbery?” he asked for clarification.
“Yes,” she confirmed with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. “He stopped three criminals in their tracks.”
“Did the police see him?”
Lois’s grin grew wider. “Yes.”
“And do you know what the ‘S’ stands for?”
She frowned. “Well, we definitely can’t keep calling him the Red-Blue Blur . . . . A man that can fly . . . He’s a pretty amazing superhero for that alone. What about Superman?”
I winced to myself; maybe I should have given the businessman a name. “Super” wasn’t the first word I would have used to describe myself.
But it was too late now. Perry White was pointing a pair of fingers at her and telling her, “That’s brilliant, Lois.” He waved her story in the air, “I’ll make a few minor changes to this, substitute in that new name, and we’ll run this story. You go ahead and talk to the police. Maybe we can get enough information out of them for a follow-up.”
“I’m on it, Perry,” Lois exclaimed as she exited his office.
He was right behind her. A few seconds later, he was shouting to the whole bullpen. “All right, everybody! The Red-Blue Blur has shown his face. Come into the conference room in fifteen minutes for an impromptu meeting. Everyone is going to be keeping their eyes peeled for more information on him, but first we have a few things to tell you.” He turned to Lois, who was looking unhappy. In a quieter voice, he said, “Lois, bring a printout of your story to the meeting.”
“Perry—Superman is my story.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but when it comes to a man that flies—assuming this isn’t a hoax—all bets are off.”
“But Perry—”
He waved her efforts off and retreated to his office.
She turned and surveyed the newsroom with a grim look, as if to warn everyone that whoever dared to steal her Superman story would be charred to a crisp by the sheer force of her will.
I smiled to myself. She wouldn’t have to worry about me. I had no intention of connecting the name “Clark Kent” to Superman this early in the game.
****
I decided to look into the pet dye Keira Fisher had told me about on my lunch break. Sometimes, I went to eat with Lois, who didn’t have many friends at the Planet, but I was giving her a wide berth today. She was on a rampage, and I would no sooner try to hinder her progress than I would attempt to stop a hurricane. There were some things you just didn’t do.
At S.T.A.R. Labs, I showed my Press ID and requested to meet Dr. Klein. He was alone in a laboratory mixing some chemicals when I entered. He was a kind-looking bald man in a white lab coat, and I felt heartened on seeing him.
“Can I help you?” he questioned.
“I’m Clark Kent from the Daily Planet,” I introduced myself. “Keira Fisher came to me before her death seeking help . . . . ” I hesitated, trying to think of how to speak in a way that was misdirecting but not lying. “She was trying to find homes for the animals Sallya Technologies was experimenting on, and she mentioned you knew the formula for a pet dye and for a ‘spot-remover.’ I was wondering if you could teach me how to make it?”
“What formula?” he said guardedly.
I raised an eyebrow and gave him a look.
He gave in without much more fight. “All right. I’ll teach you. But I’d prefer you kept my involvement in this private. She was killed, and I’d really rather not meet the same fate.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Klein,” I hastened to assure him. “I’ve become a part of this myself. You keep my involvement quiet, and I won’t say a word to anyone about yours . . . . I just need the dye and the remover to help with the project Keira Fisher started—disguising an animal to obscure its origins.”
Klein nodded. “It is easy enough to make at home if you have the materials. It’s also instantaneous—the fur soaks up the dye, so all you have to do is rub a towel over it to remove the excess, and then you’re done. The spot remover is a little more difficult to use, but it’s not complicated either.”
“Great,” I commented. Noticing he appeared a little apprehensive, I told him, “I promise I won’t advertise your involvement in this. You can trust me, Dr. Klein. A reporter always protects his sources.”
He stared at me for a few seconds before giving a slight nod. “Okay. Now, to make the dye . . . ”
****
A few days later, it seemed Superman was the only topic of conversation in the entirety of Metropolis.
I began doing a lot of things during the day in my Superman garb, dashing from the office to help people in need, but fortunately Lois was busy and didn’t notice my unusual behavior. Some pictures were taken of me in the suit as a result of my activities, and amazingly enough some street-side merchants had already begun selling Superman merchandise. Knowing it was capitalism at work didn’t make me feel any better about it.
“He’s just amazing,” Lois commented as she passed by me and sat at her desk.
Looking at her, I asked, “Who?” But I had a pretty good idea.
“Superman,” she replied, a “duh” clearly implied by her tone of voice.
“Sounds like he’s really impressed you,” I remarked, privately amused. I hadn’t thought Lois was the type to be swept off her feet by a superhero.
“He’s just done so much good already . . . . Metropolis really needs someone like him.”
I studied her, wondering at her reaction. Finally, I asked, “Who do you think is the coolest fictional hero?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Any reason you’re asking, Kent?”
“Clark,” I corrected. “And I’m just curious.”
Lois thought about it for a minute. “Mystique,” she said at last.
I gave her a skeptical look.
“She’s an X-Men character.”
“I know that,” I returned. “But she’s technically a villain, not a hero.”
Lois crossed her arms. “She’s not a villain all the time,” she defended.
“All right, fine,” I conceded. “Why do you think Mystique is the coolest fictional hero?”
“She’s a woman who knows what she wants . . . and she can get behind all those closed doors.”
I shook my head and grinned at her. “You really do have to know everyone’s secrets, don’t you?”
“Not everyone’s,” she returned. “I’d rather not know my plumber’s secrets.”
I laughed. “I’m with you there.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
“Who’s your favorite fictional hero?”
I didn’t even have to think twice. “Luke Skywalker.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “So, the farmboy likes a farmboy. That’s not exactly a stretch . . . . You must be a closet Star Wars fan. I bet you’re the type who sits at home and stays up all night writing stories for fanzines.” When I avoided her gaze and didn’t respond, she exclaimed, “Spill, farmboy! You looked at my novel. Tell me about what you’ve written.”
“If you’re not a closet fan yourself, how did you know about fanzines?”
“I wrote an article about fanzines once, and don’t think that question will deflect me from the issue, Kent.”
“Clark,” I mumbled. She gave me an expectant look, and I told her reluctantly, “I occasionally read Star Wars fanzines, and I wrote one story for one. Happy?”
“No. You didn’t tell me what it was about.”
I shrugged. “It was about Luke Skywalker.”
She waved a hand in the air. “And?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “It was about him being afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” she pressed.
I wanted to lie to her, but I couldn’t let myself. So I told the truth. “It was about him being afraid of his anger and what he could do with the Dark Side. He feared he would end up hurting his family and friends, and so he chose to reject the Force and never use it again.”
Lois frowned. “Sounds kind of depressing.”
Shrugging, I replied, “Not all fan stories have happy endings.”
“Are you afraid you aren’t going to have a happy ending?”
I looked at her sharply, but she was reading something on her computer and had meant the question more sarcastically than anything.
“A man like you is bound to have a happy ending,” she remarked, hitting a button on her keyboard.
“What do you mean?” I queried with a frown.
She glanced at me. “Well, you’re . . . relatively good-looking . . . and nice enough to be around . . . . I’ve seen women in the newsroom falling all over you.”
I grimaced. I had been hit on more than once by someone other than Cat, that was for sure. For some reason not entirely known to me, I replied, “I’m too busy for a happy ending.”
“No one’s ever too busy for a happy ending,” she returned. She got to her feet. “I have to go meet with someone. I’ll talk to you later.”
I gave her a small wave and watched her leave. I suspected Lois Lane might be too busy for a happy ending . . . . Yet, being busy probably was her happy ending.
But it wasn’t mine.
****
At the end of the day, I steeled myself in preparation for what was forthcoming that night. I knew I needed to talk to a member of the press, and I preferred that it be Lois Lane. Her hero worship of Superman made me feel a bit awkward, but she would end up being very unpleasant if she wasn’t the first reporter to have a one-on-one interview with him . . . me.
I left a note on her desk in disguised handwriting while she went in Perry White’s office to ask him something. It instructed her to meet at the Planet at 10 pm that night and was signed “The Red-Blue Blur.” Since the name “Superman” was new, I didn’t use it—I didn’t want to arouse any suspicions that I might be connected to the Planet. I had considered giving Lois the note earlier in the day, but the less prepared she was for the interview, the better it would be for me. I had talked with my parents about what I should reveal, but I was still feeling uncomfortable at the thought of giving the public so much of myself.
That night, I went to the Daily Planet at 10 pm sharp. Lois was already there, a list of questions on her desk along with a legal pad to take notes on. For all I knew, she hadn’t even left the building since she received her note.
“Superman,” she said in surprise when she saw me.
I raised an eyebrow to pretend I didn’t understand her appellation for me. Privately, I was just thankful she hadn’t realized that Superman was me—or Clark was Superman—well, that we were the same people . . . . Person.
“It’s what I—it’s what we’re calling you,” she informed me, sounding a bit flustered.
“I see,” I responded awkwardly. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was a monosyllabic goon, but I just didn’t know what to say.
“Thank you for giving me this interview,” she said as she picked up her list of questions to ask. “I wasn’t sure if it was a hoax or not—I’m glad it wasn’t.”
“They told me you were the best,” I replied warmly.
Blushing, she asked me, “Really? Who told you that?”
I began cursing myself for my choice of words but finally managed, “Does it matter?”
Her smile sent a flutter through my stomach. “I guess not . . . . ” Hesitating, she ventured, “Do you have a name?”
“‘Superman’ is fine.” In actuality, I didn’t like the egotism that seemed to be inherent in the name, but I didn’t think I would be able to escape it. I had to give some sort of explanation for the “S” on my costume, and “Superman” might as well be what people associated with it. I wasn’t going to call myself “Samuel,” that was for sure.
Lois tucked her hair behind her ear almost shyly. It was then that it hit me that she really had developed a crush on Superman. I was just trying to wrap my head around that revelation when she ventured, “So, when you showed up as the Black Knight, did you intend to continue doing what you’re doing now?”
I almost grimaced. I couldn’t tell her the truth—but I didn’t want to lie to her. Carefully, I told her, “I’m not the same person as the Black Knight . . . . ” It wasn’t exactly a lie—I wasn’t the same person as I was then. I had become more willing to take risks—willing to put myself out there and try to save people. Still, even knowing it was a half-truth didn’t make me feel that much better.
She made a note on her pad. “I imagine you would like to meet the man. I wonder if you got your special abilities from the same source?” The thought made her frown. “Where did you get your special abilities?”
I felt a sense of relief. This was territory I had prepared a little more for. “I am from a different planet—a planet called Krypton.”
She looked down at my feet and then up to my face. “You look like a man . . . . ”
Trying to keep myself from flushing, I told her, “My Kryptonian heritage gives me powers no other man or woman or Earth has.”
“Except for the Black Knight,” she pointed out.
I chose not to comment, instead awkwardly deflecting her attention away from my former alter ego. “I have never been able to find anything I can’t lift. I can see, hear, and smell things no human can . . . . I can burn things with my eyes and freeze things with my breath . . . . And no bullet can break my skin.” Unless it was made out of meteor rock—but I wasn’t about to tell her that.
Lois, who had been scribbling furiously, paused to look up. “And you can fly,” she pointed out.
I smiled. “Yes.”
She reviewed her notes. “And you have super speed.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I responded in amusement.
“Do you know your limits? You said there’s nothing you can’t lift—do you know how fast you can go? Or how far you can see?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know of a way to test those things.”
She acknowledged my comment, wrote something down, and then gazed at her list of questions. Then she looked up at me. “So, why are you here?”
“I just want to help,” I said awkwardly.
She gave me a wry grin. “I’d like a bit better of a quote than that. You know—‘Give me liberty or give me death’ or ‘Remember the Alamo.’ You know, something a little more epic.”
I just kind of looked at her. Helping was what I meant to do—I hadn’t thought much beyond that.
“Like maybe if you said you were here to fight for truth and justice and the American way,” she suggested.
“Go ahead—use that. It sounds good.”
She laughed and wrote it down. Then she gave me a somewhat shy glance. “I wonder, Superman, if I could get your picture? Mostly, people have just gotten action photos. I think it would be good to have a full-frontal photo—” she turned bright red “—uh, a picture of you posing in front of the camera.” She turned away in embarrassment, and I was glad, as I was blushing myself. She got a camera out of her drawer and began messing with the settings.
My arms were already crossed, but I shifted them slightly and drew myself up to my full height. In creating this new persona, I knew he had to be utterly different from Clark Kent for it to work. By looking somewhat imposing, I would be better able to make Superman a separate identity.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” I responded.
She took a few pictures, and then I cocked my head. “I have to go,” I told her. “Someone’s in trouble.” I had heard a cry for help.
She smiled, lowering her camera. “I guess this is a job for Superman.”
I gave a slight nod and then sped away. The interview, I reflected, could have gone a lot worse.
