Post by Deleted on May 21, 2014 21:57:31 GMT -5
The distant sound of gunfire made a percussive counterpoint to the rhythm of the streets, if Lex Luthor were more musically inclined he might find a certain perverse beauty and romanticism from the combination of graffiti and destitution around him. The broken and boarded windows and the smell of urine mixed with desperation could have been disgusting, or intriguing, or terrifying, but to Lex Luthor the place just brought up the bitter stench of memory.
Not these streets, not these people, not that doorway marked with blood or those people in the alleyways lost in their own world as the cars failed to drive down the empty and poorly lit streets. He walked alone, Lex Luthor, wearing long brown coat, bald head reflecting the distant lights of a flickering street lamp. In his mind he remembered the sting and ache of broken skin and bruised ribs, the echoing shouts of the monsters that shaped a young intellectual red haired man to turn bitter, and then turn insular, and then turn cunning. He stopped for a moment in front of a broken down newspaper stand, dented metal blinds, torn to pieces and spray painted a colorful mix of clownlike colors, neons and greens and yellows. He thought back to Sheckel Gruber, the newsman in the Suicide Slums, came to work every day for 63 years, selling papers, robbed for 26.50, left stabbed, locked inside, using the remnants of old newspapers to try to stop the bleeding as the life drained out of his face leaving him a pale waxy remnant of the man that served the community. He'd been found the next morning, the papers all red, his face blue from the cold and hypoxia. . . Lex had been 8 at the time. . .
Mind you Sheckel also had a habit of throwing things at kids who spent too much time reading the in front of his stand, and even though Lex had no real love for comics (his admiration of Incredible Science Fiction Magazine aside) he also had no love for getting hit with a cane or getting a can of soup thrown at his head. Lex Luthor walked past the old remnant of the newsstand past the homeless men hovering around a fire. Lex glanced for a moment, then moved on. He the bearded face and rough hands of Juan Osorio, one of the first people he'd ever paid to do something. A rough man, who'd do anything for a dollar earned or not. Face like boiled meat and fists like a vice, he'd paid the man to intimidate, protect him as he walked down the street. Osorio had robbed him blind as soon as the walk was over, given him a solid beating for the trouble. It was a valuable lesson in the nature of power that the 7 year old never forgot.
He heard the laughing in the distance, a sound of carnival music, a spray painted tag with a smiling rictus of the Joker. No, the place was not quite the same, but then again, neither was the Suicide Slum anymore. He'd seen to that. It wasn't entirely improved.. . but compared to a time before, it was better. Much better. . . money couldn't change human nature, but it came damn close to temporarily changing it. Perhaps he kept some of it similar out of a misguided sense of nostalgia, but crime had been reduced. The Superheroes of Metropolis fought Meta-events. . . not street crime. There were reasons for that.
The street was inconsistently lit except for one exception, the clinic at the end of the street. It was unmarked, largely, a single white light shining down on the red cross. This would be the clinic, the Thompkins clinic. He walked into the front door, looking around the interior, his face would be recognizable, his bald head a symbol for wealth, his jacket is old, leathery and worn about. The shoes nice and well worn in. He had a tie on, and a scarf, which were both new, but the rest of the clothes were interesting. Perhaps Mr. Luthor was slumming it.
He nodded as he approached the receptionist at the front to put in his name. "When your administrator has a moment, tell her that Lex Luthor is here to see her. I know it's without an appointment. But I think she won't be disappointed to meet with me." He looks over the crowd for a moment, sick and ill, falling apart, one with a gunshot wound to the arm. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, then looked back at the receptionist. "Understaffed, underserved. . . How long have you worked here?"
Not these streets, not these people, not that doorway marked with blood or those people in the alleyways lost in their own world as the cars failed to drive down the empty and poorly lit streets. He walked alone, Lex Luthor, wearing long brown coat, bald head reflecting the distant lights of a flickering street lamp. In his mind he remembered the sting and ache of broken skin and bruised ribs, the echoing shouts of the monsters that shaped a young intellectual red haired man to turn bitter, and then turn insular, and then turn cunning. He stopped for a moment in front of a broken down newspaper stand, dented metal blinds, torn to pieces and spray painted a colorful mix of clownlike colors, neons and greens and yellows. He thought back to Sheckel Gruber, the newsman in the Suicide Slums, came to work every day for 63 years, selling papers, robbed for 26.50, left stabbed, locked inside, using the remnants of old newspapers to try to stop the bleeding as the life drained out of his face leaving him a pale waxy remnant of the man that served the community. He'd been found the next morning, the papers all red, his face blue from the cold and hypoxia. . . Lex had been 8 at the time. . .
Mind you Sheckel also had a habit of throwing things at kids who spent too much time reading the in front of his stand, and even though Lex had no real love for comics (his admiration of Incredible Science Fiction Magazine aside) he also had no love for getting hit with a cane or getting a can of soup thrown at his head. Lex Luthor walked past the old remnant of the newsstand past the homeless men hovering around a fire. Lex glanced for a moment, then moved on. He the bearded face and rough hands of Juan Osorio, one of the first people he'd ever paid to do something. A rough man, who'd do anything for a dollar earned or not. Face like boiled meat and fists like a vice, he'd paid the man to intimidate, protect him as he walked down the street. Osorio had robbed him blind as soon as the walk was over, given him a solid beating for the trouble. It was a valuable lesson in the nature of power that the 7 year old never forgot.
He heard the laughing in the distance, a sound of carnival music, a spray painted tag with a smiling rictus of the Joker. No, the place was not quite the same, but then again, neither was the Suicide Slum anymore. He'd seen to that. It wasn't entirely improved.. . but compared to a time before, it was better. Much better. . . money couldn't change human nature, but it came damn close to temporarily changing it. Perhaps he kept some of it similar out of a misguided sense of nostalgia, but crime had been reduced. The Superheroes of Metropolis fought Meta-events. . . not street crime. There were reasons for that.
The street was inconsistently lit except for one exception, the clinic at the end of the street. It was unmarked, largely, a single white light shining down on the red cross. This would be the clinic, the Thompkins clinic. He walked into the front door, looking around the interior, his face would be recognizable, his bald head a symbol for wealth, his jacket is old, leathery and worn about. The shoes nice and well worn in. He had a tie on, and a scarf, which were both new, but the rest of the clothes were interesting. Perhaps Mr. Luthor was slumming it.
He nodded as he approached the receptionist at the front to put in his name. "When your administrator has a moment, tell her that Lex Luthor is here to see her. I know it's without an appointment. But I think she won't be disappointed to meet with me." He looks over the crowd for a moment, sick and ill, falling apart, one with a gunshot wound to the arm. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, then looked back at the receptionist. "Understaffed, underserved. . . How long have you worked here?"