Read Online Miracle Monday by Elliot S. Maggin - Free Book Online
Authors: Elliot S. Maggin
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orthodontic stone mason and a cement truck to repair him...."
It was unmistakably the voice and attitude of Lex Luthor, dwarfed and invisible among shoulder-to-shoulder prison guards. The lump of guards passed, knee-to-knee, holster-to-clipboard, through the hallway toward the reporters and the warden, then turned right into the super-security cell like water over a dam. The only way to determine where among the swarm Luthor walked was to try to figure out at what point the stream of invectives sounded the loudest before it faded into the reinforced room.
"That was my groin you hit, ape-arms. Wanna find that clipboard in your spleen some morning?..."
Luthor could say anything he chose to the guards. Once, when Luthor was working a rock pile, a rookie guard shoved him onto a heap of stones that cut his face. Luthor never said a word to anyone else about the guard or the incident. All he did was suggest to the young man that he apologize. Luthor told the guard that he did not even have to act as though he was sorry, only that he should say the words. When the guard declined the suggestion, Luthor simply heaved a sad breath, wiped a grimy hand over his face and went back to work. One morning not long afterward, while accidently dozing for a moment during the night shift, the young guard woke up with the initials LL carved in his forehead. Luthor was accounted for during the time it happened. He certainly would have arranged for an alibi had he done it himself, but he had nothing to do with it. It was simply the work of one of the inmates, angry over his hero's indignity, serving notice on the prison administration—as the inmates did in one manner or another from time to time—that Lex Luthor was not to be touched.
"Hey, where's the innkeeper? Where's former Warden Half-skull? You out there, Warden, scraping the governor's shoe polish off your tongue again? Hey, I don't like to kiss and tell, but I think one of your hired thugs just tickled me."
Eventually the entire company of prison guards flowed into the super-security cell and the wind began to die down for a few moments. Seven guards came back out of the room and solemnly assembled in the corridor—one on either side of the cell door facing three who lined up opposite them looking into the open room, and two at the translucent wired-glass door at the end of the hallway.
"All right, gentlemen," Haskell said to the company of reporters who were amazed by the security precautions, "I think we're ready."
The newsmen, with their notepads, flash cameras and video equipment, all filed into the room. Spiffily uniformed men, pistols and clipboards in hands, lined all four walls, and in the far left corner, dressed in fatigues and a cherubic grin, stood Lex Luthor, lighting a pipeful of tobacco.
"I do wish you'd thought to put some ashtrays in here, Half-skull." Luthor dropped his match which fell straight for half the distance to the floor and then spiraled the remainder of the way from the height of Luthor's knees. Imprisoned, handcuffed, dressed in dull gray, surrounded by eighteen men, all of whom were appreciably more massive than he, the bald, stocky man looked for all the world as though he were in charge.
Luthor greeted the reporters, taking care to pay special attention ("Your acne clear up yet, puss-face?") to Jimmy Olsen. He made his three-point statement, embellishing it suitably; Haskell once again assured the reporters that the room was quite escape-proof; during the drive back to Metropolis Jimmy began writing the story of Luthor's escape, which would certainly come in handy sometime during the coming week.
In two weeks Warden Haskell would be transferred to the East Kansas Juvenile Reformatory where his salary, and consequently his retirement pension, would be reduced by about 20 percent.
Chapter 6 D EMONS
Nearly everyone had a personal demon. Few people called them demons, but that was what they were.
Perry White, the editor of the Daily Planet ,
It was unmistakably the voice and attitude of Lex Luthor, dwarfed and invisible among shoulder-to-shoulder prison guards. The lump of guards passed, knee-to-knee, holster-to-clipboard, through the hallway toward the reporters and the warden, then turned right into the super-security cell like water over a dam. The only way to determine where among the swarm Luthor walked was to try to figure out at what point the stream of invectives sounded the loudest before it faded into the reinforced room.
"That was my groin you hit, ape-arms. Wanna find that clipboard in your spleen some morning?..."
Luthor could say anything he chose to the guards. Once, when Luthor was working a rock pile, a rookie guard shoved him onto a heap of stones that cut his face. Luthor never said a word to anyone else about the guard or the incident. All he did was suggest to the young man that he apologize. Luthor told the guard that he did not even have to act as though he was sorry, only that he should say the words. When the guard declined the suggestion, Luthor simply heaved a sad breath, wiped a grimy hand over his face and went back to work. One morning not long afterward, while accidently dozing for a moment during the night shift, the young guard woke up with the initials LL carved in his forehead. Luthor was accounted for during the time it happened. He certainly would have arranged for an alibi had he done it himself, but he had nothing to do with it. It was simply the work of one of the inmates, angry over his hero's indignity, serving notice on the prison administration—as the inmates did in one manner or another from time to time—that Lex Luthor was not to be touched.
"Hey, where's the innkeeper? Where's former Warden Half-skull? You out there, Warden, scraping the governor's shoe polish off your tongue again? Hey, I don't like to kiss and tell, but I think one of your hired thugs just tickled me."
Eventually the entire company of prison guards flowed into the super-security cell and the wind began to die down for a few moments. Seven guards came back out of the room and solemnly assembled in the corridor—one on either side of the cell door facing three who lined up opposite them looking into the open room, and two at the translucent wired-glass door at the end of the hallway.
"All right, gentlemen," Haskell said to the company of reporters who were amazed by the security precautions, "I think we're ready."
The newsmen, with their notepads, flash cameras and video equipment, all filed into the room. Spiffily uniformed men, pistols and clipboards in hands, lined all four walls, and in the far left corner, dressed in fatigues and a cherubic grin, stood Lex Luthor, lighting a pipeful of tobacco.
"I do wish you'd thought to put some ashtrays in here, Half-skull." Luthor dropped his match which fell straight for half the distance to the floor and then spiraled the remainder of the way from the height of Luthor's knees. Imprisoned, handcuffed, dressed in dull gray, surrounded by eighteen men, all of whom were appreciably more massive than he, the bald, stocky man looked for all the world as though he were in charge.
Luthor greeted the reporters, taking care to pay special attention ("Your acne clear up yet, puss-face?") to Jimmy Olsen. He made his three-point statement, embellishing it suitably; Haskell once again assured the reporters that the room was quite escape-proof; during the drive back to Metropolis Jimmy began writing the story of Luthor's escape, which would certainly come in handy sometime during the coming week.
In two weeks Warden Haskell would be transferred to the East Kansas Juvenile Reformatory where his salary, and consequently his retirement pension, would be reduced by about 20 percent.
Chapter 6 D EMONS
Nearly everyone had a personal demon. Few people called them demons, but that was what they were.
Perry White, the editor of the Daily Planet ,
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