POST EPILOGUE: 52 years after The Extermination.
With approval and endorsement of original author—
by Henry Dee (email@example.com ) - with thanks to Rick Henry.
In the moonlit early hours of the morning, three sleek black limousines glided smoothly to a halt alongside the private rear entry of the squat, stone neo-classical building. Suited figures silently emerged and stood guard while the curb side passenger door of the middle vehicle was opened and a small, frail bald man was helped out and placed into an electric wheelchair. Flanked by burly attendants, the centenarian moved quietly towards the door. An attendant knocked and the door was immediately opened by the fawning curator who bowed and rubbed his hands in obsequious fashion.
“Welcome. Welcome Mr Luthor. Please come in. Such a pleasure…”
Lex Luthor grimaced at his servile stuttering.
“Yes, yes. Thank you for opening up for me in the middle of the night.”
“Oh... quite… Yes. My pleasure entirely, Sir. We’ve had the gallery specially cleaned for you. You know, it doesn’t get many visitors these days.”
Luthor frowned and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“You know, Mr Luthor… How it is. It’s so long ago. And the conspiracy theories have evolved into accepted fact. People… believe what they want to. ‘Superman never existed… a government invention, a lie, propaganda to use against the Russians and Chinese... no such thing as aliens… the exhibition just part of the hoax…’ And of course, your own involvement… I mean… a question of credibility… people lack respect… I’m sorry…”
His voice trailed off into a nervous whine as he handed the keys to one of the attendants.
“If there’s anything else…”
Grinding his teeth, the ancient master criminal impatiently waved him away. Still bowing, the curator disappeared down the corridor. Luthor set his chair in motion once again and moved in the opposite direction.
“Follow me,” his ancient voice crackled. “It’s been years but I still know the way.”
The chair whirred through the back corridors of the museum arriving eventually at a large marble atrium. To their right brass inlaid oak double doors stood closed beneath a large sign:
THE ALEXANDER LUTHOR WING
Beneath it, a second smaller sign, added since Luthor’s last visit more than ten years earlier:
“The Superman Conspiracy and Other Purported Aliens.”
Luthor uttered a barely audible curse.
The attendant unlocked the doors, entered and a few seconds later the wing was illuminated by fluorescent light. Luthor, angered by the sign, rolled forward and made his way into the large exhibition hall. He ignored the many displays - Roswell, Manbhum, Exeter, Catalina Island, dozens more - and continued intently towards the far end, where a life-size mannequin of a tall, dark-haired man of exquisite form and beauty stood on a large dais.
Dressed in the famous blue, red, and yellow costume, the likeness was stunning. Luthor stared, momentarily frozen, and his jaw quivered slightly. Of course he had seen the model many times before but so long ago now. Seeing it again revived so many emotions: the hatred at having plans thwarted; the resentment at the alien’s public adulation; the envy and desire for the superior physical beauty and endowments; the overwhelming sense of triumph at the utter discrediting and dismemberment of the hated foe. Now it all seemed faded and far away.
Recovering himself, he nodded in the direction of the other principle element of the display, the large jar holding the preserved head of the Kryptonian superhero. An attendant picked it up and placed it in Luthor’s lap. The old man held it with weak trembling hands, and looked intensely at his most prized trophy. The taxidermist had perfectly caught the look of terror and shock at the moment of decapitation, and the glass eyeballs were a perfect match for the famous turquoise of the long dead hero.
“Pathetic.” Whispered Luthor. “Pathetic; and in the end, no challenge. How surprisingly easy you were to bring down. Once I knew where to strike; to get you from within. Your little-boy-lost desire to be loved. And your utter need to feed from yourself, suck from your own juices. That was the clue. Cut off the supply, starve the power; so simple. And I certainly did “cut it off” didn’t I? Hehe! Oh the look of despair and defeat on your poor face, your trembling lips, the tears, the wailing, standing there holding your severed malehood in your hands. Knowing in that moment it truly was the end, no going back, just a matter of time before a few more cuts, and then, nothing, forever. Just this.” And he kissed the jar as he chuckled under his breath. “Time to come home to Daddy, boy.”
Then he turned his attention to the rest of the display the costume, the preserved mammillae, the outlandishly large genitals.
“Bring those. Bring it all. These pearls are no longer to be left to the swine.”
And with that he turned and made his way out of the museum.
* * * * * * *
Late the next day, Lex Luthor watched with a deep sense of satisfaction as the interior decorators put the final touches on the new design of his mantel display. Beneath the larger than life portrait of Luthor himself (Napoleon-like in imperial robes), three new gold-edged, mirror-backed glass cubes held the last physical remains of the once universally lauded Kryptonian superhero known as Superman.
Perhaps, thought Luthor, this is better. Not only eradicated, exterminated, stigmatized, but now even consigned to never having existed. Nothing more than an invention, less than a myth, a fantasy concocted by politicians in a game of international one-up-manship. And only he now, the last survivor of that glorious day, when true mastery was demonstrated in a humiliating and bloody butchery.
For the first time in years he studied the trophies close up, in detail. He remembered how that enormous cock had stiffened again and again at his direction, shooting streams of heavy ejaculate until the huge balls had lost all capacity and the debased alien had been rendered impotent. He pictured the ridiculous nipples, extended beyond even their usual unmanly length, pierced and dripping. The massive engorged cock, forcibly milked over and over and over, till only blood came:marking the depletion of his inner ability to ever recreate, repair himself from the destruction. The plaintive, desperate, mourning howls then, more animal than human, as bit by bit he was deprived of everything that had made him “super,”inch by inch, losing the incomparable wonder of his very own physical self. The shocked horror of it forever engrained into his eyes. Nothing left... but a few mementos, and something for the dogs.
Lex sniggered as he turned his attention to a small jar containing the petrified excrement, a few stale reminders, the leftovers of what had once been the most unique, intelligent, beautifully muscled and hung, powerful creature on the planet overcome and destroyed by his personal "Luthorian genius." He recalled watching the dogs defecate a week after, having been fed only that special diet he had arranged. What a downfall! The great super-hero’s final adventure, a brief journey through the alimentary canal of a street dog! Vanquished into oblivion by his brilliance! How the memories came flooding back, bringing with them a faint glimmer of his youthful vigour and enthusiasm. Well, that would come again. And soon now.
(Ah, and he'd never been able to snare Batman; someone else had. Marsden had tricked him out on that one may he rest in peace.)
The night was well-advanced when he made his way to bed, supported, as was always necessary now, by his nurses. They left him smiling. The drugs worked quickly and he was soon deep in sleep, dreamless until he woke just before dawn. Or was he still asleep?
His aged eyes, enhanced by the advanced ocular implants, had no difficulty in making out the naked form which hovered at the end of his bed. He knew it instantly, in its perfect, pre-mutilated state. It was a dream. Not surprising, given the events of the previous night.
“You’re not real, asshole. I know this is a dream.”
“Yes, it’s a dream. But what makes you think it’s not real?”
The dreamer laughed.
“Metaphysics, flyboy? I don’t think that’s your strong point. You lack the imagination.”
“Perhaps. I’ve come to say goodbye.”
The dreamer laughed again.
“Oh I think we did that a long, long time ago! At least, I did. From memory you were a little stuck for words at the time.”
“Yes. But not now. I’ve been waiting my turn.”
“Waiting? Really? Where? Beyond the pearly gates. In Paradise? Hehehe!”
“Oh! Bliss? Well you should thank me for sending you there.”
For a few moments he allowed himself to drink in the beauty and allure of the gorgeous figure. If only this weren’t a dream, he would throw himself on that body, take that delicious member into his mouth and work it with tongue, lips and hands for all he was worth. He imagined his own cock, now shriveled with age, restored to former glory and rammed deep between the firm red lips. An almost forgotten sensation. But maybe, one day, again. He had plans.
“So… to what do I owe this delightful visitation?”
“I told you. I’ve come to say goodbye. Tonight you die. This is your last sleep, your last dream. You will never wake.”
“Really? Well I’ve been anticipating that for some time now. So, tonight I join you in “bliss” huh?
“No. Not bliss.”
“Well that doesn’t sound like much fun. But it’s no matter. I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you, asshole. You see, I’ve made plans. I have no intentions for dying; well, for staying dead I should say. My cryogenics team is on permanent standby. When I cark it or am close to it, I go into liquid nitrogen. And I stay there for as long as is necessary until they can revive me, restore me, maybe give me a new young beautiful and vigorous body. So, sorry to disappoint you. No torment for me. Just the bliss of eternal life, here and now. Forever. Not food for worms. Or dogs, hehe. Sorry; was that insensitive of me?”
And the figure vanished.
Luthor laughed again, weakly at first, then full-throated and more heartily than he had for years. Until it gradually weakened. And stopped.
* * * * * * *
They found him there mid-morning when the nurse came in for his early meds. She knew what to do, made the appropriate calls, and the team sprang into action. Barely alive after the massive stroke, he was taken to the lab in the basement and the procedure commenced.
There were three of them. Dr Hernandez he knew, and his sister the second Dr Hernandez, but the other woman, the one looking deathly ill herself, barely able to stand, who was she? Paralyzed as he was and struggling for consciousness, he could not ask out loud. Not that it mattered. Just as long as they got on with it; gave him the shots that would prepare his body for the liquid nitrogen, got him into the steel cylinder which would house his not-quite-dead body until resurrection. That was all that mattered.
But what was happening? They had placed him on a gurney to the side of the room, and the second woman was being helped onto the preparation table. He tried to call out, ask “What the fuck is happening?” but all that emerged was a stifled groan. Enrico Hernandez, MD, looked toward him and smiled, then turned his attention back to the figure on the table. The dying woman, Hernandez’s sweetheart, was given a last kiss, then a series of injections, knowing that these experts, her husband and his sister, were giving her one last chance of survival beyond the certain death of the cancer that was eating her life. And all thanks to the unintended generosity of Lex Luthor.
The double-crossing physician technicians quickly completed their work. The stainless steel cylinder which was meant to house the body of the dead criminal was sealed with a quite different occupant inside and placed in its holding bay with all regulators attached. No one would know the difference. Then they turned their attention to the panicking man on the gurney.
“So you see, Mr Luthor, we have felt compelled to break from our previous agreement. Nothing personal of course, but the heart has its own considerations, and they sit far higher in priority than the necessity of honouring a business contract.” Hernandez smiled as he leant over the gurney and spoke directly into the eyes of the dying man. “But thank you for providing so generously for my Rosemary, even if it was entirely unintentional. I probably will not live to see her resurrection but at least I am comforted by the knowledge that she will, most certainly, live again. Unfortunately for you, I am afraid there will be no such coming back.”
Luthor screamed and shouted within , tried to leap up and grab the doctor by the throat, but all the doctors noticed was a sort of quivering and trembling and a sound like a creaking gate moving in the wind. He wanted to beg, promise them untold wealth, only let him not die. Not the death he knew awaited. Death forever; eternal torment. Terror gripped him but then the other doctor spoke.
“Rico, we must hurry. We need to get him dismembered and the body parts stowed for removal. Before others come.”
And so without further comment, without the mercy of anaesthesia, they set about reducing him to manageable pieces. The shrunken frame of the still living and now totally hysterical man was cut into its component parts: hands and feet, calves, thighs, upper and lower arms, abdomen, chest, guts, and of course, head. Consciousness did not pass until he had seen himself begin to come apart. The last thing he was aware of was the distant image of the most beautiful man the world had ever known, his perfect form hovering far above, his impassive stare a lightning bolt of judgement. Then a sudden feeling of hurtling down into darkness and a distant voice whispering, “Despair…”
Death followed soon after. Finally, they cleaned up and left, the evidence of their treachery in hand. The old man had grown so small that his parts were easily concealed in a couple of canvas bags.
Later, in the dead of night, the remains were transported to the municipal rubbish dump, and quickly, quite unceremoniously, scattered. By dawn the rats and stray dogs had already feasted and done most of their work; the ants would finish it. And neither the animals nor the insects had any awareness or concern for the reputation of the man Lex Luthor, or for the look of pain and torment frozen on the face that they would soon devour...