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LUTHOR’S NEW/FINAL WEAPON — (New Version).
Part Three (b.): Neutering the Bull.
And there on his knees, huge arms immobile behind him, Luthor’s hands in his hair, glaring down at him, his desperate blue eyes pleading upwards, unable to help himself. The so great MOS defeated, and feeling strange shudders within him at his unquestioned domination—opened his mouth... hands and arms now set free, coming forward to embrace the strong thighs of his conqueror, his lips receiving the turgid, cut glans-head of his nemesis almost eagerly. It’s bullish thickness, the pronounced firm ridges of the head, sent quavers through him—the first male cock beyond his own he’d engaged with since Jimmy’s, twenty some years earlier, sending surges of rapture through his own greater largeness. The shafts and ends of his manly teats also tingling, slow-releasing their hidden flow. Unable to halt the unconscious “uhmmm, uummmmn’s” rising from within as he accepted Luthor’s member... deeper and deeper into his mouth, his throat, swirling his tongue, twisting his lips around it, cupping the notable testicles, more and more... slower, faster, slower, faster, savoring its sizeable wonder.
Caught by his own craved hunger, decades denied. As if forgetting whose it belonged to.
At last, another man, and a nicely large one he would soon be drinking from—unable to quell the rising tremors within so long suppressed... had to with one hand straighten himself out, allow his much larger manhood to rise underneath his costume upwards and well past his waist line to the beyond lower edges of his quivering pectorals, no less frotting over the carved layers of his abs within the confines of his suit. Oh, how so wonderful it felt, fully rigid himself, the other’s engorgement in his mouth! And moving adeptly, working every shred of him, managed to slowly encompass Lex’s testicles as well, no smaller than golf balls into his well stretched cheeks... much to the amazement, shock, and joy of the man above him, nearly swept off his feet with the accomplishment of the alien’s devouring, mouth-massaging skills. Whose repressed hypersexuality, suddenly released, had begun to overwhelm him: Superman’s own triggered cock and breasts beginning to river automatically, splotch wetting his torso beneath his suit.
“Holy Fuck!” cooed Lex. “No woman on earth could do that. Or as well. And him... regularly treasuring his own—a master, no less!” Taking a deep breath. Then almost lovingly, “Maybe I should keep you around, Pussy Boy? Sure know what you’re doing.”
And while it galled him to think it, say it—perhaps his only way to save himself —humiliated and cowed as he was, acknowledging his defeat, Lex’s pawn, Superman paused, pulled back in hesitation... “Maybe—maybe—we could work out a deal? Let me go. I, I can promise to return, service you… maybe once a week or so. You know, I do keep my word—.” His desperation more than acute. Luthor held all the cards. Could destroy him in literally moments.... Might be his only hope.
(As well, thinking once set free, he could notify the authorities. They would then sweep in, scan the place, and gather up any lethal Kryptonite they found, carry it away, lock it up securely in Star Labs. Would not have to honor his pledge; Luthor no doubt in jail for some time to come, being convicted for being in possession of an illegal, unearthly substance. He would be safe! )
“That is an idea, isn’t it?” Lex mused. Now in control of the most famous cocksucker on the planet. “Finish me off, don’t stop now!” And “OHHHHH-ed” throatily less than five minutes later as Superman brought him to a bursting climax. The hapless alien forced to ingest his seed. But Luthor was not done, oh no! “More, more,” he demanded. “Another load to go—I can feel it. So good what you’re doing.”
And due to his expertise again, in short time, drew forth from his enemy another hip-bucking eruption, exhausting them both. The acrid warm taste of him down-lodged in his throat uncomfortably... trying to collect himself, restrengthen a part of his ego, he rested back on his haunches. Only Superman had not yet found release, almost cursing himself for the provocation of his “inner” sexuality, his hungering weakness still stimulated, holding him on edge... his core aching for relief. His oversized erection bulging obscenely up the full front of him, not able to be hidden under his uniform, tightly confined, and prominent to near halfway between his pecs. Would Lex let him go?
“Holy Shit! Look at that rod! No wonder he’s such an expert. Get him up,” Lex barked. “Hold onto him.”
“Rod like that. Doesn’t even have to bend at the waist… taking himself,” Max agreed.
From in front and to the side, Max assisted Conner to get the weakened Superman to his feet, Conner behind with a bear hug. The alien noticeably sagging, although his pronounced erection was barely to be believed, now Conner’s forearms pressuring around it. (Certainly not as thick as the infamous, “siliconed” Muscle Eddie, but just about as long; and no doubt with little effort easily able to get his mouth around and onto it.)
“Get his shirt off. I want to see that thing,” Lex demanded.
While Conner rear hugged him, Max was able to begin to tug off Superman’s top from out of his briefs. The alien suddenly imbued with a burst of unexpected resistance, struggled wildly, cried out: “No, no—not my chest! No —no, don’t!! ” As if truly distressed. Utterly panicked.
And no wonder. Not able to get the garment completely off from his arms, but the front of it force-stretched, and fitted to hook back behind his neck, all three men in the room gaped... as the thickly, wide-mounded breasts of the MOS fell out heavily on full display—prowed to the front, and slanted to each of the right and left sides of his torso —although still covered and bound, but only partially. His hairy, bulging pectorals matted and damp, soiled from the run of his juices.
His treasured chest at last exposed. No less than two-thirds packed with firm masculine muscle, the other third with a pronounced feminine soft fullness. The epitomized combination of male/female attributes in one staggering pair, which he alone of any in the world had known about.
“I’ll be fucked!” Max howled. “He—or is it she’s —wearing a bra!!”
All of them staring at the compressed mounds of the hugely muscled, but no less loaded droop of his male mammaries revealed... still tightly confined in a fine, protective covering of sheer, see-through black netting—the edges trimmed with delicate dark lace, the front portion of which had oblong darkened strips where the nipples should be. And near centered between them, the pole-turgid glans of his alien cock shaft wet and lubricious. Unbelievable on all counts.
“No, no! Not my cock—not my pecs...” moaned Superman, overcome with a deep masculine embarrassment (yet still innately proud of his body); severely chagrined, thoroughly demoralized at how much his nudity (the long hidden glories of his major secrets) were being blatantly uncovered—seen by unwelcome, strange eyes for the first time ever in beyond years and years, other than Jimmy’s—and never since the aged bounty of his fuller, manifested increases had been added unto him. (Even if forever intoxicated and in love with them—forbidding any others to see, share or indulge with. They were his! All his! Breasts and genitals. Endlessly savored, cherished beyond sense and reason.) And these men: how they would desecrate, ridicule him. No doubt chose to do something evil, harmful to him? His powers gone, terror encompassing him.
A sight never expected by those viewing him. Nor him wanting them to.
“Would make ole Dolly Parton feel inadequate, eh boss?” Conner snorted.
And then, when Max cut away his pec-guards, the bra-like, protective contraption which had so cleverly, modestly contained him, the absorbent nipple pads falling away—at the sight of the fuller mass of him unbound, dropping out further, his overly abundant pectorals (now more obviously feminine-wide, largely under-curved, gigantic corrugated nipples three-fourths the size of corn dogs, protruding outwards), thrusting from the two-plus-inch broad expanse of his paired darkened areolae, and their conical, tapered four and a half-inch, succulent tube-lengths—crowned with glans-like tip-ends, lightly foreskinned over!... they howled again. Both in astonishment and pure disdain.
“Whopping teats, bigger than a cow!” Max affirmed. “No doubt just as prolific. Tit-jugs, for real.”
“Must be taking estrogen. A male/female transitioner—or just plain queer? ”
(The great MOS’s forever hidden, well-muscled, but secretly milk-laden, hugely nippled man-breasts —stripped bare, at last revealed and exposed. Much to his embarrassment and chagrin: bound, depowered, unable to defend himself... now to be viewed, used and abused by evil, unwelcome eyes. [And with nipples actually larger than here shown.] Permission granted, courtesy: mphillips12000, Deviant Art .)
“Fucking freak, indeed?!” Lex Luthor choked. “All that muscle and cock! Those enormous tits! Doesn’t deserve to breathe! Not among real men. Even if those muscles and rod most could wish for. Won’t do him any good now. Once we’re through....”
“Luthor, please! Spare! Remember—what I, I promised? The good I’ve done for others!?” Fearing the worst, unknown as to what that might be. Knowing he could be on the edge of his complete termination. He had to brace himself. Be strong. Be the man he was. His huge assets he’d gloried in forever, knowing they now could spell his doom. At vindictive hands, for sure. The Kryptonite still in Luthor’s pocket. So close. So life-sapping.... Surely he would have mercy? Must!
“Hold him, tight, Conner. Don’t let him fall. I wanna see what he’s really got. How much.”
As instructed, the simplest thing possible: Conner behind, moved to secure Superman in an unbreakable full nelson—his overly muscled arms locked from underneath, pushed helplessly upwards, out to his sides, Conner’s forearms behind his neck, forcing his head more down and forwards. The MOS now “Man of Putty,” unable to break free. What were they going to do? The nearness of the radiant K. still.
“Milk him, Max. Milk him. Those fucking queer tits.”
“No, no! Please. Not my tits, my huge nipples! No, nooh! Nooo-oooh-ohhhhhhh...!!”
Panicked, and in protest. Knowing it would also near instantly make him come. He tried to resist, but the slow hand-fisting down and ease-measured strokes over his udders by Max’s savoring hands, caused them to fill and elongate further, foreskins retract... soon had him moaning in a pure and hopeless ecstasy. (Even as Jimmy had long ago, completely conquering him in mere moments). His whole body trembling, hips jerking forwards.
“Pop him a few times, too. In between. Don’t want him too happy.”
And Max stopped a moment, slapped his hard, flat hands back and forth across his cheeks, wobbling his head, slammed his big fists into Superman’s vulnerable, exposed abs, to altering sides of his towering cock shaft a few times (being held upright and close to his torso by the restriction of his briefs and his own excited hardness)... and then resumed milking him. Surprisingly, and yet not surprisingly, they all noted how varied small jets and streams of both clear and whiteish effusions began to flush from the contained, wounded alien’s twin mammaries.
“My, my milk. My milk. You’re draining me. My strength, my strength,” Superman mewed. “Making... me cum. Cum. Lose my powers—can’t waste....” Groaning, pleading, sighing.
“Then lap it up, dumb fuck. Suck it in, like you normally do—. Conner, help the asshole, bend him more.”
Who then scrunched the alien more forwards, so he could take the glans of his huge dick into his mouth, and watched him self-suck... while Max, with a very distasteful frown, continued to work his teats. Superman, even more chagrined than before, three men now observing him feed from himself. But at least he was allowed, could regenerate some power; all was not lost. But how much? It was no guarantee. When actually it was the hormones from his breasts which forever supercharged him. The other just sustained everything else, besides the sun. Once he was free....
(Remembering sharply, raggedly, how Jimmy had done him. Either fucking him and sucking him, or having his own cock in his mouth, Jimmy doing him... or helping him nurse from his big teats, while plundering him sweetly, slowly, rapturously. Now aching insanely to be cored. But never like this! This desecration of his entire being, ruination of his machismo and reputation!)
Yet, with a near gag-muffled shriek, in hardly seven minutes he came. The pain in his near ruined nuts incredible. Even his well-muscled, but well-pouched man-breasts simultaneously shooting forth stronger abundances of his juices; each climaxing within , as usual. He bucked and jerked. Already prime-triggered from doing Lex, and Max’s hands playing his enormous nipples... his milk-flow always causing strikes into his prostate as it were. The great rush of his seed too abundant to contain, pouring out both sides of his mouth: swallowing as much and fast of himself as he could. Feeling a definite supercharge within his own being as he did so, yet not enough to break Conner’s hold. Or do anything other than what he was doing. Mortified still that these three had observed him, “the incomparable Superman”—forced to fellate himself publicly! Dishonoring him forever, the dual spurting of his nipples. Although inside him, still torqued, craved for more….
Panting, well-worn and tired, he straightened as much as he could. “Luthor?” The tone of his voice plaintive, begging for reprieve.
“You’ve got more, don’t you. Multiple-shooter, like me,” Lex chided.
The MOS nodded in hapless acquiescence. Yes, he had more. More. More.
“Then go for it. Tuck him, Conner. Max—"
Which worked for a while, until Luthor finally decided. “Enough,” he said. “Pussy-mouth has had his fill. Can’t let him get too strong. Arch his back up higher, Conner. You, Max, forget the tits, stand to the side. And jack him. I want to see that thing explode... how far.”
Conner tightened his grip, pulled up and back, arching Superman’s torso more fully upwards, the pressure making his mammoth pectorals stretch, thrust out like flat-widened melons, turgidly stemmed and dripping. Max astutely to the side, working the alien’s wondrous rod, in firm, cadenced, and easy strokes. Once in a while flipping at the ends of his protrusive chest-dicks, seeing how his manly-female pecs flexed and jounced seeking for more... making him “oooh-ahhhh, ohhhhh,” writhe and tremor more intensely, fast approaching another orgasm. His pelvis indeed arced forwards. Big cock angled/cresting forwards from beyond the front of his elongated nips. His larger than heavy avocado-sized testicles still sore, drawing up towards his perineum in a huge-massed, tightening, gelatinous clump.
Luthor reached into his pocket for his rock, retrieved his sling from his desk.
“Nice shot,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
“Conner,” he blurted. “Hold tight. When he blows, stand aside, Max.”
From the corner of his eyes, Superman suddenly saw Lex’s movements. Perceived from what he’d heard. His guts did a huge, incredible swirl and leap. Oh, good God—NO!!
“LEX,” he cried. “Please , NO!! Have mercy. You’ll kill me!! ” One of Max’s hands still working his swelling cock. His climax at the very edge, seed already beginning its fatal rush.
“Kind of why I invited you in,” Luthor shrugged. Drawing back on the sling.
“LUTHOR, NO-OHHHHHH!! PLEEEAA —”
(It crossed his mind in a flash! Payback had finally caught him—what he’d done to Jimmy!)
“AAHHH-UURH-RGGGHHH!!!!” His shrill-choked, screamed-cry, equally joyous and horror-filled. Humongous balls tighter than tight, close-gathered—semen ripping loose. In the throes of his release. The green stone found its mark! His death instant upon him.
A lightning bolt deep into his core. Pain beyond stratospheric, swifter than a lance—bright synapses of his brain bursting, shattering in splintered sparks and fritters.
Jets of pure white simultaneously burst from his nipples, handsome head jerking up and back—gigantic breasts convulsing, contracted, convulsed. His fourteen-plus inch cock stiffening further in its final geysering, his heated Kryptonian seed in a hopeless torrent of rich, now castrated, roped potency all over the place. Eight, nine feet from his body. His knowing, doom-filled, climactic wail, abruptly cut off—curtailed in the midst of his eruptions. Body spasming.
A deadly darkness had found him.
All sense and feelings short-circuited. The once powerful MOS’s shrill sounds silenced, caught strangled in his throat.
Suddenly heavy as a ton of cement, Conner had to let him go. The faineant, stilled mass of the once superb Superman slipping from his arms to the floor. Still wondrous as hell, half undressed, partially nude, huge tits asprawl and dribbling, densely muscle-sculpted limbs akimbo, inert and useless... great genitals alarmingly displayed but slackly impotent, still pulsing forth the blood-tinged residue of his thunderstruck essences—the last of his sperm. A few jerks and evident, form-twitching tremors. Sporadically. Exhalation of a deep, baleful moan. Then quiet... gone still.
The silence was profound. The three looking at each other, and the alien on the floor.
“Well?” Luthor took a few moments, assessing the reality. “Is he dead?”
Max cautiously hunkered over; Conner still amazed. “No. Still has a pulse. Faint, weak.”
More silence, while he thought it out.
“Hmmmn. Get him re-dressed, covered. Hands behind his back. I’ll have the van brought around. We can finish up later. Where he’s going—might as well be....”
Lex laid the slingshot aside. Collected and tossed the green stone in the air a few times. Looked down at his handiwork. Cleared his throat. Lit a cigar; carefully poured and savored a slow slug of brandy. Watched his two men begin to prepare the hero’s body for transport.
“Still moving, boss. Trying to say something....”
“So—gag him. Don’t want to hear it. Crying, wimped queer-fuck that he is.”
All in all, Lex Luthor knew it had been one his finest days. Watching them gather up the remainders of the defamed, fag-hero’s bra—how they stuffed it into his mouth, duct-taped it shut—neatly folded the red shimmery cape; pulled down his blue, “S” emblazoned shirt over those outrageous, man-woman cow-tits; arduously shoved his long, flop-heavy penis down into his briefs again, over those destroyed, doubly swollen gonads. Rolled him over, zip-tied his wrists behind him. Cord-tied his ankles together. Taperedly thick thighs as if trying to draw up into himself once more. Back onto his back again. His eyes seeming to want to flutter, focus. Mouth covered. Wanting to gasp, take deeper breaths. Ever keening, automatic, gutturally low-soft groans of anguish welling up from somewhere within him. “Ehmmn, ehhmmn, ehhmmmn, ehhmmnn.” Shivering, quivering.
Most of his acuity gone. Only residual pain. Crushing sheets of it in waves.
“The once great Superman. Downed and done,” Lex mused.
“Poor baby,” Conner scoffed. “Gelded that bull, big time,” added Max.
“Or will soon, for sure. No clones from those nuts! Not ever, nor planned for,” Lex with a smirk, turned a raised glass of brandy in salute. “Good work, guys. Your pay will reflect it. Now, for the continued finale.”
* *
It didn’t take much. Dragged out by his ankles, hands bound behind him, taken down by the freight elevator to the van below. He would never see daylight again. Eyes glazed, variedly wild and wide, realizing at last what was happening, in roiling pain, frantic anguish... in still muffled/groaning, his gargantuan, massive musculature powerless, his groin an unrelenting torment. The green K. rock snuggly tucked under his uniform, between his male-feminine breasts and over his heart, to assure his continued conquest. Gagged, so there was no possibility of him crying out for help. (Imagine, the famous Superman, bound and vanquished, being carried off by several scruffy thugs, and him trying to beg passersby for help?!! The idea truly laughable. But it being near Halloween, such a person trussed and so costumed, would have given few pause or thought. Some joke unfolding, indeed.)
Speedily transported without incident, he was unceremoniously unloaded and kept in Luthor’s planned-for private holding cell just a few more days, an old warehouse on the outer edge of town. And all those who wanted to, for a special treat, were brought in to fuck the MOS ragged, still in his weakened state. Begging for mercy, he wailed endlessly at the abuse, humiliated beyond humiliation, was often strung up in chains for display, his nakedness an ever wonderment to all who saw him, the freakish abundance of his unearthly assets.
No longer, of course, able to ejaculate (though he could searingly dry-climax in prolonged, painful shivers), which didn’t stop those who wished to ream his ever beautiful ass with their tools, or other objects of torment they thought to fancy. He was even occasionally fisted, and left weeping like a little boy. Soon wishing for death. A truly ignoble end for such a paragon of manliness and heroic disposition, all the good he’d ever done—save for the one incident that had forever haunted him for decades. Believing somehow he was receiving true justice for his murder of his lost, innocent Jimmy. Who had really only wanted to love him more than anyone else he’d ever known in his life. But due to their happening, it had finally been deemed, proven completely unfeasible. Would have destroyed him. And now finally, it truly was happening.... And in each case, in such a way, as never dreamed possible.
Now kept from any restoring sunlight, or having even his own ability to recycle his once potent essences—his mighty testicles no longer fruitful, the nearness of the Kryptonite continually—he was slowly fading, not only in strength, but the will to survive. Nor even the want. His shame at his vanquishment, complete. His body a useless, cumbersome mass. Once one of the most glorious imaginable, and treasuredly enjoyed of objects on the planet—to him , anyway... now become a nightmare of habitation he yearned to escape from. His genitals had been severely pulled at, stretched, beaten, kicked, bashed... his inner sanctum unalterably cored and violated... his huge breasts milked, whipped, pounded, smashed, and squeezed, his cow-like nipples thrust through endlessly with sharp needles, or adorned with heavy clamps and weights. Luther and his invited chosen cohorts played the Man of Steel down to a jellied frazzle within just a week’s time, before tiring of the task... soon wanted to call it a “wrap.”
And although while not yet officially “Thanksgiving,” Luthor proclaimed an early holiday and proceeded forthwith to celebrate the seasonal aspects with due reverence and evil accord.
Finally, for the last eight-hour period, “the grand finale,” Lex had the demoralized, defeated Superman prepared appropriately. Ensuring he would know his fate had reached its conclusion, he had him two thirds surrounded by a set of mirrors. Completely naked, except for a facsimile red silk cape draped back from his shoulders, reinforcing the signature item of his former “pretentious,” heroic standing and invulnerability now gone. Adding, of course, some nice crisp, phony red calf-high boots to complement the proceedings, bound at the ankles.... With his hands hopelessly fastened behind his back, a series of single, silvery-painted cinder blocks were attached to each part of his genitals (one on his testicles, the other for his penis)—a rope with a smaller third one was loosely looped around his neck, under his cape, its weight dangling down his back, arching his spine, not quite enough to choke him—his freak-like nipples each pierced with mildly-sized fish hooks, from which dangled on each side, shiny weighted (one pound apiece, three per row) Christmas ornaments of blue, red, and gold in single glittery strings down his front (to remind him of his former colorful costume). Topped, of course, with a white, fur-trimmed red Santa’s cap, adorning the tangled dark crown of his head. And then , sturdy barbed meat hooks which were shriekingly inserted as he screamed, through the sides of his substantially mutant-massive mammorals—by which he was subsequently hung and suspended about three feet from off the floor... able to be twirled and swung around at any visitor’s leisure. Blood-dripping and in agony.
With the corrosive, radiant green stone, also—the true finale —(with the help of an undistinguished physician and an endoscope), having now been force-shoved down his esophagus and into his stomach to complete the process. Mouth again duct-taped shut to stifle his endless cries and groans, cleft-chin upwards tilted, pained eyes still frantic, open and wide.... struggling for each breath. The dying titan yet able to view his monumental desecration via the mirrors surrounding him. His invulnerability to human pain long gone—ever experiencing a minute by minute horror of existence. Physically, psychically. Emotionally, spiritually. Prayed for it to end.
And above it all, in conclusive, glittery bold, proclamative script, a sign, Luthor’s finishing touch: “Joy To The World!”— hung in parody just above his hapless head.
The irony: the glories of everything he was, had, treasured... become the very means of his unalterable termination. Including the miniscule fragment from his own birth planet ensuring his demise, deep inside him. Outside, the world was in some consternation. The Man of Steel had disappeared, was gone. As if he’d never existed. Had been some sort of fiction. People, of course, wondering what had happened. Governments stymied. The news media ever curious.
A package with his actual signature red boots and cape had been mailed to The Daily Planet , with a note saying “Superman is no more. Poof! Gone! Don’t even look.” The F.B.I., C.I.A. and Interpol were all onto it. And dumbfounded. (Even years later still mystified.)
No, it didn’t take long, as he surmised. Realizing Superman’s final hours must be truly agonizing, Luthor observed the proceedings with as much a piqued interest as outright boredom. He’d had his fun, solved, and repaid his forever interfering, antagonizing “problem” in full, as much as possible. Congratulating himself on his ingenuity—how simple it had all been. After so many years of exasperation. Now watching hourly as his once mighty foe shuddered, convulsed, teared, moaned, keened... once electric blue eyes dulling, still ever panicked, silently pleading for mercy... racked with intolerable pain, fastened securely, still sometimes faintly struggling. Until at last he was still.... An enormous chunk of useless, exhausted, yet still sculpted, firm and shapely muscle, sinews, and bone. His handsome head sagged atop his huge shoulders, over his now deflated, freak-sized pectorals, milked-out, the elongated, Christmasy teats no less obscene. Great arms and legs untensed, thickly slack and inert. Spectacular genitals, alas—the MOS’s own undoing, forever stilled. Heavily long and thick, not a twitch. Or a drip. Lex had them carefully later removed for display, glass encased: trophies to gaze upon eternally in his most private library. The queer’s nipples, too, cut off, for a smaller receptacle. The remnants of his costume saved for future mounting. (As well as that silly brassiere.)
With little preamble, assured there was no life left, he had the body taken down as if from a crucifixion, wrapped in a clean white sheet, and placed carefully in a nicely constructed pine coffin. The top securely fastened. Made a token sign of the cross, just to be nice.... Then had him wheeled out, and run through a wood chipper. Disposal was not a problem.
Poured himself a generous slug of cognac, after. Lit a very expensive cigar.
Occasionally, later, he reviewed the videos. Which forever gave him the utmost delight. For fifteen years. Until he, himself, was found one evening in his chair, dead of a stroke. The following investigation made headlines around the world. “The End of Superman—Finally Revealed.” The shocking details more than shocking. Lois would have covered the story but after a vehicular accident, she was now in a nursing home with early dementia. Looked after by one of her sister’s kin. Never knew what had happened. Had always wondered about Clark’s inexplicable disappearance, too.... Although the previous raid on Kent’s apartment (kept undercover for years) had surfaced more items than anyone ever suspected, kept secret until now: two plus two equaling five. The final enigma brought to a close.
THE END.