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The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMANStories of the Silver Age (Part Five)
As I mentioned last time out this particular story requires two separate pages, to do full justice.
Here's the second salvo, then. 
"Lex Luthor, Daily Planet Editor" [SUPERMAN #168; April, 1964; author unknown; Curt Swan, artist] opens up where the previous chapter ("Luthor -- Super-Hero!") left off with the villainous Lex Luthor still reveling in the (comparative) safety and luxury of his swank, super-
scientific digs on the eponymously named planet Lexor; comforting ever- solicitous (and way, waaaaay hot-to-trot) Reg'lar Saturday Night Thing, Ardora.
"You have a palace, a splendid laboratory, and me," the heavy-
breathing hottie husks into her hairless honey's shell-like ear. "Can't you forget the Earth, Lex, dear?"
"It's Superman I can't forget, Ardora!" Luthor snarls, features contorted in unadulterated rage and loathing. "That rat drove me into exile... but I'll have my revenge, soon!"
Utilizing a rocket of his own invention, you see the bald-pated baddie plans to take out The Big Blue Boy Scout with some artificial Red Kryptonite he's managed to whip up in his Kenner E-Z-Bake Oven; render him powerless; and dragoon him back towards Lexor, and a nice, long ritual shaving and pimp-slapping.
"To these people," a smug Luthor exults, inwardly; "... I'm a hero... and Superman is a villain! They'd even execute him... if I gave the word!"
Even the most far-sighted and brilliant of super-villainous scalawags, however,
may suffer the occasional "off" day, EEEvil Machanations-wise; and so it is
that the normally prescient Luthor finds himself overshooting the mark as his
jury-rigged conveyance accelerates just a tad too quickly, at an inopportune
moment. ("Cheap-ass Lexorian parts and labor," he manages to hiss,
in the final moments of his firey downwards spiral.)
Oh, don't get me wrong, here Ol' Lexie, he managed to find his way back to Earth, all right...
... but to San Francisco, rather than the targeted city of Metropolis...
... and to the year 1906, to boot.
In the parlance of the ancient philosopher kings, then D'OHHHH
-- !!
Wand'ring lonely, like a clod, along the cobblestoned streets of turn-of- the-century 'Frisco, the dazed Luthor encounters a well-appointed gentleman who has the singular ill fortune to drop stone dead, right at his very feet. All of a sudden, like.
"He's dead!" a keen-eyed Luthor quickly intuits, basing his incredible deduction upon such razored clues as the aforementioned gentleman's total cessation of movement, and the fact that the greater portion of his head is now shaped like an overlarge taco. "According to his papers... he's Cyrus Groat! He just came west to take a job as Editor of the San Francisco Daily Planet! He's never visited these parts before!"
Swapping outfits with the late, luckless Master Groat in broad daylight on a public thoroughfare -- Luthor's got a pair on him the size of Halloween pumpkins, though, don't he? My laws, yes! -- the master criminal deluxe continues his interior monologue "The letter offering the job is dated 1906! That means I'm stranded in this era until I can return to my own time! I'll need a job, so I'd better take over Groat's identity... and that editorship!"
"Meanwhile..." (as they say in the comics biz) modern-day Daily Planet wage slave Clark Kent is staring owlishly at the blank sheet of paper in his typewriter, waiting for the absent Muse to give a big, sloppy wet one, inspiration-wise.
"I'm writing a feature on the world's greatest scientists," Metropolis' answer to Ring Lardner, Jr. exposits, telling himself what he already freaking knows in that endearingly Silver Age-y way of his. "Luthor is one of them, in spite of the fact that he's a criminal! Hmmm... I wonder if he's still on the planet Lexor! I'll check!"
Quickly ascertaining, via telescopic vision, that "Luthor isn't on this planet" -- nor, in fact, anywhere in this galaxy -- the Man of Steel hies his heroic hinder towards the remote arctic fastness of his Fortress of Solitude, at something just under Mach Now.
"This Psycho-Locator was built by the scientists of Kandor," a determined Superman informs us, flicking the switches on a rather pedestrian-looking ubergizmo. (Locating psychos is, apparently, something of a "growth" industry, down Kandor way.)
For a collective of quasi-microscopic cretins whose combined candle power, mental prowess-wise, couldn't light up the inside of a small refrigerator (I mean they do all live inside an enlarged specimen bottle, f'chrissakes; how "super-scientific" is that, f'cryin' out loud?), the Kandorians do display a decided "knack" for this whole Locating Psychos thing; and -- quicker'n' you can yodel "Oh, Jesus, no! Not another Mort Weisinger-era time travel story!" -- Jor-El's eldest and only is blandly a-whizzin' his way back towards sunny 'Frisco, circa '06.
"Hmmm," a disguised Man of Steel muses, whilst strolling past a young newsie hawking copies of the local scandal sheet. "So, they have a Daily Planet here in San Francisco! I'll apply for a job as a reporter! That way, I can cover up my activities while I hunt Luthor down!"
The impulse being father to the deed, then the following panel finds a courteous Clark Kent standing before the desk of one "Cyrus Groat" (a.k.a., the identity-filching Lex Luthor... remember?), hat in hand, introducing himself thusly:
"My name is Clark Kent, Mr. Groat. I'm looking for a job as a journalist."
" 'Journalist,' bah!" the crusty "Cyrus Groat" snarls. "I'm looking for reporters! If you can get me three big scoops, I'll hire you!"
(Luthor's notions of how Newspaper Editorship really works, apparently,
have been chiefly informed by misty-eyed viewings of I COVER THE WATERFRONT;
HIS GIRL FRIDAY and old re-runs of the LOU GRANT television series. I
mean " [...] three big scoops," and THEN " [...] I'll hire you?"
Geez-o-pete -- !)
"The famous actress, Lillian Russell, is in town!" "Groat" continues, proferring a folded slip of paper. "Here's her address! I want a front-page story about her... understand?"
(Either it's one holy heck of a s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w news day, here in turn-
of-the-century 'Frisco... or else Ol' Marse Luthor, he thinks he's manning
the desk for ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY. Did any of the individuals connected
with this story ever spend even so much as five minutes loitering about
an actual, for-real NEWSPAPER OFFICE, post their probable tenures
as editors of their respective high school booster sheets... ?)
"It's Superman!" Luthor/"Groat" gloats, watching from a window as Clark
scurries off in search of El Big-O Scoop-O Numero Uno.
"He's adopted the name of his friend, Clark Kent, while he hunts for
me in this era! Ha, Ha! These fake whiskers I'm wearing
fooled him completely!" (Well... those and the stiletto heels,
yeah...)
(... and is anybody else out there, scanning these particular page reproductions
with their very own traumatized eyeballs, all incredulous and agog over the
concretized and canonical concept that reigning DC Comics super-smart fellah
Lex Luthor can stare dead bang, point blank at a bare-faced Man of Steel
-- who's posing as a glasses-less CLARK KENT, for the love of
Allah; recognize him; and not not NOT add two and two together, coming
up with the inevitable four, Secret Identity-wise? I'm just sayin',
here, is all.)
Well... be that as it may crusading investigative reporter Clark is finding his assigned interview with beautiful (but vapid) stage actress Russell -- "the Marilyn Monroe of her era" (it says here) -- only slightly less enervating than (say) a Wednesday night potluck supper with the Boise chapter of the Shriners Club.
"What a dull story this will be," Clark kvetches, inwardly (unfamiliar, aapparently, with the old bromide about carpenters finding fault in their tools, rather than themselves). "How can I turn this routine interview into a great scoop?" So saying, the plucky newshound [Pick One]:
A.) ... foils a robbery from his hidden vantage point is Ms. Russell's hotel room, via heat vision; and writes up an exciting, blow-by-blow "eyewitness" account of same.
B.) ... shifts to a more probing, hard-hitting approach, shrieking at her to "answer the bloody question, dammit! If you were a tree... what kind of tree would you @#$%ing BE --?!?"
C.) ... irrevocably alters the course of the interview when he genially inquires of Ms. Russell "... so, then you're going on the record as denying all those persistent rumors concerning you; Helen Keller; Lizzie Borden; and the ritual chloroforming and/or shaving of bound, helpless pre-adolescent girls on behalf of your secret lesbian satanist cult...?"
D.) ... drops his trousers; and asks Ms. Russell to "speak directly into
the microphone, please."
As editorial and/or auctorial cowardice would ultimately have it the correct answer is "A." (Drat, drat, drat it all.) And -- thus -- it is a justifiably proud and pleased Clark Kent who be-bops his crusading, muckraking way back to the Daily Planet offices, and Herr Taskmaster "Groat."
"That scoop was just a freak, Kent!" is "Groat's" sneering, less-than- supportive response, however. "For today's assignment, I want a story on how it feels to be a sparring partner to 'One-Round' O'Rourke, the heavyweight challenger!"
Wending his mindlessly obedient way towards Master O'Rourke's training camp, the disguised Man of Steel quickly ascertains (after a quick, obligatory x-ray vision "sneak peek" at the champ's gloves) that the cocky and swaggering pugilist is a cheat, plain and simple. ("What a phoney! I can see he uses brass knuckles [beneath his gloves]! This gives me an idea how I can get my second scoop!")
Long story short Superman decides to cheat right back surreptitiously using invisible huffings of "super-breath" to keep O'Rourke from landing any haymakers on his dimpled Kryptonian chinny-chin-chin; munching on the starter's bell, whilst no one's looking directly at it; etcetera, etcetera; yadda yadda yadda.
(Whether or not the voyeuristic Man of Tomorrow ended up unintentionally sterilizing
the luckless boxer, via unshielded exposure to concentrated x-rays --
to say nothing of the larger question of whether or not smarmy pugilist
O'Rourke might happen, perchance, to answer to the Christian name of "Mickey"
-- are, regrettably, ones lost to us in the story's brisk, bare bones
telling.)
Thoughtfully donating his $1,000 winnings (grudgingly offered by O'Rourke's managers to anyone who'd successfully managed to "last one round in the ring with The Champ") to the San Francisco Fire Department, towards the much-needed purchase of a brand new fire engine (whatta guy); a whistlin' and grinnin' Kent ambles his cocksure way back the office, and Certain Approval...
... not.
"You still need one last scoop to get the job, Kent!" editor
"Groat" grumps. (JEEEEzus... how many frickin' times per day does this
fershlugginer newspaper come out, anyway...)
"Visit the showroom tomorrow and get a story about that fire engine you helped buy," the journalisticc jerkweed continues. "Remember I want front page stuff!"
"Front page stuff" is, in fact, pretty much what "Groat" is assured of getting, as a startled newshound Kent is greeted by an all-too-familiar tingling, upon close-up examination of said new fire truck, the following A.M.
"OH-Oh!" the Man of Steel whimpers inwardly. "I've got a tingling sensation! It's a sure sign that I'm being affected by Red Kryptonite! It must be in the red paint of the engine!"
[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE ... say WHAAAAAAT -- ?!?]
"Wonder what its effects will be this time?" Our Hero concludes, in rueful expectation of the absolute worst.
One errant (and unprovoked) kick in the heroic hinder later, courtesy of an aggravated horsey; and the answer to said rumination becomes all too painfully apparent.
"OH-oh!" (He said that a whole lot, apparently.) "That horse kicked me! He hurt me, and nearly knocked me over! That means [Pick One]:
A.) " ... my invulnerability and super-strength are gone!"
B.) " ... all the cute li'l horsies in the world h-h-hate me now! WAAAAHHHHH -- !"
C.) " ... everybody in the greater San Francisco area will now find themselves mysteriously compelled to boot me right in the ol' Kryptonian butt! DAMN YOU, Mort Weisinger! Damn you straight to HELLLLLLL -- !"
D.) "... I am doomed to one day appear in an unbelievably lame
and awful movie, alongside a grotesquely miscast and out-of-place Richard
Pryor!"
As it so happens, in fact all of Superman's super-powers are
Kryptonite canceled, "except for my various vision abilities!"
(Yeah... well life's tough all over, I hear. Work it out
in group or somethin', whydon'cha...?)
Naturally (this being the sort of story it evidently is, by this juncture), A Major, Life-Threatening Crisis pops up, in the form of a blazing wooden ship out in the 'Frisco bay; and the obsessive/compulsively noble and altrusitic Man of Ordinary Flesh, Blood and Bone moves quickly to lessen the possibility of harm to civilian life or limb.
"Are you a reporter?" the gap-toothed and (clearly) profoundly inbred grandson of the grateful ship's captain later inquires of Clark, once all the flames and smoke and attendant hoopla have died down. "That's what I want to be when I'm big!"
"What a coincidence!" the Man of Steel gapes, incredulously. "This lad will grow up to be Perry White, Editor of The Daily Planet!"
On his melancholy and (virtually) powerless way back to the "present"- day Planet offices the Metropolis Marvel indulges himself in some wholly unaccustomed Batman-style logical deduction; to wit:
"Only Luthor could have painted the Red Kryptonite on that fire engine! And how did he know I'd be affected by it, unless...?"
[Waaaaaaiiiiiit for it...]
"... good GRIEF! Luthor must be my boss, CYRUS GROAT!"
Yup. As clear-cut and convincing a case of A=B=[eggplant] if ever I've seen one. Yup. Yup. Yupyupyup. ;))
"Take off that disguise, Kent!" a disguise-bereft Luthor snarls, stepping forth unexpectedly from the shadows of a nearby alleyway; complicated- and lethal-looking ray gun thingie clenched in one resolute fist. "I know you're SUPERMAN... and if you try to turn around and use your heat vision on me, I'll drill you!"
Thus held unwilling hostage by his hairless arch-foe a grim (and, doubtless, mortified) Superman is forced to accompany a mocking Luthor to "a tiny and desolate island," somewhere in the middle of the San Francisco Bay.
"You can't see it, Superman," the follicularly-challenged fink gloats; "... but I have a super-device hidden in a cave! When I flip this switch, we'll both be teleported to the planet Lexor! Under its red sun, you'll lose your super-powers... permanently!"
Okay, now. Here comes the really cool part.
Thumbing the fateful switch on his super-duper-calla-fragilistic-expi- ali-docious-whatever-the-hell-it-is Luthor promptly realizes that at least one of those all-important little jury-rigged geegaws or doodads merrily a-humming inside it must have had a manufacturer's warranty of something like -- oh, say -- eight or ten seconds, tops.
"Those intense vibrations," the startled scientist gulps, in sudden consternation. "Something's wrong! I put on too much power! I'm starting to vanish... but Superman is remaining on the island!"
(The Man of Steel's lucid commentary, re all of the foregoing, is a
simple and concise "?")
It turns out that said "intense vibrations" are pretty much rocking da proverbial house, way over yonder in San Francisco, proper...
... resulting in the infamous SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE OF 1906 -- !!
"That awful catastrophe," a shell-shocked and horrified Superman inwardly moans,
reeling his way through the firey devastation and carnage of The City Beside
the Bay; "... was started by Lex Luthor! And, without all of my
super-powers, I can't stop the quake! Strange...
how Fate decrees that I can't change history!" Or even decently
make the token attempt to do so, apparently.
Surviving the dangers and assorted travails accompanying one of the greatest natural disasters ever recorded in human history -- chiefly by dint of a happy combination of guile; agility; and good, old-fashioned luck -- the Man of Tomorrow eventually regains his Kryptonite-ravaged assortment of god-like super-powers; and hastily hyper-speeds his way back to the present day, now (more than ever) intent upon re-capturing Lex Luthor -- Greatest American Mass Murderer of the 20th Century.
This being a Weisinger-edited, Silver Age SUPERMAN story an ironic "twist" tying everything up in a pretty pink meta-fictive "bow" is all but mandatory, really...
... and that's precisely what we get -- right on storytelling schedule -- as a grinning Superman eventually discovers that Luthor's hastily assembled whatchamadoodie ended up transporting him not to the planet Lexor (as originally intended)...
... nor to the Metropolis of the present day (which would have been the eminently logical "fall-back" selection, all things being equal)...
... but (most embarrassingly out of ALL possible eventualities) to the precise SAME SPOT he'd been standing, back on that nameless isle in the San Francisco Bay... sixty years LATER.
A "nameless isle" better known in the present day, in fact, as a cheery
little traveler's lodge by the name of Alcatraz.
Ever the thoughtful, sensitive soul, then Lex Luthor may well have directly initiated the painful, shrieking deaths of uncounted thousands...
... but -- on the other hand; at the very least -- he managed
to saave the city of Metropolis the cost of a lengthy and expensive trial.
Be here next time out, for Story Number Five in our ongoing The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories of the Silver Age retrospective, people.
It's a way nifty little number involving the Man of Steel's no-good, caddish bounder of a younger brother.
No. Seriously. Unca Cheeks is stone cold on the level, on this one.
Look... just be here, all right...?
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE ONE
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE TWO
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE THREE
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE FOUR
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE SIX
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE SEVEN
"The Thirteen All-Time Coolest SUPERMAN Stories Ever" PAGE EIGHT
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