The distant sounds of four rapid shutter clicks are barely audible to my overly sensitive hearing as I swoop in, through the open window, into the non-discreet broom closet.
He hastily gets dressed, as he often does when he is called away, unexpectedly, and returns from some unforeseen emergency to do his super-exploits, before they end up in some major metropolitan newspaper. It was a close-call, this time, but it came to its expected epic climax, just in the nick of time, by the closest possible time. He opens the broom closet door, looking down the long narrow hallway, first, to the right, then to the left. There is no one walking down the hall.
Good, he ponders to himself.
I can make it to my desk, unnoticed.
He slides out of the broom closet, emerging, leaving it, in a suave 'electric slide' mimic-like style, behaving as nonchalant, as possible, as the awkward stumbling fool of man that many believe him to be.
He makes it to his desk, nearest the window, overlooking the large metropolitan city, which looms many floors below, in the towering gleaming metal skyscraper with the slowly rotating planet affixed to its highest point.
Looking up from his computer screen, sensing something is amiss. The morning has been busy since he came back from the hallway broom closet. Perry's office has been entered by a flood of people throughout the day, in its typical whirl of activity. A certain Cub Reporter has been waiting patiently for his turn, as he sits in a chair, with an envelope in his lap by the Managing Editor's door.
He looks back down to his computer, busily typing the story of the save, by the famous red-and-blue blur before Lois, can hand in her story on what happened.
"GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!" the sound of his boss' alarm fills the corridors of the busy and hectic newsroom.
There are loud murmurs and audible whispers among the many partitioned sections that fill this hectic floor. The sounds come together, in a low whirring sound.
"GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!" his boss's exclamation, once again, echoes from his far off corner office.
"What is it, Perry?" Lois shouts from her desk, across from him, "What's the matter, Chief?"
She stands, and looks at him, Kent, he returns the same intense glare, but he remains silent.
The floor grows silent, the first time, everyone had grown accustomed to his spontaneous outbursts, many have learned to expect them, when he is stirred up but for it to happen, more than once. It is a rarity. Heads appear above the gray cubicle partitions, easing up, like periscopes from their respective places.
A slow noisy hum sweeps through those, ducked, cowering behind their cubicle-separators.
"GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!" he does this alarm for the third time. This time he is much louder, more anger and excitement in his shrill of a voice as he continues, "KENT, GET YOUR ASS IN MY OFFICE, NOW!"
Lois looks at him, "What'd you do, 'Smallville'?"
He hates what she calls him, that name.
"GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST! I HAVE NEVER BUT I WOULD!" he shouts, excited-like, though his words are tinged with sustained rage and excitement, as I realize Olson is standing before Perry's desk.
At this verbal outrage, Jimmy barrels out of the Managing Editor's office.
Tears are streaming down the youthful freckled ginger-haired man's face, his hands are cupped over his blotched and red blotted eyes, as he tries to hold back the flow of overwhelming emotions. When he comes by me, by my cubicle, he stops, standing over my cluttered desk, with his clutched hands, grinding them into a ball, on my cramped paper strewn surface.
"YOU PROMISED. YOU PROMISED, CLARK, I WOULD BE THE VERY FIRST TO GET IT! YOU SAID I WOULD BE THE FIRST TO RECEIVE IT. YOU PROMISED!," he says, with an intense loud weeping, in an almost beggar like tone, at me, before he runs from the crowded newsroom, his fist now tightly tucked under his armpits, his body racked in heartfelt pain, at being denied what he was told, would be given to him.
I feel the eyes of those around me, find me, stare at me, and wait for my response, intently as Jimmy utters his emotional angst-fueled words.
Lois' eyes are boring into me, I hate that look she gives me. I purely, hate it.
I rise from my swiveled ergonomic chair, gazing around, looking into those eyes I know are watching me. I adjust my dark rimmed glasses, dropping them from my face and then putting them back in place, on my nose, in their proper position.
The room is silent. There is no noise, no whir of personal computers, no pecking on their individual keyboards. No low whispers heard among the folks gathered behind in their respective partitions. It is a calm eeriness.
I walk to his office, my heavy footsteps, break through the silence of this awkward moment, as my horse-like clopping of my loafers, it is the only sound on the sterile gray tile floor.
"You wanted to see me, Sir, I mean, Chief," I say, meekly, mildly, cowering in the office doorway, leaning on the doorframe.
"GET YOUR ASS IN HERE, KENT AND DON'T CALL ME, CHIEF!" he scowls, his words reverberate throughout the floor.
In his hand, a brown manila envelope, he is flapping it, about, in mid-air, irritated and angry.
"LOOK AT THESE AND TELL ME WHAT YOU SEE, KENT," he says as he hands me the clasped brownish-yellow manila envelope.
I grab the envelope, unfastening the thin flimsy metal clasp, as the paunchy rotund middle-aged man, reeking of carcinogenic smoke, from the cigar that hangs lazily in his gaping denture-filled mouth, as he glares at me, in his typical fashion.
I open it.
Inside, are photographs, four of them.
I look at them. My secret has been uncovered. The day I feared would happen. Happened.
Each tells a progressive story, more damning than the previous one, more revealing, too, as each photograph progresses.
"JIMMY, TOOK THEM," he tells me.
A sly sneaky smile snakes across his unshaven, fat and round face.
I nod my head, 'yes' as I give them, back to him, I expected as much. It was due to happen in time. I would be caught.
"He did a good job, huh, doncha think?" he says, his tone, softer, now as his eyes are locked onto me, waiting, patiently for an expected response.
"Yes," I answer, like some dutiful employee.
"The kid deserves a raise, doncha think, much like the one in the picture," he says, "He's got a great shot, many shots of something, many have wanted to see for a long...long time. Doesn't he?"
I nod my head in agreement.
"That looks like him, hmmm, that billionaire, doesn't it?" he says, the smoke of his cigar wafting into the air like a curling snake from its end-tip.
I nod my head, again.
"Can you explain to me what is happening in those images?" he asks me.
"The pictures explain it, quite well, I think," I say, as I lift my head, looking into his red bloodshot eyes, "What do you need me for?"
My irritation, apparent, obviously.
"Clarification, Kent," he says.
"What is going on in this image?" his boss says as he slides the first picture across his desk, towards me.
"He is on his knees," I say.
"What's he doing, Kent, dammit?" some irritation in his tone at my half-hearted answer.
"Looking at a...huh, a man's private parts," I explain.
"It's a cock, Kent, a guy's cock, that is quite hard, I might add, isn't it? It's quite an impressive cock, too, isn't it?" he asks.
"Yes, it is, Sir," I answer, as I conscientiously adjust the pulsing bulge in my slacks, feeling a kinship with the magnificent piece, as most men, surely would.
"His nuts are quite hairy, too, aren't they, no man-scaping there, huh? Not what I expected. I don't shave my balls, either, by the way, just so you know, Kent. I stay au natural, myself."
"OH-KAY," I answer.
"What about this one?" his boss says, as the second image glides across his desk, stopping when it hits the first one.
"He is swallowing him down that man to his root, to his densely thick pubes," I say, more blunt, less formality in my words.
"The Gotham billionaire has quite a mouth on him, huh," his boss says, "he took that guy, all the way down his long gullet. He is a real deep-throater. The man has some skills, huh."
I feel my hard-on shift in my slacks, the bulge is now quite pronounced, as I stand, uncomfortable in his office. The ears of the staff listening all around us.
"You aw-right, Kent," my boss says, "You seem to be sweating, profusely. You are not about to pass out, are you, Kent?"
"No, no...Sir, I am fine," I say, my hand finding its way to my sweltering throbbing hard-on, massaging myself, in front of him.
"It looks like you are sportin' quite a massive hard-on, there, too, Kent?"
"I am," I answer, flatly, proudly, in a sedate boastful voice.
"Well, then what do you gather from this little photograph, Kent?"
He slaps the third image onto the top of the previous two, overshadowing what has come before, making sure the office knows what is transpiring between the two men.
"His face is covered," I answer.
"In what?" the Editor says, sharply.
"It looks to me, to be like, huh, to be like, uh, milky white...like cream," I answer, as I feel my cock jump in my pants.
"IT LOOKS LIKE CUM TO ME, KENT!" my boss says, yelling again. His face is red, as his blood pressure rises while his cigar bounces about in his mouth, the smoke, making erratic patterns in the invisible air.
My boss looks up, seeing the strained erection in my blue starched dress slacks, his eyes linger long on my groin, taking in what is clearing happening in my pants.
"This one is the real kicker, though, Kent, "he says, "This one really caught my attention. Tell me whatcha think about it, Kent."
I am tired of his repetitious use of my surname.
He stands from behind his desk and walks to me, standing face-to-face, his hand, cupping the underside of his balls, gripping himself, as a man possessed would, an unabashed pervert, before he hands me the final photographed image.
"What do you see, here?"
I pause, before I answer, as I collect, myself, for my answer.
"Mr. Wayne is kissing, someone," I answer, meekly, stammering in hesitation, "There is, huh, white stuff, all over his lips and mouth, it is being smeared between them, the two men."
"Huh, that is cum, say it, Kent, good ole American man-cream," he says, proudly.
I do not repeat his words.
His boss adjusts his own obvious package, as he, too, has a noticeable erection.
"Who?" he says, "Who is he kissing?"
I pause, knowing who it is, without a doubt. The black-rimmed eyeglasses are a dead give-away.
There is a marked silence between us, the staff have gathered, each rapt with undivided attention, their faces pressed hard against the window of the Editor's office. Lois is there, now, too, her mouth agape, waiting for next sentence to be uttered.
"Who is he kissing, Kent?" he asks me, again, waiting, waiting for me to answer, slamming his balled up on his desk.
"What? What? WHAT? WHAT?" Lois says, catching on to what I am holding in my tightly clutched hand.
"ME! ME! ME!" I say, shouting loudly, as I run my hands across my face, taking a whiff of my own lingering super-charged DNA-man-cum soaked hands and Bruce's lingering musky scent from our long passionate cum-induced kiss, seeping from my face into my flared nostrils.
Lois and the others, draw back in shocked alarm, as the realization of what has transpired in the four pictures, passes among those gathered at the windows.
"So I hafta ask, ya, Kent, I need to know, because I must, I hafta, please, indulge me," he says, pausing, as he contemplates the next part of his question, while he squeezes his cock, in front of me, for all the newsroom, to see. He speaks, his voice goes up several octaves, his voice still emphasizing his deep bass masculine gruff voice, "DO YOU THINK HE WOULD MIND FEASTING ON SOME OLE DADDY MAN-MEAT, LIKE MINE? HE SURE CAN SUCK A MEAN COCK! CAN'T HE, KENT?"
I nod my head, 'yes'.
Bruce is, indeed, quite adept, as any dark knight detective, would be, should be.
...until the next BAT-time on this same BAT-channel, mmm, uh, excuse me, on this same BAT-GayDemon story profile.