Rebel Goddess (Login RebelGoddess) Owner Posted Dec 16, 2004 11:37 AM
Before I hear yells (hang on, since when did I have readers? Delusions of grandeur again.) I know carrying a cow is much harder than I'm making it seem. Cow tipping is also no joke. Just accept the fact that logic has no place in anything I write here. It will make your brain hurt less when I mess with the rules of the universe. The title will make sense two chapters from now, I hope.
I disclaim. Why exactly would I want this?
Mark the Mad's arrival in the barn had caused Clark to drop the cow on his own foot, and Betsy had mooed pathetically. It hurt her a good deal more than it hurt him. Kind to the depths of his soul, Clark soothed the creature by singing a few soft phrases in her ear of his favourite song of the moment. Then he turned around to see the chubby man was grinning wider than ever. The singing had been ever better than he'd thought.
He had made the boy an offer he couldn't refuse. Clark had stunned him by refusing. He'd doubled his price, but the stubborn fool, strong headed enough to remind Mark of himself, had turned his back on him. Then, with nothing left to lose since his self respect was long gone, he'd made him an offer that involved him not going to the Daily Planet with the news that Kansas farm boys didn't just tip cows, they carried them as if they weighed no more than a sack of hay, suggesting that he had non-existent evidence of this. He added a few well aimed jabs about other things he'd seen the boy do. Finally, Clark finally accepted the record contract.
In celebration, Mark had bitten the end off a thick cigar, shoved it in his mouth and, slinging an arm around the boy's shoulders, announced that in just seven days he would make him a star.
Clearly the boy knew city people because the look he cast at him could not have been taught in any school outside of Metropolis, and only at the superior ones there. Better and better, a bit of city slickness wouldn't hurt him. Girls liked the worn jeans and flannel look, but what they really went gaga over was the idea that the guy could live right next door to them.
His mind whirling, Mark munched on his cigar. Now if he could just fit in a sob story about a childhood sweetheart, preferably one with a tragic past, he'd be cooking with dynamite.