After an evening of hosting a dinner party, something I loathe by the way, the last thing I wanted to deal with was the latest slander attempt. I had just come in from Metropolis, had fixed myself a drink and planned on catching up on the latest from the plant when my lawyer arrived with exactly what I had requested.

To my sources credit, I was well aware of the bank robbery before entering Smallville.

I called my lawyer immediately. He in turn dealt with the local sheriff's office here in Smallville, pathetic to say the least. They were more than happy to hand over all the information they had on the incident, as my lawyers threats of lawsuits made them willing to do anything. My name had already been released as a suspect, before the fingerprint and handwriting analysis come back that it wasn't me.

My father must be squirming right about now.

A man fitting my description, confirmed by none other than Clark Kent, had gotten away with one hundred thousand dollars. Pictures from the banks surveillance confirm what Clark had seen, me. Or rather, someone who looked exactly like me. Apparently my evil twin ran out of the bank and ran into Clark. When Clark had asked "me" what was wrong, "I" through him through a window.

I had to see if he was all right, after all, "I" did this, didn't I?

"There must be some kind of reasonable explanation for this," Mrs. Kent was saying as I approached the door. I agreed with her statement as I let myself in, asking ever so politely first of course. Manners were important around the Kents.

Clark seemed shocked I was there, even questioning me as to why I was not in prison. When I explained to the Kents where I was yesterday, they seemed to be as concerned as I was that there was another "me" running around town. Mr. Kent of course probably expected something like this from me, and when I made mention to his feelings about me, he excused himself. I made my apologies to Clark, noticing that he didn't have a scratch on him. If I were thrown through a window, I'd at least have a few cuts.

The ever amazing Clark Kent.

Get's hit by my car, in a near fatal explosion, get's thrown through a window, and his skin is flawless.

Clark managed to lighten the mood before I left with a little humor, which I appreciated greatly. I think he was relieved that it wasn't me, as if his father may have convinced him I was capable of such a thing.

I stopped in to my favorite coffee shop in town to grab my usual, and as I left, I was greeted by a member of the annoying Metropolis Inquisitor. I would've been more pleasant with him, but I hate reporters, and he was leaning on my car. He threw the latest cover of his trash paper in my face, to which I reminded him he reports only fiction.

Roger Nixon, his name was, made mention of my juvenile record, the supposedly sealed ones my father had taken care of from Metropolis. I called him on his bluff.

He mentioned Club Zero.

Fuck.

That got my attention. But he's a snake. They all are. He wants money, I ask, he confirms. One hundred thousand dollars for him to keep quiet. I have twenty four hours he tells me.

I fucking hate journalists.

Especially the good investigative ones. He may write for a tabloid, but he's resourceful.

Yet so am I.

I invited him to the mansion. Had his money all ready for him. He was so cocky, the look on his face was pathetic. He thought he'd won, thought he beat me. He was in for a rude awakening.

Note to self: send a thank you note to my resources.

I needed Roger to understand that I wasn't some spoiled little rich boy that he could take advantage of. He tries to blackmail me, I make him disappear.

It's that simple.

I think I took things a little too far, informing Nixon of what I was capable of. Having his cell phone turned off, threatening his brother, etc. Needless to say, I was a little bit upset. But it made him that more obedient.

By digging up my past, he proved to me that he is a man of resources himself. I needed someone like him.

After laying down some ground rules on our relationship, I took Nixon to my garage, where I now store the Porsche I hit Clark with. After seeing the damage to the vehicle, he had the same question I have: How am I still alive?

The other questions I have I will pursue on my own. The mystery that is Clark Kent is mine to unravel. With the help of Nixon, maybe I will find my answers.

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