The Universe's Mixer

Lex Luthor wasn't used to doing his own laundry. He wasn't used to doing a lot of things on his own. Oh, he could do his laundry, he just...wasn't used to it. Thankfully a dry cleaners was just down the street from his apartment. The same apartment that this City had provided for him with furniture and decor and suits in the closet. The past weeks had almost been a blur, but in a way it was almost refreshing. No responsibilities. None at all. All he had to do was wander around, getting acclimated with the City, finding his way.

He hooked the hanger over his shoulder, making his way down the street, not really in a hurry. Honestly, he had no where to be. No pressing meeting or corporate take over. It was nice. Nice was an understatement. Lex Luthor, President of the United States, was picking up his own dry cleaning. And he was in a good mood.

Lex wasn't used to being kept waiting.

There was always someone at his beck and call, ready with a drink, something he needed to sign, or an important phone call. Or the car. Yes, the car.

He sighed and switched his briefcase to his other hand, glancing around the corner. The valet was clearly incompetent. How many other porsche's were parked in the garage with the license plate LEX 01? Not many he was certain.

Finally, after waiting, which he absolutely hated doing, he heard the purr of the engine and knew it was his car. He reached into his pockets to tug on his driving gloves, itching to slip into the driver's seat and behind the wheel.

A disorientating moment passed and he almost felt dizzy. Glancing up he found himself not in front of the Daily Planet in downtown Metropolis, but in there was some shoddy store front across from him, and a row of small apartment buildings along side.

"Oh, hell." He muttered to himself and dropped his briefcase to the pavement.