“Are you sure?” Dr. Roh’tul asked.
Superman’s eyes were dull, he was a shell of himself. “I keep having dreams that I’m finally free from this curse. I want to be … normal. I don’t want this life.”
“The operation isn’t guaranteed to work, and you could suffer permanent damage,” the doctor continued, his face stone cold. “You might not survive.”
“I need to do it.” Superman had tears in his eyes when he looked up at the doctor. “You have no idea what it is like not having any time to yourself. At the beck and call of everyone in Metropolis. There’s no rest.”
“We’ll have to run some tests then we can schedule the surgery. We’ll be in touch.”
Superman shook the doctor’s hand then his head drooped. He sighed as he heard a distant cry for help and flew away, missing the doctor’s devious grin.
Seven weeks later, the testing was complete and the surgery was scheduled.
“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Dr. Roh’tul queried.
Superman nodded his head.
“I’ll see you again after the surgery,” Dr. Roh’tul said.
The anesthesiologist placed the oxygen mask in place. “I’m going to count backwards from five,” she said. “Five, four, three, two … he’s ready, Lex.”
Dr. Roh’tul looked down at his nemesis. “I almost feel guilty,” he said then laughed maniacally as he inserted a vial of liquefied kryptonite into the muscular arm. The superhero’s body convulsed and his body shrunk.
The weakened man smiled and his face softened. “He’s dreaming,” the anesthesiologist commented.
“Get the ambulance ready. It’s time for his trip to the asylum. Goodbye, my dearest foe.”
The next day the headlines read, “Superman defeated; Luther to rule the world,” and the world mourned while Superman lived in peaceful dreams.