"No wonder I drink." Perry White reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle of rye, good rye, and a small glass and poured himself three fingers of the golden liquid. "Great Cesar’s ghost," he muttered into the glass, "they’re killing me".
"Lois Lane has been taken hostage (third time this year) and, as usual, Clark Kent is nowhere to be found. Why can I never find my so called ace reporter when I need him the most? The early edition is due on the street in an hour and I’ve got nothing for page one. The Daily Planet is going to hell in hand basket. In fact, the whole damned city of Metropolis is going with it. I guess I should have taken that job in Chicago. At least at The Tribune I would be working with Brenda Starr.”