Insanity. It makes absolutely no sense. For her to . . . with him . . . it just . . . it's so damn aggravating. My blood boils, my pupils dilate, I can feel the moisture in my skin and it's as though I'll burst.

These bars close in around me but you'd never know it by my exterior disposition. The fetid smell of urine, mold and stagnant water permeate the air, but I remain oblivious; the emotions of my psyche, unparalleled in their control, far outweigh any outer turmoil I may have. In my hands a newspaper is clutched and I grip it even tighter to stop the trembling. I do not want to betray any weakness, not even when I sit alone in my cell.

I remember the first moment I saw Miss Lois Lane. It was tantamount to the moment I saw the aurora borealis or La Jaconde or the treasures of King Tut. I knew I'd found an equal, someone who could not only keep up but could possibly keep me on my toes. An assurance that I'd have to sleep with one eye open . . . a worthy foe, a comparable opponent and an undeniable chase. And how I do love the chase.

I would watch her. Chasing a story, close oh so delectably close to unmasking the phantom demon she chased in her pursuit for a headline. I remained elusive to her, just as she to me. We played our well worn dance; skirting each other, catching glimpses, taking hold of each other only to let go at the last possible moment. And she never guessed the face behind the stories she could uncover. I like to think that I was as intriguing to her as she remains to me.

Then he came along. That alien. That freak from outer space. All of a sudden flirting with a billionaire wasn't enough for Miss Lane, but that was ok. I'd bide my time. Soon the whole world would see that he was a freak; they'd know Superman the way I knew Superman. She would see him as a meddlesome freak of nature; an enemy who needed to be destroyed for the good of mankind. One day she would see . . . and she would tell me that I was right and that she should have listened to me from the beginning.

Fruitless, all of my best laid plans have come to naught. And the worst thing of all is that it was not the Man of Steel who sent them crumbling down.

I was content to wait for the glow in her eyes to dim; after all, treasure is only worth something if it's rare, if it's been bought with sweat, blood and time. I could wait for her. But now . . . I sit in this . . . this cage, like an animal, like a beast when he is the one who needs to be leashed, caged, shackled. He put me here, but another reaps the rewards.

I can laugh, though. Because while I did not win the prize, I am content, that neither did Superman. So when I glance back down at the editorial I allow myself a small smile and wish my congratulations for a foe who has accomplished what neither Superman nor I was able to do, "I hope it's a beautiful wedding, Kent."