So What Happens Next?
Of course this wasn't the first story Pete had written. Sure, Clark and Lois considered themselves writers but, to be kind, they were nowhere near being in Pete's league. He was a renaissance man, but only he knew it. His laptop was crammed full of multitudinous works of genius in numerous separate fields, but there was no way Pete could share it with the world. After all, ever since he'd found out about Clark being Superman, he'd devoted his life to trying not to draw any attention to himself, in fear of people finding out his secret (well, Clark's secret to be strictly accurate). Nobody fully appreciated the sacrifices Pete made, and the difficulties he had in hiding his brilliance.
Suddenly, Pete was distracted from his thoughts by an angelic voice.
"So, what are you doing, Pete?"
It was Lana, his boss at La La Land, standing in the doorway. He'd been so wrapped up in finishing his story he'd not heard her enter his office. How could he have been that stupid?
Quickly closing his laptop, he decided the best course of action was to just tell the truth - that was normally enough to fool Lana (or at least it used to be).
"I was writing a short story about Superman, and all those mutants he's been having to fight recently. I blamed it on La La Land's kryptonite coffee."
"So what happens next?" asked a wide-eyed (even for Lana) Lana.
Pete looked blank.
"That's it. The end. The coffee keeps making the mutants stronger and Superman weaker. It's totally hilarious, believe me."
"And I'm the villain of the piece?" asked Lana, sounding sad.
"No, I just assumed you'd dropped your green necklace in some coffee one day and liked the resulting taste. After all, there's no way you could be the villain, you're just so innocent and ..." Pete stopped mid-sentence.
Suddenly a satanic smile crossed Lana's face. "I think the word you're looking for is naive."
"No, no, of course not," lied Pete.
Lana walked over to the sitting Pete and grabbed hold of his tie. "That's right Pete. I'm far from naive. Now tell me what you know, and make it quick."
"But, but..." he protested, as Lana pulled his tie tighter and tighter round his throat.
"I've no time for games, Ross," said Lana, letting go of his tie and delivering a powerful kick to Pete's head.
As Pete's unconscious body slumped off the chair onto the ground, Lana opened his laptop and started hacking her way through his numerous passwords. At last she got to his documents and was amazed by how much drivel was in there. Pete obviously thought that he was some sort of novelist, and musician, and architect, and playwright, and poet, and so many other things, but all of the evidence on his laptop was to the contrary. As she looked in disdain at the musical "Hair" he'd written about Clark Kent, the numerous Lana sonnets, and yet another chapter of his autobiography that he yet again failed to make an appearance in, she began to think she'd never find what she wanted.
And then she found it. Even the title "Freaky Friday" suggested that Pete Ross knew a lot more than he was letting on. And then she read it, and couldn't believe it, and had to read it once more. And then she stood, over the unmoving body of Pete Ross, threw her head back and let out a maniacal laugh which seemed to go on forever and ever, for now she knew the truth.
Clark Kent was Superman.
It was time to pay a visit to Metropolis, her and all the other Lanas. Superman wouldn't know what hit him.