Thanks. Im undecided if they're their real names or not. I tried to low-key make their characteristics match the real Bush and Clinton.

High praise though, thank you kindly my dude

Ah, heres me calling it a carriage because for a second I thought train was the UK term. Thanks for the heads up, I'll make the edits now cheers.

PS I went for 'boshjob' because I was trying to make a cheeky reference to Clinton and 'blowjob'. May be a bit of a stretch, glad it worked kinda

Ahh you makin my day, muchos grazias amigo

Maybe, one can dream. Counter:

A. Statistically, nothing has a zero percent change

B. Superman isn't real, and neither is the fictional America containing advanced tech, aliens and supernatural beings that he lives in

Same! You smashed it. My post here is my second ever on WP and my first about Superman so I had a blast. People think he's difficult to characterise, he's not. He's just a good egg from Kansas.

Fantastic, love the first person supes point of view. "Apolegtically" zapping the train ceiling, those are the nice kind of touches that give Clark his character. 10/10 would read again

"The Director will see you now."

Nodding to the receptionist, Agents Clinton and Bush rose from their seats and entered the top-floor corner office for the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Beads of sweat rolled down their spine as they made their way into the drab-yet-oranately decorated room. Stood at the end was the Director. Staring out the window, his grey hair and broad shoulders imposed a long shadow over the desk.

"Agents, take a seat." He said calmly, almost a whisper. If ice and stone had a voice, his was it.

He turned to face them, grey haired and balding with a unmistakable belly indicating years of fine wine, rich food and leisurely rounds of golf.

"Status report."

The Agents looked at each other, engaging in game of chicken to see who would speak first whilst making sure they collectively didn't take too long to respond. Bush broke first.

"Our last attempt was unsuccessful sir. Another stroke of unforeseen bad luck."

Agents Clinton and Bush had been having a lot of bad luck lately. Six months they had been trying to assassinate Clark Kent, a prominant journalist at the Daily Planet. Six attempts in six months, each failing more incredulously than the last.

The first attempt was simple. A lethal-yet-untraceable dose of Ricin slipped into Kent's coffee. They watched via video feed as Kent lifted the cup, a big goofy smile on his face. He lifted it to his mouth to drink, taking a big deep inhale to savour the scent. He then appeared to get distracted by something on his screen, placing the cup down awkwardly and spilling it in the process. The second attempt they tried the same again, this time Kent announced to the intern that he was taking a break from coffee, his boy-scout grin disarming as he waved a water flask apologetically.

"Kent's inauspicious switch to a healthier lifestyle is bad luck Agents, this is begining to feel like incompetence." he said, now turning around and fixing them both with the cold, dead eyed stare pre-requisite for a CIA Director.

Bush and Clinton shifted nervously in their chair. After the Ricin they moved the operation to Kent's home for their third attempt. They fixed minature bombs to his car breaks. Detonated remotely and leaving no trace, they were a favourite of the agency. Again they watched in disbelief as Kent climbed inside his car, and then a couple minutes later got out. Bush smashed his mug against the wall in frustration whilst Clinton stared in silence as they watched Kent hold his hand out to the warm sun, go inside the house, and return wearing walking shoes. He had taken public transport ever since.

"But Sir," Bush interjected, "there was no way we could have predicted the mugging failure."

Attempt number four involved a mugger, hired anonymously, to rob and kill Kent down an alleyway. Again, the sounds of broken stationary could be heard after the Agents watched Kent slowly back away with his hands up. The mugger slowly walked towards him, before suddenly slipping up on patch of... seemingly nothing at all, cracking his head on the ground knocking himself unconcious.

"Prior planning prevents piss poor performance Agent Bush. You should have prepared and hired a second mugger."

Agent Clinton let out a snort, realising too late his mistake. The director slammed his fist down hard on the table making even the seasoned Agents collectively and figuartively shit themselves.

"I don't see what you find so funny Agent Clinton. Last time I checked you seemed to have no problem handling a simple boshjob!"

A boshjob was the borrowed colloquial term for a push-and-run, from the UK 'bish bash bosh' job done. By attempt number five the Agents were getting desperate. Keen to finish the job, Agent Clinton studied Kent's subway route, finding a perfect time and location to subtly push him off the platform just before an arriving train. Making his approach, he made one last check to see if the coast was clear. Not that it mattered, his Covert-Issue Shimercamo suit rendered him invisible. As the train arrived, he pushed.

Only, to his surprise, Kent pivoted at the last second, patting his pockets as if he had forgotten something. Clinton's momentum meant he would have been the one kissing the train had Kent not caught him. Kent grabbing his arm had shortcircuited the suit, revealing nothing but the plain suit underneath.

"Gee almost didn't see you there! You okay sir?" Watching the man he had just tried to murder all flustered, fussing over him and patting the non-existent dirt off whilst asking repeatedly if he was alright... it was a feeling he would never forget.

The director went to his drinks cabinet, poured himself a glass of something strong and then took his seat. "Now, what happened with this latest cockup? I've read the report, I want to hear it from you."

Their latest attempt had upped the ante with no result. Desperate, the Agents anonymously hired Intergang - the nationwide organised crime syndicate. Kent was attending a press conference at a banking expo. Intergang were hired to storm, rob, and take hostages. They could keep whatever they could get and would recieve support to escape with high value targets, ensuring they would recieve any ransom they demanded. The one condition was that they killed Kent to show that they were serious. However, Kent was nowhere to be found. Instead they found themselves all unconcious or incapacitated by Superman. Kent was in the bathroom and had missed the whole thing.

"Sir, may I ask.. is it necessary to remove Kent from the equation? We could simply hack his computer and delete all his research into our ties with the upcoming UK election coup."

A vein visably popped in the Directors forehead.

"Agents, in the event that the Democratic-Socialist party comes to power in the UK, do you know why we are staging a coup? It's the same reason why Kent has to die." The Agents had no answer. "If that commie bastard becomes leader it won't just start with Scandinavian-style "centrist policies". No. It's a slippery slope. You give the left an inch, they'll take a mile. First you allow higher taxes and better public services. Then they nationalise transport, utilities, energy. And then before you can say 'Karl Marx' the corporate class are behind bars or in exile, assets seized and hippy cooperatives running the whole goddamn show. The press outlets are worker owned and not the controlled opposition running the narratives that we want, not to mention what they'll do to the British military-industrial complex! Suddenly we've lost our special relationship to America's best simp-state in Europe. That, Agents, is why Clark Kent must die and why we at the CIA need to make sure those limey red fucks NEVER win an election. It's not just about power, it's about about principle... and sending a message."

"Thank you Director, that's all I needed to hear."

Glass shattered as the Directors tumbler hit the floor. The Agents turned around. Floating in the air a foot above the ground was Him. Superman. Their eyes caught the tail-end of their covert-issue Shimercamo flickering off, revealing the crossed arms of the nations most infamous Superhero.

"You have some fantastic gadetry here gentlemen I'll give you that. This CIA invisiblity tech you have here is incredible," he glanced at Agent Clinton, "along with the recording devices I placed in your pockets and the cameras dotted around the room." A pile of papers wooshed into the air as a blue-red blur collected the incriminating evidence. "You should really be careful when trying to murder one of the worlds finest investigative journalists, especially one that has me in his contact list."

"You've just made yourself an enemy of the American state you alien scum." The Director screamed. "What happened to truth, justice, and the American way?"

Superman smiled before melting the glass behind the director. He turned to see the Man of Steel now floating in the air outside above him.

"Who said CIA coups and assassinations were the American way? Think we better let the press and the American people decide that, don't you?"

And before the Director could reply he was gone, leaving nothing but a red-blue blur.