Chapter 60: Martian Hunter, the Domestic Expert

"No, I am here to be your teacher, a private tutor."

The Martian Manhunter shrugged. "Your father invited me."

Hearing this, Clark and John looked at each other in dismay.

Clark felt a twinge of worry for Peter's wallet.

As everyone knew, private tutoring was very expensive.

Not to mention inviting a Martian to tutor him and John.

His godfather must have paid a heavy price.

What Clark didn't know was that Peter had sealed the deal with just a single box of Oreos.

Drawing from his memories of his past life, Peter recalled that the Martian Manhunter had a particular fondness for Oreos.

So he had paid a visit bearing a box of Oreos, and succeeded in persuading him without breaking a sweat.

In the Martian Manhunter's own words, he wasn't convinced by the cookies; rather, he simply felt that John and Clark needed more professional guidance.

"What can you teach us, Mr. Jones?"

John asked him with a hint of curiosity.

Initially, he had been somewhat resistant, assuming the man was Black, but upon learning he was a Martian, most of his prejudice vanished.

As for whether the Martian Manhunter counted as an extraterrestrial being, John conveniently chose to ignore that fact.

After all, he had just been talking nonsense to Clark earlier.

"I can teach you proper flight techniques, John. This is your only chance."

The Martian Manhunter said with a serious expression, "Your powers are manifesting now, but you do not know how to harness them correctly."

"And you, Clark."

He turned his gaze toward Clark. "Your potential is unparalleled. I can guide you to more easily perceive the changes taking place within your body."

Clark and John exchanged glances, a sudden sense of foreboding washing over them: life was unlikely to be easy from now on.

Dealing with school teachers was already exhausting enough, and now they had a private tutor added to the mix...

John's face immediately fell into a scowl. Between trying to carve out time for play and earning pocket money on the farm, when on earth would he find time for a tutor's lessons?

...

Nighttime.

Peter stared in astonishment at the lavish dinner spread before him.

Clark and John were equally dumbfounded.

Was the table full of intensely fragrant delicacies before them really their dinner?

Two eggs fried over-easy, two buttermilk pancakes as large as manhole covers, four links of sausage, whole wheat toast, and a single, freshly baked cinnamon roll sitting on a separate plate.

Everything except the cinnamon roll was drenched in maple syrup.

With a thrill of excitement, Clark took a bite of a sausage. The authentic, genuine maple syrup combined with the savory meat flavor instantly flooded his taste buds.

His eyes lit up. This maple syrup tasted as if it had been tapped straight from the tree, unlike the store-bought kind that always gave you a stomachache.

(Clark was often coaxed by John into sneaking off to the grocery store to buy maple syrup.)

"Ahem..."

Peter pulled his gaze away from the feast and said to the two gluttonous troublemakers, "John, Clark, chew your food properly. Don't eat like a pair of lumberjacks."

The two nodded vigorously, though their hands didn't stop moving for even a second.

Watching the Martian Manhunter remove his apron and sit down at the dining table, Peter couldn't help asking, "Mr. Jones, have you ever worked as a chef in a restaurant?"

"No, I merely enjoy studying culinary arts."

The Martian Manhunter gracefully cut his eggs with a knife and fork. "Actually, I am much better at baking cookies."

Peter nodded, glancing around the impeccably clean and tidy room before looking down at the sausage on his plate.

Wait a minute... did he seriously just hire a professional housekeeper?!

If he hadn't known that this guy was literally the Martian Manhunter, he would have thought he was some kind of domestic chores guru.

After a deeply satisfying dinner, the Martian Manhunter took advantage of the night to take John out for specialized flight training.

Clark sat in front of the couch, watching television to pass the time.

A TV series called *An American Werewolf in London* was playing on the screen.

At the climax of the story, the titular werewolf rampaged wildly through London's Piccadilly Circus.

Mayhem and chaos ensued, with blaring car horns and bloodcurdling screams.

The beast tore terrified pedestrians to shreds and hurled them into the crowd.

"Snap!"

Peter pressed the remote control and turned off the television. "This is not a show for you to watch, Clark."

Seeing the TV go dark, Clark scratched his head and said, "Godfather, John said this show was really good."

Peter: "..."

It seemed John's hide was itching for another lesson.

Not only had the brat failed to curb his obsession with horror movies, but he was also trying to infect Clark with the habit.

Sitting down on the couch, Peter gave a little cough. "This isn't suitable for someone your age, Clark."

Even though, just yesterday, Clark had turned an alien parasite into cosmic dust.

"Well, actually... I thought it was just okay."

Clark couldn't help complaining to Peter, "The werewolf looked like a mindless fool, and he was hurting innocent people for no reason."

Peter asked him, "So you think he's a bad person? The werewolf."

"Yes, Godfather, he's a bad guy, even though he's the protagonist."

Peter nodded. "But sometimes, we can't control ourselves—just like with the parasite this time, which hijacked Dr. David. If you were ever controlled by a parasite and ended up hurting others, what would you want people to do, Clark?"

Clark lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up with a resolute expression. "I wouldn't let that happen. But if it really did..."

He clenched his fists and let out a breath. "Dad, do you remember that green rock? The kind on Lana's necklace."

"Uh-huh."

Peter nodded.

Clark said with earnest resolve, "If I ever go crazy like Dr. David or the werewolf and start hurting my family, Godfather, you can beat me with that rock—just like John did to me the other day."

Peter froze slightly.

He hadn't expected Clark to be so deeply reflective.

Is this why, when you grow up, you leave kryptonite in Batman's custody?

Did you not know that kid really plays for keeps when he uses kryptonite against you?

Shaking his head, Peter pushed the thought aside and comforted Clark, "No, you won't. Your godfather will protect you and make sure none of that ever happens."

"Thank thanks, Godfather. And I won't let a parasite possess me either."

Clark said with absolute confidence.

Soon, another thought struck him, and his small face immediately fell. "Godfather, am I really immune to radiation?"

Although Peter had already explained his immunity to nuclear radiation, Clark was still quite concerned.

"Yes, your body is immune to radiation, Clark."

Peter's expression grew serious. "However, Clark, you shouldn't have made that promise to J'onn J'onzz. If you hadn't possessed that immunity, think about what could have happened? You aren't ready to be a savior yet, Clark."

"I... I understand, Godfather. Mr. Jones gave me a choice, but... I don't like choices. It feels like every choice I make means losing something. Just like this time, I thought choosing to act would expose me to nuclear radiation."

Clark said dejectedly, "Yet, Godfather, you've told me we are constantly making choices, much like laboratory mice and monkeys."

Peter blinked in surprise. "What mice and monkeys?"