Same method, different Earth; Kon-EL appears with a flash of light amongst a horde of people mingling. The smell of sea salt and gunpowder are a thing of the past, now there’s a fairly thick scent of alcohol in the air in addition to instrumental jazz music. His arrival does nothing to draw attention initially, given that it’s a place - an establishment - a local bar with vigilantes and superheroes as its patrons. Powers, including teleportation, are by no means unusual to anyone, including the owner.

  “Woah… Hard shift in vibe here.” Kon-EL comments softly, eyes filling with curious wonder as he looks around and raises a hand to brush through his stylish hair. All around him are people with wildly varying fashion sense and costumes that differ greatly from what he’s used to seeing back on his Earth. Unfortunately, his own costume, all the red that glows in the slightly dim atmosphere, draws observant eyes to him, as well.

  “Hey… Hey, you in the leather jacket.” A voice calls out from behind. Fitting the vague description, Kon-EL turns around and finally realizes that he’s standing right in front of the bar counter, and that it’s none other than the bartender himself who’s calling for his attention. Once the employee does have the young man’s eyes on him, he leans over and closer with a mild frown on his features.

  “Whaddya doing here, huh? You TRYING to start trouble or something?” He asks within a whisper, yet loud enough to be heard by the Kryptonian. The accusing questions makes Kon-EL arch a brow in confusion.

  “Huh? Hey, I ain’t doing anything, man… I JUST got here.” Kon-EL retorts defensively, shooting a soft frown of his own.

  “Pal, you can’t be that daft… You know what your elitist squad of super-friends have been up to, right? Antagonizin’ up and comers ’round town. I personally don’t give a hoot, but this ain’t a low-class joint where you guys can just throw down and wreck the whole place just because you feel like it.” The bartender informs him. The details take the Kryptonian by surprise, and little does he know that it’s an omen for what’s to far-too-easily come. Matter of fact, trouble finds its way to him yet again, courtesy of the big red target on the back of his jacket.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Hey!” A gruff voice calls out from behind just before a large hand grips Kon-EL’s shoulder. The Kryptonian, naturally, turns his head to peer over the shoulder that hand rests upon, and sees what seems to be a handful of Biker Clowns standing there. The closest being a fairly burly man with face paint resembling the likeness of the Space Bounty Hunter, Lobo, and a shirt that says ’Try Me, Fanboy’ on the front of it. Each and every one of them is wearing glares on their faces.

  “S’up, man? Everything cool?” Kon-EL questions while turning in place to face them, smiling sheepishly as he does.

  “COOL? Nah, brother… Things are hot. Just lookin’ at cha’ is already making my blood boil somethin’ fierce.” The stranger responds, then lifts a hand toward his lips to reveal that he’s got a lit cigar in his possession. He takes a drag from it and casually exhales gray smoke from his lips.

  “What are you even doing here, huh? You tryin’ to flex or somethin’? Cocky bastard…” The head clown adds shortly after.

  “Flexing? Over what and on whom? I got no beef with anyone here, man. I don’t even know you.” Kon-EL attempts to reason. Sadly, it’s an endeavor that falls on stubborn ears.

  “You think you’re funny, don’t cha’? You either think we’re the dumbest sack of potatoes you’ve ever met in your Goddamn shallow life, or a grade A comedian!” The clown practically shouts at the top of his lungs. His rowdiness draws the attention of nearly everyone inside with most of them being people who also don’t particularly like the House of EL crest much these days. They seem to gather around him like a growing mob on the verge of grabbing the nearest pitchforks they can find.

  “What’s that krypton-punk doing here!?”

  “Old big blue sent one of his lap dogs here? Why I oughta….!!!”

  “Screw the turf beefs! Let’s send this sucker packing empty-handed!”

  A dozen or so hostile comments fly through the air once Kon-EL’s presence becomes known. The Kryptonian in question is looking around with a mixture of jadedness and annoyance on his face, knowing full well where all of this is going.

  “YOU GUYS WANNA START THROWIN’ FISTS, YOU TAKE IT OUTSIDE! THIS AIN’T CRIME ALLEY, FOLKS!!!” The bartender barks as loudly as he can in hopes of preserving the place he works at. Kon-EL looks over his shoulder at the employee with an apologetic expression.

  “You heard the man, Jr….” The clown speaks up again, pausing to take a big drag from his cigar. He then takes a step and a half forward to blow smoke directly into the kryptonian’s face.

  “Step outside and take what’s comin’ like a man.”