Shot of the barn window from outside, still nighttime. We cut to -- AUGGGGH! A gruesome close-up of Clark's tummy, which is all bloody against his white shirt. He holds a hand against the wound. You wanna... put some ice on that or something, Clark? Geez. Try not to attract flies with that. Clark grunts a bit. Shouldn't he be healing already? The girl in the red pleather track suit is there to explain. "That axe could split an atom," she says breathily, "you'll heal, but not as fast as you'd expect." Awesome. I'll just stand here gashing it up, then. Poor Man's Orlando Bloom tells "Imra" that it'll be fine and that they should go. They're not supposed to attract attention. Plus, this wedding totally blows. Clark says it's a little late not to be attracting attention. See: open stomach wound. Clark asks why he should believe that they're from the 31st century. They should tell him that the Chicago Cubs still haven't won a World Series. Little Ron Weasley squeaks that they know everything about Clark (creepy!) and that it may be his name now, but one day he'll be known as Sup-- he's interrupted by the other guy, who barks, "GARTH!" Clark's name is going to be Soupgarth? That's terrible. Bad idea, Clark. Poor-Orlando, who has some weird, shiny-smooth round metal shells across his lapels, says the less Clark knows, the better. In that case, things are always going to be just awesome. Imra of the Misplaced Consonants says that she can tell Clark that they're his friends. She smiles at him. Clark frowns. Friends, huh? Poor-Orlando says they're now leaving. "Garth!" he calls out. Oh, he's just jamming with Wayne Campbell over there. Garth is busy playing Freaky Fanboy. He pulls out Clark's Smallville Crows letterman jacket from a box and says, "No way!" They still say "No way" in a thousand years? The future's not so bright after all. Garth says he saw the jacket at the Levitz Museum behind Vizoglass. "Put that back!" his boss barks. "Oh, get the magnet out of your ass, Rokk," Garth replies. Dude's name is Rokk? Let me get this straight: Rokk, Garth and Imra? This is the worst goth metal/emo-disco band in the world. Rokk reminds Garth about the code: "Don't. Touch. Anything!" he says. Clark, still holding his bleeding tummy, asks why they're here. To worship your underwear, of course.