Clark at the Talon. Lana is pissed that she had to hear about the latest developments from broken-armed Pete. "Thanks for the call," she says sarcastically, not even deigning to look in Clark's direction. Clark! Personal ads! Just get away from her. She's going to suck you dry like a kryptonite chain around your neck. Lana's mad that she wanted to help, and Clark cut her out. Clark says he didn't want her to get hurt. "Is that it, or don't you trust me?" she asks. I grow weary of these WB relationship games. At this rate, they won't kiss again for five more seasons. Clark changes tone, getting pissy himself. He asks if Lana has seen Sir Suddenly Longfellow. Lana says if she had, Clark would know because she would have been honest. Chloe comes in holding a folder and says she thinks she knows why their "would-be Shakespeare" went "all pro wrestler" on Clark. Chloe, just give us the damn information. Your parlance has also become tiresome. Lana gives Clark a dirty look. Chloe asks if it just got cold in there. It's the one time Chloe's not showing her Chloeavage, so I can't really say. Clark takes the folder and asks Chloe what she found, like he's the CEO of their little brain trust. Chloe says that the medical trials their poet participated in targeted his adrenal system. Clark says they have to track down the company that conducted the trials. Chloe says Metron Pharmaceuticals shut down before they finished their research. "Why would they do that?" Lana asks, scrunching her face. Chloe says that maybe Clark should ask his mom's new boss. Turns out Metron is a Luthorcorp subsidiary. Clark says he'll talk to Lex. Lana bugs her eyes for no reason. It's the most insect-like look of the episode. Chloe says she'd help, but that Pete issued an SOS for his PlayStation 2. I totally understand. Lana grabs her jacket to go look for her not-so-secret admirer. Clark tries to stop her. He warns her to be careful. Lana half-nods.
Graveyard. Lana finds Byron (ba-dump bump) pondering his own gravesite. O, lo, for it we as mortals who find small comfort in our lives upon this salted sea and earth and sky. Oh, wait, I'm sorry, I was reading the back of a suppositories box. Lana -- wearing a strange pink jacket -- calls out to her poetic troubadour. She says she wants to help him. He turns around and has a serious case of Buffy vampire face. He growls that he's not going back to the basement. Why is he wearing no shirt under his long coat? Lana says he could hurt someone. Lana says it was LuthorCorp that caused his condition and that Clark is talking to Lex and trying to find a cure. "There is no cure!" he says, and grabs at Lana. She tells him no, but he says he wants her and tries to tackle her to the ground. She swipes at him. He's suddenly ashamed of himself and says he's been made into someone that no one can love. I sure don't love him. Any of you? No? Yeah, dude. You're kinda fucked. The poet dishes out his own brand of poetic injustice, pushing Lana against a gravestone. They really should put padding on all of them. Lana falls unconscious. It's, what, her tenth concussion? Byron (oh gawd) rails at the sky and runs off, very Frankenstein's monster.