Papa Luthor is outside in a very lush garden. He's reading the newspaper with his hand-held scanner. It says something about his company's stock flailing. Papa Luthor throws the scanner in frustration. "I couldn't listen to another word of that droning either," a woman says. MamaKent! In a classy suit! She looks fine! In a very deep voice, she tells Lex's dad who she is, adding that she hopes she's not disturbing him. He says it's a welcome interruption. She says she's looking for her monthly produce check. The zucchini bill alone... Papa says his presence has thrown Lex's regimen for a loop. MamaKent assures Papa about total fictions, like that his son is happy to have him around. She comes around, sits next to Papa Luthor, and takes the newspaper. She reads a quote from Papa Luthor about the stock falling that quarter. A sentence in, she figures out that it's a smokescreen -- that he's making investors nervous now, so that when the actual losses are posted, the stock will have already adjusted. Well, duh. Papa Luthor takes off his sunglasses, impressed with MamaKent's "keen business acumen." Well, there's not a lot to do when your husband's out tending to the cows instead of giving you good loving. "I wonder if your talents aren't being wasted on organic produce," he tells her. That's what I've always wanted to say to Lex. MamaKent says she's going to take that as a compliment. "You should," Papa Luthor says slyly.
A series of photos on the wall. Hey, an armadillo! Legends (and the forums) say that Lex has one of those in his pants. Also shown are horses and swans against blue light. Then some candles. Oh, poor Byron (tee hee). He's the Phantom of the Soap Opera. Our poet -- who does know it -- is composing another letter to Lana. I'm guessing he hasn't seen Birds of Prey yet, or he wouldn't even be bothering with her. We hear a small bit of what sounds like crashing glass; then the cellar door opens and a haggard-looking mom in a robe comes downstairs. GothMa puts a book on the poet's desk. She says she got it at the used bookstore. "Edgar Allen Poe," he says, with distaste. "You really know how to pick them, mother." Bastard! I think everyone on this show under twenty deserves a good slapping this week. Seriously. This show is heading into serious Dawson's Creek territory with the unlikable characters. GothMa says she read a few pages and couldn't make heads or tails of it. "I'm surprised," says the fey teen, who is wearing a gray scarf. "He writes about pain and suffering. And people being buried alive." But have you read his limericks? Hilarious! "There once was a girl in the graveyard/ Who had a script written by retards..." Best not to try to repeat the classics. GothMa, her voice shaking, says she knows the poet's upset, but that things are better this way. All creepy. More back and forth about their un-normal lives. GothMa has had enough. She tells Little Lord Poetrypants to read his books and shut the hell up. He so wishes he were The Crow. Byron (oh my) does his candle-wax-seal thing. Then, with the letter in his mouth, he moves his bed and makes his escape through a hole in the wall that Richard Moll must not have noticed in his extensive work to keep the boy inside.