Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

For Henry, this was just another performance. To play it well, he needed convincing acting, a flawless disguise, and—above all—patience.

And patience paid off.

Mickey Schulhof finally made his move.

Whether or not Schulhof was part of that group didn’t matter. Unlike Henry, who could afford to wait, Schulhof’s trust from Ohga was not limitless. The pressure from Nobuyuki Idei was relentless.

To preserve his position, Schulhof sent Henry an invitation—not to a flashy Hollywood party, but to a private club.

In the United States, private clubs are circles incarnate—strictly invitation-only. Even paying members can’t bring just anyone inside; invite the wrong person, and at best you lose your membership. At worst, you might ”disappear.”

Some clubs were less strict, depending on how wild the activities were and what benefits were offered. Ultimately, it came down to one rule: you get what you pay for.

Henry didn’t drive his old Cadillac. The club sent a car to pick him up.

If he’d insisted on driving himself, his antique car probably wouldn’t have made it past the gate.

Like restaurants with dress codes, clubs had standards. Showing up in cheap clothes or a battered car meant being turned away without mercy.

Old-money aristocratic pride ensured that, even if they were starving, they’d still insist on dignity—an inheritance from British tradition, the last stubborn stand of old white men.

Henry had no intention of challenging those customs. He wore a navy-blue Armani suit—his only luxury item.

He wore no watch. In some eyes that looked cheap, but at least it wasn’t improper.

Inside the club, marble floors and walls gleamed so brightly it felt like stepping into a hall of mirrors at an amusement park.

Aside from footsteps, there was no sound.

The attendant leading him forward was as restrained and silent as a British-trained butler.

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