Hearing that unfamiliar name, J. Jonah Jameson looked puzzled—then his face twisted with scorn. "What? You, some so-called superhero, picking on an ordinary citizen like me?"
"Relax. I'll make sure today's little episode hits the paper. Soon all of New York will see your true face."
Inside, the symbiote was howling. My god, you're the boldest man I've ever seen. You're actually threatening this guy. You're a real tough one!
Maguire chuckled. "I wouldn't be so sure."
Jameson blinked, then snorted. "I know your type. You wear a mask because you don't dare face people. You pull stunts you call 'justice' to feed that tiny ego. You think folks worship you—think you're their hero. You naïvely believe you're saving the world. In truth, you're just a bunch of clowns in masks."
Maguire stood, smiling wider, almost pleased. "Good. Good. Keep going. I like people who don't shut up."
Jameson sneered and pressed on. "You only say that to pretend you don't care. But my words got under your skin. You're afraid. Even with your power, deep down you're a coward who can't face himself."
Maguire burst out laughing. "Excellent! Say it again!"
Watching him light up at the abuse, Jameson hesitated. Is he insane? Does he like being lectured? What is this—missing a father's love?
Self-satisfied, he said, "If you're so keen on being taught, I'll do you the favor." And he launched into a sermon: Maguire contemptuous of law, a butcher who only knows killing—phrases tumbled out one after another. For a newspaperman, the patter was top-tier. He went on and on—like the Yangtze in flood, like the Yellow River unbound.
But even a silver tongue runs dry. After half an hour straight, Jameson's throat burned, his knees ached from kneeling, and the pain crawled up his spine. He finally stopped.
Maguire's smile thinned. He leaned forward, grinning with too many teeth. "Why'd you stop? Keep talking. I'm not finished listening."
A prickle of fear finally ran through Jameson. "You're a lunatic. You don't deserve the word 'superhero.'"
Maguire kept the same mild smile. "Good. Keep going. I like it."
Jameson felt like a monkey being toyed with. Rage boiled up. He glared at Maguire. Maguire flipped a cigar into his hand, lit it with an easy motion, then rose and strolled toward the kneeling publisher.
"Why aren't you talking? Go on."
Jameson spat at him.
In the back of Maguire's mind, the symbiote whispered, I've only ever respected two people in my life. And right now both of them are in front of me. Two people who aren't afraid to die—though only one of them can't die.
Maguire's brow twitched. "Why aren't you talking?"
His boot came down on Jameson's hand.
Bones popped. Jameson screamed. Under that crushing strength, the hand turned to pulp. Cold sweat ran down his face as he sucked air through his teeth.
He stared in horror. He really hurt me. He's not afraid I'll expose him on the front page?
Jameson had assumed Maguire cared about public opinion, about pressure, like Garfield or Holland did. He did not.
Maguire smiled, unchanged. "Keep going. I like listening."
Jameson's fury flared. He cursed Maguire out—details omitted; fill in your favorite adjectives. But blood loss, exhaustion, and thirst soon shredded his voice. He fell silent again.
Maguire set down an empty coffee cup, frowned. "Keep talking."
Hatred burned in Jameson's eyes. In a mosquito-thin rasp, he hissed, "You piece of trash. I'll ruin you. You don't deserve to be called a superhero."
Maguire stepped close, crouched, and beamed. "You're right. I don't deserve to be called a superhero. I've never claimed to be one. I'm just a villain."
Smack.
Like a watermelon bursting—blood-red fireworks. The headless body stayed kneeling on the carpet.
Even at the end, Jameson never imagined Maguire would actually kill him. A man truly and utterly unchained from the law.
Maguire walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and glanced back at the corpse with a sigh. "Wasn't living good enough for you? People who don't cherish life—what a pity."
Even the symbiote shivered. I want to go home. Wuwuwu…
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