Epilogue: Daily Bugle
The door to J. Jonah Jameson's office burst open, and Peter Parker entered with the awkward confidence of a nerd who had found his cool in college.
"Mr. Jameson! I never received my paycheck for those pics for the Vulture fight. Were you wanting to give me the cash in person, so you could tell me that they were Pulitzer quality?"
"Parker!" Jameson howled. "How many times have I told you not to interrupt me when I'm in a meeting! I got those pics in my e-mail yesterday. They were steaming piles of crap compared to the one we ran on the front page!"
"Front page?" Parker screwed up his face as Robbie Robertson pushed a copy of the latest Bugle into his hands. A photo of Spider-Man, somersaulting in midair amidst a group of Vulture kids, against a backdrop of lightning. An accidental work of art.
The byline read, "Photo courtesy: Officer Francis McDoogel."
Peter's face fell.
"Now get out of my office, you miserable swamp rat!" Jameson hollered as he pushed Peter towards the door. "And next time, try doing some actual work before you come in here begging for charity!"
Riker's Island Supervillain Prison
Two guards stand in front of a cell, peering through tempered glass at the prisoner, a frail, old, bald man in a white hospital gown with an unfortunately long nose.
"I still don't understand," the rookie guard said. "Why does this tiny little, hundred-year-old geezer merit a cell in maximum security?"
The older guard scoffed. "Kid, ain't you never heard of this guy?"
"Some doof in a bird costume."
"This doof in a bird costume got put into medium security the first time they hauled him in. The first night he was there, both of his neighbors hung themselves."
"Big deal."
"Big deal yer damn right," the older guard said. "They moved two new neighbors in on night 3. By morning, one of them had hung himself, the other had swallowed his tongue. They let him out for rec, another inmate throws himself off the catwalk, thinks he can fly."
"You seen all this happen yourself?" the younger man said skeptically.
"Seen? Shit." The older guard spat a wad of Copenhagen into a cup. "Dare you to go talk to him."
The younger guard approached the cell, but the older one stopped him. "He won't look at you. You have to play him a song."
"What song?"
A few moments later, the younger guard again approached the cell. He waved his arms within clear view of the prisoner, but the old man only sat on his bed, staring straight ahead. Reluctantly, the guard activated the cell's broadcast system and began to play some old-timey jazz.
Toomes jerked his head abruptly, birdlike, to stare straight at his visitor.
"Good evening," came the ragged voice through the speaker.
"Hey, old man," the guard said. "I just came to ask you. How is it that a wrinkly, little old fart like you could be the badass gangster that gets all these young punks to avert their eyes when they walk past you? No offense, man, but I just don't see it."
"What is your name, Officer?"
"C.O. Foreman, to you, inmate."
"C.O. Foreman," Toomes said thoughtfully. "I wonder if you would be good enough to leave the lights on tonight."
"No way, inmate. Lights out for you at 10:00, just like every other prisoner on this island."
"Ah, but you see, C.O. Foreman, you don't understand. When the lights go out is when the little spider robots crawl out of the walls. And they talk to me, C.O. Foreman. Every night, they talk to me."
"Umm, okay, inmate," Foreman said skeptically. "What do the little robots say?"
"They say that I'm going to join them. Or….they're going to join me. And we're going to crush Spider-Man once and for all!" Toomes then erupted into a fit of what sounded like half-coughing, half clucking.
"What is wrong with him?" Foreman asked the older guard.
"He's laughing."
"It sounds like he's about to cough up a hairball."
"I'm gonna call Medical down here, just in case," the old guard said. But Foreman's eyes were transfixed on the tiny, old codger.