The Comprehensive Evolution of American Comics

"A giant humanoid plant? Is this some new Halloween prank?" J. Jonah Jameson frowned as he looked at the documents his subordinate handed him.

"This is recent news circulating on the streets of New York. It originated from drug addicts and gang members, who claim a giant humanoid plant attacked them," the reporter sitting across the desk from Jameson explained meticulously.

While listening to the reporter, Jameson busied himself flipping through the documents. Besides testimonies, there were also some photos, including the victims and the so-called crime scene. The withered branches and leaves on the ground seemed to indicate something had happened there.

Jameson flipped the documents back to the first page, frowning as he looked at the expectant reporter.

"Garbage! Garbage! Garbage!" Jameson evaluated the news brought by the editor while flipping through the documents.

After saying 'garbage' three times, Jameson threw the evaluated documents on the desk, completely disregarding the reporter's unsightly expression.

Jameson took a sip of the coffee beside him and continued to say to the reporter, "Tom, the Daily Bugle wants news, not the filming progress of some Japanese tokusatsu show."

Reporter Tom hurriedly explained upon hearing Jameson's words, "Mr. Jameson, this isn't the filming progress of a tokusatsu show, but data I've spent many days collecting from the streets."

Faced with Tom's explanation, Jameson simply lit his cigar, appearing nonchalant.

Jameson's attitude made Tom even more anxious. Tom stood up from his seat, eager to explain to Jameson.

"Alright! Tom." Jameson exhaled the smoke from his mouth, the smoke blurring his face, but Tom still saw the mockery on it.

"You said you brought earth-shattering news, so I allowed you to waste... uh... five minutes of my time." Jameson looked down at his watch, estimating the time.

"But what you've shown me is indeed a pile of garbage." Tom knew Jameson's mouth was notoriously harsh, but he still felt that Jameson's arrogance was the most hurtful.

"Mr. Jameson, this isn't garbage. This is evidence I've collected, and there are people's testimonies..."

"How can you trust the words of drug addicts whose brains are fried from drugs?" Jameson interrupted Tom. "Maybe it's just a hallucination they conjured up. They mistook a bunch of flowers in a garbage heap for a monster attacking them. When they sobered up, they found a pile of petals plastered on their faces."

"But besides the drug addicts, there are also testimonies from gang members." Tom was clearly unconvinced by Jameson's words and planned to argue.

Jameson shrugged, not even bothering to look up.

"How many gang members aren't doing drugs? Who knows how many needle marks are hidden under those baggy hip-hop clothes. Instead of these hallucinations, why not make a front-page headline about the dangers of drug abuse to the brain?"

After Jameson finished speaking, he seemed to think of something and pressed the buzzer on his desk.

"Sir, you called?" The secretary pushed the door open and walked in.

Jameson tore off the pages with the drug addicts' testimonies from the evidence Tom had collected and handed them to the secretary.

"Publish these in the next issue of the paper. Title it, 'Urgent! They're Ruining Your Brain!' It's probably useless; those addicts won't listen, but it can get my paper some good reputation with the public." Jameson said, throwing the remaining documents to Tom, who was standing aside.

"Yes, sir." The secretary took the papers and walked out.

"And you." Jameson turned to Tom after the secretary left and said, "Go collect your $50 salary and get out of here with that pile of garbage."

"$50? But sir..."

"Enough!"

Tom's words were cut off by Jameson.

Jameson was clearly very impatient. His furrowed brows could even hold a coin.

"I don't want to hear any more stories about plant people, Tom. You should thank the clever Mr. Jameson for being able to pick out the useful parts from your garbage heap, allowing you to receive a $50 tip." Faced with Jameson's sharp tongue, Tom's face turned ashen, his mouth twitching but unable to say a word.

However, the arrogant Jameson didn't care. He continued to scold, "You want me to believe in your terrifying plant person, but you don't even have a photo of a plant person in the ICU. What's wrong, can't you look at that $50? As long as you bring me a photo of that mini Biollante, what's wrong with giving you a lot of money?"

"So since you have the leisure to perform a drowning quail here, you might as well go get the photo right away!"

--- Dividing Line ---

"Damn JJJ!" Tom cursed in a low voice, his hands not idle as he took out his wallet from his pocket, ready to stuff the newly acquired $50 inside.

Opening his wallet, Tom found that the $50 in his hand was the only seedling. The cold water of reality extinguished the anger in Tom's heart.

After thinking it over, Tom put the wallet back. He planned to use the $50 to fill his stomach first, after all, he could only work when he was full.

After eating a hot dog, Tom, who didn't dare to order a drink, bought new film with the remaining money. He was ready to go all out.

Tom walked on the street not far from Hell's Kitchen. The legend of the plant monster came from this area.

Driven by life, Tom had no choice but to take risks. The fame of Hell's Kitchen was well-known even to outsiders, let alone someone like him who made a living in New York. Even a dog passing by here could have two kidneys cut out.

Even during the day, some bad things could be seen in the alleys. Tom knew that as darkness gradually fell, these bad things might not increase, but they would definitely escalate.

Tom stood in front of a newsstand waiting for it to get dark. Besides Tom, there were two or three other people gathered in front of the newsstand. These people talked about everything from all over the world, and the owner of the newsstand occasionally chimed in.

Tom wasn't interested in their political chats and price discussions. He held the newspaper in his hand and looked at the Sudoku game to pass the time until an old man's words caught Tom's attention.

"Do you guys know about the rumors that have been circulating recently?" One of the balding old men asked the people around him.

"Are you talking about that humanoid plant?" Another person chimed in.

"Yes, that's the one. I heard that near here, there will be a humanoid plant about 7 or 8 feet tall at night. It will hide in the alleys and attack people passing by at night," the balding old man said sinisterly, looking like the senior who always loved to tell scary stories to scare young girls at Tom's gatherings.

Although the balding old man intended to create a scary atmosphere, it was still early before dark, and there were still pedestrians around, so his scary story didn't scare anyone present.

"Come on, Steven, none of us here are under 50 years old. Save your lousy scary stories for your son to have a grandson. You can tell your grandson," another old man wearing a hat who knew the balding old man said loudly.

After dismantling the stage, the hat-wearing old man seemed to have unfinished business. He continued to say, "Besides, everyone knows that only bad people haunt here at night. Maybe it's just some lunatic wearing a costume and robbing along the way."

The others also felt that what the hat-wearing old man said made sense. Everyone discussed it for a while, and as it got late, they all left one after another.

Watching the decreasing number of pedestrians around, Tom left the newsstand with the newspaper that was about to be torn.

Tom took out a notebook from his coat pocket and began to patrol according to the places where the plant person was recorded to appear in the notebook.

"Come on, my 'cash cow'." Tom licked his dry lips, and his right hand touched the camera in his pocket as he walked warily on the street.

--- Dividing Line ---

The latest novels are first released at Six 9 Books!

Tom fell heavily to the ground, the change in his pocket clattering out, and the camera also fell to the ground, making a crisp sound. Tom only hoped it wasn't broken, it was his only camera.

Tom was about to struggle to get up when he was stepped back by a foot. The dirty canvas shoes and the ground squeezed Tom's head. Tom didn't know who stepped on him. The person attacked him from behind. He was dizzy from the fall and didn't even have time to see the attacker clearly.

"Hey!" As soon as he heard this sound, Tom knew that the person who attacked him should be black.

'Can't afford AJ's, that one' Tom cursed in his heart, but he wasn't tough at all, because he was being stepped on, he could only raise his voice in a strange accent: "I'm just a poor ghost, I don't have any money, the things that fell on the ground are all my property, and that camera, you can have it all if you want, please don't hurt me!"

"Don't play dumb with me, that one! MTF! My people saw you wandering around here all day, who sent you here?" The gangster questioned Tom sternly with a classic West Coast accent.

As a reporter, Tom could be considered to have seen the world. Even in a dangerous situation, Tom didn't panic. He was just about to continue begging for mercy, but another voice made him feel like he had fallen into an ice cave.

"The boss's goods can't have problems, no matter who he is, tie him up and throw him into the sea." As soon as the man finished speaking, Tom saw several pairs of feet walking towards him, obviously about to take action.

Tom was about to shout and struggle, but the person stepping on him was obviously prepared, retracting his foot and kicking him in the mouth.

A burning pain came, and Tom even kicked his wail into his stomach. Fortunately, he didn't have any money, and only ate a hot dog, or he might have vomited a lot earlier.

However, the gangsters didn't let him go. The people holding him gave him a few more hits, and only stopped attacking when he was honest.

Tom was disheartened, and his mind began to wander, even expecting the long-dead Captain America to save him.

"Did you guys smell a stench?" Tom heard one of the gangsters say. Tom thought he might have lost control, but he was so scared that he couldn't feel whether it was big or small.

"Could it be that this guy is scared?" One of the gangsters holding Tom looked at Tom next to him with disgust.

"Okay, that one! Hurry up and solve him." The leader urged impatiently.

Before being dragged a few steps, Tom heard a terrified voice.

"That... that... what is that!" Tom, who was covered in his head, didn't know what was happening, he could only hear the gangsters' terrified voices.

"I can be anything, but I'm definitely not excrement!" A muffled voice sounded, and Tom knew very well that it wasn't the voice of the gangsters who tied him up.

"Shoot! Don't care what it is! Shoot!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The violent gunshots rang out, scaring Tom into a shiver. Now Tom could be sure that he had really lost control.

"Of course, you can also call me Swampfire."

The muffled voice sounded, and then Tom could only hear the gangsters' screams and the chaotic footsteps.

After a while, the sound disappeared. Tom waited for a while before tremblingly taking off his hood.

Seeing the light again, Tom only saw a few black people lying unconscious on the ground, and thick vines tied to them.

"It seems to be the smell of methane..." Tom also smelled the stench that the gangsters were talking about.

Coming back to his senses, Tom found his camera that had fallen on the ground, quickly took a few photos and quickly left the scene.