The Comprehensive Evolution of American Comics.

Chapter 1 Humanoid Plants
"Giant humanoid plants? Is this some new Halloween joke?" J. Jonah Jameson frowned as he looked at the documents handed to him by his subordinates.

"This is the latest news coming out from the streets of New York. The source is those drug addicts and gang thugs. They said that a giant humanoid plant attacked them." The reporter sitting at the other end of the desk carefully explained to Jameson.

While listening to the reporter's words, James' hands were not idle either. He kept flipping through the documents in his hands. In addition to the confession, there were some photos, including the victims and the so-called first scene. The dead branches and leaves on the ground seemed to indicate what had happened here.

Jameson flipped the document back to the first page and frowned at the expectant reporter.

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

After saying "rubbish" three times in a row, Jameson threw the evaluated document on the desk, not caring about the reporter's ugly face at all.

Jameson took a sip of the coffee beside him and continued to talk to the reporter, "Tom, we at the Daily Bugle want news, not the progress of Japanese special effects filming."

Reporter Tom heard Jameson's words and hurriedly explained, "Mr. Jameson, this isn't some special drama production schedule. It's just information I spent many days collecting from the streets."

In response to Tom's explanation, Jameson just lit the cigar in his hand and looked nonchalant.

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

"Okay! Tom." Jameson exhaled the smoke from his mouth. The smoke blurred his face, but Tom could still see the mockery on his face.

"You said you brought shocking news, so I let you delay me... uh... five minutes." Jameson looked down at his watch and estimated the time.

"But what you showed me was really a bunch of garbage." Tom knew that Jameson was notoriously sharp-tongued, but he still felt that Jameson's arrogance was the most hurtful.

"Mr. Jameson, this isn't trash. This is evidence I collected, and it even includes testimonies from other people..."

"How can you trust the words of a drug addict whose brain is completely messed up?" Jameson interrupted Tom. "Maybe it was just a hallucination, they mistook a bunch of flowers in the garbage dump for monsters attacking them, but when they woke up, they found that it was just a bunch of petals stuck in their faces."

"But here there are testimonies from gangsters besides drug addicts." Tom was obviously dissatisfied after hearing what Jameson said and planned to argue.

Jameson shrugged, not even bothering to look up.

"How many of those gang members don't take drugs? Those baggy hip-hop outfits might be hiding a lot of holes. Rather than these hallucinations, it's better to make headlines about how excessive drug use among gang members harms their brains."

After Jameson finished speaking, he seemed to have thought of something and pressed the pager on the desk.

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

Jameson took the evidence Tom had collected, tore off the pages about drug addicts, and handed them to the secretary.

"Put these in the next issue of the newspaper, with the headline "Urgent! They're ruining your brain!" It's useless and those addicts won't listen, but it will help my newspaper gain some good reputation among the public." Jameson said as he threw the remaining documents to Tom who was standing beside him.

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

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

"50 dollars? But sir..."

"enough!"

Tom began to speak when Jameson interrupted him.

Jameson was clearly very impatient, and his frown could have picked up a coin.

"I don't want to hear any more stories about being in a vegetable state, Tom. You should thank the clever Mr. Jameson for picking out the useful parts from your garbage dump and letting you get a $50 tip." Faced with Jameson's sharp words, Tom's face turned ashen, his mouth twitched but he couldn't utter a word.

However, the arrogant Jameson didn't care. He continued to scold, "You asked me to believe your terrifying vegetative state, but you don't even have a photo of a vegetative patient in the ICU. How can you not be interested in that $50? As long as you bring a photo of that mini Biollante, I'll give you a lot of money."

"So since you have the time to act like a quail falling into the water, why not go and bring the photos over here right away!"

---Dividing line---

"Damn JJJ!" Tom cursed under his breath, his hands not idle either. He took out his wallet from his trouser pocket and was about to put the $50 he had just received into it.

When Tom opened his wallet, he found that the $50 in his hand was the only one he had. The cold water of reality extinguished the anger in Tom's heart.

After thinking it over, Tom put the wallet back. He planned to take the $50 and fill his stomach first. After all, he had to eat and drink enough before he could work.

After eating a hot dog and not daring to order a drink, Tom used the remaining money to buy new film. He was ready to go out and have a great time.

Tom was walking down the street not far from Hell's Kitchen, where the legend of the plant monster originated.

Forced by life, Tom had to take risks. The reputation of Hell's Kitchen was known to even outsiders, not to mention him who made a living in New York. Any dog ​​passing by here might have its kidneys chewed out.

Even in the daytime, you could see some bad things happening in the alleys along the road. Tom knew that as the sky gradually darkened, these bad things might not increase in number, but they would definitely escalate.

Tom stood in front of a newsstand waiting for dark. Besides Tom, there were two or three other people gathered in front of the newsstand. These people were chatting about everything under the sun, and the owner of the newsstand would interject from time to time.

Tom was not interested in their political chats or discussions about prices. He was just passing the time by playing Sudoku in the newspaper until an old man said something that caught Tom's attention. "Do you know about the rumors that have been circulating recently?" one of the bald old men asked the people around him.

"You mean the humanoid plant?" another person said.

"Yes, that's the one. I heard that around here, there's a humanoid plant about 7.8 or feet tall that hides in the alleys and attacks people passing by at night." The bald old man said sinisterly, looking like Tom's senior who always liked to tell horror stories to scare little girls at parties.

Although the bald old man intended to create a scary atmosphere, it was still early in the morning and there were pedestrians around, so his horror story did not scare anyone present.

"Come on, Steven, there's no one here who's under 50 years old. Save your lame horror stories for when you get home and tell your son a grandson." Another old man wearing a hat who was acquainted with the balding old man spoke up.

The old man in the hat seemed unsatisfied after dismantling the stage. He continued, "Besides, everyone knows that only bad people hang out here at night. Maybe it's some psychopath wearing a costume and robbing people along the way."

The others also felt that what the old man in the hat said made sense, and they discussed it for a while. As it got darker, they all left one after another.

Looking at the fewer and fewer pedestrians around, Tom left the newsstand with the newspaper that was almost torn to pieces.

Tom took out a notebook from his coat pocket and began to patrol the places where the vegetative patients were recorded.

"Come here, my 'cash cow'." Tom licked his dry lips, walked cautiously on the street, touching the camera in his pocket with his right hand.

---Dividing line---

Tom fell heavily to the ground, and the change in his pocket fell out with a crackling sound. The camera also fell to the ground with a crisp sound. Tom just hoped that it was not broken, because it was his only camera.

Just as Tom was struggling to get up, 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 knocked unconscious and didn't even have time to see the attacker clearly.

"Hey!" Tom knew that the person who attacked him must be a black man just by hearing this.

"You can't afford AJ's underwear!" Tom cursed fiercely in his heart, but he didn't say it toughly. Because he was stepped on, he could only speak loudly in a strange accent: "I'm just a poor guy with no money. What fell on the ground is all my property, including that camera. If you want it, I'll give it to you. Don't hurt me!"

"Don't play dumb with me, you bastard! MTF! My people saw you hanging around here all day and asked who sent you?" The gangster questioned Tom harshly in a classic West Coast accent.

As a reporter, Tom has seen a lot. Even in the deepest danger, Tom did not lose his composure. He was about to continue begging for mercy, but another voice made him feel like he was falling into an icy cave.

"Nothing can happen to the boss's goods. No matter who he is, just 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 ready to take action.

Tom was about to shout and struggle, but the person who stepped on him was obviously prepared and kicked him in the mouth.

Tom felt a burning pain and his whimpers were suppressed by the kick in his stomach. He tried to get up in panic but was pinned to the ground by several other people. Before he could see clearly, another person put a bag over his head and lifted him up.

"Help—vomit..." Tom put down the bag and just as he was asking for help, he was hit in the abdomen, which almost made him vomit out all the gastric juice. Fortunately, he had no money and only ate a hot dog, otherwise he would have vomited violently.

However, the gangsters did not let him go. The people holding him hit him a few more times and only stopped attacking him when he became obedient.

Tom was completely desperate and started to have wild thoughts. He even expected the long-deceased Captain America to come and save him.

"Do you smell a bad smell?" Tom heard one of the gangsters say. Tom thought he might be incontinent, but he was so scared that he couldn't feel whether it was big or small.

"Could this guy be scared to death?" A thug who was holding Tom looked at Tom next to him with disgust.

"Okay, guys! Get rid of him quickly." The leader urged impatiently.

Before he had been dragged a few steps, Tom heard a terrified voice.

"That...that...what is that!" Tom, with his head covered, had no idea what was happening. He could only hear the frightened voices of the gangsters.

"I can be anything, but I am definitely not excrement!" A muffled voice sounded, and Tom knew very well that it was not the voice of the gangsters who kidnapped him.

"Shoot! Never mind what it is! Shoot!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The loud gunshots scared Tom and made him tremble. Now Tom was sure that he was really incontinent.

"Of course you can call me Swampfire."

A muffled sound was heard, and then Tom could only hear the screams of the gangsters and the chaotic footsteps.

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

When he regained his sight, Tom saw only several black men lying unconscious on the ground, and thick vines tied to them.

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

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

(End of this chapter)