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The next three chapters [Chikara Dojo – Part 1, Time to Die – Part 1 and Chikara Dojo – Part 2] are already available, and in a few hours [Colleen Wing – Part 1] will be available as well.
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***
A new record had been broken. Peter was sure of it — absolutely, unquestionably sure. Because never, ever, in the entire history of humanity, would there be another human being capable of shouting for five full minutes without stopping to breathe the way J. Jonah Jameson had just done.
The man had to have some kind of scientifically modified lungs, or maybe he had made some kind of pact with a demonic entity in exchange for the ability to sustain that level of fury for an indefinite amount of time. It was impressive. Almost artistic, if it weren't for the fact that Peter was on the wrong side of the show.
Jameson had been yelling from the moment Peter set foot in the room, his voice filling every inch of the space like a fire alarm with no off switch. His words came out in a continuous flow, a torrent of accusations and insults piling on top of each other in a heap that any dictionary would struggle to catalog. Incompetent. Irresponsible. Undisciplined. Unmanageable. Uncommitted. Ungrateful. Amateur. Rude.
Honestly, Peter stopped listening after ten seconds, choosing instead to list the bills he was going to pay as soon as he got out of there, letting Jameson's voice become nothing more than background noise.
He had also strategically stopped a few meters away from the man's desk, a decision that proved smarter with every passing second. The floor in front of the desk already had several drops of saliva on it.
"-DID YOU UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING, PARKER?!"
"Yes, sir," Peter answered promptly, glad that the speech had finally come to an end.
"THEN GET OUT OF MY SIGHT! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, NOT EVEN PAINTED IN GOLD!" Jameson shouted, pointing at the door before dropping back into his chair with a satisfied expression.
'You had all of that bottled up, didn't you?' The man had dumped everything he'd been holding in for days, and was clearly feeling better afterward. Peter, however, didn't move, remaining where he was. "Sir, may I speak now?"
"NO! LEAVE!"
"Right..." Peter turned slowly, his shoulders deliberately slumped in a dejected gesture that anyone looking at him would think "that guy gave up." He walked to the door with dragging steps. His hand was already on the doorknob when he spoke as if he were talking to himself. "Guess I'll have to sell these photos of Spider-Man's first day back in action to another newspaper then..."
Peter glanced over his shoulder discreetly and saw Jameson's face completely red, looking like smoke was about to come out of his ears. 'Well, well, well...' He stepped out of the room, but had barely taken three steps outside when Jameson's voice reached his ears.
"PARKER! GET BACK HERE!"
'Predictable.' Peter returned, quickly replacing the smile that had appeared on his lips with a look of innocent surprise. "Yes, sir?"
Jameson was already on his feet, his hand extended toward him, moving it up and down in quick motions. "Give me those photos!"
Peter handed him the folder. "As you wish."
Jameson snatched the folder from his hand, sat down, and opened it, pulling out the photos Peter had taken of the earlier events. "Trash, trash, trash, trash," he flipped through them so quickly that there was no time to analyze anything, his eyes scanning each photo with the efficiency of someone looking for something very specific.
"Ah, perfect!" Jameson exclaimed, discarding all the photos where Spider-Man appeared saving someone and choosing one where he appeared to be arguing with the owner of the cat that had been stuck in a tree — a photo that had captured him in a pose that, out of context, looked aggressive.
'I should be annoyed by that.' Peter observed with a flat expression, his eyes fixed on the photo Jameson was holding like it was the Holy Grail. 'But my image is already in the gutter. This won't make it any worse.' He had already moved past the point of caring about what Jameson wrote or didn't write. The Daily Bugle could call Spider-Man a murderer, a vigilante, a public menace — the entire city already did that. One misinterpreted photo wasn't going to make a difference.
Jameson quickly grabbed a check from the drawer, wrote the amount, and thrust it toward Peter. "Here! Now, get out!"
Peter didn't take it. "Actually, sir. I was thinking about a raise." He pointed calmly at the amount on the check. "Like, one more zero here."
A heavy silence followed.
Jameson looked at the check, then at Peter, then back at the check and finally at Peter. "....what?" he asked quietly, in a tone that, if Peter had to make an analogy, he'd say was the eye of the hurricane or, in other words, the calm before the storm.
Peter held his gaze. "You see, I may or may not have gone to the New York Times before coming here. And there, they offered me this amount—no, no. Sorry, my mistake." He made a dramatic pause, a hand to his chest in a gesture of correction. "They offered me two hundred dollars more there. But, since I like it here very much, and we already have such a good history of business, I thought I'd give you a discount." Peter finished with the gentlest smile in the world, watching as, with each word, Jameson's face grew redder.
"Parker, you.... ARE YOU INSANE?!" the man exploded, so loudly that Peter felt his hair shift slightly. "FIRST YOU DISAPPEAR FOR SEVERAL DAYS AND NOW YOU STILL HAVE THE NERVE TO ASK FOR A RAISE LIKE THAT?!"
"Let's be reasonable, sir—"
"REASONABLE?!" Jameson slammed his fist on the desk, making the papers jump. "SHOVE YOUR REASONABLENESS UP YOUR—" He held himself back at the last moment, the sentence dying in his throat as he took a deep breath. One, two, three, four, five times. Each breath seemed to cost him a year of life, but he managed to calm himself. "That's never going to happen, Parker. Never. In. A. Thousand. Years."
"Then I'll sell them to the New York Times." Peter shrugged in a movement so casual it almost seemed insolent.
"Looks like that time of loafing around not only made you crazy, but also gave you Alzheimer's!" Jameson pointed a finger at him, "WE HAVE AN EXCLUSIVITY AGREEMENT! Which, by the way, I will use if I find out you're sneaking off to other newspapers again. And you're going to have to pay a fine! A very big one!"
"Ah, about that. That contract lasted until last week."
"...what?" Jameson's voice came out in a whisper. He seemed smaller all of a sudden, shrunk behind the desk with his shoulders slumped and his hands resting on the surface as if they needed support.
"I'm telling the truth, sir. You can ask Betty to check." Peter pulled a paper from his pants pocket. "It seems that whoever drafted the contract made it last only three months. Which means I'm free to negotiate with other newspapers."
"WHO WAS THE IDIOT WHO DRAFTED THIS?!"
'I think it was you,' Peter thought, carefully unfolding the paper in his hand, smoothing the creases with the tips of his fingers. "In fact, I have here an exclusivity contract with the New York Times, but I thought I'd talk to you before making a decision."
Jameson lowered his gaze, without reacting to the revelation.
Peter let the silence stretch as Jameson stared at the desk, probably looking for some way out of the situation and finding none. "Let's be honest here, sir. Spider-Man is the most talked-about subject in the country right now. In every newspaper, channel, radio, and social media, there's nothing else being talked about. If you have exclusive photos of him on tomorrow's front page — new photos, showing him back on the streets — the issue will sell like water."
Peter paused, letting the argument settle. "A considerable raise in my salary, for the only photographer who can get good pictures of him, doesn't compare to the profit the newspaper is going to make. So, do we have a deal, boss?"
***
"Things got pretty bad, huh? I could hear it from here." Betty remarked with a worried expression as soon as Peter stopped in front of her. "Even Robbie stopped what he was doing. And he's learned to ignore Jonah a long time ago."
"I wouldn't say it like that," he said, leaning against the counter, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Can you sign this for me?" Peter asked, sliding the check toward her.
Betty took the paper with an automatic movement, her eyes still fixed on him, "Ah... I didn't think you'd be able to come back to work here." The sentence seemed to have come out before she could stop herself. At least, that was what Peter concluded from the way her eyes widened right after.
"Wow, so little faith in me?" Peter looked at her with the expression of someone who had just been mortally offended. "That hurt, Betty. Really."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Mister Parker," she shot back, her professional tone falling back into place. "Jonah isn't exactly known for..." Her voice died in the middle of the sentence when she saw the amount written on the check.
Betty froze.
"What...?" She raised her eyes to him, then went back to the check, then to him again. Her face went through a sequence of expressions in less than two seconds — disbelief, shock, and then surprise. "What did you do?"
Peter shrugged. "Nothing. We just had a constructive conversation."
***
Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.