"We gonna be rich boy. Rich rich rich. " Norman Osborn had said. It had been the first day his exoskeleton prototype was approved.
     A night he would never forget. Even now in the midst of a crisis, he'd never forget how the universe stopped, his dreams were within reach.
      Back then. In the now, Norman Osborn felt like his dreams were living him.
    Success had become more like food to a fat man. No offence, but he loved it.
    The thrill. The screams when people get to see you in public.
The paparazzi.
   Flashlights.
"Sir, we have finished setting up the procedure. Can we commence on finishing the whole thing. "
The nerdy doctor looked on for an answer. None came.
"Sir? Are you OK? "
But Osborn was not anywhere near OK.
    Three days earlier he'd received a big order for Tepezza.
A very big one that he feared may lead to shortages.
    The pay was good. Fifteen million dollars in cash.
     The buyer, male or female was anonymous.
     But money first, safety later. He'd thought back then as he handed over the papers.
     Five hundred boxes of Tepezza were transported. None of his business. Usually, this would have caused caution on his side.
     But the money....
No, not the money.
   Something sinister.
Norman Osborn had just sold over 1.5 gallons of Tepezza to Russian mafia.
   This he'd never known until now.
***
"Sir. Can we ...?"
"I've heard you, Micheal. " He tapped his forehead, "But it's time we cut down the whole thing. "

"You mean like, we stop producing Tepezza? Our families...I'm sorry, sir. "

"Stop calling me GODDAMN SIR. Sir this, sir that. You think I don't know we'll be broke. " Norman snapped, his voice pitch high, "Micheal, this is not just a bad deal. It could mean EVERYTHING! "
***
And sure it did. Outside newspaper reporters trained cameras on him.
"Mr. Osborn is it true your company is responsible for the death of..." she stopped, frightened by Osborn's convulsed composure.
Other reporters joined in, flashlights intensifying.
"Mr. Osborn, can you comment on your dealings with the Russian Mafias?"
"Mr. Osborn.... "

***
His chauffeur opened the limo door for him, flashlights.
Too tired to open fire at blunt reporters. Paid what?
A mere portion of his pocket change.
   How he despised the news!
"Where are we heading to, sir?" The chauffeur asked politely.
"To a place where I tell you to stop. "