Oh yeah, I was one of the first guys writing comic books, I wrote

Host: The rain had just ended, leaving the city streets slick with reflected light — a patchwork of neon, puddles, and ghostly steam rising from the gutters. Somewhere, a saxophone cried out through a half-open window, its notes bending under the weight of memory.

Inside a small corner diner, the kind where the coffee never sleeps, Jack and Jeeny sat in a booth by the window. The light above them flickered — not out of failure, but as if it was thinking.

On the table lay an old comic book, its cover faded, its pages yellowed with time. Across the front: Captain America, Issue #1.

Jeeny traced her finger over the title, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How a thing meant to entertain kids — a comic — could become a symbol for an entire nation’s idea of itself.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. It was business, Jeeny. Mickey Spillane didn’t write Captain America to save the world; he wrote it to sell a story. Comics weren’t philosophy. They were pulp for people who needed cheap heroes in a dark time.”

Host: The rainlight from the street cut through the window, slicing their faces in halves — one side illumined, the other shadowed.

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Pulp or not, it was hope in print. Think about it — 1941. The world was at war. People were scared. And here comes this image — a man in a flag costume punching Hitler in the jaw. That wasn’t just entertainment. That was catharsis.”

Jack: “Catharsis sells too. Never underestimate capitalism’s love for emotional currency.”

Jeeny: “But it wasn’t just about selling. Mickey Spillane said it himself — ‘I was one of the first guys writing comic books, I wrote Captain America, with guys like Stan Lee…’ He wasn’t boasting; he was remembering a time when stories meant something. When imagination was resistance.”

Jack: “Resistance? Don’t stretch it. He wrote crime novels later, Jeeny — the kind soaked in blood and cynicism. Mickey Spillane didn’t worship heroes. He understood that beneath every cape, there’s a man capable of violence.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes cold, his voice husky like a whisper of gravel. The cigarette smoke coiled between them, curling into faint shapes that looked almost like words unsaid.

Jeeny: “And yet, he still started with heroes. You can’t tell me that doesn’t mean something.”

Jack: “Maybe it means he got older. Grew up. Realized the world isn’t made of panels and clean endings.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he realized heroes are born from ordinary people, not perfection. Look at Captain America — he wasn’t a god or a billionaire. He was a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who just wanted to do what was right. That’s not naïve, Jack. That’s human.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, shaking the windowpane. The coffee cups clinked softly on the table.

Jack: “Human? You think the real world rewards that kind of virtue? The world doesn’t hand medals to people who do the right thing. It buries them. That’s why Spillane left the comics behind. He traded the shield for a gun — Captain America for Mike Hammer. He stopped pretending.”

Jeeny: “No, he stopped pretending that innocence lasts. But he never stopped believing in justice — even if it got messy. That’s the point of all of it, isn’t it? Heroes grow harder, but they still stand.”

Jack: “Justice? His characters shot first and asked questions later. You call that justice?”

Jeeny: “In a broken world, sometimes it’s survival. But that doesn’t mean the dream dies. It evolves.”

Host: The rain began again, faintly this time, like a whispering audience outside their fragile debate. The neon reflection rippled in the puddles, stretching like liquid memory.

Jack: “You’re turning pulp into poetry, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you’re afraid of what that poetry reveals. Spillane and Stan Lee — they weren’t just writing stories. They were sketching morality in ink. They made us believe in choices, in courage, in consequence.”

Jack: “They sold fantasies to people who didn’t want to face reality.”

Jeeny: “And yet those fantasies inspired soldiers, kids, dreamers. Tell me that doesn’t count.”

Jack: “It counts — as distraction.”

Jeeny: “It counts — as direction.”

Host: Their words collided, sharp and soft, fire and air. The waitress passed by, refilling their cups without a sound, as if not to break the rhythm of their philosophical war.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I think people like Spillane and Lee understood something deeper than they admitted. They knew that sometimes fiction says what reality is too afraid to speak aloud.”

Jack: “Or it hides it behind capes and catchphrases.”

Jeeny: “No. It reveals it — safely. That’s what stories are for. You don’t tell a child that evil exists; you show them a villain. You don’t preach about courage; you draw a man standing up when no one else will.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at the comic on the table. The old paper smell carried something nostalgic, something faintly tragic.

Jack: “You really think a comic can change a man?”

Jeeny: “It already did. Millions of them. You just forgot.”

Host: Her voice softened, no longer debating, but remembering.

Jeeny: “My father used to read these to me during blackouts. He’d hold a flashlight and do the voices — badly, but with heart. He said heroes don’t have to be real to make you brave. They just have to remind you that you could be.”

Jack: “That’s... different.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the same anvil where Spillane forged his words — not to escape, but to endure.”

Host: Jack looked out the window, watching the rain turn the world into watercolor. His reflection blurred — a man divided between skepticism and longing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe those panels, those lines — they were blueprints. Maybe we needed them to remember what courage looked like when the world forgot.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what art does — it gives the world its mirror back. Even when it’s cracked.”

Host: The light flickered again — brighter now. The comic between them caught the glow, the colors awakening for a brief, impossible moment. Captain America’s fist was mid-swing, forever frozen against evil, forever believing the fight was worth it.

Jack: “You know, Spillane said once, ‘Those big words — freedom, courage, justice — they’re just excuses for people who need heroes. But maybe that’s what we all are. Just people who need heroes.’”

Jeeny: “And maybe heroes are just people who stop needing excuses.”

Host: Jack smiled — faint, reluctant, real. The kind of smile that only appears when conviction gives way to something humbler: belief.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is… maybe Mickey Spillane didn’t leave the comics. Maybe he carried them with him — into every dark alley, every gunshot line.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Captain America just put down the shield and picked up the truth.”

Host: The rain stopped once more. The saxophone outside fell silent. Somewhere, dawn was trying to break through the clouds, slow and stubborn.

Jeeny closed the comic book, her hand lingering on the cover.

Jeeny: “You know, we still need them — heroes, stories, dissenters, dreamers. Not because the world’s naïve… but because it’s tired.”

Jack: “And tired worlds need reminders.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even in four panels and a few speech bubbles.”

Host: The morning light slipped through the diner blinds, laying thin stripes of gold across their faces.

For a brief, silent second, the world felt like a page half-drawn — waiting for ink, waiting for courage.

And between them, on that worn table, Captain America lay still — not as a relic, but as a promise:
that even pulp, when written with belief, can outlive cynicism.

That even fiction can bleed truth.