A diner upper Long Island. 

Atop the diner, unbeknownst to the normal patrons, is a pair of reinforced chairs and a table. Seated in one of the chairs is a tall man, many would be surprised to see him here. It was the hero known as General Freedom. A large mug of coffee sat between his hands, his mask and cowl off, his hair ruffled by the slight breeze. 

"Well . . ." said the small, wizened man who sat across from the hero. 

"Look Marco . .  ."

"No, you look. Steve, I have known you a hell'uva long while. I remember when your sorry ass was about to ring the bell and quit Bud/s training. I also saw the grit and fire that fills you. You didn't quit." Marco, a smallish man, flinty-eyed and hard as granite, sipped some of the strong coffee and spoke again. His voice low, "Look if you want to hang it up, stop being a hero, fine. But do it because it's your choice."

Steve said nothing as he sipped his own, massive cup of coffee. He had contemplated the end of his career, had figured with the rise of the new generation of heroes, he'd retire.  

"I have a place out in Montana, a nice spread about 1,000 acres and several hundred head of cattle. I figured I could take up ranching."

Marco pursed his lips, saying nothing. 

After a minute he said, "What the hell do you know about cattle ranching?"

Steve grinned, "Nothing."

Marco was about to say something when the door to the roof opened with a bang. Carmelita, Marco's oldest daughter rushed out, her cell phone blaring. The expression on her face forced both men to sit straighter as she approached. 

"Daddy, Steve, you need to hear this." She jimmied the phone and replayed the news broadcast.

When it finished both men sat in silence, shared a glance. As he stood, Steve pulled his mask on,  and his body began to glow a bluish color. 

"I guess your ranching days will have to wait?" Marco deadpanned as General Freedom launched himself skyward. Looking at his daughter, he nodded toward the large mug, "Let's go. I have a feeling we'll be closing early tonight."

It wasn't far, but far enough that Steve would not be able to save those caught in the fiery blast.   

When he finally arrived, General Freedom stared at the carnage below him. Debris and twisted remnants of first responder’s vehicles lay strew in an arc.  He stared at the crater that lay beneath him, Steve felt a tightness in his throat.  The clouds of smoke and dust obscured his vision, they denied a clear view of the man responsible for this. 

General Freedom drifted lower, as he did he grimaced.  Before him was the crumbled remains of a police cruiser. The black and white paint job unrecognizable on the hunk of compressed metal. Only the mournful wail of the siren told him what it was. The thick dust filled his mouth. The stench of death filled his nose. All thoughts of retirement had faded, now he focused on what he had to do., he had to stop The Splatterer.