[ The sudden clatter of the lamppost draws Norman's attention for a moment -- an effective momentarily diversion, if only it had been planned -- before he levels his gaze back on Spider-Man, stepping back from him about a foot or two as dull anger begins to buzz at his temples. His hands clench and unclench. Tempting to go grab hold of that lamppost, lift it and swing.

But he doesn't, of course, because he's in control. ]

I don't think your age is of much concern at this point. That would make you -- what -- twenty-five now? Thirty? [ /Jeopardy music. ] What's convenient for you is that you aren't important to me right now.

[ He doesn't intend on elaborating. ]

You don't need a hand there, do you?