Spider-Man

by Peter David

  “It’s horrible. Just horrible,” said Aunt May. “Suicidal, even. You have to wonder the kind of home life someone like that would come from, to put himself into a situation where he’ll likely get himself killed. That costume, this insane stunt … I’m telling you, Ben, this is a cry for help.”

  “Help,” muttered Peter beneath his balaclava as he flattened himself against the bars. “What am I doing here?”

  Bone Saw didn’t waste any time. Maybe he just loved giving the crowd what it wanted. Maybe he had a hot date and wanted to get out quickly. Whatever the reason, he came in fast and hard, straight at Peter.

  Peter leapt upward and Bone Saw crashed into the cage wall with teeth-rattling force. He had been so confident that Peter wouldn’t be able to get out of the way that he had fully committed himself to the charge. Consequently he hit the cage walls so hard that he actually bounced off and crumbled to the ground. His vision swam and he had to shake off the impact, even as he stared stupidly at the bars in a vaguely accusatory fashion.

  Then he looked up. Peter, clinging to the top of the cage, waved down at him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Bone Saw, staggering to his feet.

  “Staying away from you for three minutes,” Peter replied, sounding more cheerful than he felt.

  With a roar of indignation, Bone Saw leapt up at him. His leg muscles were powerful enough to carry him within reach … except the lithe teen had already vaulted out of the way, somersaulting to the opposite side of the cage. He clung there for a moment, then dropped to the ground.

  And then he heard something that completely astounded him.

  “Yeeeeeeaaahhh! Go, Spider-Man!”

  It was the heckler whose face Bone Saw had rearranged. He was back in his seat, dried blood on his face, and he was shouting encouragement and pumping the air. Other people in the crowd were joining in, as well, apparently pleased by the show that Peter was putting on.

  Then his spider sense kicked in. It had been warning him since the moment he set foot in the ring, starting with the buzzing signal that began in his head as the cage was descending. But he’d had too many distractions to know where to look first. Now, however, he was beginning to focus on what was important, and he realized that not only was it necessary to defeat Bone Saw and win the money . . . it was also important to do so in a way that would be entertaining to the crowd. If he was going to do this with any degree of regularity and get the big purses—money that would make this three-thousand-dollar payday look like chump change—he’d have to give the crowd what they wanted. What Bone Saw gave them.

  A show.

  His spider sense had warned him that Bone Saw was coming at him again, and Peter leapt effortlessly between his outstretched arms. To him, it was as if Bone Saw were moving in slow motion. But this time he didn’t settle for just getting out of the wrestler’s way. Instead he landed in a one-hand handstand on Bone Saw’s head. Beneath his balaclava he was grinning, his confidence growing.

  “Not a bad costume,” he said to his opponent as if chatting in a Laundromat while watching clothes dry. “What is that? Spandex? I used Lycra for mine, and it itched like crazy.”

  But Peter had gotten too cocky, too quickly. With a fast, economic move, Bone Saw grabbed one of his outstretched legs and shouted, “I got you now, insect!” And he swung Peter in a spin that sent him crashing against the side of the cage.

  “Owww,” Peter moaned softly.

  The crowd’s reaction was mixed. Some cheered the violence, but others were rooting for an upset. Clearly they liked this upstart with his dazzling gymnastic style.

  Bone Saw hauled him away from the edge of the cage and let him loll back on the floor. “You know,” said Peter, feeling woozy, trying to pull himself together, “technically it’s ‘arachnid.’ ”

  If the students in Peter’s class hadn’t seemed interested in the specifics of spiders, Bone Saw seemed even less so. He barreled toward Peter, whose spider sense was now screaming at him over the imminent danger. Peter, his mind snapped clear by the intensity of the warning, looked up in time to see Bone Saw leaping at him with a flying-elbow. In a second, that elbow would be slamming down into Peter’s chest, very likely breaking several of his ribs.

  Fortunately for Peter, he didn’t need a whole second. Instead he brought his feet up, catching Bone Saw in the chest just in time to use the brute’s own speed and strength against him. At exactly the right moment, Peter uncoiled his legs like a python snapping at its prey and sent Bone Saw hurtling across the cage, slamming with full force into the iron bars. The entire cage shook from the impact, and Bone Saw sank to the mat unconscious.

  Peter couldn’t believe it. Neither could the crowd. For a long moment there was dead silence. And then, as if with one throat, the crowd erupted in a joyful chant.

  “Spider-Man! Spider-Man! Spider-Man!”

  Springing to his feet and realizing that he didn’t feel the least bit winded, Peter spread his arms wide, drinking in the adulation.

  “Ahhhh … showbiz,” he said.

  “Spider-Man?” Aunt May said in slow amazement, unable to believe what she’d just witnessed on the TV screen. “Spider-Man?”

  “Apparently he does whatever a spider can,” Uncle Ben said as he pointed his remote control and shut off the TV.

  “What nonsense. I’ll tell you, Ben, if I were his mother, I’d give him a piece of my mind. I mean, anyone who’s clever enough to come up with tricks like he used should be able to put his mind to more creative things than … than brutality!”

  Ben reached for his keys and headed for the door. “If I ever happen to run into him, I’ll be sure to tell him you said so. In the meantime, I’ve got more than enough to worry about in trying to figure out what I’ll say to Peter.” The door closed behind him with a click.

  And as it did, Aunt May felt a chill pass through her. She had no idea why. There was just … just something about the way the door had clicked shut, a sort of finality to the sound… .

  Then she shrugged it off and went to put on a sweater.

  Peter, still in his costume but holding the balaclava in his hand, stared at the single hundred-dollar bill that the promoter was handing to him.

  They were up in his office, upstairs at the arena. It was seedy and the corner of the desk was propped up by a phone book. The promoter dabbed at his sweaty, balding head with a handkerchief as he said brusquely, “Now get outta here.”

  “A hundred bucks!” Peter said incredulously. “The ad said three thousand!”

  “Check it again, webhead,” said the clearly irritated promoter. “It said three grand for three minutes. You pinned him in two. For that I’ll give you a hundred, and you’re lucky to get it.” He came around the desk and waved a fat cigar in Peter’s face. “You made my best fighter look like a girl out there.”

  Peter felt rage building up inside him. He’d punched Flash Thompson into the middle of next week, and Flash still got Mary Jane and was the big hero. He’d flattened the terror of the ring, the great Bone Saw, and now this yutz wouldn’t even give him the money owed him. What the hell did he have to do to get some respect?

  Barely containing his fury, Peter practically snarled in the guy’s face. “I need that money.”

  For a moment the promoter looked intimidated. But then he looked into Peter’s eyes and obviously realized that—despite his ire—Peter posed no threat. He wasn’t going to break the guy in half, no matter how tempting it might be.

  “I missed the part where this is my problem,” he said coolly.

  Peter fairly trembled with rage and then, disgusted with the promoter for his trickery and with himself for what he perceived as weakness of character, he turned and stalked away. As he walked out the door, he passed a squirrelly looking man on the way in, his hair dyed platinum blonde, his gaze darting about in agitation. For a heartbeat he met Peter’s eyes, and then he looked away. Good, Peter thought, at least someone has respect for me.

 
; Stalking down the hallway, he clutched the hundred-dollar bill in his hand, muttering under his breath. Part of him tried to find the upside. It was, after all, a hundred bucks for two minutes work. It was the most money he’d ever seen in his life. But it really wasn’t about the money; it was about what he’d done to earn it, about what he’d risked—the pain, the humiliation. And in return, all he’d received was more humiliation at the hands of that weasel promoter, refusing to fork over what he’d been promised, what he’d earned, what he’d …

  “Hey!” It was the promoter’s voice, shouting from his office. “What the hell do you—?!”

  Peter thought, just for an instant, that the promoter had been yelling at him. Maybe he’d had a change of heart and was going to try and do right by him. That was when the door of the office banged open, shattering the glass, and out darted the blonde-haired man, clutching a canvas bag.

  “Help! That guy stole the gate, he’s got my money!” came the outraged howling of the promoter.

  From the far end of the corridor, a security guard—middle-aged, out of shape, huffing and puffing—ran down the hallway as best he could. The thief was charging right toward Peter, and just behind the teen, the elevator door opened, accompanied by a cheerful ding.

  “Hey! You!” the security guard shouted to Peter. “Stop that guy!”

  Peter instantly knew what he was going to do, was going to say.

  And the moment he came to his conclusion, he reviewed it from all angles. He knew it was contemptible and spat in the face of all the conscientiousness he had practiced throughout his lifetime.

  Yet all he could think was that all that conscientiousness, all that fair play, had come down to two things and two things only: Flash Thompson had Mary Jane, and the promoter had his money. Except now the thief had the promoter’s money, and dammit, sometimes karma evened out faster than expected. All he had to do was stay out of karma’s way, and the unjust would get what they deserved.

  So with smug satisfaction, with more of a sense of rightness than he’d felt in ages—perhaps ever—Peter stepped back and allowed the thief to dash into the elevator.

  “Thanks, pal,” grunted the thief as the doors slid shut.

  The security guard got there a heartbeat after the doors closed and slammed his fists against them in frustration. He whirled toward Peter and bellowed, “What the hell’s the matter with you?! You just let him go!”

  And sure enough, there was the promoter. Better and better: There was a large red welt growing on his forehead where the thief had clocked him. So Peter had taken the high road and the promoter had still gotten the worst of the deal. Oh, yes, payback was definitely a bitch. And then the promoter said exactly what Peter had hoped he’d say: “You coulda taken that guy apart! Now he’s gonna get away with my money!”

  Savoring every syllable, Peter responded, “I missed the part where this is my problem.”

  He stared at the promoter long enough to watch the guy’s face turn purple with rage, then he turned his back on him and walked away, humming. It hadn’t been such a bad evening after all. Granted, he was out $2,900 dollars. But it was almost worth it just to see payback occur that quickly.

  Almost.

  XI.

  THE SHOOTER

  Peter was running late, and that alone was enough to make him nervous.

  His original plan was to get back to the library early enough that he could come trotting down the stairs to meet Uncle Ben, who was supposed to give him a ride home. He didn’t want Uncle Ben to see him emerging from the subway station down the street, having taken the subway over to the arena.

  Unfortunately he’d wasted so much time arguing with the promoter that he was returning to the vicinity of the library later than he’d intended. Well, why not? Every other thing in his evening had gone wrong. Why not this? He just had to hope and pray that Uncle Ben didn’t spot him coming up from the station or that Uncle Ben was running late himself.

  Dressed in his street clothes, Peter trotted up to the corner where his uncle was supposed to meet him. He let out a sigh of relief. Uncle Ben was nowhere in sight. He looked around, trying to see if perhaps he’d parked across the street, but there was no sign of him. So he was running later. Or maybe he’d gotten there early, and some cop had told him he couldn’t stand there, so he was circling the block. That also made sense, particularly since Peter spotted a police car at a far corner, its light blinking steadily. Yes, that was definitely it; the police had turned out to make sure no one blocked the front of the library. So Uncle Ben would likely be pulling up any moment, Peter would jump in quickly, and off they’d go. The only question in Peter’s mind was whether to show Uncle Ben the hundred dollars … no. No, his new vocation would only pass muster if Peter had some serious money in hand. Maybe he—

  Then another police car raced by, its siren blaring, stopping short to join the first one. There was an ambulance siren in the distance, drawing closer.

  That was when Peter started to get a gnawing, uneasy feeling in his stomach. Because there were two police cars here, and an ambulance approaching, and Uncle Ben wasn’t here. The calm, logical part of his mind told him that it was pure coincidence. There couldn’t possibly be any sort of connection.

  Even as he thought that, though, he started walking toward the corner where the police cars were. Pedestrians, onlookers, rubberneckers were also starting to gather, and wasn’t that a considerable number of people, and wouldn’t Uncle Ben drive up at just about any moment and wonder what all the hubbub was about? And as Peter climbed into the car, Uncle Ben would make some sort of comment about how blasted nosy people could be, and what the hell was happening to people in this country, anyway, that they were so obsessed with other people’s misfortunes. Then Peter would agree with him and, having found common ground, Peter would apologize for earlier and this time he’d know that Uncle Ben heard him, and maybe they’d go to Carvel for a sundae, and Peter would tell him everything, be totally straight and just take what came, because when it came down to it they were family, and always would be family, and they’d make everything better.

  The entire rosy scenario, and a dozen variations on it, played through his mind as he headed down the block, walking first and then walk-running and then a flat-out run. He got to the outer perimeter of the crowd and it was as if people weren’t even there. He just started pushing them out of the way as a pounding began to throb in his temple, and it had to be that he was just imagining another worst case scenario. Uncle Ben, you’re gonna laugh. I saw these cop cars and heard an ambulance and I was thinking that something happened to you! Just me being paranoid, right? And Uncle Ben would look at him solemnly, although with a twinkle in his eye, and intone, Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, Peter. And they would laugh and laugh …

  He shoved through to the front of the crowd, ignoring the shouts of “Hey!” and “Watch it!” and he stared, dumbfounded, at the body of some old man lying in the street. There was blood pooling on the pavement under his body, and on his chest where he’d obviously been shot, and the old man looked very small and very unimpressive, really. Peter had never actually seen a dead body before, or someone about to die—whichever this guy was—and he realized on some level that he should be repulsed or horrified. Instead he was just disconnected, as if he was in shock over seeing his Uncle Ben lying in the street like leftover rubbish, except this guy wasn’t Uncle Ben. No, heck no, hell no, he didn’t look a thing like Uncle Ben. Yeah, okay, there was a faint, passing resemblance, and he was wearing the exact same clothes that Uncle Ben had been wearing earlier, and his hair was pretty much the same color as Uncle Ben’s. And there was some similarity around the eyes and nose, but this definitely was not Uncle Ben, no way, no how, because the big difference was that Uncle Ben was safe and sound and alive, whereas this poor schmuck was lying in the street, and either he was dead as a doornail or was going to be soon, and therefore could not possibly, no way, no how, be … be … />
  … be …

  “Uncle Ben!” screamed Peter as his world collapsed around him, and he lunged toward the corpse, but the police held him back. In truth Peter could have picked them up and juggled them, but he was too unfocused in his confusion and shock. As a result the policemen were able to restrain him, but just barely. They exchanged silent, surprised looks with one another that such an unassuming-looking teenager could give them such a tussle.

  “Hang on, hang on!” shouted one of the cops, who was wearing a name tag that said, LIEBER. The cop next to him, Ditko, was almost knocked on his ass by Peter’s struggles.

  “My uncle! That’s my uncle!”

  “That’s not gonna help him!” Ditko said, trying to brace himself against Peter’s onslaught.

  “What happened?!”

  “Carjacker,” Lieber told him. “He’s been shot.”

  Peter tried to shove past to get to him. He nearly succeeded, lifting Lieber clear off his feet and slamming him back down again with such force that Lieber almost collapsed from the impact. Ditko, standing behind him, his arms wrapped around Peter’s waist, nodded for other cops to help them as he shouted in Peter’s ear, “Hold on, kid! You can’t help the guy!”

  “The guy?! He’s not ‘the guy!’ He’s my uncle!”

  And then they couldn’t hold him anymore, because Peter yanked his arms clear of them and ran over to Ben. He dropped down onto the street, cradling his head in his lap, and cried out, “Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben, it’s me! Peter!”

  He can’t be dead he can’t be dead, the words kept going through his mind, as if he could bring Uncle Ben back through sheer force of will. And then, slowly, Uncle Ben opened his eyes, his mouth forming a smile that seemed to be coming from very far away. He mouthed, “Peter,” and that was when Peter knew beyond any doubt that Uncle Ben was going to make it.

  Then Uncle Ben’s head slumped back, and there was that rattle, that awful rattle that Peter would remember every minute of every day for the rest of his life. And Ben was off to be with his brother.