Marvel Novel Series 01 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Mayhem In Manhattan

by Len Wein

Spider-Man, meanwhile, crouched in the shadows behind Rand. He watched as the policeman moved through the darkness to the opposite side of the roof. Then he took a deep breath as he reached into his belt and extracted several spare cartridges of web-fluid to refill the remarkable devices at his wrists. Rand turned, coming toward him now, and Spidey’s pulse quickened.

  Okay, Parker, easy now. Just slide those little cartridges into the web-shooters under your gloves. A moment longer, and that cop is bound to spot you. And even though you’ve been saying your prayers like a good little Web-slinger, God won’t be able to help you. Not this time, good buddy.

  The final web-cartridge clicked into place, and Rand whirled at the faint sound, only to find himself face-to-face with a red-and-blue-garbed demon. A cold sweat began to soak through his clothing, but William Rand was a professional cop, a man with twenty years of experience.

  “Okay, Spider-Man—FREEZE! I don’t want to shoot, but I will if I have to. For your own sake, please, don’t move a muscle.”

  The reply was eerie; Spider-Man’s deep voice was muffled by his mask, giving it an odd, unnatural quality that frightened Rand. “Don’t worry, friend, I’m not at all inclined to suicide. I won’t move an inch.”

  For a moment Rand relaxed, his gaze transfixed by those two huge, glaring white orbs that returned his stare coldly. He found he couldn’t tear his glance away. Those eyes. Those two great evil eyes. And thus, he failed to notice as the center fingers of each hand curled surreptitiously in toward the palms.

  The sudden “thwipping” sound shattered Rand’s momentary trance, but it was already far too late. Twin strands of webbing from the Wall-crawler’s wrists quickly covered Rand’s eyes and mouth, then proceeded down his body, binding him from head to toe like a mummy from some old Universal thriller. His arms were pinned helplessly to his sides, and his revolver clattered onto the tar-papered roof.

  Within moments, Rand found himself hanging from a tall airduct, swaying slightly in the breeze. He struggled like a madman, but couldn’t begin to free himself. The webbing was almost as strong as iron. Spider-Man peered at the helpless officer sadly, and his voice was almost a whisper as he spoke.

  “Even though I know you won’t believe me, I want you to know that I’m innocent. I had nothing to do with that poor man’s death. Yeah, I know you’ve got your duty, and that as soon as my webbing dissolves, which’ll be in about an hour by the way, you’ll report this, and there’ll be an all-points bulletin out for my capture.

  “But while you’re looking for me, I’ll be looking for whoever is really responsible for that killing, and heaven help him if I find him before you do. I’m tired of being everybody’s fall guy in this town, and it’s time I put an end to it.”

  With that, Spider-Man whirled and fired his webbing at the jutting cornice of a building across the way, a fifty-six-story high-rise whose penthouse balcony looked out over Central Park West, and whose penthouse balcony doors still stood awkwardly open. But the Web-crawler did not notice this as he swung away across the city. After all, why should he?

  Below, on the rooftop, Willie Rand struggled against the webbing that bound him. He was certain Carver would find him soon, still trussed up like some Thanksgiving turkey, and Rand wondered how the Captain would take it when Carver turned in his report and “Iron-butt” Berrigan found out that Rand had been captured by Spider-Man, rather than the other way around.

  Silently, Rand decided he would have to forget Carver’s little quick-triggered burst of enthusiasm earlier, as long as Carver agreed never to mention Rand’s particular cause of embarrassment. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Man, how appropriate.

  Why me? The question echoed and re-echoed in Spider-Man’s mind as he swung high over the city, heading for his Chelsea apartment and a hot Epsom salt bath.

  Why me, Lord? Why me?

  Three

  “GUILTY,” the judge cried, his pronouncement echoing and re-echoing from the courtroom’s dark gray walls. “Yep, you’re as guilty as sin.” He cackled madly, peering down over his bench, his hawkish eyes piercing the gathering haze like icepicks. “And now, the time has come to pronounce sentence!” Spider-Man screamed in protest, lurching against the defendant’s chair to which he was bound—but the thick metal bands that held him would not give way, and the Wall-crawler slumped back into his seat, defeated.

  Desperately, the Web-slinger’s eyes darted to the jury, but they stood, fingers jutting accusingly, as they voiced their verdict: “FREAK! MENACE! FIEND!” As one, they leaped from the jury box, lunging at him, their clawlike fingers ripping away at his crimson mask, exposing the tormented features of Peter Parker beneath.

  From the public gallery came a sudden, piercing scream, and Parker turned in terror. “Aunt May! Sweet God—AUNT MAY!” Frantically he struggled to free himself as he stared at the frail, hunched, gray-haired old woman clutching feebly at her chest with gnarled, rheumatic fingers. Her breathing was heavy, terribly labored.

  Painfully, the stricken woman cried out, her words punctuated by tearful sobs. “Peter . . . sweet, darling, gentle Peter . . . you can’t be that vicious Spider-Man . . . you can’t . . . you mustn’t . . .” And, with that, May Parker crumpled to the floor.

  Instantly the raging crowd around the grief-stricken Spider-Man parted, the restraining metal shackles vanished, and with one incredible stride the Web-slinger was at his aunt’s side. Gently, he cradled the old woman in his arms, unable to speak as she sputtered out her words. “Why, Peter . . . why? We loved you, your Uncle Ben and I. We took care of you after your parents died. But your indifference killed your Uncle Ben, Peter . . . and now, you’re killing me.”

  Tears welled up in Parker’s eyes. He wanted to explain that he hadn’t killed his loving uncle; that he’d let the thief who would eventually murder Ben Parker escape because he hadn’t wanted to get involved; that he would do anything now to make up for his tragic mistake. But, no matter how hard he tried, Peter Parker could no longer speak.

  Then, May Parker’s eyes closed . . . forever, and a solitary wail of despair shook the courtroom. In horror, Peter looked up, to see his aunt’s shimmering ghost floating toward him, her bony finger pointing at him accusingly, her mouth a cold, hard line. “FREAK! MENACE! FIEND!

  “It serves you right,” shouted the judge from behind his immense bench, “Murdering a nice little old lady like that. I think the time has come for me to finally pronounce sentence.” Smiling maniacally, the judge raised his heavy gavel high above his head, and brought it down savagely on the bench top. “Spider-Man, this court sentences you to be hung by the neck until dead . . . dead . . . dead!” And with each angry word, his gavel pounded . . . pounded . . .

  . . . Pounded, until the banging finally penetrated Peter Parker’s shroud of sleep. More than a little reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The reality of his cluttered apartment, at first blurred, swiftly sharpened into focus as the pounding persisted.

  Thank God, he thought. It was all a dream . . . only a dream. He casually mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his pajama top, and he was not really all that surprised when the sleeve came away heavily stained with sweat.

  Still bleary-eyed, Parker shook the cobwebs from his head, and his tousled brown hair settled back to its customary widow’s peak. Sliding clumsily into his slippers, he pulled on his bathrobe and stumbled to the door.

  “All right already,” Parker mumbled at the relentless pounding as he fumbled open the locks. He found himself face-to-face with the normally effervescent Mary Jane Watson, her fist poised mere inches from his face, ready to strike the peeling door once more.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Mary Jane snarled, her usually glowing showgirl face marred by a definite pout, her long red hair swirling about her. “I thought maybe you’d drowned in the bathtub or something.”

  “I take it from this you’re not exactly in the best of moods, Mary Jane. Anything I can do to help?”

  “You bet your butt there is, bust
er,” she replied, storming past Peter into the apartment. “You can start with an explanation. I mean, I don’t want to presssure you, tiger, but do we or don’t we have a—quote—understanding—unquote? To be honest, I don’t really care that much one way or another, but I’d like to know for sure.”

  For a moment Peter stood mute, wondering if this was just another part of his nightmare. Then, deciding it was all too real, he slumped into a tattered armchair and sighed. “You mind running through that again, M.J.—maybe a little slower this time? My head feels like Mean Joe Green has been using it for a tackling dummy.”

  Her deep green eyes studying Parker carefully, Mary Jane crossed the room to where the giant stuffed bear and wooden cigar store Indian reposed against one wall of Peter’s crazy-quilt apartment, a two-room catastrophe decorated in Early Salvation Army.

  Then her pouting face brightened into a smile that could light up Times Square for a week. “Either you’re a better liar than I ever gave you credit for, tiger—or you really don’t know what I’m angry about.”

  “Give the lady a soggy cigar,” Peter replied.

  “Sorry, brown-eyes, but when I heard how you and this Cindy Sayers chick were supposed to be getting it on, I blew my stack.”

  “Sandy who? Pretty lady, would you mind very much telling me what time it is and what the devil is going on?”

  “It’s a little after ten-thirty, lover. And her name is Cindy, not Sandy. She’s the hotshot new photographer that J. Jonah Jameson has supposedly teamed you up with.”

  Peter yawned, his next few words coming out in an almost-unintelligible drawl. “. . . known better, babe. I wouldn’t listen to Jolly Jonah if he told me my pants were on fire. Was he the bright-eyed wonder who informed you about this Sandy and me?”

  “It’s Cindy, Peter . . . Cindy! The one with the .44 caliber figure? And it was Jonah’s secretary, Glory Grant, who called me. She said Jameson was strutting around the office like an overfed vulture, introducing this incredible doll to everyone and telling them she was working with you. According to Glory, by the time this Cindy left the office, all the guys had to spend the next few minutes wiping the steam off their glasses.”

  Wearily, Peter shook his head again and stretched his arms awkwardly toward the ceiling. “You just give me a few minutes to shower and dress, Mary Jane, and I think the two of us will pay a little visit to New York’s most ludicrous newspaper publisher.

  “It’s time the presumptuous J. Jonah Jameson and I had ourselves a talk.”

  Four

  The elevator slid open on the forty-seventh floor of the Daily Bugle building, depositing a still-exhausted Peter Parker and an anxious Mary Jane Watson right into the thick of a hectic, noisy editorial office.

  Copyboys scurried by, carrying trays of fresh copy to compositors on the building’s lower floors. The closely spaced desks formed narrow aisles, through which harried secretaries darted, checking on calls to be made, errands to be run, and how many Danish to buy for the coffee break that would begin in a few minutes.

  A table boy peered up from his envelope-stuffing and grinned at the approaching Peter. “Hey, how’s it coming, brother Parker? Ain’t seen you around here for days.” His voice became a whisper. “And frankly, man, I don’t blame you a bit. Jameson’s really something, good buddy. I’ve never seen him this happy before. I mean, yesterday, he actually gave someone a raise. All of ten cents an hour, but still—

  “I tell you, Pete, something is definitely up.”

  Peter grinned back at the black youth, who was only a year or two younger than himself. Randy Robertson was a good friend, and the son of the Bugle’s city editor, Joe Robertson. He was working odd jobs around the office after school, learning the newspaper trade from the ground up.

  “Maybe Jameson bit a dog on his way to work,” Peter commented. “Heaven only knows what turns him on.”

  Randy shook his head. “Nah, I think it’s this Spider-Man business. The police have an all-points bulletin out on him, you know . . . for murder! Jonah plastered banner headlines all over the front page of this morning’s edition, warning the world at large to be on the lookout for the Web-slinger. He’s also begun a new series reprinting all his old editorials condemning Spidey—just to prove he was right all along.”

  Randy paused a moment, then shook his head in mock-seriousness. “The old buzzard is in seventh heaven, Pete, and I don’t know how much longer the rest of us can stand it.”

  “All I want to know is whether or not he’s in his office,” Peter said. Randy nodded, and with Mary Jane firmly in tow, Parker moved on.

  Through two sets of glass doors, past the editorial pool, the Xerox machines, the rows of steel filing cabinets, lies the mahogany-panelled office of J. Jonah Jameson, publisher and editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, New York’s second-largest newspaper.

  Jameson had begun his career much like Randy Robertson: running errands, learning the trade, doing minor copy-editing, rewriting, editing, reporting. During his days covering the City Hall beat, Jameson uncovered the now-famous payroll scandal. He investigated the case almost single-handedly for two long years, mostly on his own time, until he was able to prove beyond a doubt that nine major city officials had systematically embezzled over $24 million of the taxpayers’ money. Jameson had been one of the city’s earliest investigative reporters, long before that term became fashionable. There was no doubt about his credentials. The only area of doubt concerned Jameson’s almost-psychotic hatred of the web-slinging Spider-Man.

  From the moment the Wall-crawler first appeared Jameson had, for some still-unknown reason, made it his personal mission in life to prove to the public what a threat the mysterious Spider-Man really was. These unwarranted attacks, and constant harassment by Jameson, had long since created undying animosity between them.

  Which is all the more ironic when one considers that Jolly Jonah’s star free-lance photographer is Spider-Man, in his other identity as Peter Parker. Years before, Peter had decided that so long as Jameson was going to decry Spider-Man anyway, the Web-slinger might as well make some sort of profit on the deal. Thus, Parker had developed a special remote-controlled camera that would unerringly zero in on the spider-insignia stitched upon Spider-Man’s chest, and that allowed Peter to earn an almost-comfortable living by selling high-quality photos of himself in action.

  Gloria Grant, Jameson’s vivacious black secretary, buzzed the publisher’s office. “Yes, Miss Grant,” responded Jameson, his voice humming over the intercom. “How can I be of service to you, my dear?”

  “Peter Parker is here to see you, boss.”

  “Well then, show the dear boy in, by all means. We can’t keep a loyal employee waiting now, can we?” Peter almost flinched at the syrupy tone of Jonah’s voice.

  Gloria clicked off the intercom and turned to Peter, shaking her head wearily. “Lord, he’s been like this all day. And I can’t take much more of it. This morning he handed me one of his cheap cigars.

  “I swear to you, Peter, if he keeps this up much longer, I’m going to quit.”

  Peter laughed. “Just hang in there, Glory. It can’t continue. Jonah’s gonna give himself diabetes if he persists.”

  Gloria smiled wistfully. “You’d better go on in, Pete. And if you catch him smiling, please try not to laugh.

  “It’s not his fault he looks like a middle-aged shark.”

  Peter and Mary Jane strolled into Jameson’s spacious office. Grinning grotesquely, Jonah rose from his reclining chair, then offered his guests a cigar. “And how’s my favorite photographer this fine day? We reprinted several of your best Spider-Man shots in this morning’s edition, Parker. And the way I’m feeling right now, we might even pay you for them again.”

  Jameson peered out at the panorama of his city through the office window. “You don’t know what it’s like, my boy, to have your deepest beliefs publicly confirmed at last. It’s like—”

  Peter cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Jameson—”r />
  Jameson grinned. “Jonah, my boy, Jonah. Here, have a cigar. You’re welcome to one too, my dear.”

  A stewardess’s plastic smile crossed Mary Jane’s face as she stifled the urge to tell Jameson where he could stick his ten-cent El Ropo Special. Peter mirrored Mary Jane’s smile, knowing full well what was going through her pretty head.

  “Mr. Jameson . . . uh . . . Jonah? All I really want is to find out about this Sandy Sayers person you claim is working with me.”

  “That’s Cindy, Peter, not Sandy,” Mary Jane said.

  “Whichever. I still want to know what gives Jonah here the right to decide who works with me. The last I remember, I was still a freelancer.”

  For a moment Jameson’s face hardened, the plastered smile falling away into a scowl. The saccharine twinkle in his eye grew dark, and, if you listened closely, you could almost hear his pulse quicken. Then, catching himself, Jameson’s façade returned. From pussycat, to panther, to pussycat, in less than a second.

  “Cindy Sayers is my . . . ah . . . niece, Parker. She’s interested in learning the newspaper business, particularly photojournalism, and I’ve decided she should learn from the best.”

  Jameson laid his arm, serpent-like, across Peter’s shoulder. “And, naturally, my boy, the best there is is you.”

  Angrily, Parker slipped out from under Jameson’s heavy grasp. “I’d like to say I appreciate the thought, Jonah, but I don’t. I work alone, mister, and that’s the way I like it.

  “Nothing personal, Jonah, but I don’t want to work with your niece. Hell, I don’t even want to meet your niece. Your merely bandying her name about has already gotten me in Dutch with Mary Jane here. For which, by the way, I think you’d better apologize.

  “Have I made myself clear?” Peter asked.

  “As glass, my boy, but I still think you ought to reconsider. This is the sort of chance you don’t get every day. In fact, Parker, this may be your last chance.”

  The sudden cutting edge to Jameson’s voice momentarily startled even himself. “You kids these days take too much for granted. You think the whole blasted world owes you a living. Well, I had to work damned hard to become what I am today.”