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

by Len Wein

  “In God’s name, Octopus, watch your tentacles. If one of those sparks strikes the geyser of oil, it will—”

  A sudden devastating explosion drowned out the rest of the Web-slinger’s anxious warning as the fountain of oil became a furious pillar of flame. It devoured Doctor Octopus in an instant, before he could ever strike bottom.

  Within seconds the flames spread across the platform, turning Project Recovery into a hellish inferno that threatened to engulf the sea itself.

  It was a blaze that would take days to finally burn itself out, and it would take months to finally control the resulting pollution. By summer, few people would recall that a towering structure of iron and steel had ever stood there, three miles off the coast The sea would reclaim its own.

  Aboard the Coast Guard cutter, J. Jonah Jameson stood by the rail, his craggy jaw slack with astonishment. The sea had stopped churning now, and he fervently wished that his stomach would do the same. Joe Robertson stood beside him, a paper cup of hot coffee pressed to his lips. The coffee was black. Robertson hated his coffee that way, but right now, he wanted—no, actually, he needed the bitterness to take his mind off the catastrophe he had just witnessed.

  “There hasn’t been a sign of him, Jonah. After all this time, I can’t believe Spider-Man is actually gone.” Robbie shook his head in solemn resignation. He supposed somehow he’d always thought that Spider-Man would be around forever, to drive Jonah Jameson crazy and provide excitement when excitement was needed. Death just seemed so incredibly final.

  “So he’s dead, Robertson. So what? We didn’t ask him to sacrifice his life for us. That’s what we pay the police for. And we sure as hell never needed any costumed vigilantes prowling our streets. He took the law into his own hands, and now he’s paid for it. I, for one, won’t miss him in the slightest.”

  Joe Robertson exploded. “Why, you self-serving little snit! You wouldn’t even be here right now if it wasn’t for Spider-Man. He saved your life, my life, the lives of every person on that platform. And you have the audacity to berate him for it? I always allowed for your blind hatred of Spider-Man in the past, Jonah—except for that quirk, you were the best newsman in town—but this borders on the psychotic. A man has died so that we could live, and you don’t really care at all, do you?”

  Jameson turned away from Robertson, his face ashen. “You just don’t understand me, Robbie. You never really did. Sure, Spider-Man’s a big hero now, his picture will probably be splashed across the front page of every paper in town tomorrow. Spider-Man will be glorified again, and for what? Why him, Robbie? What has he done to deserve it? I’ve spent a lifetime trying to help the people of this city. I’ve given them my time, my money, my love. And I’ve never received a single word of thanks in return.

  “But let some clown show up in a flashy costume, blowing his horn all over town, and the people flock to him in droves, worshiping at his feet. I’m just tired of seeing the glory-seekers win all the time, Robbie. It’s the little man who should come out on top, the man in the street. If children need a hero to emulate, let them find him in someone other than a web-slinging lunatic like Spider-Man. Let them find him in a real human being.”

  “Jonah—?” Joe Robertson’s voice trailed off, forcing his old friend to turn to him once more. “Jonah, who do you suppose is wearing that gaudy costume? There’s a man wearing it, Jonah. A good man, I think. A man who lets his actions speak louder than his words. He could take off his mask and claim all the credit and the glory he deserves, but he doesn’t, and there’s a reason for that. So long as he wears that mask, he could be anyone. He could be you, he could be me—he could even be someone like Peter Parker. So long as he wears that costume and that mask, Spider-Man remains a symbol—a symbol of what any man who hates injustice and who fights for the good can become.

  “That’s the way his epitaph is going to be written, Jonah, and God help you if you try to do anything to prevent it.”

  For once in his life, J. Jonah Jameson was speechless.

  In the lonely, silent hours before dawn, the Atlantic had grown uncommonly calm. Waves lapped against Long Island’s eastern shore gently; old newspapers and empty potato chip bags rolled across the sand in the wafting breeze. The beaches were deserted, and thus there was no one to bear witness when a small, scorched cocoon of finely spun webbing rolled in with the tide, to lie upon the beach like some discarded bit of flotsam.

  For a time, the cocoon did not move, but after a while it began to shudder, and at last a crimson-gloved hand burst out into the growing light. A moment later, and a human figure, clad in red-and-azure tatters, stood beside the ruptured cocoon. He had thrown himself skyward in the instant before Doctor Octopus’s sparking tentacles had ignited the fountain of oil, and the explosion had hurled him away from the doomed and dying oil platform as if he’d been shot from a cannon. Doctor Octopus himself had not been nearly so lucky.

  Several minutes passed. The bedraggled figure regained his breath, straining to muster a weary smile. Then he turned, and headed home.

  Man, it had been a long night.

  Nineteen

  The following morning at the Daily Bugle was unlike any its employees could recall. J. Jonah Jameson had entered without his customary sputter and bluster. He had gone straight to his office, closing the door behind him.

  Joe Robertson had arrived at the office equally glum, handing a stack of typewritten papers to the copyboy and telling him to rush them to the composing room.

  Among the staff there was surprisingly little chatter, and little desire for any. Nobody dared to ask Jameson or Robertson where they had been or why they had been gone for so long. Rumors were abounding.

  It was into this unnatural silence that Mary Jane Watson stepped, whistling happily. She tossed a friendly smile to Glory Grant. “Hey, what’s with this place this morning? Everyone looks like they’re practicing for a funeral.”

  Glory shrugged her slim shoulders. “Who knows, Mary Jane? From some of the rumors I’ve heard this morning, maybe we are. They say Spider-Man was killed in an explosion last night, saving the lives of Robbie and Jonah. And the two of them have been arguing about it ever since. Nobody knows for sure, though. Jameson is uncommonly quiet, and Robbie won’t talk.

  “Hey, where’s Peter?”

  Mary Jane smiled. “Running late, as usual. When I stopped by to collect him this morning he looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. He’s in Joe Robertson’s office now, discussing the fate of the world or something. He should be along in a—” Before Mary Jane could finish her sentence the door to Joe Robertson’s office opened, and Peter Parker came strolling out.

  “Morning, Ms. Grant. And how are you this fine morning?”

  Glory was bemused. “Neighbor, you look like the cat that ate the ever-loving canary. Why all the smiles from a guy who should be standing on an unemployment line even as we speak?”

  “Tsk tsk, dear lady. You should have more faith in the power of positive thinking. I just checked with Robbie, and he’s promised to speak with Jameson about rehiring me. And from the tone of Robbie’s voice, I gather that Jolly Jonah would be wise to put me back on the payroll—if he values his life. What’s going on between those two, anyway?”

  Mary Jane Watson threw her arms around Peter happily. “Congratulations, tiger. I told you they couldn’t keep a good man down. What would this so-called newspaper do without the services of their best photographer?”

  The door to Joe Robertson’s office opened again and Robbie himself stepped out, an expression of concern crossing his dark face. Peter’s face mirrored Robbie’s concern as the city editor strode toward Glory Grant’s desk. “Something wrong, Robbie?” Glory asked.

  Joe Robertson shook his head. “I’m not sure, Glory. I called to talk to him about Peter, but Jonah didn’t answer his private line. He is still in his office, isn’t he?”

  “He was last time I looked, Robbie. I’ve been sitting here all morning, and I haven’t seen him leave.”
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  Anxiously, Robertson grabbed the knob and threw open the door to Jameson’s inner office as Mary Jane and Glory crowded around him. Peter Parker stood back a few feet, struggling to suppress a smile. He had, after all, made one brief detour before he’d dropped in to see Robbie.

  For an instant, Joe Robertson stood framed in the doorway. Then despite himself, he started laughing. For there in the middle of his office, dangling from a strand of webbing three feet over his desk, was J. Jonah Jameson, his arms bound to his sides, a gag across his mouth. Pinned to his posterior was a note which read, “Compliments of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. P.S. Hi, guys, I’m back in action.”

  Jameson struggled vainly against his bonds, squirming like a worm on the end of a hook—a pretty fair comparison, all things considered. Still chuckling, Joe Robertson pulled away Jameson’s gag, unleashing a torrent of verbal abuse. “I swear to you, Robertson, you breathe one word of this to anyone, and I’ll see to it that you’re fired. You’ll never work on another paper in this city! You’ll never work anywhere on the face of this earth again!

  “In pity’s name, Robbie, get me down from here!”

  There was a click, a whirr, and Jameson looked toward the doorway to see Peter Parker leaning against the jamb, happily snapping away with the camera that was perpetually slung around his neck. “Just hold that pose, Mr. Jameson. Bushkin over at the Daily Globe will pay me a bundle for these pictures.”

  “Parker, no. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t! Look, maybe I was a little hasty, firing you like that. You want your job back? You’ve got it. You want a little raise, maybe? You’ve got that too! Just put down that camera, Parker. I’m begging you—put down that camera!”

  Peter Parker smiled, the grin spreading from ear to ear. Everything was finally back to normal at last—or as close as things ever came to normal—with all the attendant traumas and crises and day-to-day hysteria.

  And, God, how he loved it.

  Table of Contents

  Back Cover

  Preview

  Titlepage

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen