Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign

by Paul Kupperberg

  “The boss told me I might be running into you, creep!” the other man answered. “I’m ready for you!”

  “Really, chuckles?”

  “Really!”

  With that, the phony Spider-Man brought his hand up and shoved it toward his captor’s face. Instead of a web-shooter at his wrist, this Spider-Man had a small nozzle that sprayed a cloud of yellow, noxious-smelling gas into the Web-slinger’s face even as his captive kicked a booted foot into his stomach.

  Spider-Man doubled over, sucking in a deep breath. Blast! Didn’t have time to hold my breath . . . not that it would’ve done much good after getting booted in the gut!

  The other man wrenched free of Spider-Man’s grip, jumping back several yards to stay out of his reach. Spider-Man straightened, glaring at the mirror-image standing before him. Strange . . . there must be a reason he gassed me, but darned if I can figure it out! That stuff may smell worse than New Jersey on a hot day, but it doesn’t seem to have affected me! Well, that’s his problem!

  At least it will be when I get my hands on him again!

  Once more, Spider-Man lunged at his opponent, but this time the other sidestepped nimbly, avoiding the Web-slinger’s grasp. Then he stepped in swiftly under Spidey’s fists and landed a blow on the Wall-crawler’s chin. Spidey’s head snapped back and he staggered slightly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Whew! Chuckles, here, is a lot faster and stronger than I thought. Maybe he got bitten by a radioactive rat when he was younger!

  A uniformed policeman raced with several others onto the speaker’s platform, surrounding the still-dazed Ian Forester with a circle of blue uniforms. His partner stood beside him, watching the struggle between the two Spider-Men with a puzzled expression on his face. He gestured helplessly with his revolver. “Jeez, Sarge,” he whispered to the man next to him, “shouldn’t we do something?”

  “What, O’Reilly? We don’t even know which one of those guys is which!”

  “Yeah, but ain’t the real Spider-Man wanted?”

  “Forget it, Patrolman,” the sargeant said testily. “I don’t care what the D.A. says about Spider-Man! He’s done a hell of a lot to help us over the years, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s okay!”

  But the Web-slinger was not okay at that moment. His criminal counterpart landed another blow to his face, sending him reeling backward and through the wooden railing at the front of the speaker’s platform. Spider-Man hit the ground with a sickening thud, but was on his feet again in mere seconds.

  Something is not quite right!

  Spidey pulled himself back up onto the platform in time to see the other man leap to the ground on the opposite side. With a single, incredible leap calculated to carry him over the platform and onto the back of his fleeing foe, Spider-Man sprang forward . . .

  . . . and tumbled awkwardly to the poured-concrete floor of the skating rink, far short of his goal!

  Lord! What’s the matter with me today!? I’m performing like somebody with two left feet, not to mention two left hands!

  He scrambled to his feet, trying to keep his eyes on the colorfully garbed figure racing desperately through the crowd.

  Can’t use my webbing to glom him . . . too many people in the way!

  Instead, he fired his webbing at the bronze railing surrounding the sunken rink, and pulled himself up over the crowd to street level. He raced around to the stairs his double had taken, planting himself in the on-rushing man’s path.

  “Hi, there! Remember me?”

  The fake Spider-Man did not break stride as he hunched down, head lowered like a football player, and barreled into the costumed youth. Spidey fell back, landing on his backside with a spine-jarring plop! His evil double kept on running past the fallen form, then headed up Fiftieth Street toward Sixth Avenue. Spider-Man scrambled to his feet and shot a strand of webbing at the fleeing man’s legs, entangling them in the thick, sticky chemical substance.

  Crunch!

  He went down, cracking his jaw on the littered pavement, and before he could even look over his shoulder, Spider-Man was on him. The Web-slinger yanked his double to his feet, pulling back his right fist menacingly.

  “Game’s over, handsome,” he said lightly. “Score’s Spider-Man: ten—Spider-Man: zero! You figure out which is which!”

  “NO!”

  The fake Spidey threw himself backward tearing free once more from the other’s grasp. A right cross sent Spider-Man tumbling in the opposite direction, dazed and more than a little startled. Sonovagun! He shook off the effects of the blow and swung his fist at his opponent, who easily ducked under it. Then the other man straightened suddenly, butting his head into the masked hero’s chest.

  “Wooof!” The breath exploded from Spidey’s lungs, and this time it took him several seconds before his vision had cleared sufficiently to resume the chase.

  The ersatz Spider-Man ran across Rockefeller Plaza, crossing in front of a car as it screeched to a stop, narrowly avoiding hitting the colorfully garbed felon. He glanced but once over his shoulder, making sure the Wall-crawler was still following him up Fiftieth Street. The impostor smiled beneath his mask.

  But even as Spider-Man ran, his lungs beginning to ache from the exertion, he knew he was in trouble! That blasted gas . . . that’s got to be it! Some kind of nerve gas to slow up my reflexes, weaken me enough to even up the odds for handsome, there!

  Spider-Man pushed roughly past a hot-dog vendor’s stand being rolled up the street, never taking his eyes from the figure just ahead. I can’t afford to try and take him one on one . . . not pumped full of this toxin! Still, I’ve got my webbing . . . He aimed his web-shooters at the fleeing man. His middle fingers curled to touch the hidden buttons in his palms.

  And the phony Spider-Man ducked into the RCA Building.

  Eleven

  Fahthwhoooosh!

  A small ball of fire and black smoke exploded mere inches from Spider-Man’s eyes as he came charging through the revolving doors that led into 30 Rockefeller Center. His double stood in the middle of the rapidly clearing lobby, preparing to throw another small, square object at the Web-slinger. Spidey fired a line of webbing over his head at the ornate ceiling, and pulled himself straight up, over the second exploding object.

  “Tug McGraw you ain’t, handsome,” he murmured. He swung himself through the air on the webbing, propelling himself to the lobby’s far wall, where he clung like a giant spider. But the fake Spider-Man no longer seemed to be interested in his opponent as he sprinted for the bank of elevators which led to the uppermost floors of the building. Spider-Man fired his webbing after the fleeing figure, but the chemical substance splattered harmlessly against the closing elevator doors.

  Spider-Man cursed softly beneath his mask as he leaped from his perch on the wall to the floor. He landed unsteadily, his sense of balance still impaired by the mysterious gas that had invaded his nervous system.

  Each bank of elevators in the New York headquarters of NBC Television were watched over by a building security guard whose job it was to make sure visitors did indeed have appointments on the floors above and that those who did not never made it past the lobby. Tourists and the curious were easy for them to handle. Costumed superheroes who ripped open steel elevator doors like tissue paper were not! Thus, the awe-struck guard at this bank of elevators stood open-mouthed and staring as Spider-Man did just that before leaping into the dark, empty shaft.

  Hand over hand, Spider-Man climbed the greasy steel cable, moving faster than the mechanism which ran the elevator toward the top of the shaft. He strained his ears, listening for the sound of the elevator in the next shaft which carried his costumed imitator. It continued nonstop toward the top of the building.

  Moments later, Spider-Man reached the double steel doors at the top of the shaft. The other elevator was several floors below, but still rising to the top. Spider-Man leaped from the cable, his feet adhering to the wall of the shaft beside the door. He forced his gloved fingers into the rack be
tween the two doors and pulled, his teeth grinding together with the effort. This was a heck of a lot easier downstairs. The nerve gas must have a progressive effect based on the amount of exertion I expend.

  With a loud, metallic meshing of gears, the doors began to give way under Spider-Man’s efforts. “C’mon baby,” he urged himself on under his breath. “You can do it!” At least, that’s what it says in my official bio!

  Finally, the twin doors opened and Spider-Man tumbled out of the shaft onto a plushly carpeted floor. A woman screamed.

  Spider-Man rose groggily to his feet. Whew! That took a lot out of me . . . maybe too much! Still, the gas doesn’t seem to be lethal, just damned annoying! For the first time, the Web-slinger looked at his new surroundings. He was standing by a wooden podium next to the bank of elevators. Behind the podium stood a startled man in a tuxedo. A cloakroom was off to one side, and the woman who had screamed at his appearance stood there, letting her mink jacket trail on the floor. Through an entrance opposite the elevators, Spider-Man could hear the clink of silverware against china and the subdued murmur of many people.

  “H-have you a . . . reservation, sir?” That from the tuxedoed man.

  “A what?”

  The man in the tuxedo was taken aback. “A-a r-reservation, sir,” he stammered. “Diners must have a . . .”

  Spider-Man turned his eyes back to the second elevator door. “Do I look like a diner?”

  “Well, sir, it is not my place to comment on the dress of the Rainbow Grill’s clientele, although a tie is generally . . .”

  “Sorry, friend. All my ties clash with this outfit.”

  The light beside the elevator blinked on with a low pinging sound as the doors slid smoothly open. Spider-Man braced himself, ready to envelop his phony opponent in a cocoon of unbreakable webbing the instant he stepped from the elevator.

  The car was empty.

  Spider-Man stepped cautiously into the vacant elevator, his eyes narrowed behind the blank two-way mirrors in his mask. It just can’t be! This is the only floor the elevator stopped on, and the trap-door in the ceiling hasn’t been opened in weeks, judging by the dust around it.

  Jeez! I never realized I was fighting Houdini!

  The Web-slinger’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted. From the restaurant beyond the bank of elevators, he heard the loud, booming laughter, like the echoing of a cannon blast, of a voice he knew all too well from his past. The disappearance of his doppelgänger forgotten, Spidey ran from the elevator car, pushing past the tuxedoed maitre d’, who thought he should at least investigate the unseemly appearance of this strange man in his restaurant.

  The Rainbow Grill atop 30 Rockefeller Center was one of New York’s finest and more well-known eating establishments. Overlooking midtown Manhattan, this rather exclusive restaurant offered diners a superb view of the city through the all-glass picture windows that surrounded the circular room. It was from a corner of the dining room, against one of the windows, that that booming laughter originated.

  The laughter of the Kingpin.

  Opposite him sat his wife, radiant in an all-white jumpsuit, her regal face as bright as the summer sun. She laughed easily with the barrel-bodied man who was her husband, the fears and uncertainties she felt about her life at least momentarily forgotten in the joys of the day. So this is what it was like for a normal couple to enjoy each other’s company without fear of attack.

  Spider-Man stood at the entrance to the restaurant, staring in wonder at the couple across the room. The other diners in the room stopped talking suddenly at the sight of the dark blue-and-red-clad man, but he took no notice of them, just as Kingpin and Vanessa seemed oblivious to his presence. The Web-crawler would soon change that.

  “Well, well, well,” he called, “if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. America!”

  Kingpin turned from his steak, the smile on his fat face slowly fading as he caught sight of the costumed figure across the room. Vanessa paled, her now-trembling hand reaching across the table to rest on her husband’s arm. “Please, husband,” she whispered in an unsteady voice, “not again . . . not now!”

  The master criminal rose, facing his foe. “We have no reason to engage in battle, my dear,” he said to her.

  “What do you want of me, Spider-Man?”

  The other diners turned as one toward Spider-Man, breathlessly waiting for him to reply. Many people had already recognized the fat man, and the word was passed in hushed, tense whispers to the others. They knew what must come next.

  “Just your hide, fat man,” the Wall-crawler answered casually.

  Kingpin spread his massive hands before him in a gesture of noncomprehension. “Why? What law have I broken to arouse your ire this time?”

  “Hows about impersonating a human being, for starters?”

  With those words Spider-Man charged across the room past panicking men and women who realized they were quite suddenly in the middle of what was to become a raging battleground. Kingpin made no other move than to pull his wife from her seat. “Go!” he hissed.

  “But what of you, my darling?”

  “I shall take care of the web-spinning idiot, Vanessa, and join you at our apartment later, hmmm? Now, please, I think it would be best if you were not here to witness this.” His tiny, piggish eyes glinted at Spider-Man. “It shall be most unpleasant.”

  With a muffled sob, Vanessa ran from the table. Oh, Lord, she sobbed silently, when would they leave them to live their lives together in peace?

  Spider-Man leaped through the air, over tables and chairs, landing with his legs wrapped around the Kingpin’s waist. His gloved hands went to Kingpin’s squat, almost nonexistent throat, applying as much pressure as possible to the big man’s carotid artery. Kingpin grunted as he wedged his hands between himself and Spider-Man and pushed mightily. Still weakened and groggy from the gas. Spidey lost his hold, giving Kingpin the opportunity to smash a sledgehammer-like fist into his chest. The Web-slinger rolled with the blow as best he could, pirouetting away from Kingpin on the balls of his feet.

  Kingpin stood with feet spread, arms hanging at his sides, ready for the next attack. “Then this is how it is to be, Spider-Man?”

  “Quit playing stupid with me, porky,” Spidey said. “I don’t particularly care why you’re trying to set me up for a fall with your own, personal Spider-Man flunky doing the dirty work, but . . .”

  “Talk sense, man!” Kingpin said, his face registering genuine confusion at Spider-Man’s words.

  “C’mon, clothespin, we both know you’re behind the attacks on Ian Forester! Your second-rate super-hero led me right into your rather pudgy lap.”

  “My . . . ?”

  “You should’ve been an actor, cuddles. That way you’d’ve been up for an Academy Award for this performance instead of a long jail sentence.”

  Spider-Man rushed forward, his arms outstretched before him to grab the Kingpin’s lapels, but the big man, his reflexes unclouded by any substance, was faster. He grasped Spider-Man by the wrists, his hands encircling the twin web-shooters concealed beneath the Wall-crawler’s gloves, and began to squeeze. Spidey yapped in pain involuntarily as he felt the lightweight metal twist and break under the Kingpin’s powerful hold, the jagged edges pressing into his wrist.

  Scratch two web-shooters . . . not to mention my wrists!

  Spider-Man gritted his teeth, trying to pull free of the bone-crushing hold. But the master criminal was too powerful for the drugged hero. Instead, Spider-Man threw his own 180 pounds back, momentarily upsetting the Kingpin’s balance. He toppled backward, falling into a smooth, practiced somersault. And before the Kingpin could release his grasp, he fell with Spider-Man, who propelled the fat man over his head with his feet. The floor of the restaurant fairly shuddered as more than a quarter of a ton of flesh and bone slammed to the ground.

  “The bigger they are, hey, fats?”

  With a speed and agility that never failed to amaze the Web-slinger, Kingpin sprang immediately to his
feet. His small, cruel features were set in an expression of hate. “You miserable insect!” he roared.

  “Flattery, if you’ll pardon two clichés in a row, will get you everywhere, Kingy!”

  Got to keep him angry so he doesn’t get a chance to plan any strategy. In my condition, I doubt if I could take Bozo the Clown, let alone New York Fats!

  Spider-Man was correct. The Kingpin of New York crime was far too angered by this attack to bother forming any battle plans. But for a man who possessed the strength of a runaway locomotive, skill and finesse were not always necessary in a fight—not when he could simply lumber forward, grasp his opponent by neck and crotch before the other could react, lift him like a rag doll over his head, and heave him through a plate-glass window, hundreds of feet above the concrete pavement of New York.

  Twelve

  Spider-Man sailed through the Rainbow Grill’s glass wall almost as if it were not there. His hand shot out, feeling desperately for the side of the building, just inches out of his reach. He fell with a shower of glass slivers raining around him, his body twisting awkwardly through the air.

  Frantically, he pressed the concealed buttons in his palms, but instead of a controlled strand of life-saving webbing, all he got was the fluid leaking into his hands from the shattered cartridges on his wrists.

  He plunged headlong toward the street below, faster and faster with each second, the ground rushing up to meet him. Spider-Man twisted his body in the air, maneuvering himself now. There was no panic left in him, no thought, as instincts honed to a fine edge through years of battling for survival took over. Below him, slightly off to his right, a flagpole jutted from the fifth floor of the building, and it was that which he aimed for. Like a parachutist in free fall, he used his arms and legs to control his direction, bending his body in an effort to slow his speed.

  The flagpole rushed up to meet him, and at the last possible second he straightened, his left hand reaching out to grasp the pole as he streaked by. His fingers closed around it and, with a spine-wrenching jerk, he stopped his headlong plummet to death. But this respite was only temporary, as Spider-Man felt his left arm yank loose from its socket with the sudden force. Before he could bring his right hand up to reinforce his hold, his numbed fingers gave way.