Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  He scanned the worried faces, wondering which cheap hoodlum he’d let go. “Wow, a classic hijacking? These days, you don’t see as many as you used to.”

  Before he could choose, his spider-sense thrummed. The van’s rear doors flew open, and a familiar figure appeared.

  Spider-Man cracked his knuckles, and the gunmen ran off. “Well, pierce my ears and call me drafty, it’s Mr. Fisk! Just the guy I wanted to catch! Why is it that seeing you always makes me think of ‘Night on Bald Mountain’?”

  The Kingpin stepped into the cone of light formed by the lone streetlamp. Being a fugitive, even for a day, had taken a toll. His clothes were mussed, and he was panting.

  “You didn’t think I’d abandon you to the police? No, I’ll beat you myself, and I will have that tablet.”

  Spider-Man crouched and twisted, showing his back. “This old thing? Oh, it’s just something I throw on when I don’t have anything nicer to wear.”

  Fisk charged, but Spider-Man kept twisting, turning the move into a spinning high-jump. Coming back down on the mobster’s broad shoulders, he slammed his fists into the sides of his skull.

  “Or is aspirin more the kind of tablet you should be looking for?”

  While the Kingpin staggered, he jumped again. Pulling the artifact free, he tossed it up and pinned it high on a building with a glob of webbing—safely out of reach.

  He landed, one hand to the ground, ready to begin the battle in earnest. Fisk circled, looking for an opening. As they squared off, Peter felt…relieved.

  “I don’t know about you, Stay Puft, but I’ve been looking forward to hitting something that really deserves it all day.”

  A half-smile took Fisk’s face. “My sentiments exactly.”

  They came at each other swinging. Remembering the Kingpin’s speed, Peter blocked Fisk’s thick arm and slammed a right hook into his cheek. It was like hitting a fireplug. Fisk kept his skull pointed straight ahead, not even turning to absorb the impact. Wrapping his arms around the wall-crawler, he tried to tackle him. Spider-Man held his ground, put his hands against the wide shoulders, and pushed.

  Each man strained, trying to force the other back. Neither would bend, but Spider-Man’s superior strength soon had the soles of the Kingpin’s oversize shoes scraping along the asphalt.

  Maintaining his grip, Fisk hurled them both sideways, bringing them crashing to the ground. He rolled, using his greater weight to force Spider-Man beneath him. Holding his enemy in place with one elephantine arm, he pounded away with the other.

  “No one defeats me! No one!”

  The first punch caught Spider-Man’s nose and bounced the back of his skull against the ground. It only made Peter angrier. After that, each time a fist came down, Peter twisted his head out of the way and jabbed. Alternating his left and his right, he connected four times for every one of the Kingpin’s glancing attacks.

  When Fisk picked up speed, Spider-Man matched him. Finally, that stiff fireplug skull started to give, turning this way and that.

  “You know if you were really shaped like a pin, your head would be almost as wide as your waist, right? Kingpin, pin-shaped. Get it? Oh, never mind.”

  Realizing he was losing, the Kingpin tried attacking with both hands. Seizing the opening, Spider-Man folded his knees to his chest and shoved his feet into Fisk’s abdomen. It felt more like lifting a truck than a man, but the hefty torso rose. He tried to toss Fisk to the side, but the Kingpin’s uncanny sense of balance allowed him to settle back onto his feet.

  Free of the weight, Spider-Man managed a backwards somersault. Before Fisk could raise his arms to block, Peter landed a solid roundhouse. But Fisk kept coming forward.

  He’s a wreck. I can see the bruises welling. What’s keeping him on his feet?

  They went at each other like boys in a playground brawl—punching, kicking, no longer caring what they hit as long as they hit something. Losing his advantage, Wilson Fisk succumbed to the beating and dropped to one knee. A final roundhouse left his eyes spinning. His huge form rocked one way and then the other, until he crawled into the middle of the street and landed along the double yellow line, face down.

  Finally!

  But it wasn’t over. Through his bloodied lips, the Kingpin mumbled something that sounded like contessa—and rose again.

  It can’t possibly take much more to finish him off! Peter jumped toward the roof of the Kingpin’s black van to gain some height for a flying slam—but he instinctively shifted in midair, his spider-sense screaming.

  The Daily Bugle satellite van sped onto the scene, narrowly missing him. It screeched to a halt in the worst possible spot: right between Spider-Man and the Kingpin. The door flew open, and no less than J. Jonah Jameson himself stepped out, barking orders at the man behind the wheel.

  “Get a live feed up, Leeds! I told you that witness tip was hot! Now the whole world is going to see this!”

  Peter had once thought the publisher’s face was prematurely wrinkled, until he’d caught him napping. Resting, Jonah looked 20 years younger. The guy was just perpetually angry.

  Well, I’ve had a crappy day, too.

  “Get out of the way, both of you. Leave the Kingpin to me!”

  Jameson shook his fist. He was always shaking his fist. “And let the two of you escape again? Not a chance! Leeds, where’s my feed?”

  In the van, reporter Ned Leeds gaped at the rear-view mirror. “Mr. Jameson, another car’s pulling up!”

  “So what?” Jonah howled. “This is the story of the year! Stop being a…”

  The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the sound of the SUV’s arrival. Tires squealing, it swerved around Fisk and stopped. Jonah was shouting and waving, blocking the stunned Spider-Man’s path. When the rear door popped open, the Kingpin, with what must have been the last of his strength, threw himself inside.

  Before the hatch closed, the Kingpin gasped two words, but Peter couldn’t make them out. It sounded like eye glove—but the tone was strange, not like a mob boss commanding an underling. More humble, almost pleading.

  Is that a woman at the wheel? And…wait. Did he say…my love?

  Between his confusion, the simmering anger, and the lunatic screaming in front of him, Spider-Man didn’t know how to react. The SUV’s engine whined as the driver hit the gas.

  I’ve got to calm down! They’ll be easy enough to follow, and with JJJ ranting, getting out of here sounds like a great idea.

  He pressed his palm, but nothing came out.

  Empty! Seriously? Tell me I’ve got another web cartridge, please tell me…

  As his hands fumbled with his belt, the car picked up speed. The distance between them was increasing. He braced himself for a long, standing leap.

  It’ll be close, but even if I can’t reach it, I’ll be able to toss a spider-tracer on it.

  “Leeds! Spider-Man’s trying to get away, too! Block him with the van!”

  Leeds obediently gunned the engine. The satellite van lurched ahead of the leaping Spider-Man. It wasn’t much of an obstacle, but it was enough to check his momentum. Completing his perfect round of misfortune, Spider-Man landed behind it.

  The SUV carrying the Kingpin screeched around the corner, out of view.

  Aghast, Spider-Man wheeled on Jameson. “You hysterical nut! I was trying to stop the Kingpin. You let him get away!”

  Jonah roared back. “You don’t fool me! You’re pretending to be enemies, but I know you two planned the whole thing together. This time, you’re finished. I’ll keep the public clamoring for your hide! I’ll dog the NYPD in every editorial until they’ve caught you. I’ll…”

  Furious, Spider-Man flitted to the wall directly above the publisher.

  “You’ll what? Go on. You’ll what?”

  Jameson choked. “Leeds! Stop him! He’s attacking me!”

  Spider-Man inched closer. “You know what? That’s the first time you’ve been right in a long time. You’ve been attacking me for years. Now it’s my
turn.”

  He grabbed Jameson by the lapels of his overcoat and lifted. Nose to nose with his nemesis, Jonah sputtered, “No! No!”

  Leeds popped out of the van. “Spider-Man, don’t!”

  Spider-Man took a few steps higher so that Leeds couldn’t reach the publisher’s dangling feet.

  “Take a hike, Leeds. This is between me and the hate machine.”

  Jameson’s eyes were popping out of his skull. The veins in his temples throbbed.

  “Do you have any idea what all your stupid lies have done to my life? Do you even care that…?”

  But then the eyelids fluttered, and his form went limp. As Jameson’s head slumped forward, Spider-Man saw all those wrinkles disappear.

  He shook him a little. “Jameson? Hey, Jameson?”

  The body wriggled like a marionette.

  Below, Leeds was already calling for help. “What did you do to him?”

  Climbing down, Spider-Man gently lowered him to the sidewalk.

  “I just wanted to give him a scare!”

  Stunned, he allowed Leeds to push him out of the way and grab Jonah’s wrist.

  “You gave him more than that. I don’t feel a pulse!”

  Shaking, head swimming, Spider-Man climbed to the nearest roof. His body begged him to keep going, to run and hide, but he ignored the impulse. He waited in shadow for the ambulance to arrive, then watched the EMT crew load the still-unconscious Jameson inside.

  This can’t be real. It has to be some kind of nightmare.

  Hoping he would wake up, he kept watching. Long after the twirling red-and-white lights disappeared into the night, he still hadn’t moved.

  EIGHT

  LATE the next morning, Peter kept playing the scene over in his mind, hoping to recall some sign of life in Jameson that he’d missed. It was pointless. He couldn’t even be sure whether the look of terror he remembered on the publisher’s face was accurate, or a guilty exaggeration.

  Does it matter? Whether I meant to hurt him or not, if he dies, I’m every bit as bad as he thinks. I said it myself: If they keep calling me a menace, I may as well be one. Even if only for a few seconds, that’s what I was.

  His mind circled back to the crushed science project. The powdery remains of the Styrofoam on his fingers mixed with the feel of his publisher’s lapels.

  A double rap on his door, followed by a turning knob, raised his head in alarm.

  “Hey, Pete!”

  Harry.

  As the door began to open, he realized he’d forgotten to remove the pants of his spider-suit. He yanked the blanket above his waist so fast, a pen lying on the bed flew across the room and lodged in the plasterboard.

  He couldn’t tell whether Harry had heard the pen. At least the tablet was safely out of sight beneath his laundry.

  Fortunately, as he entered, his gaze remained on Peter.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought I’d check in.”

  Assuming his friend was hinting at some shirked responsibility, he went for the obvious. “Harry, man. Sorry about the bills…”

  The curly haired youth raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t turn me into that guy. Pay up when you can. What’s the point of being a two-percenter if you can’t cut your brilliant pal a little slack? This is more of a general ‘Are you okay?’”

  I should have known better. Not wanting to mooch on Harry is more about me. He doesn’t think that way.

  The wealthy heir had been Peter’s first college friend. When others dismissed Harry as a snob, Peter listened to his worries over his dad’s weird behavior. Of course, Peter never mentioned that a chemical concoction had temporarily turned Norman Osborn into the villainous Green Goblin.

  Harry wavered on his feet. “I tried saying hi yesterday, but you looked like you were practicing for a zombie walk. Then you were gone for the rest of the day. What’s up? Is your aunt okay?”

  “She looked fine when I visited.” His brow immediately furrowed. “Did you hear different? Is she okay?”

  “No, no. Just fishing. Things cool with Gwen?”

  Gwen. He’d almost forgotten about that problem.

  Seeing his reaction, Harry nodded. “Ah. Got it. Look, whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

  “I know that, Harry. I’m okay. I think at least half my funk is this flu I’m trying to duck. My body can’t decide if I should get better or worse.”

  His fake cough sounded especially unrealistic, even to him. Harry clearly wasn’t buying it, but he bobbed his head. Smiling, he let it go. “Then take a stand already. Either come down with it, or get the heck up.”

  Knowing Harry didn’t mean take a stand the same way Gwen had, Peter offered a weak farewell wave. Harry closed the door and left him alone. Again.

  When I don’t take a stand, I’m a coward. When I do, I put Jonah in the hospital. It was better before I got my powers, back when I was Flash Thompson’s victim. At least then I knew I was getting batted around for nothing.

  A few feet below the pen he’d embedded in the wall, his camera sat on the bureau. Remembering he’d set it up in the Exhibition Hall, he powered it up and clicked through the jpegs. Seeing himself tackle the bad guys and save Randy made him feel better.

  Not much, but a little.

  Even Jameson would admit some of these are pretty good. But with him out of the picture, I don’t even have anyone to sell them to. Or do I?

  Showing up at the Bugle would also mean getting the latest on Jonah. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Convincing himself he had to find out sooner or later, he managed to dress and head over to 39th and Second. But when the Bugle building’s ancient elevator opened on the editorial floor, he had to drag himself out.

  The floor plan—reporters’ desks surrounded by windowed staff offices with old-style windowed doors—had been unchanged for years. Their crusty leader was too cheap to update anything: Peter had once seen him duct tape a broken keyboard together. Surprisingly, it had worked for another six months.

  The reliable mess was home, in a way. An abusive home, perhaps, but a home. Now it was frighteningly quiet.

  Is everyone grieving, or is this just what’s it’s like without JJJ caterwauling?

  Jonah’s assistant, Betty Brant, was at her desk in front of his office, with Ned Leeds leaning in for a quiet conversation. Their faces were too neutral for him to guess what they were talking about. He swallowed and walked over.

  “I heard Jonah was in the hospital. Is he…?”

  Leeds picked up his head. “He’s fine.”

  Peter felt a rush of relief.

  Leeds continued. “When Spider-Man grabbed him, Jonah had what they call an acute stress reaction, but that passed quickly. He’s only still there because of his blood pressure. The doctors have been telling him to take a break for years. Now they’re insisting on some hospital bedrest. He’ll be back screaming at everybody in a week.”

  “That’s amazing!”

  When Leeds furrowed his brow, Peter realized he’d sounded a bit too excited. Before he could offer a fake explanation, the door marked City Editor opened and Robbie Robertson waved him inside.

  “Peter, a word?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  Closing the door, Robbie gestured at a chair. As Peter sat, Robbie looked out the window, took a sip from his very old coffee mug, and said nothing.

  Peter broke the silence. “So…what’s it like being in charge?”

  Robbie sighed. “Quiet. I’d forgotten what that was like. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I know you’ve met my son. I hate to ask you about this, but Randy barely talks to me, and I’m worried. Sure, he’s an adult now, and don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of who he is. But he was nearly killed by the Kingpin, and I haven’t slept since. How do I get him to understand that next time, he may not be so lucky? That the kind of change we want doesn’t happen overnight?”

  The City Editor leaned against the paper-strewn desk. It was then Peter noticed the
faded words on the mug: World’s Greatest Dad.

  “Uh, Mr. Robertson, I barely know the guy, and I have no idea what it’s like growing up black. I do think I get what it feels like to believe the whole world’s against you—how sometimes it’s so frustrating, you just want to hit something. While he was around, my uncle always tried to keep me grounded emotionally, telling me what worked for him, what he felt was right. I didn’t always listen—heck, when I remember him, sometimes I still don’t listen. But I always heard him. With a dad like you around to steady him, I’m sure Randy will find his way.”

  A wistful, pleasantly surprised smile came to Robbie’s face. “Thank you. Your uncle sounds like he was a wise man.”

  Clearing his throat, he pivoted to the next subject. “I’m guessing you didn’t just come here to check on Jonah. Have you got something for me?”

  Couldn’t ask for a better opening. “Well, there are these…”

  As he scanned the images, Robbie’s eyes grew wider and wider until he laughed and slammed his intercom button. “Betty, call the press room!”

  “So…pretty good?”

  “Good? The hall’s security system was erased, but these show beyond a shadow of a doubt that Spider-Man tried to stop the theft! If you’d gotten here sooner, you could have saved the wall-crawler a lot of trouble.”

  Figures.

  Not wanting to take advantage of Robbie’s good mood, Peter tried to think of a reasonable price. But before he could name one, the City Editor was writing in a ledger so dust-laden it didn’t look as if Jonah had paid a single freelancer since the Clinton administration. With a sharp snap, he tore a check free and handed it to Peter.

  Peter blinked, narrowed his eyes, and blinked again.

  “What? Isn’t it big enough?”

  “Big enough? This is the most money I’ve seen in years! Jonah would have gnawed off his own hand before signing something like this!”

  Robbie gave him a paternal chuckle. “Don’t expect it every time, son, but those pics are going to double our circulation for at least two days.”

  “No, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”

  Waving the check over his head, he raced out—laughing so loudly that Leeds and Betty stared as he passed by.