Back to Gatefold2007 Annual by Bryan Locke
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"FRIENDS, AND FAMILY MATTERS"
The room was hot with acrid smoke, sweat, half-eaten gyros and fully bruised egos. The windows were starting to fog. After two and a half hours, he wasn’t done yet.
“Crap.” A photo was thrown down on the table. “Double crap.” Two more slapped the table. “Triple crap.” Three more. “Oh, she wants to go for the cycle!” An entire manila folder was up in the air, dozens of photos soon after, cascading to earth like a murder of crows.
Angela Yin scowled, and watched her work hit her feet. J. Jonah Jameson’s scowl was ten times better from that big desk, with that big cigar hanging out of his mouth.
His moustache fluttered a little, like it was a rodent or something. “Where did you say you worked before this? The National Enquirer? In Alabama? Girlie, you gotta get me something better than this if you expect to compete in the big city!”
“Geographic.” Angela muttered.
“What was that?” Jonah peered, wide-eyed, and even leaned over the desk a little, with his ear toward her. “I’m sorry?”
“I said,” Angela growled through closed teeth, “I worked for National Geographic. In Alaska. And I’ve got National Review Online, Newsweek, and even the Christian Science Journal backing up my e-mail with offers for these pics.”
Jonah smiled at her. “Then be happy with page ten, girlfriend. And hopefully, the commission from those pics will pay your rent this month. Only one newspaper is going to give you front-page money for these shots. And they’re hardly Parker-quality.”
Angela threw her hands in the air. “Well you can get Peter goddamn Parker and—”
She felt Ben Urich’s hands on her shoulders. “Easy, Angie.”
And Robbie Robertson moved from the wall he had been stoically leaning against, behind Jonah. “Okay, okay. That’s enough, Jonah. Sorry, Angela. Look, these pics are great, and nobody got anywhere close to Liberty Island yesterday—”
“Nobody,” Angela repeated, looking at Jonah. “I don’t know what you expect. There was no way a ferry was going to get me out there in time, and I had to bribe a Jersey boy fifty bucks plus my Knicks cap to use his motorboat to get out there.”
Jonah dabbed his cigar at an ashtray. He missed. “Cry me a river, toots, just cause you can’t take a picture of pretty sunset and expect to make the cover here—”
“—so we’ll take them at the usual rate.” Robbie finished by interrupting Jonah.
“What?!” Jonah yelled, “Even Parker didn’t get the usual rate!”
Now it was Robbie’s turn to glare at Jonah, “Well, up until now, this wasn’t our usual way of doing business.”
Jonah puffed on his cigar. “Spider-Man has always been a priority. Now if I could only get a competent photographer in here—”
At that moment the door to the publisher’s office burst open.
Peter Parker was wearing a denim jacket and a bookbag. He smiled when he saw all his former co-workers gathered in one place.
“Aloha!” Peter shot a thumbs-up at everyone.
All he got in return was a series of grunts that reminded him of high school, those times when he was the last to be picked for a dodgeball team.
Angela smirked. “Speak of the devil!” She spun on her heel, marched toward the door.
On her way through, Angela knocked shoulders with Peter so hard that Peter was almost forced back out the door. But Angela grabbed his shirt, so that he wouldn’t get farther from her. Their eyes met.
“Ask your boy,” she whispered, as Peter felt her force a photo into his hand, “if he’s ever looked this good.”
Peter didn’t know what she meant, until he looked at the photo. There it was in black-and-white: Spider-Man…with his fist raised over a nun. Nevermind that nun was actually the Chameleon in disguise*. Nope. Spider-Man versus Catholicism, page one! Peter spun around to track Angela Yin, but she had disappeared into the Bugle’s offices.
(*- do I have to tell you to read issue 39? Do I?- Bryan)
Peter looked back into Jonah’s office. “Did I come at a bad time?”
Another series of groans gave him his answer. Jonah didn’t move from his slouch behind his desk. Cigar smoke obscured his face.
“Okay, people.” Robbie clapped his hands together. “I think that’s all for right now. We’ll clear up the rest of the Sunday edition later. Peter! You have an appointment.”
A stream of people drudged past Peter, more than relieved to cross that threshold. Peter took the opportunity to say ‘Hi’ to all the people he hadn’t seen in a while.
He smiled at them all. “Hi, Sally, you’re looking good. Hi, Phil. Hey, Ken, nice haircut. Hi, Ethan. Hey, Ben…” His hand landed on Ben Urich’s shoulder, beckoning him to linger a bit longer with him. Peter whispered in his ear, “I’m actually looking for Betty. She in today?”
Ben cocked an eye at him through his thick glasses, “No. Not today. She wasn’t in yesterday either actually.” Ben’s face grew serious, “Is she okay?”
“Parker! Get in here, or am I going to have to berate you like the old times?!”
Peter rolled his eyes, only because he knew Jonah couldn’t see him. He gave Ben a soft look. “I’m sure she is. Don’t worry about it.”
Ben nodded, slowly but acceptingly, and sauntered off into the chaos of the Bugle’s bullpen. Peter shut the door to Jonah’s office behind him.
Robbie walked over to him fast, outstretched a hand, “Peter. It’s good to see you. How’s May? I told you not to come if it was too much—”
Peter dismissed Robbie’s outstretched hand and pulled him into a hug, “Nope! Actually, May’s spending most of the day with Glory. When poor Glory’s not working here, I’ve got a monopoly on her schedule.”
Robbie still didn’t seem convinced. He eyed Peter carefully. “Okay. But you need to be more careful, son.” Robbie glanced down at his feet, and the strewn pictures of Spider-Man. “You never know who’s gonna get you into trouble.”
“Alright, Robbie.” Jonah’s voice was surprisingly calm behind him. “Give me a few minutes with the father-of-the-year.”
Robbie glared at Peter for a second, then walked straight from the room without looking back. The door slammed hard.
All that was left was Peter, Jonah, and the smoke.
Jonah chewed his stub of a cigar as he spoke, “So you know why I want you here?”
Peter nodded. “And you know my answer.”
Jonah nodded too, but then he picked up one of the random Angela Yin photographs that were scattered across his desk. “This is crap. Only you can do better than this crap. You’ve been the only one ever. It’s why I kept you on call but never hired you after all that work. Because you’re Spider-Man’s Pal, Peter Parker! Couldn’t give you a regular job! You of all people!”
Peter looked a bit shocked. “Jonah, I…I really don’t have time for—”
Jonah put up his hand, “Eh, wait a minute. I know you’re a busy man now, and I know that any offer I make to you won’t make a bit of difference. You’re honest, honorable. Man like you, last thing he’d be is a fool.”
Peter said nothing to that. Regardless, Jonah was the reason he had May back in his life. The least Peter could do was listen.
“So,” Jonah continued, “while you would make my job a lot easier, you don’t want back here. So, instead, I want you to give a message to that menace you’re friends with.”
Peter just stared blankly at Jonah, as the curmudgeon leaned into one of his desk drawers. When he leaned back up, Jonah tossed something through the air. Peter caught it easily, and examined it in his hand.
“It’s…a Bugle edition from…two days ago?” Peter read a bit from the rolled heap.
“That’s right!” Jonah’s voice returned to its original pitch and tone, “And you better let that circus reject know that there’s plenty more where that came from!”
Peter tucked the paper into his jacket pocket, “Come on, Jonah.” He approached closer to the publisher’s desk, and looked him square in the eye. Peter tried to take a deep breath. This was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever tried, “What’s really going on here? I’m not a mind reader, but I’m not the only one who knows something’s wrong. Robbie, Glory and Ben have all mentioned they—”
“We’re done here, Parker.” Jonah barked, pretending to be casually looking over the ‘crap’ on his desk.
Peter knew that tone. Jonah really was done with him. This was the interview? This was all Jonah wanted to do? Give Spider-Man an old newspaper?
Slowly, Peter packed the newspaper into his bag, careful not to let Jonah see the contents.
Peter was about to leave without saying a word, like he had so many other times in the Bugle during his youth. But Jonah stopped him with a rough “Parker.”
“Yeah?” Peter turned around quickly. Maybe his old boss would finally open up to him?
Jonah dabbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “If you ever change you mind, decide to quit being a bum and living off the government and all that, you give me a call.”
Peter nodded slowly, then added, “You get over this obsession, Jonah, and I might.”
When Peter shut the door behind him, he could feel his breathing start to pick up. He hated doing that. It was worse enough that everyone thought he was Spider-Man’s freaking sidekick or something…
Okay, Peter, calm down. He started to rub his sweaty hands together. Who knows who could be watching right now…
Peter’s neck whipped up, and around. Sure enough, from the far corner of the vast twentieth floor of the Daily Bugle, Robbie Robertson eyed Peter carefully, as Ben Urich and Sally Floyd scrambled around him.
Peter did what he could: a smile and a wave. The elevators were on Peter’s side of the floor, so thankfully he wouldn’t have to ward off a concerned Robbie. It was nice of him, but Peter was having enough trouble lying to people about his secret identity this week!
Calm down! That’s right, just get to the elevator, moving nice and casual. That’s good, see? No problem. Elevator gets here, take it to the top, do a little webslinging, good for the soul.
The elevator doors opened. No problem? Not quite.
“Hot date, Pete?” Angela Yin asked from inside the elevator.
Peter nervously rubbed at his scalp, “Heh. Just class in a few hours, I guess, but, uh, what about you, Angela?”
Peter left Angela an opening to walk past him, but it became obvious Angela wasn’t leaving the car. Slinking in alongside her, Peter reluctantly pressed the ‘L’ button.
The elevator hummed quickly downward, and Peter tried to not look at Angela, though she was clearly staring hard at him.
The Bugle’s dress policy didn’t apply to freelancers, so that was why she was able to get away with the denim skirt and low-top sneakers she was wearing…but Peter was not looking. Her hands were tucked into a zipped, red hoody, which had the words ‘For Her Eyes Only’ embroidered across the chest, but Peter was not looking.
But finally, Peter relented. “You have something you want to say, Angela?”
He regretted looking. An Islanders cap sat sideways on her black and pink hair. She had put some kind of gloss on her lips that made them shine even in the elevator’s dim light. Her lips parted, and a pink bubble was blown at him. Peter gulped, and quickly looked back at the elevator’s button panel. He heard the bubble pop.
“Did you just take my job, Parker?” Angela said between smacks of gum.
“What?” Peter frowned and turned to her. “No. I have a daughter, and no time for this.” Peter looked away again quickly and kept repeating those words in his mind.
“Good.” Angela didn’t stop staring at him. “Look, I know I’m not as good as you are. Personally, I don’t know how you do it.”
Peter sighed, “Angela, it’s not a comp—”
“Let me finish.” Angela put her hand up. “I monitor police bands, I’ve got contacts at every precinct to lift me to the scenes, I’ve got contacts at security agencies so I can get camera footage…but not like you. And now you’re out of the game. So I want in.”
“Huh?” Peter shot her a sideways glance.
“I want in.” Angela said simply, “You’ve got some kind of deal with him. Well, I want it too. He needs another photographer, right? Well, here I am. Tell him to call me.”
“Angela.” Peter’s shoulders slumped. “There is no deal. He’s an egotistical jerk. He put me in all kinds of danger just so I could make him look good, okay? He’s not someone you want to hang around.” Would she buy that?
Angela’s face finally looked away from Peter. “Fine. Whatever.” She slapped the ‘Stop’ button on the elevator. “I didn’t expect you to help me. You always were notorious for protecting your secrets.” She stepped off the elevator and didn’t give Peter a chance to call after her. “But I’m going to find him. Whether you like it or not.”
And she was gone. Peter watched her go, disappear into the stairwell. The elevator doors slid to a shut a second later. He pushed himself up against the wall of the car and exhaled hard.
Complete breaths, Parker, in and out, in and out…cute Paparazzi girls are really not what I need right now…
Wearily, Peter slid the backpack from his shoulders, and pressed the ‘R’ button.
“Are you hungry, Gilbert?”
“Hmm?” Doctor Gilbert Wiles recognized the voice of his partner, Doctor Curt Connors. After a few seconds, Wiles raised his chin from his microscope, “Grabbing dinner, Curt?”
Curt Connors smiled, his briefcase heavy in his hand, “Yep. Should be back for class. You want me to grab you anything? I was just going to have dinner with the family, but my wife makes a pretty mean enchilada.”
Wiles almost laughed. It had been almost a year since Connors and Wiles had met at the annual Richards-Stark Futurist’s Summit, about ten months since they began corresponding on the possibilities of combining Wiles’ own work in nanotechnology and Connors’ biological regenerative formulas.
The possible results had been worth half a billion dollars when they had finally tallied all the donations, and they were still in the running for more! Press interest had been thankfully small, but Wiles expected that, considering his partner’s…past formulas.
Neither had given up teaching, focusing on the work instead of hoarding the money for themselves. Things were going surprisingly smooth in the first few weeks of research.
“No thanks, Curt.” Wiles called across the vast laboratory to him, “I think…I really think I’m this close to finally predicting the behavior of our little friends.”
Connors called back, “Class in an hour and a half! Eat something or you’ll fall down in the middle of your lecture.” He was laughing on his way out the door.
Wiles smirked but was quickly looking over his microscope again. He scribbled on a pad of paper—without looking up from his microscope—and even the most astute mathematician would have a hard time deciphering the scribbled code.
“Remarkable.” Wiles chuckled. He fumbled with the drawer next to him, pulling out a small tape recorder. He’d rather have written out his thoughts, but his financial backers preferred to hear his voice. Connors sent in his own recordings every two weeks as well.
Pressing two buttons, Wiles spoke into the recorder, “Connors is either a genius on the scale of Pym and Richards or he’s stumbled upon this miracle by accident. His regenerative formulas already draw upon the same principles of mechanosynthesis that my nanomachines do…and they seem to be feeding off one another. Connors’ formula is allowing the nanomachines to replicate and regenerate without an exterior power sour—”
A crash from the back of laboratory jerked Wiles out of his concentration. With a frown, he clicked off the recorder. He sighed.
That Connors. Always forgetting something. He’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached, but at that point, Wiles’ frown relented, Poor guy. Handicapped, after all. Can’t blame him for that. If only he wouldn’t try to overcompensate for it all the time…
“Curt?” Wiles called to the back of the laboratory, but he doubted his partner heard him, “You need some help back there?”
Wiles tried to gaze through the myriad of equipment that littered the laboratory. But he had to peer around a series of tables, laden with dozens of desktop computers, past a particle cyclotron, through a Pym particle accelerator, and over a Stark subatomic microscope. It was no use. No way would Connors have heard him.
“Curt?” Wiles rose from his station and walked around all his equipment, toward the makeshift offices that he and Connors had fashioned out of unused storage space.
Suddenly…another crash from behind him! Spinning on his heel, he saw that the desktops that made up his supercomputer had been ripped from their place, smashed upon unforgiving linoleum. Thousands of bits of knowledge, millions of dollars, lost.
Wiles couldn’t look at anything else but the sparking, smoking mess at his feet. He ran to his destroyed pet and dropped to his knees.
“Oh god…nonononononono…” Wiles wanted to sift through the wreckage, like a gold miner through a river’s soil, but he knew it would do no good. His lungs needed more oxygen. The last back-up copies he’d made were months old…
Another crash! Right above him!
Wiles raised his chin, removed his glasses so he could dab at his tear-filled eyes. What Wiles saw pushed him back on his heels, pushed him all the way up against the cold, laboratory wall.
“What-who are y-you?” it was barely a squeak.
A long, white butcher’s coat was much too big for him; it swiped the ground at his jackbooted ankles as he walked closer to Wiles. His eyes were disguised by a bowtie mask, and framed by bushy, blonde curls that were obviously fake. But the most terrifying thing? The ball gag in his mouth.
“Jesus Christ…” Wiles wanted to move, but his joints were so stiff, so heavy. He wanted to scream but his throat was dry as bone. He could barely gasp, “Please…I’m just a scientist, please…”
And the man stopped.
His hands, gloved in tight plastic, moved to the back of his wig. Slowly, the ball gag fell from his mouth. “Wiles, are your machines really so much? All of this money you have, sitting in accounts, waiting to be used…used for what? Machines? You’ve shown me what kind of scientist you are! One whose creations are an affront to God, whose goals neglect the suffering, who steals money from the deserving! You’re a fool, Wiles, and God has beget a foolkiller.”
“Oh, no, please, oh Jesus no…” Wiles shakily put up his hands as the Foolkiller approached closer, closer. But the freak’s face remained expressionless.
When he was close enough, Wiles gently tugged at his coat. “Please, I have a family, a wife, twin boys…don’t do this. Whatever it is, I’ll stop, please…”
The Foolkiller tapped his own lips with his finger, “Shhhh…” The ball gag was out of his pocket and in his hands again. The tears streaming down Wiles’ face were the only resistance against the Foolkiller when he stuck the ball gag between the scientist’s fatty lips. He said, “Don’t worry. This isn’t going to hurt as much as it should.”
The plastic was warm, and jammed in so hard, so far, Wiles felt his lips split and his jaw pop. His tongue was pressed almost against the back of his throat, and all he could taste was something so…bitter, thick and bitter.
He wanted to get this sick thing off, but Wiles could only raise his arms so far before his muscles started to tense, and he felt the veins on his hands constrict. His vision was blurring, the colors were trailing…
The Foolkiller raised his hand to his eyebrow, in a mock salute. “Goodbye, Doctor—”
“Geez, Gil! Can you believe I left my laptop? I swear, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t—”
Curt Connors, rushing through the double doors, dropped the briefcase that had been in his one good arm. “Gil?”
Gilbert Wiles was on his knees, shivering, obviously in a seizure…and god, what was that in his mouth? His eyes had rolled back, and there was vomit spewing from the sides of his mouth, around the ball gag. There was a man in a mask and wig and butcher’s coat, just in front his demolished workstation…
“No!” Connors and the Foolkiller shouted it at the same time, but Connors was that one that moved. He was on the Foolkiller’s back, his weight toppling the killer to the floor.
“This is not happening!” the Foolkiller screeched like a prepubescent boy, “You can’t be doing this! You’re a victim! Another victim of Spider-Man, just like me! Let me go, Connors, I don’t want to kill you!”
Connors had no idea what this freak was talking about and he wasn’t about to let loose the good chokehold he had.
But it was doing no good. For as tight as Connors squeezed, he knew he was just another cripple. Only one arm, while this murderer had two. Maybe if Connors had only been thirty seconds sooner, maybe he could have saved his partner. Desperately, he squeezed tighter.
No good. The Foolkiller pushed up off the floor with all four limbs, and shook Connors off his back. Feeling himself flung like a rotten bag of fruit, Connors barely had enough time to grab at the Foolkiller’s mask and wig…he removed them both.
“No! Connors! Dammit!” the Foolkiller stared right at Connors, and for that crucial moment, the Foolkiller saw Connors was staring back.
His gloved hand over his face, the Foolkiller rushed like a man afire through the double doors, out into the New York dusk. Curt Connors had the face scarred into his memory.
“Gil!” he looked back toward his friend. But Gilbert Wiles lay still now, still sitting in a kneeled position, and it was clear he had suffocated…there was vomit all over his shirt and the ground around his knees. But…the ball gag had been removed…
Connors worked his knees a little, tried to grab at a strewn chair for support in raising himself. He was shaking so much, he couldn’t get a good grip, and he fell to the ground again. Connors relented, feeling the cold linoleum under his back.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to lift himself again.
With a flick of his wrist, Hobie Brown enlightened his two-car garage. Fluorescent lights hung by chains from the rafters. They shined upon a place that was most definitely not used for automobiles.
“Whoa.” Spider-Man gingerly hopped farther into the garage, “Nice, man.”
Hobie nodded, and the pride was etched on his face, “This is the workstation. Prototypes of everything I’ve developed over the years, under strict security, of course.”
Spider-Man nodded too, but still gazed across the garage. It had to be one of the most eccentric arsenals he’d ever come across, outside of Avengers Mansion. Sleek boots with magnetic disks in the heels, helms with energy absorbing fuel cells, gauntlets with retractable spikes, all hung next to more ‘novelty’ looking items, like an exploding set of golf clubs and a bust of Marilyn Monroe that released sleeping gas.
Peter picked up a stuffed doll, modeled after Spider-Man himself, “What does this do? Lemme guess: plastic explosive? Secret stash of lock picks? Dirty bomb?”
“Actually,” Hobie grinned and walked over to him, “I made that for you, Spider-Dad, and your anonymous daughter.”
Spider-Man blushed underneath his mask as he had remembered the night he got back his daughter, May. He rushed around to every friend he had to tell them. Hobie had been one of the first on his list as Spider-Man.
“Geez, Hobie, you didn’t have to do that.” Spidey squeezed the doll.
“Don’t eat that yellow snow!”
“Huh?” Spidey looked back at the doll in his hands. Then, he quickly looked at Hobie. The guy was clearly trying to keep himself from laughing.
“Spider-sense tells me its time to change my boxers!”
Hobie snorted. Spidey squeezed again.
“I wonder if reserve Avengers get discounts at the 7-11, you know, like cops do.”
Now Hobie was laughing uncontrollably, “I—hahaha—I copied your—haha—voice pattern and recorded a few Spidey quips! Hahahaha! Wait till you get to the Stevie Wonder chorus I made you sing! Hahahahaha! Isn’t she lov-leeeee, isn’t she wond—”
“Easy there, Edison.” Spider-Man hung onto the doll and was sure not to squeeze it again. “I think you have too much fun in here, young man.”
Hobie wiped at his eyes. “Yeah. Mindy wishes I’d just watch football like her ex-husband. Ah, well, it’s a living.”
“So, you’re doing okay?” Spidey slapped Hobie’s shoulder.
Hobie rubbed at his back a bit. “Well, I get cramps here and there, but its nothing much. I get enough bread from Rand or Fujikawa or Silver Sable, or whoever I’m under contract to that month, for these oddball schematics. I don’t worry much anymore. It’s nice.”
Spidey nodded. “Yeah. Must be.” It made Peter think of his own situation, how it was only as Spider-Man that he was able to secure his scholarship and a big enough place to raise May. It made him smile.
“So,” Hobie’s smile vanished, “you can imagine how I felt when I discovered this.”
Hobie walked to a far corner of the garage, to a dingy, rusted locker that Peter hadn’t even noticed until Hobie acknowledged it.
“This,” Hobie explained, “is where I keep the Prowler suit.” He flipped open the door to the locker, and it was clearly empty.
Spider-Man bounded across the garage and landed next to Hobie. “Ohhh noooo. Again?”
Hobie’s shoulders slumped. “I know. I’ve moved three times, but people keep finding out what the hell I did in my spare time years ago. I mean, it kinda bums me out that nothing else I’ve invented in here was worth stealing.”
Spidey slapped Hobie’s shoulder again. “I’ve always gotten it back for you before, right? Turn that frown upside-down. How did you discover it was missing?”
Hobie began, “Mindy and I came back from our vacation in California, where I did some repair work for Hydrobase, and the garage’s security system was disabled, the locker was open…with nothing even resembling a clue. Except for something pretty funny.”
Hobie pulled a frayed, folded piece of paper from his pocket. He handed it to Spidey. The wallcrawler opened the paper, and saw it was a message, written in simple typeface:
Don’t worry. I’ll give it back. Promise.
“So, what?” Spidey asked, handing the paper back to Hobie, “He pulls off a few capers, plants the costume back here with some evidence so you take the fall?”
Hobie shook his head. “I think this guy’s gonna do something even dumber than that.”
“What?”
“Something heroic.” Hobie put the paper back in his pocket. “You gotta find him, Spidey. I’m not upset the suit’s stolen, I’m upset some kid is gonna go get himself killed with it.”
Spider-Man nodded, “You got it, pal. I’ll even tip off my buddies Iron Fist and Daredevil that there might be somebody wearing your mask running around rooftops.”
Hobie’s face perked up. “Thanks. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
Suddenly, Spider-Man said, “Oh, shoot! You got the time?”
“Quarter to two.” Hobie answered, opening the sprawling garage door, to the New York mid-afternoon.
Spidey saluted him. “Gotta go, soldier. Unfortunately, web-slinging does not count for college credit!”
Hobie chuckled, “Don’t be a stranger! I know we don’t live so close anymore…”
Spidey shrugged. “Hobie, it’s not like I have to worry about gas mileage and gridlock. I’ll stop by on the Fourth of July.”
Hobie wagged a finger at him. “And bring that kid of yours! Mindy wants to meet her.”
Spider-Man tucked the Spidey doll tight into his trousers, shot a webline at a nearby lamppost, and chuckled, “You got it. See you!”
Hobie waved at him as Spider-Man swung around the lamppost, to land at its very top. The webslinger took one last look at Hobie, who was walking back to his house.
“Hey! Mister Brown!” he called. He saw Hobie look back, “My daughter’s name is May!” Hobie smiled and erupted in that same guffaw from earlier.
Another wave, and Spider-Man swung off back toward the New York skyline.
“May, it’s time.”
May nodded, solemnly. She had been anticipating this moment for a long time now. But she knew now was the right time, and while this was the right thing to do, she was still scared. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Anna.
Anna Watson was smiling as best she could, and giving her a weary thumbs-up.
May sighed deeply, then turned to the burly man standing next to her. He wore a white jumpsuit with a nametag reading ‘Rodney’.
“Rodney.” May looked up at him innocently. “Do you mind if I call my nephew? It’s just…he’ll give me the right support in this time of need.”
Rodney also nodded solemnly. “I understand.”
May hit the speed dial to her nephew’s phone. It always rang four or five times, because she knew Peter was fumbling with his backpack in order to answer it.
“He-Hello? Is anyone still there? I’m here!”
“Peter!” May said ecstatically.
“Aunt May!” Peter huffed, and it was obvious he was walking somewhere, “So…is the worst of it over yet? What’s the verdict?”
“No…” May drifted off, though she knew she was running out of time, “I just…I just needed to hear your voice before I did this. I mean, I can’t believe it’s happening at my age. It’s just one of those things you can’t prepare for.”
Peter sounded soothing and calm, “Aunt May, there are people there that will take care of you. I have every bit of faith in them. Trust them and everything will be fine. I promise you. Besides, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met! There’s no way this kills you!”
May smiled. “Thank you, Peter. You’re right. I just needed to hear it one last time. Thank you. How are studies going?”
“Actually, I’m kinda late for a class now. But I’m glad you called!”
May chuckled, “Get to class, boy. And don’t worry about a poor, old woman like me.”
“It would take a lot more than this to make me worry about you!”
“I love you, Peter. You give Mayday my love. I’ll talk to you soon, to tell you all about what happened.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re in safe hands. I love you. Bye!”
“Bye!” May snapped her cell phone shut. She took a cautious look back at Anna.
“Here it goes, May.” Anna said, clutching May on the shoulder, then briskly kissing her cheek, “Good luck. But I know you’ll get through this no problem!”
May sighed, “You know it.” Then she turned back to Rodney, “I’m ready now.”
Rodney nodded and approached May. He tightened the straps of the pack to her back, adjusted her goggles and her helmet, “Remember,” he said, “It’s easy. Just enjoy the ride. Wait five seconds, pull the cord.”
The door was wide open, and May almost couldn’t hear him over the wailing wind and engines. The earth beneath her flew by at almost the speed of sound, but it looked like it was standing perfectly still.
“Ready…” Rodney said, his hand on her back, “set…GO!”
May was rushed out the door much faster than she wanted. It seemed her stomach had risen into her throat, and the wind beat at her face so hard, she could barely see the scenery around her. But the rush…so intense! Just like Anna had said!
“OhmygodwhatamIdoingI’masixtyyearoldwomanI’mtoooldforthisohgodhelpme!!!!!!”
But the wind was wailing so hard that she could barely hear her own scream. But then she remembered: the cord.
She pulled it and time seemed to slow down. Her parachute gently expanded, pulled her in a nice arc upward. Now, May could focus. Now she could see all of the rural New York landscape, and Albany in the far distance.
Again, Anna had been right. This was something she needed to do. As a matter of fact, May was sure she was going to want to do it again. Not soon, mind you, but one day.
The ride was gentle and cool; May absorbed every inch of it. She pulled up her collar.
Anna had a friend in a travel agency that was able to give the two deals on certain ‘adventure’ type vacations, like scuba diving, spelunking, bungee jumping…and so on. May was not enthusiastic at first.
But Anna had won her over. She always did. May wondered if Peter had to put up with the same charisma from Mary-Jane.
May landed in a field, realizing her body handled the fall much better than she had thought. That was Anna too. May had completely changed her diet and vitamin intake. It wasn’t a lie that she hadn’t felt this good in years. As she gathered her parachute together, May noticed how her arthritis was bothering her less and less these days.
Then came the best part. Gazing out over the calm New York afternoon, May brought out her latest gift from Peter: an Ipod. Peter had filled it with all of her favorite songs too: Ella Fitzgerald, Elton John, the Carpenters, and, of course, Elvis Presley.
May sang along, “They’re all livin’ devil-may-care…and I’m just a devil with nothin’ to spare…”
Peter repacked his cell into his backpack. Aunt May was probably jumping out of an airplane at that very second. Peter paused and thought about that for a second. He had to control himself from laughing.
I can’t believe Anna got her to do that. But then again…the things MJ got me to do…Peter laughed out loud.
Baby May heard his laughter from her crib, and responded with her own. Peter gazed at his daughter. Her hair was growing like weeds, brown as Peter’s. But those gigantic eyes, those were all Mary-Jane.
Mary-Jane…Peter remembered the video he had seen with Toy*. It had to be some sort of joke. It seemed so real when he had first seen it, but since then the video was not replaying the images Peter had seen, making it questionable Peter had seen anything at all.
But Peter couldn’t help thinking…What if? After all, MJ’s body had never been found and…no, his wife was gone. Peter felt his stomach sink as he told himself that again. This was a twisted trick and Peter was going to find out what was going on.
There was that business in Maine** that he’d never really resolved…and Peter realized the more he tried to think about his experiences there, the less he remembered.
(*- last issue, in case you haven’t read that- **- in issues 26-28- reminiscent Bryan)
The World. He had heard about it from three different people. Agents Toy and Bronson had told him it was something to do with Phineas Mason, the Tinkerer. Betty Brant and Ben Urich were working on an investigation about it. But the first person who had brought it to Peter’s attention was Felicia that night with the Ghost and Liz Osborn…
Felicia! Peter whipped out his cell phone again. He had meant to check up on Felicia yesterday, but with that fiasco with the Chameleon, and then the video of MJ…
Peter wasn’t proud to know Empire State General’s number by heart. He dialed, and it rang twice.
“Hello? I’m Peter Parker with the Daily Bugle,” Peter added that last part in case the desk clerk tried to be difficult, “I was trying to get a bit of info on a patient you have there. She would have been admitted early yesterday morning, a Miss Felicia Hardy? Yes, I’ll hold.” There was about thirty seconds of Harry Belafonte before the clerk came back on the phone, “No patient by that name?” Peter groaned, “Well, thanks anyway.”
He closed his phone and had to keep from punching a wall, Dammit, Felicia! She was so stubborn, and after what she had said to Peter that night…oh, god, how many women was he going to have to worry about? Peter sighed and looked at May. That wide smile and those rosy cheeks…
Peter lightly kissed her forehead. He resumed packing for class. “You enjoyed Glory’s company, didn’t you? You ready for another round of Doctor Connors? Hey, control your excitement; I’m only bringing three diapers. Okay, better make that four.”
After doing that, Peter checked his mail: new editions of Time and MAD Magazine, a couple chances to win a million dollars…and another invitation from the Arthur Stacy Foundation to attend yet another of their galas.
“I haven’t gone to these things once in almost a decade.” Peter threw the envelope in the trash, unopened. “You’d think they’d learn to save paper.”
Now, in a bonafide hurry, Peter checked the rest of his stuff: two books, three notebooks, calculator, some formula bottles, Spidey costume and shooters…that should be it.
Peter scooped May from the crib, checked his watch. The only times he ever wore a watch were when he needed to take the bus. The only times he took the bus were when he was taking May to class with him. The only time he took May to class with him was when he couldn’t get a babysitter. Glory Grant had no problem spending time with May, but Peter didn’t want to get into another situation--
Like I did with Betty. After what happened a few days ago* I’ve got to talk to her sometime soon…but things have been hectic with May and class, and Liberty Island…
(*-issues 37-39- pluggin’ Bryan)
Peter poked May in the nose. “This is why I don’t have a hobby. First season in my life where I can’t tell you the Mets starting lineup.” May, bundled nicely in her hooded jacket, didn’t look like she cared.
Peter slung his pack over back, then tucked May’s scarf tight over her mouth. It may have been a nice afternoon, but on the New York public transportation…who knew what germs May was breathing in?
“Okay, Houston, we are clear for launch.”
Peter opened the door full swing. And he was stopped. Because someone was standing in his doorway. Someone Peter recognized instantly.
“Hey, Pete!” Randy Robertson was standing there with his fist raised, as though he were about to knock on the door. “This a bad time?”
Peter stared slack-jawed for a second. “Er, uh, Randy! Hey! How have you been, man? It has been a while.”
Randy nervously rubbed the back of his head, keeping back a frown. “Yeah! I know. All that stuff with Jill and Gene*…then you disappeared after that. I had to practically strangle my dad to get your address and number!” Randy wiggled a finger at May, who grabbed and tried to eat it. “Hey, little lady, long time no see.”
(*-issues 28-32 -Bryan)
Peter felt his heart sink. He had rushed out of the dingy two-bedroom he had shared with Randy, but only because he had to think about May…and this apartment had been given to him on a silver platter. It was like another chapter had opened in Peter’s life, and he had run into it without closing the others.
But after all that had happened…everything that had been lost…maybe Peter felt he needed to get away? No! Of course it was nothing like that!
“Randy, dude.” Peter smiled and stopped blocking his doorway. “Come on in. I’m late for class but…I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Randy’s face perked up. “Aw, thanks, man. I don’t wanna keep you from anything. Hey, you take your daughter to class? That’s weird.”
Peter’s eyebrow pushed upward. “Well…since you asked, I’m in the market for a sitter, actually. Wanna help a brother out?”
Randy raised his hands, and it was only then that Peter noticed that he was carrying two full-to-the-bursting-point duffel bags. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Take me to dinner first. No, I’m kidding, I’d love to but…that’s not why I showed up out of the blue sky.”
Peter was beginning to see what Randy was getting at. “You need a place to stay?”
The look on Randy’s face showed he wasn’t proud that Peter guessed his situation. “Man, I’ve got some money. It’s not a lot but it should be enough to crash on the couch or—”
Peter interrupted, “Randy, don’t worry about it.” He clutched Randy’s shoulder, “You can stay as long as you like. I seem to remember you did the same for me once.*”
(*-Randy met Peter and gave him a new place to stay waaaay back in M2K’s ASM issue 13- Bryan)
Randy smiled. “Well, I wasn’t about to admit I was calling in a favor…”
Peter laughed, “I owe you for more than you think. Besides, this is a two-bedroom, but May shares a room with me. The other I don’t use, except sometimes as a dark room or on those special days when May has the runs.”
Randy laughed with him, “Is she allergic to anything?”
Peter narrowed his smile. “Why?”
Randy’s smile didn’t narrow. “Because I brought another friend with me.”
As if on cue, sneaking through the open door, was a familiar streak of shiny black. It followed Randy, slowly craning its neck around the room before recognizing Peter. Four legs pounced into Peter’s arms and on top of May.
“Ooof! Smoke! You rascal!*” Peter felt the cat’s scratchy tongue rub against his cheek. He tossed the loyal animal gently onto the couch. “I cannot believe it.”
(*-Come on! Smoke, Randy and Peter’s incorrigible cat, is an M2K staple! Last seen: issue 25- Bryan)
Randy was grimacing when Peter looked back at him. “Yep. Taking in two strays today, Pete. I…don’t think you know how much this means to me.”
Peter was about to say the obligatory response, but Randy stopped him.
“Hey. I know you’ve got plenty to worry about besides a shady roommate.” Randy had to stop Peter was retorting there too, “And there are some…other things I’d like to talk to you about. But I don’t want you to miss class.”
“Oh shoot!” Peter looked at his watch. He wasn’t planning on cutting the talk with Randy short, but if Randy was staying, then the conversation could be put on hold for biology class, “You’re right. How bout some ground rules before I head out?”
Randy shrugged. “Whatever you say, chief.”
Peter began, putting May down on the couch, and picking up his backpack again. “One, you live with my baby daughter now. Act accordingly. No pot, no alcohol.”
Randy stuck out his hands. “Aw, come on, you know I’d never—”
“Never say never.” Peter continued, “Two, food is a rare commodity. Most of it is eaten by May. Keep that in mind. Three, toilet paper gets put on the roller. Four, May’s usually sleeping by midnight. I know you work late, so just be quiet, and no girls if you know they’ll make too much noise.”
Randy chuckled, “I promise to only bring over my boyfriends.”
Peter shook his head. “Oh lord. Is it too late to reconsider this?”
“Yep. Devil’s got your soul, Pete my man.”
“Oy vey. I’ll think up more rules as you break them. But I gotta go. You know how to make formula and sing the Sesame Street theme song?”
Randy waved Peter off. “I helped raise three other siblings. I can change a diaper with my eyes closed. Get outta here, roomy. I gotta get to learn my new goddaughter!”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Alrighty. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Oh yeah.” Randy said, “A lot of catching up to do. Like, where the hell did you get a daughter almost a year old, when I knew you childless just over half a year ago!”
Peter cleared his throat, “Uh, yeah. Right.” He tried to chuckle it off, “I’ll tell you which royal family I kidnapped her from when I get back.”
Randy took May from Peter’s grasp. “Can do, Major.”
With a wave, Peter was out the door. He looked at his watch…then took it off and placed it in his backpack. Instead of using the elevator, he walked the opposite way down the hall, to the open window.
Spider-Man saw the flashing red lights before he ever saw the police sedans. Bad news. No spider-sense either. That could mean anything.
He swiftly angled around another building, another block, and saw worse news: the sedans were placed around the building where Peter had to go to class. The majority of the building was taken up by Wiles and Connors’ lab, and it did have a skylight.
I’ll just pop up there real quick, Spidey thought, see what all this hub-bub is about. Hopefully Doc Connors is still safe and human…Spider-Man was reminded of a brief incident just weeks prior, involving the Lizard with the Thunderbolts, but there had been limited information. Connors was soon released after that, again acquitted through what lawyers have termed ‘the Hulk Defense’.
But Curt Connors was indeed human. He was one of the first images Spidey spied through the skylight. There were dozens of policemen trampling over the scene, and forensic investigators were desperately trying to probe at places to block with police tape. Connors was kneeling over what looked like the wreckage of dozens of computers.
Peter knew: sabotage. Someone had wanted that priceless information destroyed, at any cost. Even…life? Peter wasn’t so sure. He cracked the skylight open, and luckily, the place was so chaotic, he had no trouble listening.
“The chemicals used to create such a reaction…they can’t be natural, or American…”
“So how much money were Connors and Wiles up for? Something like half a billion?”
“The card—what do you make of it? Some kind of serial psycho?”
“Eh, probably one of those escaped convicts from Liberty Island.”
“Connors says that one prototype of the formula survived…”
With that, Doctor Connors rose from the destruction and talked with a policeman. After shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head a couple times, Doctor Connors walked toward the back exit of the laboratory.
A couple of flips, and Spider-Man was crawling across the outside wall toward the other side of that very exit. When the door shut behind Doctor Connors, Spidey said:
“Weird science?”
Connors nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around, frantically looking all about him, before he finally found Spider-Man sitting on the wall above the green ‘Exit’ sign.
“Oh, it’s you.” Connors slumped his shoulders. “Good, I thought you might be him.”
“Him?” Spidey asked, arms crossed, “Do tell.”
“Wiles is dead, Spider-Man.” Connors looked at his feet, “I couldn’t save him. I saw the bastard, but he’s still dead.”
Spider-Man didn’t move. “Doctor Wiles is dead?”
“Yes. I was there. I could have stopped—”
“Who?” Spider-Man almost barked it, “Who was it?”
Connors raised his chin and said, “He called himself ‘Foolkiller’. He mentioned you.”
Chills ran up Spider-Man’s spine. He was familiar with the Foolkiller. There had been many incarnations, each preaching fanatical philosophy and wielding dangerous technology. One had even been Peter’s friend: college student Kurt Gerhardt*.
(*- let’s hop in the Wayback Machine and set it for Marvel’s ASM issues 225-226- that 70s Bryan)
Spider-sense!
“Doctor Connors?” the door swung open and a uniformed policeman stepped through.
“Hmm?” Connors looked innocently at the policeman.
The cop shrugged. “I thought I heard you talking to someone out here.”
Connors shook his head. “No…I was crying.”
“Crying?” the cop echoed.
“Yes.” Connors said forcefully, “Crying. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Erm, no.” the cop replied, “But we still have some questions for you, if you’re ready…”
Connors nodded, and followed the policeman through the entryway again. “Officer, I’m ready to see a madman found and hung for this.”
Spider-Man crawled down from the shadows over the doorway, still feeling that same dread that he had felt at the first mention of the name ‘Foolkiller’. It was something Jonah had said…
“Man like you…last thing he’d be is a fool.”
The backpack was still hanging from his shoulders. Spider-Man whipped it into his hands, and opened it. He pulled out the old edition of the Daily Bugle that Jonah had given him.
At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a newspaper. But Spider-Man knew there had to be a catch. He flipped through every page, scanning every article, for anything that Jonah could have meant.
There it was, taped to the inside of the obituaries section: a card. The Foolkiller’s. Spidey flipped the card over. There was handwriting—Peter recognized Jonah’s:
‘And there’s plenty more where that came from. This isn’t personal. Watch your back.’
Spider-Man kept the card but crushed the newspaper with his fist. The Foolkiller had gotten to Jonah. Couple that with what Connors said, the Foolkiller was obviously drawing Spider-Man out. Peter was starting to get dizzy again.
Fighting it off, he flipped a webline toward a lamppost and didn’t look back. The wind, fast against his masked face, soothed him to the core.
I’ll get him, Jonah. I promise.
NEXT MONTH: As you can see, this is just the beginning for your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man, as family, friends and enemies converge and diverge in the merry, M2K manner!
“Crap.” A photo was thrown down on the table. “Double crap.” Two more slapped the table. “Triple crap.” Three more. “Oh, she wants to go for the cycle!” An entire manila folder was up in the air, dozens of photos soon after, cascading to earth like a murder of crows.
Angela Yin scowled, and watched her work hit her feet. J. Jonah Jameson’s scowl was ten times better from that big desk, with that big cigar hanging out of his mouth.
His moustache fluttered a little, like it was a rodent or something. “Where did you say you worked before this? The National Enquirer? In Alabama? Girlie, you gotta get me something better than this if you expect to compete in the big city!”
“Geographic.” Angela muttered.
“What was that?” Jonah peered, wide-eyed, and even leaned over the desk a little, with his ear toward her. “I’m sorry?”
“I said,” Angela growled through closed teeth, “I worked for National Geographic. In Alaska. And I’ve got National Review Online, Newsweek, and even the Christian Science Journal backing up my e-mail with offers for these pics.”
Jonah smiled at her. “Then be happy with page ten, girlfriend. And hopefully, the commission from those pics will pay your rent this month. Only one newspaper is going to give you front-page money for these shots. And they’re hardly Parker-quality.”
Angela threw her hands in the air. “Well you can get Peter goddamn Parker and—”
She felt Ben Urich’s hands on her shoulders. “Easy, Angie.”
And Robbie Robertson moved from the wall he had been stoically leaning against, behind Jonah. “Okay, okay. That’s enough, Jonah. Sorry, Angela. Look, these pics are great, and nobody got anywhere close to Liberty Island yesterday—”
“Nobody,” Angela repeated, looking at Jonah. “I don’t know what you expect. There was no way a ferry was going to get me out there in time, and I had to bribe a Jersey boy fifty bucks plus my Knicks cap to use his motorboat to get out there.”
Jonah dabbed his cigar at an ashtray. He missed. “Cry me a river, toots, just cause you can’t take a picture of pretty sunset and expect to make the cover here—”
“—so we’ll take them at the usual rate.” Robbie finished by interrupting Jonah.
“What?!” Jonah yelled, “Even Parker didn’t get the usual rate!”
Now it was Robbie’s turn to glare at Jonah, “Well, up until now, this wasn’t our usual way of doing business.”
Jonah puffed on his cigar. “Spider-Man has always been a priority. Now if I could only get a competent photographer in here—”
At that moment the door to the publisher’s office burst open.
Peter Parker was wearing a denim jacket and a bookbag. He smiled when he saw all his former co-workers gathered in one place.
“Aloha!” Peter shot a thumbs-up at everyone.
All he got in return was a series of grunts that reminded him of high school, those times when he was the last to be picked for a dodgeball team.
Angela smirked. “Speak of the devil!” She spun on her heel, marched toward the door.
On her way through, Angela knocked shoulders with Peter so hard that Peter was almost forced back out the door. But Angela grabbed his shirt, so that he wouldn’t get farther from her. Their eyes met.
“Ask your boy,” she whispered, as Peter felt her force a photo into his hand, “if he’s ever looked this good.”
Peter didn’t know what she meant, until he looked at the photo. There it was in black-and-white: Spider-Man…with his fist raised over a nun. Nevermind that nun was actually the Chameleon in disguise*. Nope. Spider-Man versus Catholicism, page one! Peter spun around to track Angela Yin, but she had disappeared into the Bugle’s offices.
(*- do I have to tell you to read issue 39? Do I?- Bryan)
Peter looked back into Jonah’s office. “Did I come at a bad time?”
Another series of groans gave him his answer. Jonah didn’t move from his slouch behind his desk. Cigar smoke obscured his face.
“Okay, people.” Robbie clapped his hands together. “I think that’s all for right now. We’ll clear up the rest of the Sunday edition later. Peter! You have an appointment.”
A stream of people drudged past Peter, more than relieved to cross that threshold. Peter took the opportunity to say ‘Hi’ to all the people he hadn’t seen in a while.
He smiled at them all. “Hi, Sally, you’re looking good. Hi, Phil. Hey, Ken, nice haircut. Hi, Ethan. Hey, Ben…” His hand landed on Ben Urich’s shoulder, beckoning him to linger a bit longer with him. Peter whispered in his ear, “I’m actually looking for Betty. She in today?”
Ben cocked an eye at him through his thick glasses, “No. Not today. She wasn’t in yesterday either actually.” Ben’s face grew serious, “Is she okay?”
“Parker! Get in here, or am I going to have to berate you like the old times?!”
Peter rolled his eyes, only because he knew Jonah couldn’t see him. He gave Ben a soft look. “I’m sure she is. Don’t worry about it.”
Ben nodded, slowly but acceptingly, and sauntered off into the chaos of the Bugle’s bullpen. Peter shut the door to Jonah’s office behind him.
Robbie walked over to him fast, outstretched a hand, “Peter. It’s good to see you. How’s May? I told you not to come if it was too much—”
Peter dismissed Robbie’s outstretched hand and pulled him into a hug, “Nope! Actually, May’s spending most of the day with Glory. When poor Glory’s not working here, I’ve got a monopoly on her schedule.”
Robbie still didn’t seem convinced. He eyed Peter carefully. “Okay. But you need to be more careful, son.” Robbie glanced down at his feet, and the strewn pictures of Spider-Man. “You never know who’s gonna get you into trouble.”
“Alright, Robbie.” Jonah’s voice was surprisingly calm behind him. “Give me a few minutes with the father-of-the-year.”
Robbie glared at Peter for a second, then walked straight from the room without looking back. The door slammed hard.
All that was left was Peter, Jonah, and the smoke.
Jonah chewed his stub of a cigar as he spoke, “So you know why I want you here?”
Peter nodded. “And you know my answer.”
Jonah nodded too, but then he picked up one of the random Angela Yin photographs that were scattered across his desk. “This is crap. Only you can do better than this crap. You’ve been the only one ever. It’s why I kept you on call but never hired you after all that work. Because you’re Spider-Man’s Pal, Peter Parker! Couldn’t give you a regular job! You of all people!”
Peter looked a bit shocked. “Jonah, I…I really don’t have time for—”
Jonah put up his hand, “Eh, wait a minute. I know you’re a busy man now, and I know that any offer I make to you won’t make a bit of difference. You’re honest, honorable. Man like you, last thing he’d be is a fool.”
Peter said nothing to that. Regardless, Jonah was the reason he had May back in his life. The least Peter could do was listen.
“So,” Jonah continued, “while you would make my job a lot easier, you don’t want back here. So, instead, I want you to give a message to that menace you’re friends with.”
Peter just stared blankly at Jonah, as the curmudgeon leaned into one of his desk drawers. When he leaned back up, Jonah tossed something through the air. Peter caught it easily, and examined it in his hand.
“It’s…a Bugle edition from…two days ago?” Peter read a bit from the rolled heap.
“That’s right!” Jonah’s voice returned to its original pitch and tone, “And you better let that circus reject know that there’s plenty more where that came from!”
Peter tucked the paper into his jacket pocket, “Come on, Jonah.” He approached closer to the publisher’s desk, and looked him square in the eye. Peter tried to take a deep breath. This was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever tried, “What’s really going on here? I’m not a mind reader, but I’m not the only one who knows something’s wrong. Robbie, Glory and Ben have all mentioned they—”
“We’re done here, Parker.” Jonah barked, pretending to be casually looking over the ‘crap’ on his desk.
Peter knew that tone. Jonah really was done with him. This was the interview? This was all Jonah wanted to do? Give Spider-Man an old newspaper?
Slowly, Peter packed the newspaper into his bag, careful not to let Jonah see the contents.
Peter was about to leave without saying a word, like he had so many other times in the Bugle during his youth. But Jonah stopped him with a rough “Parker.”
“Yeah?” Peter turned around quickly. Maybe his old boss would finally open up to him?
Jonah dabbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “If you ever change you mind, decide to quit being a bum and living off the government and all that, you give me a call.”
Peter nodded slowly, then added, “You get over this obsession, Jonah, and I might.”
When Peter shut the door behind him, he could feel his breathing start to pick up. He hated doing that. It was worse enough that everyone thought he was Spider-Man’s freaking sidekick or something…
Okay, Peter, calm down. He started to rub his sweaty hands together. Who knows who could be watching right now…
Peter’s neck whipped up, and around. Sure enough, from the far corner of the vast twentieth floor of the Daily Bugle, Robbie Robertson eyed Peter carefully, as Ben Urich and Sally Floyd scrambled around him.
Peter did what he could: a smile and a wave. The elevators were on Peter’s side of the floor, so thankfully he wouldn’t have to ward off a concerned Robbie. It was nice of him, but Peter was having enough trouble lying to people about his secret identity this week!
Calm down! That’s right, just get to the elevator, moving nice and casual. That’s good, see? No problem. Elevator gets here, take it to the top, do a little webslinging, good for the soul.
The elevator doors opened. No problem? Not quite.
“Hot date, Pete?” Angela Yin asked from inside the elevator.
Peter nervously rubbed at his scalp, “Heh. Just class in a few hours, I guess, but, uh, what about you, Angela?”
Peter left Angela an opening to walk past him, but it became obvious Angela wasn’t leaving the car. Slinking in alongside her, Peter reluctantly pressed the ‘L’ button.
The elevator hummed quickly downward, and Peter tried to not look at Angela, though she was clearly staring hard at him.
The Bugle’s dress policy didn’t apply to freelancers, so that was why she was able to get away with the denim skirt and low-top sneakers she was wearing…but Peter was not looking. Her hands were tucked into a zipped, red hoody, which had the words ‘For Her Eyes Only’ embroidered across the chest, but Peter was not looking.
But finally, Peter relented. “You have something you want to say, Angela?”
He regretted looking. An Islanders cap sat sideways on her black and pink hair. She had put some kind of gloss on her lips that made them shine even in the elevator’s dim light. Her lips parted, and a pink bubble was blown at him. Peter gulped, and quickly looked back at the elevator’s button panel. He heard the bubble pop.
“Did you just take my job, Parker?” Angela said between smacks of gum.
“What?” Peter frowned and turned to her. “No. I have a daughter, and no time for this.” Peter looked away again quickly and kept repeating those words in his mind.
“Good.” Angela didn’t stop staring at him. “Look, I know I’m not as good as you are. Personally, I don’t know how you do it.”
Peter sighed, “Angela, it’s not a comp—”
“Let me finish.” Angela put her hand up. “I monitor police bands, I’ve got contacts at every precinct to lift me to the scenes, I’ve got contacts at security agencies so I can get camera footage…but not like you. And now you’re out of the game. So I want in.”
“Huh?” Peter shot her a sideways glance.
“I want in.” Angela said simply, “You’ve got some kind of deal with him. Well, I want it too. He needs another photographer, right? Well, here I am. Tell him to call me.”
“Angela.” Peter’s shoulders slumped. “There is no deal. He’s an egotistical jerk. He put me in all kinds of danger just so I could make him look good, okay? He’s not someone you want to hang around.” Would she buy that?
Angela’s face finally looked away from Peter. “Fine. Whatever.” She slapped the ‘Stop’ button on the elevator. “I didn’t expect you to help me. You always were notorious for protecting your secrets.” She stepped off the elevator and didn’t give Peter a chance to call after her. “But I’m going to find him. Whether you like it or not.”
And she was gone. Peter watched her go, disappear into the stairwell. The elevator doors slid to a shut a second later. He pushed himself up against the wall of the car and exhaled hard.
Complete breaths, Parker, in and out, in and out…cute Paparazzi girls are really not what I need right now…
Wearily, Peter slid the backpack from his shoulders, and pressed the ‘R’ button.
“Are you hungry, Gilbert?”
“Hmm?” Doctor Gilbert Wiles recognized the voice of his partner, Doctor Curt Connors. After a few seconds, Wiles raised his chin from his microscope, “Grabbing dinner, Curt?”
Curt Connors smiled, his briefcase heavy in his hand, “Yep. Should be back for class. You want me to grab you anything? I was just going to have dinner with the family, but my wife makes a pretty mean enchilada.”
Wiles almost laughed. It had been almost a year since Connors and Wiles had met at the annual Richards-Stark Futurist’s Summit, about ten months since they began corresponding on the possibilities of combining Wiles’ own work in nanotechnology and Connors’ biological regenerative formulas.
The possible results had been worth half a billion dollars when they had finally tallied all the donations, and they were still in the running for more! Press interest had been thankfully small, but Wiles expected that, considering his partner’s…past formulas.
Neither had given up teaching, focusing on the work instead of hoarding the money for themselves. Things were going surprisingly smooth in the first few weeks of research.
“No thanks, Curt.” Wiles called across the vast laboratory to him, “I think…I really think I’m this close to finally predicting the behavior of our little friends.”
Connors called back, “Class in an hour and a half! Eat something or you’ll fall down in the middle of your lecture.” He was laughing on his way out the door.
Wiles smirked but was quickly looking over his microscope again. He scribbled on a pad of paper—without looking up from his microscope—and even the most astute mathematician would have a hard time deciphering the scribbled code.
“Remarkable.” Wiles chuckled. He fumbled with the drawer next to him, pulling out a small tape recorder. He’d rather have written out his thoughts, but his financial backers preferred to hear his voice. Connors sent in his own recordings every two weeks as well.
Pressing two buttons, Wiles spoke into the recorder, “Connors is either a genius on the scale of Pym and Richards or he’s stumbled upon this miracle by accident. His regenerative formulas already draw upon the same principles of mechanosynthesis that my nanomachines do…and they seem to be feeding off one another. Connors’ formula is allowing the nanomachines to replicate and regenerate without an exterior power sour—”
A crash from the back of laboratory jerked Wiles out of his concentration. With a frown, he clicked off the recorder. He sighed.
That Connors. Always forgetting something. He’d forget his head if it wasn’t attached, but at that point, Wiles’ frown relented, Poor guy. Handicapped, after all. Can’t blame him for that. If only he wouldn’t try to overcompensate for it all the time…
“Curt?” Wiles called to the back of the laboratory, but he doubted his partner heard him, “You need some help back there?”
Wiles tried to gaze through the myriad of equipment that littered the laboratory. But he had to peer around a series of tables, laden with dozens of desktop computers, past a particle cyclotron, through a Pym particle accelerator, and over a Stark subatomic microscope. It was no use. No way would Connors have heard him.
“Curt?” Wiles rose from his station and walked around all his equipment, toward the makeshift offices that he and Connors had fashioned out of unused storage space.
Suddenly…another crash from behind him! Spinning on his heel, he saw that the desktops that made up his supercomputer had been ripped from their place, smashed upon unforgiving linoleum. Thousands of bits of knowledge, millions of dollars, lost.
Wiles couldn’t look at anything else but the sparking, smoking mess at his feet. He ran to his destroyed pet and dropped to his knees.
“Oh god…nonononononono…” Wiles wanted to sift through the wreckage, like a gold miner through a river’s soil, but he knew it would do no good. His lungs needed more oxygen. The last back-up copies he’d made were months old…
Another crash! Right above him!
Wiles raised his chin, removed his glasses so he could dab at his tear-filled eyes. What Wiles saw pushed him back on his heels, pushed him all the way up against the cold, laboratory wall.
“What-who are y-you?” it was barely a squeak.
A long, white butcher’s coat was much too big for him; it swiped the ground at his jackbooted ankles as he walked closer to Wiles. His eyes were disguised by a bowtie mask, and framed by bushy, blonde curls that were obviously fake. But the most terrifying thing? The ball gag in his mouth.
“Jesus Christ…” Wiles wanted to move, but his joints were so stiff, so heavy. He wanted to scream but his throat was dry as bone. He could barely gasp, “Please…I’m just a scientist, please…”
And the man stopped.
His hands, gloved in tight plastic, moved to the back of his wig. Slowly, the ball gag fell from his mouth. “Wiles, are your machines really so much? All of this money you have, sitting in accounts, waiting to be used…used for what? Machines? You’ve shown me what kind of scientist you are! One whose creations are an affront to God, whose goals neglect the suffering, who steals money from the deserving! You’re a fool, Wiles, and God has beget a foolkiller.”
“Oh, no, please, oh Jesus no…” Wiles shakily put up his hands as the Foolkiller approached closer, closer. But the freak’s face remained expressionless.
When he was close enough, Wiles gently tugged at his coat. “Please, I have a family, a wife, twin boys…don’t do this. Whatever it is, I’ll stop, please…”
The Foolkiller tapped his own lips with his finger, “Shhhh…” The ball gag was out of his pocket and in his hands again. The tears streaming down Wiles’ face were the only resistance against the Foolkiller when he stuck the ball gag between the scientist’s fatty lips. He said, “Don’t worry. This isn’t going to hurt as much as it should.”
The plastic was warm, and jammed in so hard, so far, Wiles felt his lips split and his jaw pop. His tongue was pressed almost against the back of his throat, and all he could taste was something so…bitter, thick and bitter.
He wanted to get this sick thing off, but Wiles could only raise his arms so far before his muscles started to tense, and he felt the veins on his hands constrict. His vision was blurring, the colors were trailing…
The Foolkiller raised his hand to his eyebrow, in a mock salute. “Goodbye, Doctor—”
“Geez, Gil! Can you believe I left my laptop? I swear, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t—”
Curt Connors, rushing through the double doors, dropped the briefcase that had been in his one good arm. “Gil?”
Gilbert Wiles was on his knees, shivering, obviously in a seizure…and god, what was that in his mouth? His eyes had rolled back, and there was vomit spewing from the sides of his mouth, around the ball gag. There was a man in a mask and wig and butcher’s coat, just in front his demolished workstation…
“No!” Connors and the Foolkiller shouted it at the same time, but Connors was that one that moved. He was on the Foolkiller’s back, his weight toppling the killer to the floor.
“This is not happening!” the Foolkiller screeched like a prepubescent boy, “You can’t be doing this! You’re a victim! Another victim of Spider-Man, just like me! Let me go, Connors, I don’t want to kill you!”
Connors had no idea what this freak was talking about and he wasn’t about to let loose the good chokehold he had.
But it was doing no good. For as tight as Connors squeezed, he knew he was just another cripple. Only one arm, while this murderer had two. Maybe if Connors had only been thirty seconds sooner, maybe he could have saved his partner. Desperately, he squeezed tighter.
No good. The Foolkiller pushed up off the floor with all four limbs, and shook Connors off his back. Feeling himself flung like a rotten bag of fruit, Connors barely had enough time to grab at the Foolkiller’s mask and wig…he removed them both.
“No! Connors! Dammit!” the Foolkiller stared right at Connors, and for that crucial moment, the Foolkiller saw Connors was staring back.
His gloved hand over his face, the Foolkiller rushed like a man afire through the double doors, out into the New York dusk. Curt Connors had the face scarred into his memory.
“Gil!” he looked back toward his friend. But Gilbert Wiles lay still now, still sitting in a kneeled position, and it was clear he had suffocated…there was vomit all over his shirt and the ground around his knees. But…the ball gag had been removed…
Connors worked his knees a little, tried to grab at a strewn chair for support in raising himself. He was shaking so much, he couldn’t get a good grip, and he fell to the ground again. Connors relented, feeling the cold linoleum under his back.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to lift himself again.
With a flick of his wrist, Hobie Brown enlightened his two-car garage. Fluorescent lights hung by chains from the rafters. They shined upon a place that was most definitely not used for automobiles.
“Whoa.” Spider-Man gingerly hopped farther into the garage, “Nice, man.”
Hobie nodded, and the pride was etched on his face, “This is the workstation. Prototypes of everything I’ve developed over the years, under strict security, of course.”
Spider-Man nodded too, but still gazed across the garage. It had to be one of the most eccentric arsenals he’d ever come across, outside of Avengers Mansion. Sleek boots with magnetic disks in the heels, helms with energy absorbing fuel cells, gauntlets with retractable spikes, all hung next to more ‘novelty’ looking items, like an exploding set of golf clubs and a bust of Marilyn Monroe that released sleeping gas.
Peter picked up a stuffed doll, modeled after Spider-Man himself, “What does this do? Lemme guess: plastic explosive? Secret stash of lock picks? Dirty bomb?”
“Actually,” Hobie grinned and walked over to him, “I made that for you, Spider-Dad, and your anonymous daughter.”
Spider-Man blushed underneath his mask as he had remembered the night he got back his daughter, May. He rushed around to every friend he had to tell them. Hobie had been one of the first on his list as Spider-Man.
“Geez, Hobie, you didn’t have to do that.” Spidey squeezed the doll.
“Don’t eat that yellow snow!”
“Huh?” Spidey looked back at the doll in his hands. Then, he quickly looked at Hobie. The guy was clearly trying to keep himself from laughing.
“Spider-sense tells me its time to change my boxers!”
Hobie snorted. Spidey squeezed again.
“I wonder if reserve Avengers get discounts at the 7-11, you know, like cops do.”
Now Hobie was laughing uncontrollably, “I—hahaha—I copied your—haha—voice pattern and recorded a few Spidey quips! Hahahaha! Wait till you get to the Stevie Wonder chorus I made you sing! Hahahahaha! Isn’t she lov-leeeee, isn’t she wond—”
“Easy there, Edison.” Spider-Man hung onto the doll and was sure not to squeeze it again. “I think you have too much fun in here, young man.”
Hobie wiped at his eyes. “Yeah. Mindy wishes I’d just watch football like her ex-husband. Ah, well, it’s a living.”
“So, you’re doing okay?” Spidey slapped Hobie’s shoulder.
Hobie rubbed at his back a bit. “Well, I get cramps here and there, but its nothing much. I get enough bread from Rand or Fujikawa or Silver Sable, or whoever I’m under contract to that month, for these oddball schematics. I don’t worry much anymore. It’s nice.”
Spidey nodded. “Yeah. Must be.” It made Peter think of his own situation, how it was only as Spider-Man that he was able to secure his scholarship and a big enough place to raise May. It made him smile.
“So,” Hobie’s smile vanished, “you can imagine how I felt when I discovered this.”
Hobie walked to a far corner of the garage, to a dingy, rusted locker that Peter hadn’t even noticed until Hobie acknowledged it.
“This,” Hobie explained, “is where I keep the Prowler suit.” He flipped open the door to the locker, and it was clearly empty.
Spider-Man bounded across the garage and landed next to Hobie. “Ohhh noooo. Again?”
Hobie’s shoulders slumped. “I know. I’ve moved three times, but people keep finding out what the hell I did in my spare time years ago. I mean, it kinda bums me out that nothing else I’ve invented in here was worth stealing.”
Spidey slapped Hobie’s shoulder again. “I’ve always gotten it back for you before, right? Turn that frown upside-down. How did you discover it was missing?”
Hobie began, “Mindy and I came back from our vacation in California, where I did some repair work for Hydrobase, and the garage’s security system was disabled, the locker was open…with nothing even resembling a clue. Except for something pretty funny.”
Hobie pulled a frayed, folded piece of paper from his pocket. He handed it to Spidey. The wallcrawler opened the paper, and saw it was a message, written in simple typeface:
Don’t worry. I’ll give it back. Promise.
“So, what?” Spidey asked, handing the paper back to Hobie, “He pulls off a few capers, plants the costume back here with some evidence so you take the fall?”
Hobie shook his head. “I think this guy’s gonna do something even dumber than that.”
“What?”
“Something heroic.” Hobie put the paper back in his pocket. “You gotta find him, Spidey. I’m not upset the suit’s stolen, I’m upset some kid is gonna go get himself killed with it.”
Spider-Man nodded, “You got it, pal. I’ll even tip off my buddies Iron Fist and Daredevil that there might be somebody wearing your mask running around rooftops.”
Hobie’s face perked up. “Thanks. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
Suddenly, Spider-Man said, “Oh, shoot! You got the time?”
“Quarter to two.” Hobie answered, opening the sprawling garage door, to the New York mid-afternoon.
Spidey saluted him. “Gotta go, soldier. Unfortunately, web-slinging does not count for college credit!”
Hobie chuckled, “Don’t be a stranger! I know we don’t live so close anymore…”
Spidey shrugged. “Hobie, it’s not like I have to worry about gas mileage and gridlock. I’ll stop by on the Fourth of July.”
Hobie wagged a finger at him. “And bring that kid of yours! Mindy wants to meet her.”
Spider-Man tucked the Spidey doll tight into his trousers, shot a webline at a nearby lamppost, and chuckled, “You got it. See you!”
Hobie waved at him as Spider-Man swung around the lamppost, to land at its very top. The webslinger took one last look at Hobie, who was walking back to his house.
“Hey! Mister Brown!” he called. He saw Hobie look back, “My daughter’s name is May!” Hobie smiled and erupted in that same guffaw from earlier.
Another wave, and Spider-Man swung off back toward the New York skyline.
“May, it’s time.”
May nodded, solemnly. She had been anticipating this moment for a long time now. But she knew now was the right time, and while this was the right thing to do, she was still scared. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Anna.
Anna Watson was smiling as best she could, and giving her a weary thumbs-up.
May sighed deeply, then turned to the burly man standing next to her. He wore a white jumpsuit with a nametag reading ‘Rodney’.
“Rodney.” May looked up at him innocently. “Do you mind if I call my nephew? It’s just…he’ll give me the right support in this time of need.”
Rodney also nodded solemnly. “I understand.”
May hit the speed dial to her nephew’s phone. It always rang four or five times, because she knew Peter was fumbling with his backpack in order to answer it.
“He-Hello? Is anyone still there? I’m here!”
“Peter!” May said ecstatically.
“Aunt May!” Peter huffed, and it was obvious he was walking somewhere, “So…is the worst of it over yet? What’s the verdict?”
“No…” May drifted off, though she knew she was running out of time, “I just…I just needed to hear your voice before I did this. I mean, I can’t believe it’s happening at my age. It’s just one of those things you can’t prepare for.”
Peter sounded soothing and calm, “Aunt May, there are people there that will take care of you. I have every bit of faith in them. Trust them and everything will be fine. I promise you. Besides, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met! There’s no way this kills you!”
May smiled. “Thank you, Peter. You’re right. I just needed to hear it one last time. Thank you. How are studies going?”
“Actually, I’m kinda late for a class now. But I’m glad you called!”
May chuckled, “Get to class, boy. And don’t worry about a poor, old woman like me.”
“It would take a lot more than this to make me worry about you!”
“I love you, Peter. You give Mayday my love. I’ll talk to you soon, to tell you all about what happened.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re in safe hands. I love you. Bye!”
“Bye!” May snapped her cell phone shut. She took a cautious look back at Anna.
“Here it goes, May.” Anna said, clutching May on the shoulder, then briskly kissing her cheek, “Good luck. But I know you’ll get through this no problem!”
May sighed, “You know it.” Then she turned back to Rodney, “I’m ready now.”
Rodney nodded and approached May. He tightened the straps of the pack to her back, adjusted her goggles and her helmet, “Remember,” he said, “It’s easy. Just enjoy the ride. Wait five seconds, pull the cord.”
The door was wide open, and May almost couldn’t hear him over the wailing wind and engines. The earth beneath her flew by at almost the speed of sound, but it looked like it was standing perfectly still.
“Ready…” Rodney said, his hand on her back, “set…GO!”
May was rushed out the door much faster than she wanted. It seemed her stomach had risen into her throat, and the wind beat at her face so hard, she could barely see the scenery around her. But the rush…so intense! Just like Anna had said!
“OhmygodwhatamIdoingI’masixtyyearoldwomanI’mtoooldforthisohgodhelpme!!!!!!”
But the wind was wailing so hard that she could barely hear her own scream. But then she remembered: the cord.
She pulled it and time seemed to slow down. Her parachute gently expanded, pulled her in a nice arc upward. Now, May could focus. Now she could see all of the rural New York landscape, and Albany in the far distance.
Again, Anna had been right. This was something she needed to do. As a matter of fact, May was sure she was going to want to do it again. Not soon, mind you, but one day.
The ride was gentle and cool; May absorbed every inch of it. She pulled up her collar.
Anna had a friend in a travel agency that was able to give the two deals on certain ‘adventure’ type vacations, like scuba diving, spelunking, bungee jumping…and so on. May was not enthusiastic at first.
But Anna had won her over. She always did. May wondered if Peter had to put up with the same charisma from Mary-Jane.
May landed in a field, realizing her body handled the fall much better than she had thought. That was Anna too. May had completely changed her diet and vitamin intake. It wasn’t a lie that she hadn’t felt this good in years. As she gathered her parachute together, May noticed how her arthritis was bothering her less and less these days.
Then came the best part. Gazing out over the calm New York afternoon, May brought out her latest gift from Peter: an Ipod. Peter had filled it with all of her favorite songs too: Ella Fitzgerald, Elton John, the Carpenters, and, of course, Elvis Presley.
May sang along, “They’re all livin’ devil-may-care…and I’m just a devil with nothin’ to spare…”
Peter repacked his cell into his backpack. Aunt May was probably jumping out of an airplane at that very second. Peter paused and thought about that for a second. He had to control himself from laughing.
I can’t believe Anna got her to do that. But then again…the things MJ got me to do…Peter laughed out loud.
Baby May heard his laughter from her crib, and responded with her own. Peter gazed at his daughter. Her hair was growing like weeds, brown as Peter’s. But those gigantic eyes, those were all Mary-Jane.
Mary-Jane…Peter remembered the video he had seen with Toy*. It had to be some sort of joke. It seemed so real when he had first seen it, but since then the video was not replaying the images Peter had seen, making it questionable Peter had seen anything at all.
But Peter couldn’t help thinking…What if? After all, MJ’s body had never been found and…no, his wife was gone. Peter felt his stomach sink as he told himself that again. This was a twisted trick and Peter was going to find out what was going on.
There was that business in Maine** that he’d never really resolved…and Peter realized the more he tried to think about his experiences there, the less he remembered.
(*- last issue, in case you haven’t read that- **- in issues 26-28- reminiscent Bryan)
The World. He had heard about it from three different people. Agents Toy and Bronson had told him it was something to do with Phineas Mason, the Tinkerer. Betty Brant and Ben Urich were working on an investigation about it. But the first person who had brought it to Peter’s attention was Felicia that night with the Ghost and Liz Osborn…
Felicia! Peter whipped out his cell phone again. He had meant to check up on Felicia yesterday, but with that fiasco with the Chameleon, and then the video of MJ…
Peter wasn’t proud to know Empire State General’s number by heart. He dialed, and it rang twice.
“Hello? I’m Peter Parker with the Daily Bugle,” Peter added that last part in case the desk clerk tried to be difficult, “I was trying to get a bit of info on a patient you have there. She would have been admitted early yesterday morning, a Miss Felicia Hardy? Yes, I’ll hold.” There was about thirty seconds of Harry Belafonte before the clerk came back on the phone, “No patient by that name?” Peter groaned, “Well, thanks anyway.”
He closed his phone and had to keep from punching a wall, Dammit, Felicia! She was so stubborn, and after what she had said to Peter that night…oh, god, how many women was he going to have to worry about? Peter sighed and looked at May. That wide smile and those rosy cheeks…
Peter lightly kissed her forehead. He resumed packing for class. “You enjoyed Glory’s company, didn’t you? You ready for another round of Doctor Connors? Hey, control your excitement; I’m only bringing three diapers. Okay, better make that four.”
After doing that, Peter checked his mail: new editions of Time and MAD Magazine, a couple chances to win a million dollars…and another invitation from the Arthur Stacy Foundation to attend yet another of their galas.
“I haven’t gone to these things once in almost a decade.” Peter threw the envelope in the trash, unopened. “You’d think they’d learn to save paper.”
Now, in a bonafide hurry, Peter checked the rest of his stuff: two books, three notebooks, calculator, some formula bottles, Spidey costume and shooters…that should be it.
Peter scooped May from the crib, checked his watch. The only times he ever wore a watch were when he needed to take the bus. The only times he took the bus were when he was taking May to class with him. The only time he took May to class with him was when he couldn’t get a babysitter. Glory Grant had no problem spending time with May, but Peter didn’t want to get into another situation--
Like I did with Betty. After what happened a few days ago* I’ve got to talk to her sometime soon…but things have been hectic with May and class, and Liberty Island…
(*-issues 37-39- pluggin’ Bryan)
Peter poked May in the nose. “This is why I don’t have a hobby. First season in my life where I can’t tell you the Mets starting lineup.” May, bundled nicely in her hooded jacket, didn’t look like she cared.
Peter slung his pack over back, then tucked May’s scarf tight over her mouth. It may have been a nice afternoon, but on the New York public transportation…who knew what germs May was breathing in?
“Okay, Houston, we are clear for launch.”
Peter opened the door full swing. And he was stopped. Because someone was standing in his doorway. Someone Peter recognized instantly.
“Hey, Pete!” Randy Robertson was standing there with his fist raised, as though he were about to knock on the door. “This a bad time?”
Peter stared slack-jawed for a second. “Er, uh, Randy! Hey! How have you been, man? It has been a while.”
Randy nervously rubbed the back of his head, keeping back a frown. “Yeah! I know. All that stuff with Jill and Gene*…then you disappeared after that. I had to practically strangle my dad to get your address and number!” Randy wiggled a finger at May, who grabbed and tried to eat it. “Hey, little lady, long time no see.”
(*-issues 28-32 -Bryan)
Peter felt his heart sink. He had rushed out of the dingy two-bedroom he had shared with Randy, but only because he had to think about May…and this apartment had been given to him on a silver platter. It was like another chapter had opened in Peter’s life, and he had run into it without closing the others.
But after all that had happened…everything that had been lost…maybe Peter felt he needed to get away? No! Of course it was nothing like that!
“Randy, dude.” Peter smiled and stopped blocking his doorway. “Come on in. I’m late for class but…I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Randy’s face perked up. “Aw, thanks, man. I don’t wanna keep you from anything. Hey, you take your daughter to class? That’s weird.”
Peter’s eyebrow pushed upward. “Well…since you asked, I’m in the market for a sitter, actually. Wanna help a brother out?”
Randy raised his hands, and it was only then that Peter noticed that he was carrying two full-to-the-bursting-point duffel bags. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Take me to dinner first. No, I’m kidding, I’d love to but…that’s not why I showed up out of the blue sky.”
Peter was beginning to see what Randy was getting at. “You need a place to stay?”
The look on Randy’s face showed he wasn’t proud that Peter guessed his situation. “Man, I’ve got some money. It’s not a lot but it should be enough to crash on the couch or—”
Peter interrupted, “Randy, don’t worry about it.” He clutched Randy’s shoulder, “You can stay as long as you like. I seem to remember you did the same for me once.*”
(*-Randy met Peter and gave him a new place to stay waaaay back in M2K’s ASM issue 13- Bryan)
Randy smiled. “Well, I wasn’t about to admit I was calling in a favor…”
Peter laughed, “I owe you for more than you think. Besides, this is a two-bedroom, but May shares a room with me. The other I don’t use, except sometimes as a dark room or on those special days when May has the runs.”
Randy laughed with him, “Is she allergic to anything?”
Peter narrowed his smile. “Why?”
Randy’s smile didn’t narrow. “Because I brought another friend with me.”
As if on cue, sneaking through the open door, was a familiar streak of shiny black. It followed Randy, slowly craning its neck around the room before recognizing Peter. Four legs pounced into Peter’s arms and on top of May.
“Ooof! Smoke! You rascal!*” Peter felt the cat’s scratchy tongue rub against his cheek. He tossed the loyal animal gently onto the couch. “I cannot believe it.”
(*-Come on! Smoke, Randy and Peter’s incorrigible cat, is an M2K staple! Last seen: issue 25- Bryan)
Randy was grimacing when Peter looked back at him. “Yep. Taking in two strays today, Pete. I…don’t think you know how much this means to me.”
Peter was about to say the obligatory response, but Randy stopped him.
“Hey. I know you’ve got plenty to worry about besides a shady roommate.” Randy had to stop Peter was retorting there too, “And there are some…other things I’d like to talk to you about. But I don’t want you to miss class.”
“Oh shoot!” Peter looked at his watch. He wasn’t planning on cutting the talk with Randy short, but if Randy was staying, then the conversation could be put on hold for biology class, “You’re right. How bout some ground rules before I head out?”
Randy shrugged. “Whatever you say, chief.”
Peter began, putting May down on the couch, and picking up his backpack again. “One, you live with my baby daughter now. Act accordingly. No pot, no alcohol.”
Randy stuck out his hands. “Aw, come on, you know I’d never—”
“Never say never.” Peter continued, “Two, food is a rare commodity. Most of it is eaten by May. Keep that in mind. Three, toilet paper gets put on the roller. Four, May’s usually sleeping by midnight. I know you work late, so just be quiet, and no girls if you know they’ll make too much noise.”
Randy chuckled, “I promise to only bring over my boyfriends.”
Peter shook his head. “Oh lord. Is it too late to reconsider this?”
“Yep. Devil’s got your soul, Pete my man.”
“Oy vey. I’ll think up more rules as you break them. But I gotta go. You know how to make formula and sing the Sesame Street theme song?”
Randy waved Peter off. “I helped raise three other siblings. I can change a diaper with my eyes closed. Get outta here, roomy. I gotta get to learn my new goddaughter!”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Alrighty. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Oh yeah.” Randy said, “A lot of catching up to do. Like, where the hell did you get a daughter almost a year old, when I knew you childless just over half a year ago!”
Peter cleared his throat, “Uh, yeah. Right.” He tried to chuckle it off, “I’ll tell you which royal family I kidnapped her from when I get back.”
Randy took May from Peter’s grasp. “Can do, Major.”
With a wave, Peter was out the door. He looked at his watch…then took it off and placed it in his backpack. Instead of using the elevator, he walked the opposite way down the hall, to the open window.
Spider-Man saw the flashing red lights before he ever saw the police sedans. Bad news. No spider-sense either. That could mean anything.
He swiftly angled around another building, another block, and saw worse news: the sedans were placed around the building where Peter had to go to class. The majority of the building was taken up by Wiles and Connors’ lab, and it did have a skylight.
I’ll just pop up there real quick, Spidey thought, see what all this hub-bub is about. Hopefully Doc Connors is still safe and human…Spider-Man was reminded of a brief incident just weeks prior, involving the Lizard with the Thunderbolts, but there had been limited information. Connors was soon released after that, again acquitted through what lawyers have termed ‘the Hulk Defense’.
But Curt Connors was indeed human. He was one of the first images Spidey spied through the skylight. There were dozens of policemen trampling over the scene, and forensic investigators were desperately trying to probe at places to block with police tape. Connors was kneeling over what looked like the wreckage of dozens of computers.
Peter knew: sabotage. Someone had wanted that priceless information destroyed, at any cost. Even…life? Peter wasn’t so sure. He cracked the skylight open, and luckily, the place was so chaotic, he had no trouble listening.
“The chemicals used to create such a reaction…they can’t be natural, or American…”
“So how much money were Connors and Wiles up for? Something like half a billion?”
“The card—what do you make of it? Some kind of serial psycho?”
“Eh, probably one of those escaped convicts from Liberty Island.”
“Connors says that one prototype of the formula survived…”
With that, Doctor Connors rose from the destruction and talked with a policeman. After shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head a couple times, Doctor Connors walked toward the back exit of the laboratory.
A couple of flips, and Spider-Man was crawling across the outside wall toward the other side of that very exit. When the door shut behind Doctor Connors, Spidey said:
“Weird science?”
Connors nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around, frantically looking all about him, before he finally found Spider-Man sitting on the wall above the green ‘Exit’ sign.
“Oh, it’s you.” Connors slumped his shoulders. “Good, I thought you might be him.”
“Him?” Spidey asked, arms crossed, “Do tell.”
“Wiles is dead, Spider-Man.” Connors looked at his feet, “I couldn’t save him. I saw the bastard, but he’s still dead.”
Spider-Man didn’t move. “Doctor Wiles is dead?”
“Yes. I was there. I could have stopped—”
“Who?” Spider-Man almost barked it, “Who was it?”
Connors raised his chin and said, “He called himself ‘Foolkiller’. He mentioned you.”
Chills ran up Spider-Man’s spine. He was familiar with the Foolkiller. There had been many incarnations, each preaching fanatical philosophy and wielding dangerous technology. One had even been Peter’s friend: college student Kurt Gerhardt*.
(*- let’s hop in the Wayback Machine and set it for Marvel’s ASM issues 225-226- that 70s Bryan)
Spider-sense!
“Doctor Connors?” the door swung open and a uniformed policeman stepped through.
“Hmm?” Connors looked innocently at the policeman.
The cop shrugged. “I thought I heard you talking to someone out here.”
Connors shook his head. “No…I was crying.”
“Crying?” the cop echoed.
“Yes.” Connors said forcefully, “Crying. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Erm, no.” the cop replied, “But we still have some questions for you, if you’re ready…”
Connors nodded, and followed the policeman through the entryway again. “Officer, I’m ready to see a madman found and hung for this.”
Spider-Man crawled down from the shadows over the doorway, still feeling that same dread that he had felt at the first mention of the name ‘Foolkiller’. It was something Jonah had said…
“Man like you…last thing he’d be is a fool.”
The backpack was still hanging from his shoulders. Spider-Man whipped it into his hands, and opened it. He pulled out the old edition of the Daily Bugle that Jonah had given him.
At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a newspaper. But Spider-Man knew there had to be a catch. He flipped through every page, scanning every article, for anything that Jonah could have meant.
There it was, taped to the inside of the obituaries section: a card. The Foolkiller’s. Spidey flipped the card over. There was handwriting—Peter recognized Jonah’s:
‘And there’s plenty more where that came from. This isn’t personal. Watch your back.’
Spider-Man kept the card but crushed the newspaper with his fist. The Foolkiller had gotten to Jonah. Couple that with what Connors said, the Foolkiller was obviously drawing Spider-Man out. Peter was starting to get dizzy again.
Fighting it off, he flipped a webline toward a lamppost and didn’t look back. The wind, fast against his masked face, soothed him to the core.
I’ll get him, Jonah. I promise.
NEXT MONTH: As you can see, this is just the beginning for your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man, as family, friends and enemies converge and diverge in the merry, M2K manner!