Serial Spider

6/30/08

Issue Seven

"Comes A Lot of Learning"

If Norman Osborn could have released his frustration by nuking New York's ass that very minute, he would have done it without a second's thought. It was bad enough that his contact had woken him at five in the morning. That was enough to get any Osborn employee fired from any job for the next four lifetimes. But worse was the fact that

"You lost it?" Norman yelled, echoing through his empty flat. "What the fuck do you mean you lost it? When did you lose eye contact with it, you worthless piece of shit? And why didn't you just take another one? You have to be, quite possibly, the dumbest fuck—

"You're fired," he stammered. "I don't even want to hear your name in my presence, ever. I'd have your life right now if it was worth my effort to make the right calls. Get off my phone, you helpless imbecile! NOW!

The first thing May Parker said to Peter that morning was not true at all.

"Looks like you slept well last night, honey."

Peter smiled and nodded, turning to his bowl of cereal like a hound. His mind had finally locked onto the single greatest use of his abilities that he could imagine. He thought back to the wrestling match the other night on TV. The prize money for destroying the guillotine could bring him all kinds of wonderful things.

Maybe a new camera: that would be nice. Or a plasma screen for his room. Or a new computer. Maybe a car to drive to the lab. His mind was one solid green dollar bill, charged by ten thousand neurons ringing to the tune of a cash register.

It was only mid afternoon on Sunday, which meant he had a day and a half to prepare himself for the tournament. He would need a name, a costume (after all, no one could see who had the abilities of a spider. That would get him locked up for sure), and possibly some training fighting. So the best place for all that was the gym.

"I'm going out, Aunt May," he said.

"Oh? Where to, Peter?"

"The gym," he said, before something more plausible came to mind.

"Oh, alright. Have fun."

Peter went upstairs to pack. May went into the living room to worry. "Ben," she said, pushing his newspaper into his lap.

"Something's wrong with Peter," she said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"He's going to exercise. I think he's coming down with something."

"Hey, Eddie," said Gwen. She waved to him as he approached, meeting at the small café in the middle. "How are you?" she asked, throwing her arms around him.

"I'm doing great, Gwen," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Not as much sleep as I'd've liked. But I'm making it, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," she said. "So, let's go inside. Tell me everything. How is working with the doc? I didn't know you were at his lab until yesterday! That's so cool, Eddie. I should come visit you or something!"

"That would be awesome, Gwen. How's school?"

"Probably not as fun as it is for you. I mean, school's not that much of a challenge. Well, lately it's been… you know what? I don't really wanna have that talk. Let's keep it happy." She turned to the head waitress. "Oh, uh, table for two, please." With a smile, they moved further inside and sat down.

Eddie's phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, lifting a finger to Gwen before stepping aside. "Who is this?"

"Well, I don't care what you have to say; I don't even know your name."

"Mr. Jameson, I've worked here for fourteen years. You know my name."

"Shut up, Ben! Get out of here. Unless you have something good. It looks like you do. Come back in. But be subservient. That word was worth a nickel ten years ago if you could squeak it in an article. Food for thought, kid. Whatcha got?"

Ben Urich walked back into the office, knowing full well that he'd caught the infamous J. Jonah Jameson's interest. "Explain these shots to me," said Ben.

Ben tossed a manila folder onto the desk across from Jonah. The Daily Bugle's editor tore it open with interest, but lost it fast.

"Green screen, cgi. Throw it away, recruit. You're worthless. Outta my office."

"I went to the site, Jonah. There was something on the wall. Some kind of tack. Someone was scaling that wall. Bare-handed. That's a feat worthy enough for printing right there. But then check this. They apparently also destroyed the ventilation system on the roof. Also bare-handed."

"Page five then, and prepare to write your resignation when this load turns out to be a mound of horseshit. Now outta my office, before I decide to dock your pay for time out of the office."

"I'm in the office, sir."

"You're in mine, not yours. Get out of here."

Peter walked into the gym like one might walk into a foreign airport. He dropped his bags and looked around perplexedly, hoping for a sign that said something along the lines of "--Wrestlers, Confused Folk--." His eyes rolled over punching bags and a wrestling ring, weights, mirrors, and a pull-up bar. It was all so…

So very…

So not him.

He almost turned around and walked away, but he remembered the prize money. He'd face even the burliest jock in exchange for that dough. Wait; who was he? Dough. Who says that? Something was wrong.

Peter Parker was standing on an alien planet where the environment changed your lingo.

Lingo?

Yuck. Vocabulary.

Peter's shoulders sagged and he walked over to an empty punching bag, carting his tote with him. He began to punch, which was a sad sort of display at first. His floppy arms and open fists almost bounced off the thick canvas of the bag.

"Yo. Jelly man. Like this, you see?" A burly sort of hulk was standing at the bag next to him, laying it in. Peter began to mimic him, turning his hips just right, digging his tightened fist into the heart of the sack.

"Don't tuck your thumb," the man would call. "It's not in the arms, it's in the twist here at the hips. Rotate more. Don't swing so high. Hook your arm, not wide. There you go. You're getting it."

Peter didn't realize athletic people could be helpful. Maybe you had to be a part of said dark society to be respected. And he was in a gym.

But then, of course, there was Harry. And Harry Osborn was only a douchebag some of the time, so maybe some athletes were just better. This chunky, biker-esque beast was certainly patient with Peter.

"Can we, uh, have a go?" Peter asked. "In the ring."

"Sure thing, squirt. I'll pick it up once you start getting it."

Well, Peter Parker started getting it fast.

He tried not to use his Spider skills too much, but he didn't have them fully controlled. A few swings, rightly aimed, almost cracked the guy's ribs. But one thing the other boxer did have in his favor was precision. Peter's aim was wild and frenzied. His strength was a gift, but his accuracy had to be learned.

Fortunately, he'd been granted the endurance to do so.

"Easy up, kid," said the other man. "I'm not as young as you. Christ. You're one quick learner, ya little shit. What's got you interested in all this all of a sudden?"

"I wanna wrestle in a tournament this week. Just for fun."

"Shit, kid. You wanna wrestle? You're just skimming the iceberg. Punches ain't gonna do you no good in that sort of ring. You're gonna be on the ground and you're gonna get owned. Sure thing. Punch like that as much as you want. But you're gonna need a lot more than that to get your opponent to submit."

"Can you teach me?" Peter asked.

The man stared at him. Thick rivers of sweat pooled over his face. But there was something passionate spurring in his eyes; a sort of fiery heat charged by their sprawls. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah. I think I can. Let's go. Show me what you got."