Oodles and noodles of fun this story is proving to be!

Disclaimer: You know it. I know it. Lawyers know it. I own nothing. Though, I feel like I should have claimed Alfred last chapter. Ah well, I claim him now!

Chapter 3: The Unstoppable Force that is Tony Stark

When I feel a heavy gaze boring into my skull, I look up. Directly above my head two muddy orbs meet mine. I blink. They blink. I blink again, and this time only one flutters shut before disappearing. Was that a...wink?

More than a little bemused, I pull back from the garbage only to bump into something, or someone, behind me. I jump. My head collides with what feels like bone. I hear muttered cursing coming from my side, the object having shifted after my startled hop. So it is a person. I turn cautiously to look at whoever my surprise is.

It's a boy.

A really tall boy at that, because he must be at least a head higher than me, and I'm no stump of a body. My muscles aren't the only reason that I'm called Big Man. But what this boy has achieved in height, he lacks in mass. Even the thick overcoat that dwarfs and smothers his thin frame can't hide that obvious fact. Hell, he's practically a walking stick…just like…

'Don't go there, Bruce,' I warn myself. 'You won't like it.' I return my focus to the lanky boy and judge him to be about fifteen, give or take a year or two. A mess of thick brown hair crowns his head. I am fascinated by it.

It looks like the best one can do to it is stick a brush in it and call it Rapunzel. I wonder how his mother tames it. "Y'know, it's not polite to stare," he comments, breaking my reverie, "especially at a stranger. Even one as handsome as me." The boy massages his chin.

"I believe you were the culprit first," I say mildly before stopping short. Wait, did he just call himself…? The boy's face splits into a wide grin, and at that point, I'm convinced that he's related to Alfred.

"What's your name, mister?" Unsettled by his feral look, I answer, with appropriate caution,

"Banner."

"That's only his last name," comes a singsong voice. Alfred has returned. I am thankful to see my new (well, as new as anything can get around here) alarm clock in his hands. Perhaps I can make a quick escape. "His first name's Bruce."

"Brucy!" the boy exclaims, yet it's more akin to a high-pitched squeal. Now I'm in trouble.

"I didn't think you knew my name, Alfred. You always refer to me as Big Man," I chide him as I wonder what can possibly result from this exchange. The trader shrugs.

"Big Man suits you better than Bruce. Although, I will say Brucy is just perfect." He makes no attempt to hide his boisterous snickers, and the boy merely grins with that face-splitting grin again. I sigh.

"Just give me my damn alarm clock."

"Not so fast, Greedy Grubby Hands!" exclaims Alfred, pulling out of my reach. "Let me make sure it works first. I refuse to put my reputation as a brilliant, reliable trader on the line just so that you can save your tough-guy image."

"He's got you there, Brucy."

"All right, kid. Then what's your name?" I ask as Alfred waltzes off to complete his check.

"I'll have you know that I'm no kid." I raise an eyebrow. "Ok, ok, so maybe I am. But I'm definitely not your average genius kid. I am the sole heir to the Stark Empire!" he declares, puffing out his chest. My caterpillar eyebrow doesn't move a millimeter.

Deflating, the youngster flails his arms around. "Haven't you heard of the Stark Empire? And its fortune!?" I begin to notice a nervous twitch. I shake my head slowly, worried that even the slightest provocation will make him burst into a cloud of hot air. "Why, the Stark Empire encompasses the entire city! My family owns every breath you breathe!"

Now I'm sorely tempted to inquire what exactly he's on. I am not, however, curious in the least bit to know where I can obtain some. God knows what I'd do if he responds with a drug lord's address. My spare-time research isn't that vital for my survival. My sanity will just have to suffer.

The boy, perceiving the depth of my disbelief, fumbles with his coat pocket. Then he hands me a flimsy rectangle of paper. "Here," he says, almost breathless. I'm beginning to think that I should be worried about him. "This is my card. It has my name and everything on it."

I flip it over and read it in silence. When I finally return it to him, I remark wryly, "That's an interesting way to spell Tony. I can't say I've ever seen the y be replaced with a heart-dotted i." Furrowing his brows, the boy reads the card. My inner imp shrieks with delight as his face flushes a peculiar shade of red, somewhere between tomato and grape. Revenge is sweet.

"T-t-this one is for the ladies!" he manages to splutter. I snigger. The nervous twitch becomes more pronounced as irritation contorts his feature. "Well, what do you propose I do? We can't all be muscle-heads!"

I freeze as he wraps his bony hands about my biceps. "Flex," he orders. When my response is a blank stare, he repeats his order. I oblige him. His appreciative murmurs fuel my discomfort when he moves to my calves. This kid is weird, I decide. "Wow, your muscles must fetch you a good number of pretty legs. What are you on? Steroids?"

Images of that night flash through my mind. My arm flies from my side before I can stop it. The boy struggles for air as I lift him by his neck so that his feet no longer touch the ground. "Well, Tony," I spit, "what do you think? Am I just another dumbass sheep following a drug lord shepherd so that I can get a daily high?"

"That's…not what I…meant…to say," he wheezes. The beast in me refuses to listen. As I'm about to squeeze the last of life from his puny body, a sharp click in my ear returns me to reality.

"Drop the kid, Banner." I twist my head to see Alfred pointing a gun at my temple. His smile has vanished. In its place is a no-nonsense frown that threatens severe consequences if I go through with my actions. And there's my clock in his palm.

With equal amounts of horror and relief, I relinquish my hold on the scrawny neck. Tony floats to the ground. He begins to rub the areas where I know imprints of my fingers will form. "Damn, Brucy," he says. "Here I was thinking that your head-."

"Shut up, Tony," snaps Alfred. Though a smile has manifested, it is hard and dangerous. "Now, Banner, I'm going to give you two options, so listen closely. Option Numero Uno: You can take your precious alarm clock and vacate my premises at once. I don't want to see any sign of you around here for two weeks. Understand?" I grunt to acknowledge him.

"Option Numero Dos and this one is my favorite: You can create more trouble for my lovely customers. I'll paint the streets with your brains. How does that sound?"

"Singularly unpleasant. I'll take the first option." Alfred tosses me the clock and waves his gun in the direction of my home.

"Before you go, Brucy," says Tony, getting to his feet, "I have to ask you a question of great importance. It may determine the future of all mankind." I look to Alfred, and he nods.

"Well…what is it?"

"Do you have a penny?" I throw him a puzzled glance, and he returns it heatedly. "Well, do you?"

"I suppose I may have one somewhere at home…"

"When you find it, can I have it?"

"Kid, you are seven different kinds of crazy."

"All right, enough chitchat," Alfred intervenes, effectively ending all conversation. "Move along, Big Man. I've got high rollers coming to my stand today." Alfred and his forgiveness. Both characters. Rolling my eyes, I offer the trader a mock salute as I turn on my heel.

"See you around, Brucy!" I hear Tony's youthful voice echo after me, and I marvel that he doesn't detest my every fiber. My impish side stirs.

"Whatever you say, Toni," I call, making sure to draw a simple heart with my index fingers. Picturing his indignation, I throw my head back and laugh. At least I'll have some semi-pleasant memories to keep me company in the long weeks ahead. With that I square my shoulders and return to my dismal abode.

Let them do their worst.