Chapter 5

The buzzing in Peter's head was so overwhelming that it felt like his brain was being fried. His spider-sense had kicked in hard, as it did whenever he faced imminent danger. Instead of hurtling toward the ground as he had expected, he experienced his free-fall as if he were in a slow-moving elevator.

Realizing the pointlessness of his act, Peter fired a webline at a cornice of the Chrysler Building. Thirty seconds later, he was standing on the sidewalk beneath a lamppost.

He glanced up and down the block. It was completely and utterly silent except for a low-grade howl. The wind was beginning to let up, but the snow was still coming down in buckets. The few remaining cars were buried under an endless white blanket six inches thick. The storm was expected to dump as much as a foot before the night was through. It would be worse than the blizzard of '96.

Suddenly a pair of headlights appeared at the end of the street as a vehicle turned the corner. "It's about time a snowplow got here," he sighed with relief.

But the approaching vehicle was not a plow. It was too small and had no blade. Coming toward him was an automobile that had been out of production for a long time: an Oldsmobile Delta 88.

By all rights, the car should have been stuck. Instead, it was riding atop the snow, not even leaving tracks. Peter's heart sank as it pulled up in front of him. The driver leaned across the seat and opened the door, that achingly familiar expression of disappointment etched on his aged face.

It was the last person Peter felt like talking to at the moment.

"Get in the car, son."

Peter meekly obeyed, relieved to be out of the freezing cold. In a gesture of respect for his departed uncle, Peter doffed his mask.

The car pulled away from the curb and drove off. Peter had no idea where they were going, nor did he bother asking.

"Just what were you thinking?" Uncle Ben demanded in a tone that told Peter he was on his way to the woodshed.

Peter tried to dodge the question. "Well, I... I was sort of under a lot of stress, and..."

"Come on, Pete, did you really think ending your life would solve your problems? I expected far better than that from you."

"Do me a favor, Uncle Ben. Don't lecture me, alright? I'm trying. I've been trying ever since I put this damn costume on. But all I ever get for my efforts are headlines from the Daily Bugle. Nobody gives a damn!"

"Not even Mary Jane?"

"Look where it got her. She lost four gigs. I would've sent her right back to John if I'd known it would come to this."

"She loves you."

"Don't you understand? If she stays with me she's dead... Oops, sorry. No offense."

"None taken. But shouldn't it be her choice?"

"No." Peter stabbed the air a few inches away from his uncle's face to make his point. "I love her, too. More than anyone or anything in the world, except maybe Aunt May. And that's the reason I had to get out of her life. She'll have no problems, as long as no one connects her to me."

Ben laughed.

"This isn't funny, Uncle Ben."

"Come on, son. Don't be so naïve. Do you really think she'll be able to get on if you're not in her life? What was it she said when she first showed up on your doorstep . . . 'Peter, I can't survive without you'?"

"Well, she's wrong. She'd have been better off with John. Hell, the whole world would be better off without me."

"Peter, you shouldn't say things like that. You've been so focused on your day-to-day battle for survival that you've lost sight of why you became Spider-Man in the first place."

"Who's being naïve, Uncle Ben?"

"You know what your trouble is? All you ever listen to are the bad things Mr. Jameson says about Spider-Man. Good Lord, Peter, you're starting to believe that nonsense. You don't see all the good you've done. Do you have any idea at all, how many thousands of lives you've made better just by doing what you do? Millions more owe you a debt of gratitude, whether or not they care to acknowledge it."

"Yeah, right. They appreciate my help until Jameson gets them all whipped up with one of his editorials and the next thing you know, they want my head on a platter."

"Mr. Jameson is a weak man. I'm surprised you haven't recognized that."

"He's one of the most influential people in the whole city, maybe even beyond. He can make or break politicians. City Hall has to kiss his butt if they ever want to get anything passed. And he hates me."

"But he's weak," Ben reiterated. "The only way he can pump himself up is to tear you down. In his mind, you are everything that he isn't."

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" Suddenly, he became aware of an object resting against his leg. It was a book.

Curious, Peter picked it up. "What's this?"

Its cover appeared to be made of white leather, and its title was engraved in gold gothic lettering - Ben-Hur, A Tale of the Christ.

"Didn't you see the movie, Uncle Ben?"

"Twelve times at least. You should see the new book General Wallace is writing."

Under any other circumstances, Peter would have been fascinated by stories of life in the great beyond. But as it was, he was extremely suspicious of his uncle's motives for visiting him. "What's your angle in all this?"

"What makes you think I have an angle?"

"I think I can guess," Peter replied a little more sharply. "They sent you down here so you could earn your wings or something. Well, if you think I'm going to help you after what you put me through, you can forget it. Go back to your cloud and let me handle things my way."

Ben smiled. "We don't have wings, Peter. Come to think of it, we don't live on clouds either."

Peter was tiring of his uncle's flippancy. "Just leave me alone."

"So you can kill yourself?"

Having his darkest thoughts thrown back in his face brought Peter up short. "You're right. Maybe the world would have been better off if I hadn't been born at all."

"Surely, you don't mean that, Peter."

"You bet I do. Heck, you'd still be alive if it weren't for me."

"Really?" Uncle Ben's eyes brightened, as if the proverbial light bulb had just gone off inside his head. "Are you willing to put that statement to the test?"

"Put what to the test?"

"The thing you just said about the world being better off if you'd never been born."

"Hell, yeah!" Peter replied, anticipating that he would simply vanish into nothingness, like a soap bubble.

"Okay," Uncle Ben decreed. "You were never born."

"Just like that?" Peter asked with a snap of his fingers.

"Just like that," Ben answered, snapping back.

"Then why am I still here?"

"You're not. Oh, you still exist very much in the eyes of heaven. You even have all your spider-powers. But as far as the world is concerned, you don't exist." Ben clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You haven't a care in the world. No responsibilities, no struggles with money, no Jameson after you with a subpoena."

"Really?" Peter's eyes went wide with eager anticipation.

The car came to a stop and the door opened behind him. "You've been given an extremely rare opportunity, Pete," Uncle Ben warned gently as Peter felt a rush of cold air. "You'll actually get a chance to see what the world would be like without you. Let's hope you make the most if it."

And with that, Peter put on his mask and stepped out of the car... into Times Square.

This was going to be good...

AN: Good ole uncle Ben to the rescue. Hopefully, he'll put Peter back on the right track. You'll have to keep reading to find out more. Please leave a review, they are very welcome but flames are not.