Chapter 8: Shadowplay, by Peter

"I did everything, everything I wanted to
I let them use you for their own ends
To the center of the city in the night, waiting for you
To the center of the city in the night, waiting for you..."

The Killers, "Shadowplay"

You know what this country needs more of? No, not Angelina Jolie--yeah, I would have guessed that too--but I wasn't thinking of her. Well, not now, anyway. But I've gotta admit she's hella hot--okay, back to the subject of today's blog post.

I'm talking about responsibility. Believe it or not, there used to be a consensus among the population that life might be unfair, but it's not a poker game--you have to play the hand God deals you because you don't have the option of folding.

And what now? Now we try to understand wrongdoers and try to find some cause to his behavior; anything except his own voluntary choices. Now we have the genetic defense, the poverty defense, the psychological defense, the emotional defense, the death metal music defense, and the twinkie defense. All just modern versions of "the Devil made me do it!" Somehow, everyone's a victim, and if you maintain that you're not a victim, why you must be in denial and need some serious help in realizing you are. No matter what we do, we can't help ourselves. Now, we try to advocate for criminals and supervillains and tell everyone they're misunderstood

The reason why we refuse to let people take responsibility is a simple one. By the same token, if others don't have to take responsibility for our actions, we don't have to either.

Thankfully, I was raised differently, but even so I'm not even going to try to say I'm immune. I too have shirked my responsibilities. Life threw a radioactive spider on my hand, and I was more worried about my next appearance on Letterman than to any duty to society I might have. Even as I patrol the city as Spider-Man and fulfill my duty to my community, even as I think I've learned my lesson from Uncle Ben, Peter Parker neglects his duties to his friends, his family, and his employees.

But when a person comes to the viewpoint that he is not responsible for anything he does or to anyone he knows, you eventually wind up with a criminal. If he's got superpowers, you eventually wind up with a supervillian.

I'm racing my dorkmobile of a motor scooter to the Daily Bugle, hoping to hawk some more pictures to my ever-loving boss. Fortunately, he never shuts up long enough to seriously think about just how this amateur photo-snapper manages to get such great shots of Spider-Man.

And suddenly, I have the unpleasant mental image of my Uncle Otto showing the costume to Jameson--along with any DNA I might have left in there.

But even if I'm headed for early retirement from the superhero business, you bloggers will all support me, right? Right? Huh?

I can't think too hard about this right now--because the Sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, and the thread just snapped. My spidey-senses tingle, and I leap off of the dorkmobile, and duck into the alley.

"Spider-Man!" he shouts. "Remember me? You embarrassed me in front of the entire city!"

"I embarrassed you, Electro?" I shout, leaping out of the way. "You did a bang-up job of that yourself! Look at those tights! Look at that mask!"

He merely shrugs. "Hey, when you can shoot a hundred thousand volts of electric death from your fingers, who's gonna talk smack about your outfit?"

He poises to strike. "Get ready for some shock and awe!"

"And your catchphrases, Dillon!" I leap out of the way of the crackling electric bolt. "You know, I get Sarah Silverman to write my jokes!"

He fires another bolt. I concentrate on leaping, spending as much time airborne as I can. Electricity always takes the easiest path to the ground, you know. Being a science geek helps in these situations more than you'd think. I also know air is a decent insulator.

I also know that Electro's supply isn't inexhaustible. After a few dozen times firing at me and a few dozen times missing, his level of energy will be drained and it'll be fairly easy to take him down.

"Come on, hold still!" he shouts.

"Yeah, that's what they all say!" I duck behind a bus, leaping away in time to watch it explode.

"You know Electro, I wonder what you smell like," I tell him, webbing a nearby car and throwing it into the air, deflecting another blast.

"What?"

I leap once more, landing deftly behind a pickup truck. "Well, your powers are electrical..."

I leap again, ducking into a nearby sports equipment store, grabbing a wooden baseball bat and swearing to the owner I'll return it. "...So water shorts you out..."

I duck behind another car, which promptly combusts. God, I hope the owners have insurance. "And so you can't shower!" I run to the toy store next door, borrowing the biggest Super Soaker I can find. Under the cover of several more cars, I duck over to a water fountain, carefully webbing the knob to avoid touching anything metal, and fill her up.

"How do you plan to defeat me, Wallcrawler, by talking me to death?"

"Nah," I shout, leaping toward him, baseball bat in one hand and squirt gun in the other. "I plan to defeat you by shorting you out and then beating you over the head with the wooden baseball bat! But if you want to be defeated another way, I can be flexible--"

I squirt him as fast as I can. He starts to snap, crackle and pop like a bowl of cereal in the morning. What I didn't plan for was Electro not being entirely shorting out--or being so exhausted that I land in the puddle he's standing in.

I might have saved myself from being fried extra crispy, but I can't say just being fried original recipe is much better.

I sink to the ground. Electro, sopping wet and pulling out a chunk of my burnt-black hair, drags me to my feet. He shoves a dripping nose an inch from my face. "I was being easy on you, Websucker," he taunts. "I wasn't even trying to kill you that time. I would have liked to, but everyone's got a boss, and I've got mine who wants you alive until he can get you myself."

"Enlighten me," I cough.

"I'm just a humble messenger boy, Spidey," he tells me. "My boss just wanted me to make you an offer you can't refuse."

"Give it to me straight, Tony Soprano," I tell him. "Or maybe I should call you Big Pussy."

"Knock off the jokes. My boss says he's known who you really are for a long time. And he wants you to have your aunt's marriage to that fat freak Doctor Octopus annulled."

I used to think that no matter how much my life sucked, things could always get worse.

I lose my job? Lose my girlfriends? Avoid flunking out by the skin of my teeth? Things could always get worse.

Green Goblin scares my aunt out of three years of life expectancy? Things could always get worse.

Venom puts my girlfriend in a web with cement blocks dangling from her head? Things could always get worse.

Doctor Octopus elopes with my aunt because he really has the hots for her uranium mine? Bites, but things could always get worse, right?

I console myself with this mantra, relying on it to bear events like these with remarkable composure and sang-froid. Electro attacks me and tells me he's working for another criminal mastermind who's after the same nuclear breeder Octopus married into? Things could always get worse.

I end up having to buy the squirt gun and baseball bat because they're both so damaged from the battle and charred from exposure to electricity to be unsalable.

Things could always get worse.

My dorkmobile isn't in the alley where I left it along with my backpack full of clothes.

Things could always get worse.

My clothes have apparently been stolen, too.

Things could always get worse.

My digital camera is fried, the victim of Electro's flame-broiling. No pictures for Jameson this month.

Things could always get worse.

I trudge home, making my way to May's apartment, melted plastic in one hand and charred wood in the other, smelling of smoke and superhero tights ripped, hair brittle and crackling, to find Felicia sitting in Doc Ock's lap while he eats my chocolate chip cookies and watches MythBusters.

He looks up at me and smiles that shit-eating grin of his. "Have a nice time?"

I grit my teeth. "Just fucking wonderful, Otto. Just bloody delightful."

"Language, Parker. Cursing makes one look stupid. Not saying you need any help in that particular department."

I give him the single-finger salute.

His smile grows even wider. "Now, I would advise against being so disrespectful to me, young Parker. Especially considering I hold a secret you're not amenable to having revealed publicly."

"You couldn't prove it." My brave words ring hollow, and he knows it.

"Of course I can. I have acquired a DNA sample from the spare costume you so imprudently left in your suitcase." He nudges Felicia off of his lap and takes out my comb from his pocket. "Comparing the samples was embarrassingly easy for someone of my intellect."

The second thing he takes out is two envelopes. One is inscribed with To May Reilly Parker. The other is inscribed with To J. Jonah Jameson. "These envelopes are, as you may clearly see, are inscribed the names of the two people you would least like to be made aware of your--shall we say extracurricular activities. The moment you step out of line, the envelopes go out. Don't even think to say anything. It was an opportunity easily taken, a foolish weakness easily traded on. You should have gone the route of the so-called 'public' superheroes. Are we abundantly clear on this?"

Well what do you know, things have just gotten worse.