Dear Readers, just a short one this time as the last one was huge but I'd
like to say thank you to those who have reviewed (all 5 of you) and that if
more people review I am encouraged to write more. At the moment I have
three story arcs planned but the less reviews I get the less interested I
am to continue. I would especially love feedback on uncle Ben's death and
my new villainous creation. Hope you enjoy and please R&R.
Chapter Five: Night Stalkers
Sandy Brown was walking down one of New York's finest alleys, it was dirty and steam was coming from a nearby vent making the place look like foggy old London Town. Her high heels clicked on the pavement and her tiny belt of a skirt made an enticing swishing noise, she was dressed for work. Sandy didn't have a normal nine to five job, unless it was nine pm to five am, she was a prostitute. She'd just left her tiny apartment and was on her way to her usual spot, she'd walked down the very same alley a thousand times on her way out in the evening but tonight something was different. Her heels clicked just a beat faster and she looked around, the shadows moved more than usual tonight and she thought she heard the dull thud of more footsteps. The rhythmic clicking of her heels turned into a run and she looked back to see a flash of something metal, a knife she thought, she kept watching behind her and running for all her life's worth.
"Hello my pretty," said a male voice in front of her.
She gasped and turned to see a man dressed like a biker, apart from he wore a white collared shirt under his leathers, she ran up and wrapped her arms around his chest and began to cry.
"Oh, what's wrong dear?" he asked her, "Anything old Jack can help you with?"
"I thought somebody was following me, with a knife," she said and turned back to see whether her pursuer was still there, "but I can't see him."
"Look behind you my dear," said the man as he pulled a scalpel from his pocket. He spun the blade around his fingers and then held it firmly in a surgical grip, he grabbed Sandy by the throat and lifted her until her face was only millimetres from his. He then squeezed with his hand to show she couldn't resist and licked along the length of her neck, then he whispered into her ear, "Having fun dear?"
The blood on the pavement had made a neat pool around the body as the street stayed in eerie silence, the lonesome figure of the murderer stood and stared at his work. He stood with his shoulders hunched over, his tall muscular frame showing through his clothes, blood was seeping towards his feet and he started edging back.
"So much blood," the murderer muttered to himself, "there's so much."
The tramp that had been sat across the road had come over to stand by him, he was dishevelled and dirty but still in possession of all his sanity, unlike most people living on the street in New York. He stepped around the blood and felt for a pulse on the neck of the body, he pulled his hand away and looked at the murderer.
"I didn't," the murderer said, " it was."
"You killed him," the tramp said, "he's dead."
"I didn't," Peter replied, "I just," he couldn't speak properly and he was probably in shock.
"You killed him you freak!" the tramp shouted at him.
Peter was crying under his mask and it took his entire being not to go to his uncle, to hold him and cry until he could not cry anymore. But he heard sirens, he'd been stood there for at least five minutes and somebody had called the police. As much as he knew he deserved punishment for what he'd done, he also knew it'd kill aunt May if she found out and he didn't want to go to prison either. He stretched out his arm and shot a web to the corner of a nearby building and pulled himself up and into full swing, tears streamed from Peter's eyes slowly and only his spider-instincts kept him in the sky. He swung for a long time until he'd cried his eyes dry, it was about twelve o'clock now and the duffel bag on his shoulder was getting heavier by the minute. He had to stop before he got too tired to swing and he landed on the head of a gargoyle on the spire of a church a mile or two from the Garden. He slipped his bag off onto a nearby ledge and pulled his mask off roughly, his face was tear-stained and red and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. He crouched on the very edge of the gargoyle's head and looked out over the city, the sounds from below rose up to meet him, sirens and the screams of the innocent. He was reminded of a moment long ago with his uncle Ben, he'd found an old home video in some of his parent's things and shown it to his uncle.
"That was one of the last things your father did before he died," Ben told the young Peter, "he asked me to look after it for him. It's very important, to the government."
"Wow," the young Peter replied, "what's on it?"
"It's not important," Ben deflected the question, "what's important is what your father told me the day he gave it to me. He said that the tape could literally start a war, that he'd been given that power by the tape."
"Really, did you watch it uncle Ben?"
"Nope," Ben smiled, "your father entrusted me with great power and with that comes great responsibility."
Peter smiled at that, how appropriate was that little phrase to his present problems. By some insane accident of science he'd been given great power and with that came great responsibility, but he'd ignored the calling and he'd wasted his abilities and he'd killed his uncle Ben. He knew he had great power, but what about his responsibility, who was it to and what was it? Sirens blared below him again and he stood up. He'd thought his responsibility was to himself, to look after number one, but doing so had got his uncle killed. Now he knew what he had to do, his responsibility was to honour his uncle's memory, to seek redemption. He would help those that could not help themselves, he would fight their battles, he would save their lives. He watched a police car speed along the street below and was about to follow, but his aunt May needed him tonight, she would cry for her murdered husband in the arms of his killer.
Police captain Stacy walked purposefully onto the crime scene, lifting the ubiquitous yellow tape and walking over to the pathologist who'd examined the body.
"Steve," he greeted.
"Hi George," the pathologist replied, "you heard anything about this one yet?"
"It's him again, right?"
"If it's not I'll eat my hat," Steve pulled back the plastic sheet over the body to expose some crudely carved words, scratched into the naked young woman's body. The words read "To Captain Stacy". He flipped over the body to expose more words on her back, it seemed as though the killer had used her to send a message, a message signed "From Hell".
Chapter Five: Night Stalkers
Sandy Brown was walking down one of New York's finest alleys, it was dirty and steam was coming from a nearby vent making the place look like foggy old London Town. Her high heels clicked on the pavement and her tiny belt of a skirt made an enticing swishing noise, she was dressed for work. Sandy didn't have a normal nine to five job, unless it was nine pm to five am, she was a prostitute. She'd just left her tiny apartment and was on her way to her usual spot, she'd walked down the very same alley a thousand times on her way out in the evening but tonight something was different. Her heels clicked just a beat faster and she looked around, the shadows moved more than usual tonight and she thought she heard the dull thud of more footsteps. The rhythmic clicking of her heels turned into a run and she looked back to see a flash of something metal, a knife she thought, she kept watching behind her and running for all her life's worth.
"Hello my pretty," said a male voice in front of her.
She gasped and turned to see a man dressed like a biker, apart from he wore a white collared shirt under his leathers, she ran up and wrapped her arms around his chest and began to cry.
"Oh, what's wrong dear?" he asked her, "Anything old Jack can help you with?"
"I thought somebody was following me, with a knife," she said and turned back to see whether her pursuer was still there, "but I can't see him."
"Look behind you my dear," said the man as he pulled a scalpel from his pocket. He spun the blade around his fingers and then held it firmly in a surgical grip, he grabbed Sandy by the throat and lifted her until her face was only millimetres from his. He then squeezed with his hand to show she couldn't resist and licked along the length of her neck, then he whispered into her ear, "Having fun dear?"
The blood on the pavement had made a neat pool around the body as the street stayed in eerie silence, the lonesome figure of the murderer stood and stared at his work. He stood with his shoulders hunched over, his tall muscular frame showing through his clothes, blood was seeping towards his feet and he started edging back.
"So much blood," the murderer muttered to himself, "there's so much."
The tramp that had been sat across the road had come over to stand by him, he was dishevelled and dirty but still in possession of all his sanity, unlike most people living on the street in New York. He stepped around the blood and felt for a pulse on the neck of the body, he pulled his hand away and looked at the murderer.
"I didn't," the murderer said, " it was."
"You killed him," the tramp said, "he's dead."
"I didn't," Peter replied, "I just," he couldn't speak properly and he was probably in shock.
"You killed him you freak!" the tramp shouted at him.
Peter was crying under his mask and it took his entire being not to go to his uncle, to hold him and cry until he could not cry anymore. But he heard sirens, he'd been stood there for at least five minutes and somebody had called the police. As much as he knew he deserved punishment for what he'd done, he also knew it'd kill aunt May if she found out and he didn't want to go to prison either. He stretched out his arm and shot a web to the corner of a nearby building and pulled himself up and into full swing, tears streamed from Peter's eyes slowly and only his spider-instincts kept him in the sky. He swung for a long time until he'd cried his eyes dry, it was about twelve o'clock now and the duffel bag on his shoulder was getting heavier by the minute. He had to stop before he got too tired to swing and he landed on the head of a gargoyle on the spire of a church a mile or two from the Garden. He slipped his bag off onto a nearby ledge and pulled his mask off roughly, his face was tear-stained and red and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. He crouched on the very edge of the gargoyle's head and looked out over the city, the sounds from below rose up to meet him, sirens and the screams of the innocent. He was reminded of a moment long ago with his uncle Ben, he'd found an old home video in some of his parent's things and shown it to his uncle.
"That was one of the last things your father did before he died," Ben told the young Peter, "he asked me to look after it for him. It's very important, to the government."
"Wow," the young Peter replied, "what's on it?"
"It's not important," Ben deflected the question, "what's important is what your father told me the day he gave it to me. He said that the tape could literally start a war, that he'd been given that power by the tape."
"Really, did you watch it uncle Ben?"
"Nope," Ben smiled, "your father entrusted me with great power and with that comes great responsibility."
Peter smiled at that, how appropriate was that little phrase to his present problems. By some insane accident of science he'd been given great power and with that came great responsibility, but he'd ignored the calling and he'd wasted his abilities and he'd killed his uncle Ben. He knew he had great power, but what about his responsibility, who was it to and what was it? Sirens blared below him again and he stood up. He'd thought his responsibility was to himself, to look after number one, but doing so had got his uncle killed. Now he knew what he had to do, his responsibility was to honour his uncle's memory, to seek redemption. He would help those that could not help themselves, he would fight their battles, he would save their lives. He watched a police car speed along the street below and was about to follow, but his aunt May needed him tonight, she would cry for her murdered husband in the arms of his killer.
Police captain Stacy walked purposefully onto the crime scene, lifting the ubiquitous yellow tape and walking over to the pathologist who'd examined the body.
"Steve," he greeted.
"Hi George," the pathologist replied, "you heard anything about this one yet?"
"It's him again, right?"
"If it's not I'll eat my hat," Steve pulled back the plastic sheet over the body to expose some crudely carved words, scratched into the naked young woman's body. The words read "To Captain Stacy". He flipped over the body to expose more words on her back, it seemed as though the killer had used her to send a message, a message signed "From Hell".