Two envelopes sat on the table in front of me.
I sat in my chair, glass of water in one hand, bottle of Advil in the other, leaning forward, staring at the envelopes sitting on the table in front of me.
The fading headache a reminder of the run in with Tombstone earlier in the evening.
A conversation repeating itself in my head a reminder of the man who just left my apartment.
Two envelopes addressed to two different people.
Mr. Peter Parker would get one supposedly full of details that would make Mr. Parker's career.
Mr. Spider-Man would get the other supposedly full of details that would make Mr. Man very busy.
Or was there more?
I halfway expected to open the first letter to read "Dear, Mr. Parker, or should I say SPIDER-MAN!!!!" and vice versa.
Pardon me for being paranoid, but I've got this tingling sensation that just won't go away.
Two letters.
From Richard Fisk.
Cliffs Notes background on Richard Fisk:
Son of Wilson Fisk, also known as the Kingpin of Crime, Richard grew up a spoiled brat who resented his father for whatever personal reasons a spoiled brat does, only to try and stab the old man in the back when he was old enough. Wilson, being the loving father that he is, forgives and forgets many attempts by Richard to destroy or take over his operations and that seems to make Richard resent him even more. Last I heard, Richard was once again under his father's heal and busy watching over a laundry mat that was one of Wilson's many fronts.
Present.
Seems Richard had found a new pawn in his game.
I'm being used, I know it. I'm being set up and I'm being used to settle some sort of blood feud between an ungrateful brat and a really, really big man.
And no matter which Fisk wins, Mr. Spider-Man loses.
Big.
Every time.
What's a greatly powered, greatly responsible superhero to do?
Power, responsibility, organ grinder monkey.
You'd think I need a new costume and a name change.
Monkey-Man!
The costume.
Can I keep blaming it for my failures, my shortcomings, my horrible, rotten, damnable luck?
Damn right I can.
Sigh.
I sat and stared at the letters, did a quick mental eeny, meeny, miney, moe, and I grab the one addressed to the alter-ego. My alter-ego, not the costume's.
Dear, Spider-Man,
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...
***
Spider-Man
Issue #3
Hook
by Jason Kenney
***
Sparky leaned back in his chair as he flipped through the papers. He hadn't said a word since I handed to them to him, which was quite a difference from the ammount of words he had for me when I first saw him.
Like, where was I for today's front page story about a certain wall-crawler fleeing from the scene of a warehouse explosion last night.
JJ Jameson didn't care, he got his story either way. Sparky, on the other hand, was a little disappointed in me, the guy who was supposed to be covering the Spidey beat, missing the whole thing.
But when I told him about the meeting last night...
"These are some lofty allegations," said Sparky, looking to me for the first time since he started reading.
"True, but they're thurough and with enough contact information to where we can follow up."
Sparky nodded. He seemed to be liking this.
But it was only half the news.
There was the other envelope, the one addressed to neither or us, that I chose not to share with him.
And that was the one that was on my mind most of all.
"Peter, this is big stuff," said Sparky, setting the papers down and standing up, starting to pace. "And I know you want to follow up on this. But this is big, the kind of stuff we usually leave up to the veterans, people who are a bit more established. People a bit more..." he paused, but I got the picture.
"Reliable," I said and he didn't even nod.
"I have to talk to JJ and Robbie about this before we run it," he said, stopping behind his desk and picking up the papers again. "I'm going to let you start the research, but I'm sticking Sammy on it with you." Sammy, kid from research, quiet but good. "I want you to be thorough. Follow all of the leads spelled out here, follow anything you get beyond that, I want details, I want them rock solid, and I want them irrefutable. This is something that could break a paper as easily as it could make it. But if you ever, EVER feel like you're stuck, let me know, I can get someone else on it."
I nodded and smiled. Yea, a real story.
And it's not about Spider-Man.
"And don't get your hopes up. We may never run this story, even if you get the best damn proof in the world. It's up to JJ."
"Understood. So I take it I'm off the Spidey beat?"
Sparky nodded and I had to keep my smile from growing any larger.
And for the briefest of moments I thought this was a good thing.
But then I remembered the puppet strings.
And the tingling that had been non-stop since the visit from Fisk.
DANGER, PETER PARKER, DANGER!
Shut up, Spider Sense.
"Follow it up," said Sparky, "but be discrete. Does anyone else have this?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Good, two days research, then, I want this on the front page of Friday's paper, if your research is solid."
Friday. Three days from last night.
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...
I nodded but didn't smile as that thought crossed my head.
***
A plane landed at Reagan National Airport like many others do. Three men on board came to Washington DC for the first time in years, for the first time since being driven out by competition.
Wilson Fisk was the competition.
They knew the risks of returning, but the offer presented to them outweighed that risk with more dollar signs and opportunities than they could have hoped for.
The opportunity to show up the competition in his own backyard.
With the help of his own son.
***
He picked up the phone and grumbled a hello.
"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you," said the man on the other end, his voice shaking from his nervousness. "But something's come up."
"What is it, Willis?"
"Well, sir," said Willis with an audible gulp, "a reporter just called here asking about funding."
The man sighed and leaned back.
"And?"
"And, well, sir, I'm not the first person he called. I just got off the phone with Hopkins who spoke with Mills and they both got calls as well."
"Mr. Willis," said the man, "your company is funded by Concerned Americans for a Better America, a lobby that appreciates the efforts of businesses such as yours."
"But, sir, Thomas from CABA called me earlier and said the same reporter had called him and asked a few questions as well."
"Willis..."
"Sir, someone's tracing, someone knows."
Silence for a moment. The man inhaled deeply and spoke on the exhale.
"First off, Mr. Willis, do not interrupt me when I'm talking. Second, if a snoopy reporter is trying to track anything, which I seriously doubt, all they are going to find is a group of citizens who are concerned about their future and their children's future through these uncertain times. Now, do not call me at this number ever again."
And Wilson Fisk hung up the phone with a grumble.
***
In some cases the money trail was obvious. Right out in the open for all to see. Campaign finance laws limit the amount an individual can donate to a campaign, so you get around that.
Wilson Fisk donated X amount of dollars to Lobby A, Lobby A donated X-Y amount of dollars to Lobby B who donated (X-Y)-Z dollars to Candidate C. Repeat with a different lobby in the beginning and it looks legit, you can funnel enough money through where no one knows where to look or it all looks the same and all Candidate C gets from the Kingpin of Crime is a fruit basket with a card wishing him luck.
But that's just a minor violation compared to the good stuff that's not as obvious.
Candidate A is in a neck and neck race with Candidate B. Pictures of naked 6 year old boys in suggestive positions are found in Candidate B's luggage and home during the campaign. Candidate B drops out in disgrace and with charges to boot. But Candidate B was telling the truth when he said those pictures weren't his. They were planted by Person C who was paid off by Person D who received his orders from a man with a vested interest in the outcome of this election because a bill would be up for vote next year that might make or lose him millions.
Oh, and Person C was found dead about a month after the race was over. Ruled a suicide, he had leapt off the balcony of his apartment about twenty stories up. But, whether that was voluntary is up in the air.
This one was a little trickier to follow, but all of the work had been done for me. Richard was thorough in his notes, leaving names and numbers of who to call and who would speak and names of who NOT to call as they would let would blow the whistle on the whole thing.
All I had to do was make the calls and get the quotes.
He did everything but write the article for me.
Sammy was a workhorse, digging up more information faster than I could read it. Perhaps it was his experience, perhaps it was me being cautious because I knew the source and the personal danger behind what we were doing.
Maybe it was that tingling feeling I get all over when something just isn't right.
"Wow, Mr. Parker," Sammy said halfway through our day yet not for the first time, "this is some big stuff. I wish I knew how you got it."
"It's Peter, Sammy," I told him, not for the first time, "and if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
Sammy smiled and kept on working.
But it wasn't entirely inaccurate. The only lie was really that I wouldn't have been the one doing the killing.
And I'm glad Sammy was there because my research wasn't going as well as one would have liked. It wasn't that I didn't know what I was doing, it was all spelled out for me.
My mind was elsewhere.
Another lead I had to follow.
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...
Down to two now.
***
Richard Fisk smiled as the man on the other end of the line verbally squirmed. What he would have given to see the man's face, probably a bright, frustrated and embarrassed red, his shaking hand loosening his tie, a couple Alka-Seltzer probably dropping into a glass of water on his desk.
"Mr. Fisk," said Senator Lewis Young over the phone to the smiling Fisk, "you win."
"No, Senator," said Fisk, "we all win."
There was silence and Fisk imagined the Senator drinking his Alka-Seltzer fizz. His smiled remained wide. Parker was working faster than he had expected.
"Senator, tomorrow there is a bill that will come to the floor for vote concerning a plot of land in upstate New York. You were to have voted for the bill. I want you to speak and vote against it. And I want you to be very, VERY vocal."
Senator Young sighed as if resigning himself to failure. He was stuck, either he follow along his present course and run straight into the scandal wall Richard Fisk was building, or he change his plans and risk the fury of Wilson Fisk. One could kill a career, the other could kill a man.
Martyrdom over failure, he had said to himself as he made the call.
"Okay, the bill will die."
"Very good," said Richard Fisk and he hung up the phone.
***
It was eight before I got home that night. Sammy and I got so caught up in the research that one minute it was one and the next it was seven. Work will do that to you.
Needless to say, I was late for my night job.
The mask was almost on my head when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Tiger."
And I was going to be even later for that night job thing.
***
"In broad daylight?"
"In broad daylight."
Richard Fisk stood at the head of a table surrounded by three other well dressed men of questionable businesses. At the other end of the table sat Lonnie Lincoln who simply leaned back with his eyes closed. He already knew the plan, he was just there for protection.
And as a threat.
"What you're asking of us is pretty risky." Michael Asner was out of Miami and his influence spread all the way up to North Carolina and Tennessee and as far west as New Orleans and the Mississippi. It once was into Washington DC, but that was before Wilson Fisk pushed him out.
"You and I both know risk is what our profession is all about," replied Richard Fisk as he continued to stand with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face.
"But not suicide." Howard Cummings was out of St. Louis and had to scramble to make deals to keep his coast to coast operations running smoothly after Wilson Fisk drove him out of Washington DC and the entire northeast.
"It is only suicide if we fail, which we won't."
"How can you be so sure?" asked Asner.
"Everything is set up perfectly. And, even if one part of the plan fails, it can still be carried out smoothly."
"And if more than one part fails?" asked Cummings.
"Then I leave it up to you all as to whether we continue. You can pull out at that point with no loss of face. But I need all of you to commit to the plan in order for it to work at all."
"I'm in," said the third well dressed man.
Oliver Turner was out of nowhere, he used to be out of Washington D.C., but Wilson Fisk changed all of that, and took one of his eyes while he was at it..
"You can always count on the man with nothing to lose," said Richard Fisk with a smile.
"I have a private charter landing at Dulles two o'clock tomorrow morning, a second landing at Baltimore-Washington around six, each with about twenty guys, another fifty men will be arriving by other means throughout the day and I have at least a dozen here already," said Turner, cracking his knuckles and leaning forwards as he raised his voice. "And I don't care if every damn part fails, I'm in and I will burn this town to the ground if I have to." His one good eye burned with vengeance.
The other two suits stared at Turner as he leaned back in his chair.
"Well, gentlemen," said Richard Fisk, "I couldn't have said it better myself."
***
"So are you busy tomorrow evening?"
"Would you believe me if I said no?"
She laughed a bit, but not because she was amused, just, well, that was how she coped, I guess. "Probably not."
"Well, no, I'm not busy."
"Liar."
"I don't have to be busy every night, especially if it means time with you."
She didn't respond right away and my paranoid mind made a response up for her. "A little late for that, don't you think?"
"That's sweet," she said, trying not to be condescending, but failing. I couldn't blame her. "I'm going to be in town for some fundraiser and could use a date. Know any available, attractive men I might be able to convince to come along?"
"Well, I don't know, let me check my list."
She laughed, this time amused.
"Everyone seems to be busy, would you put up with an available, semi-attractive not-as-young-as-others-but-young-enough-for-you man? I've got one of those."
"I suppose that will do."
"Great, I'll get his number for you."
"Peter."
"MJ."
Silence.
I wanted to say right then that she was right all along, that I was wrong, that I tore us apart, that I loved her more than anything else in existence and I'd give up anything, EVERYTHING just to get back in her arms, her heart, her thoughts, just to have her look at me the way she used to with all of that love and caring and none of the hurt, none of the disappointment, none of the failures and suffering she had to endure at my hands, my selfish, undeserving hands. I wanted to take it all back, make things right again, run away with her, be in love forever, make babies and die happy and old and so in love.
But I didn't.
"So, do you want to go?"
"I'd love to."
***
Wilson Fisk hung up the phone and looked out the window across the city. His city. New York. Close enough to Washington D.C. that he would sometimes imagine he could see it from here.
But now there was a ripple in that view, like a pebble dropped into the calm waters of a pond.
And he did not approve.
He picked up the phone again and dialed a number. The phone rang three times before being answered.
"Hello?" said the other end groggily.
"You know I don't like to be kept waiting."
The voice on the other end cleared and sounded more awake. "Sorry, Mr. Fisk, sir."
"I need to add one more job to the list, Mr. Anderson, and I need it quick and clean."
"Always, Mr. Fisk, sir, I would never give you anything else unless you asked for it specifically."
"Good, you will need to go down to the District of Columbia a day earlier than scheduled. There is a reporter who needs to be silenced by lunchtime tomorrow."
"How does breakfast sound, Mr. Fisk?"
"Excellent, Mr. Anderson."
I sat in my chair, glass of water in one hand, bottle of Advil in the other, leaning forward, staring at the envelopes sitting on the table in front of me.
The fading headache a reminder of the run in with Tombstone earlier in the evening.
A conversation repeating itself in my head a reminder of the man who just left my apartment.
Two envelopes addressed to two different people.
Mr. Peter Parker would get one supposedly full of details that would make Mr. Parker's career.
Mr. Spider-Man would get the other supposedly full of details that would make Mr. Man very busy.
Or was there more?
I halfway expected to open the first letter to read "Dear, Mr. Parker, or should I say SPIDER-MAN!!!!" and vice versa.
Pardon me for being paranoid, but I've got this tingling sensation that just won't go away.
Two letters.
From Richard Fisk.
Cliffs Notes background on Richard Fisk:
Son of Wilson Fisk, also known as the Kingpin of Crime, Richard grew up a spoiled brat who resented his father for whatever personal reasons a spoiled brat does, only to try and stab the old man in the back when he was old enough. Wilson, being the loving father that he is, forgives and forgets many attempts by Richard to destroy or take over his operations and that seems to make Richard resent him even more. Last I heard, Richard was once again under his father's heal and busy watching over a laundry mat that was one of Wilson's many fronts.
Present.
Seems Richard had found a new pawn in his game.
I'm being used, I know it. I'm being set up and I'm being used to settle some sort of blood feud between an ungrateful brat and a really, really big man.
And no matter which Fisk wins, Mr. Spider-Man loses.
Big.
Every time.
What's a greatly powered, greatly responsible superhero to do?
Power, responsibility, organ grinder monkey.
You'd think I need a new costume and a name change.
Monkey-Man!
The costume.
Can I keep blaming it for my failures, my shortcomings, my horrible, rotten, damnable luck?
Damn right I can.
Sigh.
I sat and stared at the letters, did a quick mental eeny, meeny, miney, moe, and I grab the one addressed to the alter-ego. My alter-ego, not the costume's.
Dear, Spider-Man,
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...
***
Spider-Man
Issue #3
Hook
by Jason Kenney
***
Sparky leaned back in his chair as he flipped through the papers. He hadn't said a word since I handed to them to him, which was quite a difference from the ammount of words he had for me when I first saw him.
Like, where was I for today's front page story about a certain wall-crawler fleeing from the scene of a warehouse explosion last night.
JJ Jameson didn't care, he got his story either way. Sparky, on the other hand, was a little disappointed in me, the guy who was supposed to be covering the Spidey beat, missing the whole thing.
But when I told him about the meeting last night...
"These are some lofty allegations," said Sparky, looking to me for the first time since he started reading.
"True, but they're thurough and with enough contact information to where we can follow up."
Sparky nodded. He seemed to be liking this.
But it was only half the news.
There was the other envelope, the one addressed to neither or us, that I chose not to share with him.
And that was the one that was on my mind most of all.
"Peter, this is big stuff," said Sparky, setting the papers down and standing up, starting to pace. "And I know you want to follow up on this. But this is big, the kind of stuff we usually leave up to the veterans, people who are a bit more established. People a bit more..." he paused, but I got the picture.
"Reliable," I said and he didn't even nod.
"I have to talk to JJ and Robbie about this before we run it," he said, stopping behind his desk and picking up the papers again. "I'm going to let you start the research, but I'm sticking Sammy on it with you." Sammy, kid from research, quiet but good. "I want you to be thorough. Follow all of the leads spelled out here, follow anything you get beyond that, I want details, I want them rock solid, and I want them irrefutable. This is something that could break a paper as easily as it could make it. But if you ever, EVER feel like you're stuck, let me know, I can get someone else on it."
I nodded and smiled. Yea, a real story.
And it's not about Spider-Man.
"And don't get your hopes up. We may never run this story, even if you get the best damn proof in the world. It's up to JJ."
"Understood. So I take it I'm off the Spidey beat?"
Sparky nodded and I had to keep my smile from growing any larger.
And for the briefest of moments I thought this was a good thing.
But then I remembered the puppet strings.
And the tingling that had been non-stop since the visit from Fisk.
DANGER, PETER PARKER, DANGER!
Shut up, Spider Sense.
"Follow it up," said Sparky, "but be discrete. Does anyone else have this?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Good, two days research, then, I want this on the front page of Friday's paper, if your research is solid."
Friday. Three days from last night.
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...
I nodded but didn't smile as that thought crossed my head.
***
A plane landed at Reagan National Airport like many others do. Three men on board came to Washington DC for the first time in years, for the first time since being driven out by competition.
Wilson Fisk was the competition.
They knew the risks of returning, but the offer presented to them outweighed that risk with more dollar signs and opportunities than they could have hoped for.
The opportunity to show up the competition in his own backyard.
With the help of his own son.
***
He picked up the phone and grumbled a hello.
"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you," said the man on the other end, his voice shaking from his nervousness. "But something's come up."
"What is it, Willis?"
"Well, sir," said Willis with an audible gulp, "a reporter just called here asking about funding."
The man sighed and leaned back.
"And?"
"And, well, sir, I'm not the first person he called. I just got off the phone with Hopkins who spoke with Mills and they both got calls as well."
"Mr. Willis," said the man, "your company is funded by Concerned Americans for a Better America, a lobby that appreciates the efforts of businesses such as yours."
"But, sir, Thomas from CABA called me earlier and said the same reporter had called him and asked a few questions as well."
"Willis..."
"Sir, someone's tracing, someone knows."
Silence for a moment. The man inhaled deeply and spoke on the exhale.
"First off, Mr. Willis, do not interrupt me when I'm talking. Second, if a snoopy reporter is trying to track anything, which I seriously doubt, all they are going to find is a group of citizens who are concerned about their future and their children's future through these uncertain times. Now, do not call me at this number ever again."
And Wilson Fisk hung up the phone with a grumble.
***
In some cases the money trail was obvious. Right out in the open for all to see. Campaign finance laws limit the amount an individual can donate to a campaign, so you get around that.
Wilson Fisk donated X amount of dollars to Lobby A, Lobby A donated X-Y amount of dollars to Lobby B who donated (X-Y)-Z dollars to Candidate C. Repeat with a different lobby in the beginning and it looks legit, you can funnel enough money through where no one knows where to look or it all looks the same and all Candidate C gets from the Kingpin of Crime is a fruit basket with a card wishing him luck.
But that's just a minor violation compared to the good stuff that's not as obvious.
Candidate A is in a neck and neck race with Candidate B. Pictures of naked 6 year old boys in suggestive positions are found in Candidate B's luggage and home during the campaign. Candidate B drops out in disgrace and with charges to boot. But Candidate B was telling the truth when he said those pictures weren't his. They were planted by Person C who was paid off by Person D who received his orders from a man with a vested interest in the outcome of this election because a bill would be up for vote next year that might make or lose him millions.
Oh, and Person C was found dead about a month after the race was over. Ruled a suicide, he had leapt off the balcony of his apartment about twenty stories up. But, whether that was voluntary is up in the air.
This one was a little trickier to follow, but all of the work had been done for me. Richard was thorough in his notes, leaving names and numbers of who to call and who would speak and names of who NOT to call as they would let would blow the whistle on the whole thing.
All I had to do was make the calls and get the quotes.
He did everything but write the article for me.
Sammy was a workhorse, digging up more information faster than I could read it. Perhaps it was his experience, perhaps it was me being cautious because I knew the source and the personal danger behind what we were doing.
Maybe it was that tingling feeling I get all over when something just isn't right.
"Wow, Mr. Parker," Sammy said halfway through our day yet not for the first time, "this is some big stuff. I wish I knew how you got it."
"It's Peter, Sammy," I told him, not for the first time, "and if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
Sammy smiled and kept on working.
But it wasn't entirely inaccurate. The only lie was really that I wouldn't have been the one doing the killing.
And I'm glad Sammy was there because my research wasn't going as well as one would have liked. It wasn't that I didn't know what I was doing, it was all spelled out for me.
My mind was elsewhere.
Another lead I had to follow.
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...
Down to two now.
***
Richard Fisk smiled as the man on the other end of the line verbally squirmed. What he would have given to see the man's face, probably a bright, frustrated and embarrassed red, his shaking hand loosening his tie, a couple Alka-Seltzer probably dropping into a glass of water on his desk.
"Mr. Fisk," said Senator Lewis Young over the phone to the smiling Fisk, "you win."
"No, Senator," said Fisk, "we all win."
There was silence and Fisk imagined the Senator drinking his Alka-Seltzer fizz. His smiled remained wide. Parker was working faster than he had expected.
"Senator, tomorrow there is a bill that will come to the floor for vote concerning a plot of land in upstate New York. You were to have voted for the bill. I want you to speak and vote against it. And I want you to be very, VERY vocal."
Senator Young sighed as if resigning himself to failure. He was stuck, either he follow along his present course and run straight into the scandal wall Richard Fisk was building, or he change his plans and risk the fury of Wilson Fisk. One could kill a career, the other could kill a man.
Martyrdom over failure, he had said to himself as he made the call.
"Okay, the bill will die."
"Very good," said Richard Fisk and he hung up the phone.
***
It was eight before I got home that night. Sammy and I got so caught up in the research that one minute it was one and the next it was seven. Work will do that to you.
Needless to say, I was late for my night job.
The mask was almost on my head when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Tiger."
And I was going to be even later for that night job thing.
***
"In broad daylight?"
"In broad daylight."
Richard Fisk stood at the head of a table surrounded by three other well dressed men of questionable businesses. At the other end of the table sat Lonnie Lincoln who simply leaned back with his eyes closed. He already knew the plan, he was just there for protection.
And as a threat.
"What you're asking of us is pretty risky." Michael Asner was out of Miami and his influence spread all the way up to North Carolina and Tennessee and as far west as New Orleans and the Mississippi. It once was into Washington DC, but that was before Wilson Fisk pushed him out.
"You and I both know risk is what our profession is all about," replied Richard Fisk as he continued to stand with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face.
"But not suicide." Howard Cummings was out of St. Louis and had to scramble to make deals to keep his coast to coast operations running smoothly after Wilson Fisk drove him out of Washington DC and the entire northeast.
"It is only suicide if we fail, which we won't."
"How can you be so sure?" asked Asner.
"Everything is set up perfectly. And, even if one part of the plan fails, it can still be carried out smoothly."
"And if more than one part fails?" asked Cummings.
"Then I leave it up to you all as to whether we continue. You can pull out at that point with no loss of face. But I need all of you to commit to the plan in order for it to work at all."
"I'm in," said the third well dressed man.
Oliver Turner was out of nowhere, he used to be out of Washington D.C., but Wilson Fisk changed all of that, and took one of his eyes while he was at it..
"You can always count on the man with nothing to lose," said Richard Fisk with a smile.
"I have a private charter landing at Dulles two o'clock tomorrow morning, a second landing at Baltimore-Washington around six, each with about twenty guys, another fifty men will be arriving by other means throughout the day and I have at least a dozen here already," said Turner, cracking his knuckles and leaning forwards as he raised his voice. "And I don't care if every damn part fails, I'm in and I will burn this town to the ground if I have to." His one good eye burned with vengeance.
The other two suits stared at Turner as he leaned back in his chair.
"Well, gentlemen," said Richard Fisk, "I couldn't have said it better myself."
***
"So are you busy tomorrow evening?"
"Would you believe me if I said no?"
She laughed a bit, but not because she was amused, just, well, that was how she coped, I guess. "Probably not."
"Well, no, I'm not busy."
"Liar."
"I don't have to be busy every night, especially if it means time with you."
She didn't respond right away and my paranoid mind made a response up for her. "A little late for that, don't you think?"
"That's sweet," she said, trying not to be condescending, but failing. I couldn't blame her. "I'm going to be in town for some fundraiser and could use a date. Know any available, attractive men I might be able to convince to come along?"
"Well, I don't know, let me check my list."
She laughed, this time amused.
"Everyone seems to be busy, would you put up with an available, semi-attractive not-as-young-as-others-but-young-enough-for-you man? I've got one of those."
"I suppose that will do."
"Great, I'll get his number for you."
"Peter."
"MJ."
Silence.
I wanted to say right then that she was right all along, that I was wrong, that I tore us apart, that I loved her more than anything else in existence and I'd give up anything, EVERYTHING just to get back in her arms, her heart, her thoughts, just to have her look at me the way she used to with all of that love and caring and none of the hurt, none of the disappointment, none of the failures and suffering she had to endure at my hands, my selfish, undeserving hands. I wanted to take it all back, make things right again, run away with her, be in love forever, make babies and die happy and old and so in love.
But I didn't.
"So, do you want to go?"
"I'd love to."
***
Wilson Fisk hung up the phone and looked out the window across the city. His city. New York. Close enough to Washington D.C. that he would sometimes imagine he could see it from here.
But now there was a ripple in that view, like a pebble dropped into the calm waters of a pond.
And he did not approve.
He picked up the phone again and dialed a number. The phone rang three times before being answered.
"Hello?" said the other end groggily.
"You know I don't like to be kept waiting."
The voice on the other end cleared and sounded more awake. "Sorry, Mr. Fisk, sir."
"I need to add one more job to the list, Mr. Anderson, and I need it quick and clean."
"Always, Mr. Fisk, sir, I would never give you anything else unless you asked for it specifically."
"Good, you will need to go down to the District of Columbia a day earlier than scheduled. There is a reporter who needs to be silenced by lunchtime tomorrow."
"How does breakfast sound, Mr. Fisk?"
"Excellent, Mr. Anderson."