Spider-Man
Curse of the WebDisclaimer: Here is the disclaimer saying I don't own Spider-Man or any of its characters
His life was something of a bad dream. All the people that he had been unable to save haunted him forever more, and those he was able to rescue from an unspeakable fate paid no respect to the man in behind the trademark tights. He'd lived with it, until now.
When no one was around on those cold, late nights, he'd question his actions or, if he was really depressed, bang his head against something. He knew life wasn't fair. He knew it better than any man on the face of the earth. And this man so happens to wear a red mask.
He couldn't feel the breeze that night. Okay, maybe he could, but he was oblivious to it all the same. When he first started out, he figured he'd be more than a hero. He'd be a famous, loveable role model. But the people of New York had smashed his fantasy within the first few days of his career as a super-hero. J. Jonah Jameson had made him an infamous, foul terror to the city he was really trying to protect. Spider-Man banged his head against the side of a building, lightly, though, so he wouldn't become concussed. It was going to be a long night.
Once he felt like his head was numb, Spider-Man decided he should go home and rest. Maybe watch re-runs of Friends or something. Hrm…. he wondered if he had any ice cream.
He spotted Johnny Storm passing by, no doubt showing off. "Ooh! Flame on!" Spider-Man mimicked in a really high-pitched voice. Wow. Even he was surprised how low his anger had brought him. "Do I really have nothing better to do than make fun of superior super-heroes?" He said aloud to himself. "Wait-did I say superior?" Spider-Man walked up and banged his head on the wall a couple more times.
Johnny Storm, better known as the Human Torch, made his way to Spider-Man. He'd seen him, sitting on a rooftop. "Hey, Webs. Long time no see. Uh…why are you banging your head on the brick wall?" Spider-Man stopped to look at him. "I'm having a breakdown?" Spider-Man said, unsure of how to answer. He honestly didn't know why he was doing it. Usually, he cleared his head by swinging around or going onto a tall building, not smash his head until his brains splattered out his ears. Spider-Man walked over to Johnny, and he told him of what had happened.
"J. Jonah Jameson, huh? Why should I be surprised?" "I know I usually don't take that idiot seriously, Johnny, but I've been so frustrated lately! You obviously have never felt like that. The people love you, though I don't know why, and I'm public enemy number one!" Spider-Man didn't know why he was telling Johnny this. He wasn't a physiatrist, though he needed to see one. Johnny did know how he felt. His best bud, the Thing, had gone through the same exact, well, thing.
"When we all decided to be super heroes, Ben wasn't excepted like we all were. He was…a monster to them." "So, how'd he become a monster to the loveable, blue-eyed Thing?" Spider-Man asked. "He just did his job. Saved a few lives. People got used to him, and he became a hero." Spider-Man threw his hands up in the air. "What the hell do you think I've been doing this entire time, Matchstick?" He yelled. "You're an idiot, Johnny! No offense, but I'm out of here! I'm gonna do this my own way! I'm gonna go give J.J. a piece of my mind!" "Oh yeah, bursting in the Bugle offices and yelling will clear everything up! Are you sure it'll help?" "No," Admitted Spider-Man. "But it will make me feel better."
Spider-Man spun a web past the flaming man, and made his way to the offices of the Daily Bugle. That paper had turned the whole city against him, and he'd lived with it, until now. He kept spinning web lines in mid-air, dodging buildings that seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Soon he saw The Daily Bugle offices. Those assholes.
Spider-Man entered an open window, secretly moving about in the shadows of the ceiling above those unsuspecting employees. He thought that his alter-ego Peter Parker should start a riot. Over worked and underpaid, as the saying went. But he didn't even really work there. He was a freelancer. And he couldn't be fired, either, though Jameson said those words to him every few days.
Spider-Man entered the enormous office of J. Jonah Jameson. It was a good thing he'd left his door open that night. He must be the only one left in the whole building. What was he doing, writing an editorial about the latest robbery, and blaming Spider-Man for the whole thing? Yeah. Pretty much.
Spider-Man aimed his wrist at the large swivel chair behind the desk. He moved his fingers in the famous web-spinning hand motion, and splattered webbing all over the seat. Now, to be prepared. Spider-Man knew from previous visits that Jameson had a big, shiny red button under his desk that instantly contacted the police department. Using the over-achieved brains of Peter Parker, he easily disabled the device. And he unhooked Jameson's large phone that had the police on speed dial, also. Newspaper Editors. Paranoid, every single one of them. It wasn't long before Jameson came in, puffing on a cigar that was long overdue to be thrown away. His complexion was redder than usual, and his usual complexion was bright red with anger, frustration, and/or annoyance. Spider-Man beamed under his mask. He'd have some fun tonight.
The stupid oaf didn't bother looking at his chair before he plopped down in it. He felt the webbing immediately, and strained to get out. He couldn't. At least for an hour. Spider-Man crawled closer to him on the ceiling, then greeted him with an annoying, "Hello, J.J.!" Jameson looked up, fuming with anger. No, not anger. That face was pure hatred. Loathing. Detestation. "I should have known it was you!" Jameson yelled. "Duh! Who else would web your sorry ass to a chair?" He laughed, hopping down from the ceiling. "Listen, Jameson. I've put up with your bullshit from day one, and now I'm really getting tired of it!"
Jameson had never seen Spider-Man shout this loud. He could picture two eyes filled with pain. And Spider-Man realized Jameson's reaction. And for a few seconds, he could see fear floating in the man's eyes. After all, he could kill Jameson with one or two blows. He was becoming the thing Jameson had accused him of. That was something he never wanted to be. Spider-Man backed down, relaxed, and made a long, deep sigh. "Jameson. You're an idiot." He said. Johnny was right. Yelling didn't make it better. And it didn't make him feel any better. He made a nod goodbye and slammed the door behind him. Jameson wanted out of the chair, and was about to yell at Spider-Man. But he remembered from previous experiences that this webbing would wear off by itself, and that he needed an hour break.
Spider-Man kicked a trashcan down in an alleyway. Why did he go there? Why did he give Jameson that satisfaction? He didn't care who was watching him then. He screwed up. While he was busy cursing himself, a cry for help filled the surrounding air. People called Spider-Man to help and save the person in need. Spider-Man looked at them. He swung a web line as the citizens cheered. But the applause died down as Spider-Man headed in the direction opposite the trouble.