Spider-Man:
FROST #1
My name's Jake Frost. Not to sound conceited, or anything, but, well…
I'm not your average guy.
On the surface, it doesn't appear that way. But come on:
How many sixteen year-olds do you know that can jump the width of a city street?
Or, for that matter, bench-press an Explorer?
The guy had to at least be seven feet tall, four feet wide, and had appendages the size of semis. His body was encased in bulky gray armor, and from his helmeted head jutted a massive white horn. Even so, I thought throwing an SUV at him would slow him down.
I really, really did.
Then again, I've only been doing this for two weeks, so cut me some slack, will ya?
The bad guy swung a gargantuan fist, and sent the vehicle smashing into the façade of a department store.
"Shit!" I hissed beneath my full face mask, hoping like hell that no one had been inside. I had no time to check, because the brute was coming at me.
"So," I said. "Who're you supposed to be? A member of PETA out for animal world dominance. Been done."
I leapt over his lumbering charge, as he bellowed, "The name's Rhino! And ya won't be laughin' after I pound ya to a pulp, bug!"
Spinning far quicker than he ever could (thankfully) I clenched my fists, triggering the glands on the back of my hands. White, gossamer threads that were, in fact, stronger than steel, wrapped around my foe.
"Please," I said. "No need to be formal. A good friend like you can just call me Spider-Man!"
'Rhino' tore out of my cocoon as though it were made of tissue paper.
"Not good," I muttered.
He was charging me again.
I took a deep breath. As he came in close, I pulled off what was, for me, a short hop. Landing lithely behind him, I stuck my hands out behind me, letting them stick to his back while my feet stuck to the asphalt… or, what was left of it. Before inertia could rip me to shreds, I swung him forward over my head, and slammed him into the ground. The resounding crash was like thunder.
Hastily detaching myself, I somersaulted back.
Had I beaten him?
Oh, damn. He was getting up!
I leapt onto his back, before he could even rise halfway.
"Bad monkey! Bad! Badbadbadbadbad!" I lectured, hammering on his head with my strongest punches.
He grabbed me. My sixth sense, or "spider-sense" as I'd come to call it, had warned me, but I was still learning to recognize it. So, yeah. He grabbed me and flung me straight into a parked car. I sank into its steel frame, feeling the impact in every bone.
How the hell was I supposed to beat this guy?
Then I stopped, noticing a live wire that had come loose at the start of our fight. It sparked, snapped, and sizzled mischievously.
Rhino's armor was metal of one form or another.
But was it insulated?
Well, time to find out.
"Hey, hippo-man! Come on, I saved the last dance for you!"
The Rhino seemed to swell with rage.
"Yer gonna die, freak!"
He charged me, one last time.
I grabbed the wire by the insulation.
He barged right into it.
The electric mayhem that followed was indescribable. The Rhino jerked and spazamed, a sight that was strange for one of his size.
After three or four seconds, I ripped the wire away.
He collapsed.
The guy was breathing, I found. Good. I had vowed that, no matter what, I wouldn't kill. I'd never sink to their level…
Police reinforcements were closing in. I could hear their wailing sirens.
"Time to check out," I said.
I leapt up, shot out a line of webbing, and started to swing back to the building where I'd stashed my street clothes.
"This is bullshit," I snarled, hurling the newspaper I'd crumpled to the floor. The headline had read "ABOMINABLE SPIDER-MAN ENDAGERS DOZENS!"
DJ Jefferies, my best friend, leaned back on the couch and said, "Told you you wouldn't like it."
I balled my fists. "How is it," I growled, "That a giant rhino tears the shit outta Green Hook, I stop him, and I get blamed for the damage? What is Watson, brain-dead?"
"No," DJ corrected. "He's a biased publisher who prints whatever he feels like printing."
DJ is the only one who knows I'm Spider-Man. He's the one that made my costume. He suffers from Asperger's Syndrome, but he's, like, a friggin' genius.
"Imagine if he knew Spider-Man was really the new intern at his paper?" he postulated.
"He'd definitely reduce my salary," I agreed. "I'm already on thin ice 'cause of my hair." (My naturally brown locks were currently dyed neon blue.)
For the next few hours, we played Killzone. I kicked his ass, of course: spider-like reflexes really pump up your videogame stats. But even as I blew him away with shotguns and automatic rifles, I couldn't help fuming that John Watson, publisher of the Daily Bugle, was continuing to trash me. Ever since my first public foray as Spider-Man, when I thumped a jewel thief with funky green wings, he'd been doing a good job of turning the city against me.
I was seriously wondering if journalism was what I wanted in life, if people like John Watson were in charge. Sheesh!
"And so, the answer to the equation would be… anyone? Mr. Frost?"
I jerked in my seat. "Oh… um… what?"
Mr. Alexander glared at me. "Were you paying attention?" he growled tersely.
"Um… no?" I said, readjusting my eyeglasses.
"Now would be a good time to start. Ms. Simmons?"
The brown-haired girl I'd been staring at for the past fifteen minutes said, "18.5," and she did it like a statement rather than a question.
Alexander nodded. "Very good, Stacey."
I sighed inwardly. Stacey Simmons was the girl of my dreams. But whenever I was around her, I couldn't do anything right. Fluidity and wisecracks came easily to Spider-Man, but for Jake Frost…
The bell rang. I slipped out of the class before Alexander could harangue me.
As I fought to open my locker, DJ stepped out of the queue and said, "How are things in the Land of Alexander?"
I grunted.
"Did he catch you staring at Stacey again?"
I nodded.
"Damn," he muttered. "You've gotta learn to be discreet. Peripheral vision, man."
Grumbling, I ripped some books free, slammed the locker shut, and headed with DJ toward lunch.
When we came to the cafeteria, we found a bunch of guys clustered in a circle at the entrance. They were gabbing excitedly.
"Dude!" one of them exclaimed. "Do you think he'll really do it?"
Another replied, "I dunno. But… man!"
DJ recognized one of the kids as his tech-club buddy. "What's going on, Carlos?" he asked.
Carlos held up a transistor radio, thumbing the volume:
"Again, repeating our top story: Doctor Octavius Hughes, who is currently calling himself 'Doctor Octopus' has taken the civic center hostage. He is demanding five million dollars in cash, or else he is threatening to trigger a bomb that will, in his words, "Blow the entire block into orbit." The terrorist is heavily armed, and police seem ill-equipped to deal with him—"
"Oh, crap!" I exclaimed, smacking my forehead exaggeratedly. "I forgot! I owe a library book! Hey, DJ…"
DJ cottoned on. "Right. That thing's way overdue, isn't it?"
"Better return it," I agreed. "Like… right now!"
He nodded. Winked.
I turned and started barreling for the stairs to the roof.
THE ADVENTURES OF JAKE FROST WILL CONTINUE IN FROST #2: "ARMED AND DANGEROUS"! JAKE FIGHTS MY VERSION OF DOCK OCK, AND WE WILL LEARN THE ORIGIN OF THE HERO CALLED SPIDER-MAN! SEE YOU THERE, I HOPE!