Chapter Fifteen: It's Not Slander If It's In Print

"Parker!" The incredibly loud and very Russian voice of Peter's landlord, Mr. Ditkovich, pierced the foggy morning. Wait...was that fog or cigar smoke? It did have a funny smell to it. Let's just say it was fog to set the mood. "Do you hev rent?"

Peter cringed internally. He had hoped to sneak passed without being noticed but, just as luck would have it, he had tripped over the cheap rug on the journey to his apartment. That was enough to alert Ditkovich of his presence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ditkovich..." Peter muttered, pulling himself from the dusty floor and scowling at a lump of gum that had become attached to his pants. "My pay's running a little late this week. The lab had to buy more-"

"I don't want excuse. I cennot spend excuse, yes? Why you not payink rent? I want rent." The man stated so quickly that it almost made Peter dizzy. "Do you hev? Yes or no?"

"...N-No."

The landlord's expression dropped to one of annoyance. "You not giff me rent tomorrow, I keel you. No more stoppink rent, yes?"

"But that's not enough time-" Peter's words were swiftly drowned out by the sound of the landlord's door slamming in his face. Apparently, this wasn't negotiable. Nothing ever was in Peter's life...

The exhausted college student began to slunk towards his room with a brand new dose of anxiety. At this stage, he just couldn't seem to get off the stuff. Anxiety, that is. As soon as his body had flushed itself of the jittering nerves of his every day life, a new problem would crash into his lap (nearly breaking his legs) and giving him another hit of that all-consuming stress. He thought that he might die from it one day. His heart would just...stop working under the pressure.

While that would be a shocking scene to display, dear readers, today was not the day that Peter Parker died. Today was, instead, the day that he made it to his room without incident, then proceeded to hyperventilate into his pillow for a solid minute or so.

He had barely been scraping by on the rent as it was, so he knew that this day would come eventually... He just tried not to think about it. That meant that he had no backup plan. He couldn't ask Aunt May because she was knee-deep in dept already, and he didn't want to make her worry. On basic principle he couldn't ask Johnny or Harry because...well...he just knew that he'd regret it. Mary Jane was completely out of the question as well. She would definitely help him without question, and that was exactly why he couldn't.

Peter's gaze flickered to the newspaper that was strategically placed on his wobbly bedside table. Massive font scrolled over the front reading 'The Daily Bugle' and then right below it, as if teasing Peter in his moment of weakness, were the words 'Spider-Man: Threat or Menace?'.

Peter groaned. He used to take pictures for them in High School...all of Spider-Man, of course, which meant that he had to perfectly position his camera and pose both dramatically and inconspicuously. It was a lot harder than it sounded. Surprisingly enough the worst part wasn't timing the picture with his fast-paced swing, nor ensuring that the shot was in focus. It was the way that The Daily Bugle warped his images to spread blatant lies. They had never written a kind word about Spider-Man. Not even one.

So, he could probably earn a few extra bucks by handing over a Spider-Man photo but what would it cost? His dignity. Peter didn't want to help spread propaganda about his alter-ego...

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"What did you use to take these, a Game Boy?" Jonah Jameson remarked as he flicked through Peter's photos.

Peter was just wondering if Jameson somehow knew about that weird Game Boy Camera accessory, or if he was just being his normal stupid self and making bad jokes.

Jameson squished the butt of his cigar into his ashtray as he barked "My niece has a better camera than you, Parker."

"This is the best I can afford, Mister Jameson. Student...remember?" Peter replied, holding back some of that Spidey sass so he'd have something to throw at the next villain of the week that was scheduled to show up right about now.

"Baloney! When I was your age, I got by on a pay check of ten dollars a week. Ten dollars!"

Peter highly doubted that anybody would write a check for ten dollars, even back in the Cretaceous period.

"You kids don't have enough discipline. You need to save."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You want my pictures?"

Jameson frowned. "...I'll give you a hundred bucks for all ten."

"A hundred bucks? The Gazette would give me two-fifty for the donut theft one alone."

"Oh, pushing for a deal, Parker? Fifty for the lot."

"Okay. I'll just take them somewhere else, and they can run the exclusive about how he stole that guy's donut." Peter bluffed with a smirk. He knew that they loved publishing anything that could make Spider-Man look like a felon. Donut theft was definitely on that list...though granted he hadn't actually stolen that donut. It was given to him by a nice old lady he'd helped cross the street. They probably didn't care about that little detail because, apparently, the truth didn't sell papers.

"Four hundred! That's my final offer!" Jameson snapped

Peter slapped the photos onto the desk and yelled "Done."

"Don't slap my desk. It's mahogany." Jameson muttered.

As the Bugle's publisher pulled a wad of cash out of his drawer, a familiar man opened the door to Jameson's office. It was Eddie Brock, face covered in a thick layer of 'kill me now'. "Brock, is this your office?" Snarled Jameson.

Eddie sighed "No, boss."

"Oh, that's news to me. I just saw you sauntering in here like you own the damn place." Jameson jabbed as he handed the cash to Peter, whose mouth was watering at the very sight of such a large amount of money.

"Just wanted to tell ya I sent my copy through to the Dropbox." Brock muttered as he crossed his arms and leant onto the wall.

Peter's nerd sense tingled; the mention of anything more advanced than a laserdisc player at the Bugle wasn't exactly commonplace. He exclaimed "Dropbox? When did you guys set up a Dropbox? I've been telling them to do that for ages."

"Yeah I dunno, kid. I'd rather turn it in personally." Brock sighed.

"Do you have any idea what this means? It means that I don't need to come in here for my money anymore."

"Aw isn't that sweet? Get the hell out of my office before I cry myself to death." Cried Jameson.

Eddie and Peter slunk out of Jameson's office as he viciously slammed the door on them. Peter stuffed his cash into his wallet and turned his attention to Eddie's lack of...well, a soul. "Rough day?"

"Just got off a flight from New Jersey, covered those robot cop things from ARGENT."

"Wait...the COBRAs?"

"Yeah, something like that." He muttered, slumping himself into the chair at his cubicle. "Interviewed the lead engineer...she was terrible."

Peter leant onto the cubicle wall and said "Jo Kimble? She's meant to be one of the greatest mechanical engineers like...ever."

"She stinks and I don't like her. Made me look like an idiot on the interview, and the director wants to upload it anyway. So hooray, everyone's gonna have to see me try to deal with one-word answers and complicated technical jargon."

Despite their many differences, Peter couldn't help but relate to how Eddie was just made the laughing stock of New York thanks to the Bugle - then forced to deal with it because, well, it made them money. "Yeah...I can relate to that."

Suddenly, Robbie Robertson, the editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, came skidding down the hallway and pointed at Eddie. "Good to see you, Eddie. It's the two year anniversary of Hexterminator's disappearance. I need you to come up with a retrospective, maybe even trace some new leads."

"Wait...I'm sorry, Hexterminator?" Peter laughed.

Robbie furrowed his brow and replied "The poor girl vanished without a trace two years ago, Peter."

"Oh...sorry..." Peter muttered.

"Chief, I'm sick of going back to that piece. I can do more than fluff." Brock argued.

Robbie shook his head. "I'm sorry Ed, but with Jonah getting those new Spidey shots from Pete, they're naturally going to be the page one. So we need...a supplement."

"A filler. You need a filler." Eddie hissed.

Peter swallowed. "Uh...maybe I should leave now."

And he did. He left with the sound of Eddie's shattering self-esteem lingering behind him. It was hard to feel too bad for the guy though, after all, Eddie was still going home to MJ at the end of the day. Peter frowned. He still didn't like the thought of her dating anyone else...despite the fact that he had also drawn his attention towards someone else. That might sound pretty selfish, and maybe it was, but...no. It was selfish. He had no excuse.

Peter dug his hands into his pockets (which were riddled with holes so they couldn't actually fulfill their purpose), and kicked a pebble on the ground. This pebble, as if in direct spite of Peter, bounced along the pavement and cut right through a group of young girls who all squealed as if it were a flying insect.

"S-Sorry!" Peter called out, earning an annoyed glare from the clique. They marched off without a word and Peter was almost relieved. Knowing his luck, that could have been a lot worse.

"Turn away, treacherous termites, from the terrifying temperament of Typeface!"

Okay, never mind, it just got worse.

That awful attempt at alliteration could only mean one thing - Typeface was on the loose. Yes, folks, he is our obligatory villain of the week. I know what you're all thinking, 'when do the cool villains show up?', well, not yet. First Peter's spirit has to be completely crashed under the weight of Typeface's vocabulary.

In the distance Peter could see a waft of smoke circling into the cloudy sky. It was dark, and thick, and flooded the streets with a grey haze. It didn't take a genius to deduct that Typeface had something to do with it.

By the time Peter had managed to find a nicely secluded alley to strip into his Spider-Man suit, the smoke had only grown thicker. He pulled his mask down; mind racing with possibilities. What in the world was going on? Was the city on fire? Were they holding a really massive barbecue that Typeface decided to crash? It could have been anything.

Unfortunately for Peter, this discovery was slightly delayed when he heard his phone ringing. You may be wondering what his ringtone was...well, it was Franzl Lang. An avid yodeller. Uncle Ben had been a massive fan. Though, granted, it may have sounded a bit strange coming from a college student's cell.

For the 100% of you that don't know this song, you're missing out. He has a giant brush on his head and looks beyond pleased with himself. If it doesn't give you any joy then you have no soul...that's Peter speaking not me.

Anyway, our masked hero jostled through his backpack to pull out his badly battered phone and saw the name 'May ️' pop up on the screen. This probably wasn't the most opportune time to answer, but Peter had made a vow to never reject his aunt's phone calls. He had enough regrets in his life, he didn't want that to be one of them.

"H-Hey, Aunt May." Peter stuttered, throwing his backpack onto a nearby roof and swinging towards the fire. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to know how your studies are going." She said, and he could hear the faint scratching of a metal knife against a chopping board. It seemed like she was in the middle of making herself some lunch. She always called him during meal hours. Maybe because she was still getting used to eating alone...Peter's stomach churned with guilt. Sometimes he joined her, but ever since he realised that she wasn't financially stable enough to be feeding two people anymore, he had tried to avoid it. He didn't want her missing meals for his sake.

"They're fine, thanks. I'm...uh...passing everything." That was a blatant lie. He wasn't at college enough to even know what he was studying anymore, but he couldn't tell Aunt May that. "In fact, I'm getting top marks."

"Oh, Peter..." May's voice was filled with such pride that it almost made Peter tear up. "Ben would have been so proud of you."

Peter's lips tightened into a thin line beneath his mask. It was the only way he could stop them from trembling. No matter how much time passed, the hole that his uncle's death had left in his life could never be filled. Not with MJ, or with Harry, or even with Aunt May. He had been more than a father figure... Uncle Ben was his best friend. His role model. The person that he aspired to be.

"Thanks, Aunt May..." Peter murmured, barely able to keep his voice from falling apart. He hoped that she was right... He hoped that he had made his uncle proud.

"Of course, I'm proud as well!" She added, and her voice suddenly became brighter - as if she had heard the sorrow in his voice and quickly jumped to another subject. "I'd be a lot prouder though if you came to clean up that old comic book collection. It's been sitting there for over a year!"

Peter whipped another web towards a towering apartment complex and sighed. He wanted to visit more often, but he rarely had time to do anything besides fight crime and be late for classes. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'll come over and get it sorted soon."

"Well, your birthday's soon so you're going to have to."

Peter perched on top of a street lamp and huffed. Was it really August already? He had seriously lost track of time. "Oh...really?"

"You forgot last year as well." May chuckled. "And the year before that. It's become a yearly task to remind you."

"I'm sorry, but I really don't think I'll have time for th-"

"Now I'll be hearing none of that!" May insisted with a fiery determination that Peter could never win against. "I want you over for dinner on Saturday. No excuses."

Peter narrowed his eyes and finally saw the cause of the smoke. A massive bonfire was raging in the middle of Jacobus Street...right in front of a book store. Typeface was dancing around it like a maniac and throwing handfuls of books into the flames. "Uh... Aunt May? I gotta go."

"Not until you give me your word that you'll be here for dinner Saturday night." May answered stubbornly.

"Yeah, okay, I promise." Peter said dismissively. "I'll talk to you later. Love you. Bye."

He hung up, threw his phone into the air, then webbed it to a nearby brick wall. This wouldn't take long. It was incredible that Typeface had even managed to break out of prison with his apparent lack of powers, or just capability in general. He had probably followed someone more substantial out of jail...or maybe the guards felt bad for him and let him go. Peter certainly did.

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Author's Note: Just a little note confirming that the woman mentioned in this chapter (Jo Kimble, lead engineer for ARGENT), is the oc from the Iron Man story. The interview Eddie Brock speaks of will be in it. If you're not interested it's no biggy, but this is just one small example of how all my Marvel books will be crossing over. ️