Get a Hair Cut and Get a Real Job Part Three: Money Money Mon-WHAT?
An inhuman, unnatural sound screamed through the air like a million birds panicked chirping. An explosion, followed suit, mixed with screams of terror.
From upon a roost scant five blocks away from the explosion a red and black, garbed hero gave a hidden smirk beneath his mask. With wind wiping around his lanky, muscular form, he stood tall.
"Showtime." With strength beyond what his size would betray, Spider-Man catapulted into the air from the metal spire mounted atop a skyscraper and dived down like an arrow, wind screaming in his ears. At just the right time, without even moving his arm, Spider-Man aimed his hand at the side of a rapidly growing building, snapped his wrist back and fired a glistening strand of silvery web.
Still falling at high speed, he braced himself for the soon to come jerk that would tear a normal kids arms off. When it came, the line stretched and tightened, sending Spider-Man swinging forward, the world a blur.
With quick and agile twists of his body and precious targeting with his web lines, the spider powered teen swung between buildings and weaved through busy traffic at ground level, never touching the ground.
In less than two minutes, Spider-Man had cleared five blocks. Upon arriving, he swung onto a wall across from the where the explosion has occurred. What he saw at the scene of the crime made his jaw drop. Police cars were over turned, sides shattered like glass, all over the road. Great potholes that looked like mini-meteorites had drilled into the pavement doted the street. Thick clouds of dust and powdered gravel filled the air.
Police officers had taken cover behind over turned vehicles with guns drawn, aiming toward the entrance of a large bank, whose entire first floor front wall had been blown out from the inside, with large chunks of concrete and mortar spread out on the steps and side walk in a radial pattern.
At the center of the chaos was a single man. A man who looked like he, had a very unfortunate accident at a quilting factory.
This left Spider-Man rather, torn. He was unsure of whether to laugh himself to an early grave or simple swing away as this guy apparently already had a very bad life up to this point. He chose neither. This guy, who had dubbed Captain Two-ply, had already caused massive damage and could have very likely killed people or could eventually kill people. He had to be stopped.
With movements honed from decades of training, Herman Schultz ducked behind the broken wall of the Brooklyn Bank, his heart beating against his chest. Beads of sweat tried and failed to form on his skin, which was smothered by his suit.
The suits top and legs were a dull, dirty yellow, crosshatched by thin black wires in a diamond pattern. His boots and gloves were made of a heavy and unattractive brown rubber/latex compound. Overlapping his forearms were two metal gauntlets that left his finger exposed. The top of the gauntlets had vents pointed outward.
"This wasn't supposed to happen!" Herman said, gasping for breath. "Those bastards just left me! When I find them I'll-!"
"What? Wipe their cheeks really well, Captain Two-ply?"
Herman almost lost bowel control from the sudden, high pitched, and overly chipper voice from…the ceiling!?
Spider-Man slid down a length of the elastic strand, still upside down, and met Herman bug-eye to tiny white-eye.
Stuttering and completely taken aback by this shocking occurrence, Herman stuttered slack jawed at the sight of the costumed adventurer.
"Yeah, that's what I though," Spider-man said, cocking his fist back. "Say goodnight Gracie!"
Tension coursed through the veins of Sergeant Jacuzzi Masterson, his handgun shook steadily in his sweating hands as he waited for even the slightest hint of dirty yellow to peak out from the darkened bank. Sweat trickled down his dark skin; his ears groping for even the slightest hint of that horrible noise.
He had been on the force for sixteen years and never had he seen something like what this freak could do! He just pointed at something and BLAM! It went flying!
Freaking super-freaks, used to be nice, normal criminals I'd have to deal with, but now they got these powers! How are we supposed to deal with that!
"Sir, do you think we should move in?"
Sergeant Masterson nearly jumped from his skin at the voice of the young cop to his left. He glared bitterly at the young Italian man, wanting to slap him upside the head for scaring him.
"No!" he said. "We wait till SWAT gets here, then we mo-" Sergeant Masterson was cut off by a heavy thump and grunt in front of him.
Slowly rising from the harsh pavement, groaning in pain was the man that had held an entire unit at bay.
It took just a second for every single one of the police officers to aim their guns on the Quilted Terror that was Herman Schultz. With a deafening cry of "Freeze", Herman spun around, still dazed from the powerful series of blows that had sent him flying from the bank.
His eyes went wide behind the yellow facemask and he tossed his arms up in a defensive gesture and screamed, "Please! Don't shoot!"
Unfortunately for Herman, when you combine over worked police officers, a threat level that could potentially make a military unit wet itself, and loaded guns, it can only end one way. Herman only felt the first volley of 9mm slugs that tore into his body, pain searing through him like none he had ever experienced. He didn't notice when he fell to the ground, blood spurting from the many bullet wounds in his chest, legs and arms. Herman never noticed the cold blackness that slowly enveloped him, dragging him deeper and deeper away from life.
That is how it should have happened. What did happen is far more amazing. As the bullets rained down upon Herman, they seemed to strike an invisible barrier, ricocheting back at the officers. The repelled slugs found homes in the shoulders and arms of a handful of the law enforcement officers, while the rest expended their energy against hard concrete and brick walls or damaged metal and plastic of the wrecked cruisers.
Amid the wails of pain, Herman slowly lowered his arms, amazed at what had happened. "Incredible! I didn't know the suit could do that! Should have looked at the papers more carefully before I lifted this thing." Herman laughed, a feeling of invincibility washing over him. He pumped his fist high into the air in excitement, strength filling ever part of his body.
"YES! Though the world may mock puny Herman Schultz, it will soon marvel at the awesome might of The Shocker!"
"Holy Crud on a cracker, man! Do you realize how stupid that sound?"
The Shocker turned around, remember exactly what it was that sent him out of the bank in the first place, and his jaw quickly got better acquainted with Spidey's right foot. With crack, Shocker performed a well, executed face plant.
Mockingly, Spider-Man dusted off his hands. "Whew! That was a tough fight! Let me see, I figure that these little doohickeys on your arms are what let you do all this damage, am I right? Oh course I'm right! You're on conscious."
He rolled Herman over onto his back with a single foot and relieved him off his gauntlets. He held the literally hand held weapons, examining with his natural curiosity. "Sleek, sexy and most importantly, nice and shiny!" He exclaimed with playful glee. "Wonder how they work?"
Peter's body went rigid as the familiar prickling ran up the back of his neck. It didn't take a genius, namely Peter, to figure out what had set it off. He dropped the gauntlets, which clanked on the pavement and drooped his shoulders.
"Oh come on guys! I took out the bad guy, again! Can't you cut me a break at least once?" Spider-Man groaned at the police, those of who that had not been hit had risen from the cover with their guns drawn.
"Get down on the ground freak!" ordered Sergeant Jacuzzi, ready to pull the trigger if the freak so much as twitched wrong.
The situation was further compounded by the arrival of a SWAT van, whose doors sprang open, letting a torrent of heavily armed men stream out pointing their very intimidating automatic weapons at Spidey.
Okay web head, you're surrounded by heavily armed men that probably won't hesitate to turn you into superhero purée. How do you get out of this one? Spider-Man gulped nervously. He had to escape, being arrested was not an option! So, he did the first thing that popped into his head.
"Hey! Is that Eddie Van Halen?" he said, pointing behind the swat team. Miraculously, it worked. Every single police officer and SWAT member turned to look if it was in fact, Eddie Van Halen.
Resisting the urge to slap his face, Spider-Man wisely chose to swing his little webbed butt away.
From high above on the rooftops, Spider-Man gazed down at the crime scene with bitter eyes. Why do they always treat him like the criminal? He's the one sticking his neck out to help them, they should be grateful! Not like they were in that bank untying the hostages. If it wasn't for him they probably wouldn't have caught Quiltboy.
Spider-Man shooed away a pigeon that had landed on the ledge beside him. He watched it flutter away, disappearing into the great blue. "Not really in the mood for company."
He turned his attention to the camera in his hand. If any luck, it had caught photos of him pounding on Shocker. The question now was how to develop them.
"Welcome to…um…Photo…Joint…hehe joint." Giggled the man behind the service counter. His nametag read: "Stew", but Peter felt that it should really say, "Baked".
"Yeah, uh, I'll go some place else." Peter massaged his temple as he walked out of the store, feeling oddly hungry.
"You're lucky we're not to busy." Said a much less stoned man, holding the roll of undeveloped film in his hand. He smiled at Peter with very bright white teeth. "Your photos will be ready in about five hours."
"Okay, thanks! I'll pick them up tomorrow afternoon." Peter said brightly. This store was much more pleasant and professional. Plus, the workers weren't high as a kite.
Peter exited the store and moved into the crowd traveling up and down the sidewalk, enjoying a great sense of accomplishment. Tomorrow, Peter would be rolling in the cash at the Daily Bugle. Before he new it, he had started to whistle a merry little tune.
The cold, mechanical hum of countless devices filled the massive room with a dull thrumming that made a person's teeth tingle from the vibrations. The floor was stainless steel, yet oddly, made almost no noise when walked upon.
Computer and television screens were built into the right wall, opposite of a singular massive console, data flowing down the screen at a, none stop rate.
At the back of the room was a grand metal desk, built into the floor itself. Upon the desktop were piles and piles of paper work which a man who the world had deemed to look like the bastard love child of Samuel L. Jackson and John Wayne.
Over his left eye he wore an eye-patch, a mass of scares reaching out from it, a memento of a bad choice and a horrible enemy from long ago. The man was dressed in flat black military fatigues, the sleeves rolled up his muscular arms. A high caliber pistol was fitted snugly in an over the shoulder holster across his right side. The black man's left front pocket bulged in an upright rectangular shape. Sewn on his right pocket was a strange emblem. On a white background the silhouette of an eagle, it's wings spread wide, was encircled by a black ring. Inside this black ring was the anagram: S.H.E.I.L.D.
His pen glided over a paper, authorization for shore leave for somebody whose name didn't really come to mind, before he stopped and cursed. He shook the pen violently before reapplying it on the paper.
Once done, he stacked the document on top of the "Out" stack and grabbed another from the "In" pile. He put down the pen and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "The most advanced military hardware on the fucking PLANET, and I can't get a decent damn pen! Did you ever have to put up with this Richard?"
The gold colored door at the front of the room slid upon with a hiss, allowing a short, mustached man entrance. Despite his short stature, he was very well muscled looking something like a bodybuilder in a military uniform.
"General Fury, sir!" he said with a salute.
Nicholas Fury rolled his one good eye and waved the red haired man inside. "Dum Dum, what have I told you about formalities? We've been friends for twenty-seven years. You've earned the right to call me Nick."
Dugan, Dum Dum to his friends i.e. Nick Fury, chuckled walking over to his long time friend and superior officer and handed him a small file. "Sorry Nick, force of habit."
"That's all right. So what is this?" Nick asked, opening the file, which contained several papers and a handle full of blurry photos.
"It is all the intel we've been able to gather on the new Mutant in New York." Dugan said, crossing his arms over his chest. "We've yet to ascertain his identity but we've narrowed it down to a few hundred…thousand people."
"A 'few' hundred thousand? Help me out here Dugan."
"We've compiled a list of candidates for 'Spider-Man' from clues given by the sighting locations and the photos and the cell phone video. Given his estimated height, he can guess he is between the ages of nineteen and fourteen years of age." Dugan ignored Nick's snide remark about how helpful that was and continued. "Further more, the sightings are predominantly around Brooklyn, Greenwich Village, Midtown and Queens. The times for the sighting are typically at night from those he helps. A minority of, sightings are during the day. On weekdays they are usually after three o'clock while on weekends, they are sporadic, but still mostly at night. How many of the sightings are truthful, however, is debatable."
Nick spun around his chair, scanning the documents with an eagle eye. "So given this information, we can assume that he is a High School student. Correct?"
"Yes sir. We've got a student body roster for all High Schools located in those area's and marked off all female students."
"Any know Mutants in any of these schools Dugan?" Nick said, turning back around to face Dum Dum.
"Only a few hundred, most of them are either female or unable to hide their mutation."
"So, it is either a Natural that's some how gone under our radar, our an A.M." Nick picked up the student body roster for one of the schools at random, and halfheartedly scanned the list of names. "Either way, we need to put a stop to his half assed heroics before some gets killed."
An idea popped into Dugan's head. He leaned forward and asked Fury in a curious tone. "Do you think it could MGH?"
"Not likely. That shit's expensive and requires a lot of money and equipment to manufacture in even the smallest quantity. Plus, the effects are only…hold on here. 'Parker'?" Nick brought the list closer to his face, reading the name over and over again. " 'Peter Parker'? Could this kid be…"
"Hmm? What's the significance of this Peter kid?" Dugan asked.
"Nothing…yet, I just want to check something out." Nick looked at Dugan, raising an eyebrow. "Well, why the Hell, are you still here? Didn't you hear me?"
"Oh! Ah sir, ah I mean Nick, I'll get right on that!" Dugan said, quickly rushing from the office and through the sliding doors.
General Fury put the folder down on his desk and leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, deep in thought.
A thin mist hung over the ground as a team of men horridly rushed between a large warehouse and several trucks, loading medium sized crates into the backs. A silvery sliver of a moon hung high in the night sky, breaking through the thin cloud cover. A breeze like death rolled over the men, who fought the urge to run. It was not a good night to be in Hell's Kitchen. Especially when you were on Kingpin's payroll.
From within the shadows above, a pair of hidden unseeing eyes peered through the men and into their hearts. With stealth beyond mortal men, Dare Devil dropped down from the rooftop and moved through the darkness, embracing its cool element.
He stopped and listened, opening every door of the mind and body, letting his soul wash out over the world.
Seventeen goons loading the trucks with two men in, each truck. At the very end, on of the men is smoking. Total is twenty-five people. Not even a challenge.
He moved to the very end of the caravan, never leaving the shadows and moving to quickly and agilely to be seen.
His pray was picked, peaking out behind one of the trucks at the farthest end of the caravan, smoking a cigarette, completely oblivious to his fate. With years of honed expertise, Dare Devil Raised his night stick and pressed a nearly invisible button on the side. The bronze cap was fired from the top, attached to the weapon by a strong wire, and sailed through the air and connected with the smokers jaw.
His head snapped violently to the left, teeth flying out of his bleeding mouth. He toppled to the ground, smacking the side of his head on the mist, covered pavement with a crack.
The bronze cap was pulled back just as fast as it had fired and reconnected with the main body of the nightstick with a soft click. With mighty leap, Dare Devil was upon the fallen smuggler.
The criminal looked up with blurry eyes and saw the demonic form hunched over him. With eyes wide with fear, a scream escaped his bloodied lips echoing forever in his heart as the world went dark around him. He never had a chance to scream.
With a single blow to the head, Dare Devil had knocked his opponent unconscious, turning him into a limp mass of flesh.
The Horned Horror rose from his prey and quickly, silently, rushed to the driver's side door and opened it with a jerk. The driver never even knew what hit him. He slumped in his seat, jaw askew and crimson fluid leaking from his busted upper lip.
Dare Devil moved up to the third truck and crouched down beside its rear right tire and brought his barbed knuckle up to the tough rubber. With minimal force, he tore a small hole in the tire and ripped through it, shredding it to pieces.
Finally, he approached the front truck, waiting until the three men at the rear, loading the back, had gone back into the warehouse. With quick, well-timed moves, Dare Devil slashed the rear right tire the same way as the last.
A wicked smile licked its way across his face. Now for the fun part, he thought.
Two more men stepped out of the warehouse caring the same type of crates and walked toward the front truck. Dare Devil crouched down on all fours, tensing his muscles for the planned attack.
Wait…wait…NOW! With the skill honed from years of training, Dare Devil attacked, lashing out with a flying kick that contacted with the closest thugs face with a sickening sound of bones crushing and flesh tearing. He fell like a ton of bricks to the ground, the crate he once held falling on his legs, the bottom cracking and splintering.
The second man was taken back by Dare Devils sudden attack and dropped his crate and went for his coat pocket. Maybe if he was a little faster he might have grazed the Scarlet Terror with a bullet, but what happened was him feeling an intense pain in his gut before his jaw was shattered by a devastating uppercut.
Unsurprisingly, the ruckus caused by this drew the attention of the remaining criminals had sprung from the trucks, guns drawn and a bead drawn on him. They had tried to surround him. Bad move. Seconds before the trigger were pulled, Dare Devil back flipped into the air, easily dodging a hail of bullets that cut through where he was standing, and right into the men's chests', blood sprouting from them like sinister roses.
Feeling the approaching hurried foot falls and the sound of rounds being chambered, Dare Devil leaped onto a stack of empty crates against the wall of the ware house and from there, onto the slick roof, waiting for his targets to come into "view".
They did not disappoint. Each carried a small caliber handgun, pointed out from their bodies, quickly darting their heads about to find the enemy, never thinking to look up. Their funerals.
Like a ninja, Dare Devil dropped down from the roof without a sound, behind the gunmen. His gloved hands went to the holsters at his waist and removed his two batons and leaped at the closest thug.
With a loud crack, the man dropped, a baton blow knocking him out cold. The others spun around in surprise, opening fire on a target that wasn't even there.
The sound of bullets firing and ricocheting shells died as the cold realization settled over them. That…demon could be anywhere.
The claws of fear and the eyes of nightmares seized upon each of their black hearts, squeezing them in its icy grip. This was Dare Devil's true power.
Crouched down on top of the nearest truck, Dare Devil plotted his next strike. Cold, and mechanically, he flipped off the truck and grabbed two crooks by the sides of their heads and smashed them together, letting them fall to the ground before darting toward another man and burying his spiked fist in his throat, cutting and slicing at the flesh.
Just as the man's body began to fall Dare Devil leapt at another of the hoods, kicking him in the face, throwing him back three feet with a snap and spout of blood from his nose and mouth.
With a spin, DD landed with his back to the remaining thugs, his right leg out straight to his side and left leg tucked close to his body. He heard them raise their guns and cocking the hammers. He new the exact positions of each and everyone of them; he heard their hearts race with terror. With a baton in hand, the small brass head pointed up vertically behind him, Dare Devil fired the solid metal weight with explosive force into the jaw of a thug, knocking him to the ground. With great grace and violent purpose, he spun to a standing position, the weight spinning around him and colliding with the remaining criminals heads.
The brass weight was reeled back in, clicking on the blood red stick, glistening with a crimson slickness.
He stepped out from the field of bodies and moved to the shattered crate that rested over one of the thug's legs. He kicked it over and sneered at what was left exposed. Sound waves traveled over each lumpy, plastic wrapped bag. The faintest smell escaped the containers, mixed with the far more potent stench of blood, and sweat. One of the bags had broken open and a fine powder had poured out from it and onto the thug's leg.
The red, garbed vigilante knelt down and pinched a small amount of the substance between his fingers and took every aspect of it in, rubbing it between the tips of his forefinger and thumb, and taking the full sent into his lungs with out actually inhaling the powder.
Cocaine, exact same texture and, stench, of, Lil' Caesar's junk. So, this was where they were keeping the stash. Most likely trying to move it out tonight before someone found it. To bad they chose tonight. Yesterday I would have been to busy with the Lorenzo Case.
Dare Devils thoughts were cut short by the sound of moaning from behind him as one of the slime began to stir upon the ground. He rushed over to the thug and yanked him up by the scruff of his collar, bringing him up to his eyes.
The man, a Latino in his mid twenties in a heavy black coat, looked into the glistening, hellish eyes. His heart almost burst from freight. His pores opened, sweat streamed down his face, his throat grew dry and tight.
The Horned Hero slammed him forcefully against the side of the transport vehicle, making it rock. With a tooth snarl, Dare Devil tightened his grip on the criminal. "Where were you taking these drugs?"
The Latino gulped down a dry breath of air, chocking and sobbing in terror. "I-I don't-don't kn-"
Dare Devil pulled him away from the truck and rammed his back against it. "DON'T LIE TO ME!"
"A-a-alright, alright! We was taken it to-to Jackson H-Heights!" He squirmed and sniveled as Dare Devil pushed him harder into the truck, digging his claws into his shoulders.
"Where in Jackson Heights?" He demanded, hissing like a snake.
"I-I-I-uh…" The man went limp, head drooping down, passing out from terror. Dare Devil snarled and tossed him aside. Thoroughly disgusted by the filth he had so easily disposed of, he marched away from the scene and leapt onto a rusty fire escape on the side of a building directly across from the warehouse and used it to access the rooftop without making so much as a clattered.
He turned back, "looking" down upon the warehouse and the broken and beaten bodies of the men. Dare Devil snorted and removed a small metal stick, no bigger than a tube of chap stick and turned way, running across the roof and then summer saluting over to the next. With out hesitation, the scarlet hero placed his thumb on top of the black metal tub and pressed down. The next instant was filled with a massive boom and the scream of fire. Thick, billowing clouds of smoke rose from behind Dare Devil, mixed with tongues of flame and flying pieces of wood and iron. A diabolical smile appeared on the vigilante's lips. There had, what he estimated, two hundred kilo's of heroine left in the warehouse. Lil' Caesar's going to be pissed.
When Peter had heard that George Stacy had called asking for him to come over to the apartment, he was understandably disturbed. George, while of advanced age, was no slouch psychically being surprisingly fit for a man his age. Not to mention him being a police captain, being privately wealth, holding a sizable amount of sway with the city council, and most importantly, was the father of his girlfriend.
When he had arrived at the Stacy's apartment, in a different set of clothes, he learned that Gwen had gone off with Mary Jane early that afternoon to shop at the mall and her mother had gone to the doctors. It was just he and George.
Nervously, twitching like a mouse caught in the grasp of an owl, the brunette sat on a normally comfy couch, which had begun to feel hard as a rock, across from George. George, a man in his mid to late fifties with thinning snow white hair, sipped from his fresh brewed cup of tea calmly as could be.
He put down his cup of tea on the saucer balanced on the arm of the chair and stroked his bushy, caterpillar like mustache offhandedly. George coughed and shifted in his seat, looking at Peter with a hard stare that only a man with his experience can have.
"Peter, how long have you known my daughter?" He finally asked, making Peter nearly jump out of his skin.
Like someone had a hand wrapped tightly around his throat Peter choked out, "Two years, sir."
"And, you are in the same year as Gwen, correct? Yes, I though so." George paused and took a sip from his tea. "Peter, I have to ask you something very, very important. My daughter-"
"WE'RE NOT HAVING SEX! WE BOTH AGREED WE AREN'T PREPARED FOR IT YET!" Peter shouted, his brain having pressed the panic button and immediately seeming to incriminate him in a crime that he truly did not commit.
George blinked, rising and eyebrow at the strange young man before him. "Well…um, that's…good. But that's not what I called you here for."
Peter then mentally committed Seppuku.
"What I need of you is to answer truthfully to me. I have been hearing that drug sales have been going up in Queen's area. Especially around where, you live. The two of us have a very open life with each other, no secrets. She always tells me about her day and I my own. She always speaks highly of you Peter. And often mentions that you act very strange especially recently. I love my daughter and would do anything to protect her." His tone suddenly became much heavier than before and his eyes became even harder. "I want to be sure that you aren't doing anything that could harm my daughter. Do you understand, Peter?"
Peter sighed in relief and then felt slightly hurt. "Mr. Stacy, I swear I'm not doing drugs. Why waste money on something that could rot my brains?"
He smiled at the younger man. "That is one of the qualities that Gwen must brags about." He said. The police captain leaned back in his chair, and steepled his, fingers. "But the drug sales in Queens do worry me. I'd have my men investigate, but it's out of my jurisdictions and I'm not on good terms with the police in Queens. I have my own suspicions about them. If only one of those new costumed adventures, sorry you call them 'superheroes' now don't you, would look into it. Maybe bust up the ring. But that would be a stretch. Most of them are just glory hogs or government boot lickers. But that Spider-Man character, he doesn't seem to be affiliated with anyone. And seems to be really good at heart too boot. If only he could take a peek at it."
George Stacy leaned foreword again, drinking from his tea. "Mind you, I do not approve of those vigilantes that are starting to pop up, but in this day and age, it seem like they are a necessary evil. What they do is technically illegal and very dangerous. If they're not careful, they could get killed either by a lucky shot or a super criminal. Think about how that would effect those, that care about them. All they would know is that that person had been killed acting recklessly and they wouldn't even now why. How that would hurt, especially if that person was that one had, don't you agree?"
Peter swallowed, letting his mind wander before answering. "What if they didn't want to tell that person because they were afraid how they would react? Would they be hurt or frightened by that person? Maybe they can't tell or say anything about it because it could get those people hurt or…or worse! I think that they have a right not to tell people."
"I'm not talking about people in general, but those individuals that truly love and care for them unconditionally. Best friends, wives, husbands, caretakers and the like, understand?"
Peter twisted his face, rolling it all over in his brain. He scratched above his left eye and shrugged. "I guess, but what if it hurt those people you're talking about? Maybe that's what scares them the most, ya know?"
George nodded sagely and smiled reassuringly. "True, but people, especially people with power, be it super or not, can not be afraid of how those they care about will react, but face it head on and stay steadfast with their love and responsibility and trust that they will be able to except it." He stopped and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He opened the cover and put it to his ear. George growled and turned it off, putting back in his pocket. Standing up, he told Peter that he must leave on official business, and that Peter needed to leave as well.
The two walked out of the apartment together, Peter standing behind George as he locked the door. The police officer looked at Peter and gave a weak smile. "Think about what we talked about Peter, I think it will help you grow."
Peter nodded and hurried away, deciding to take the stairs for no reason unparticular than maybe it would avoid a rather awkward elevator ride. On his way down the stairs, Peter chewed his lip. Did Mr. Stacy know that he was Spider-Man? How could he have figured it out? Well, there was that little incident were he called him by name! Bad move Parker! No…no it was too much of a stretch! George couldn't have figured it out. Maybe it was just an old man rambling on or a point he wanted to make for whatever reason.
The walk down the stairs was a sort one and he was out on the streets once more, feeling the fading light of day on his skin. Not being in too much of a rush and feeling rather lazy, he thought about taking the bus, but lacked proper change. But a certain superhero didn't really need exact change to hitch a ride on a bus. Ducking into an ally and making sure that no one could see him, Peter began to change from his street clothes and into his costume, all the while thinking about what George had said.
That drug thing though, that something I need to check on. Most I've focus on was petty thugs and maybe a bank robbery or two. I knew drug dealing was a problem, but never bothered to look into it any. Some how, I feel a little guilty about that. And what was it said about the Queens police? Does he think they're corrupt? Ah, doesn't matter just want to get home.
Folding and stacking his clothes on top of a thin layer of webbing, he covered the top with a slighter thinker layer effectively making a small sack to hold his clothing, then pulled it from the dumpster lid and attached a thick cord of webbing to it and slung it over his shoulder and smashed the free end of the cord against the bottom of the bag, making it hold onto his back via a diagonal belt going from his left shoulder to just under his right ribs.
He smiled proudly under his mask. "Well Spidey, looks like you just made another fine invention! Hopefully it won't fall apart."
Cracking his fingers, Spider-Man quickly scaled, up the side of short building and onto the roof, looking down at the busy roads. He didn't have to wait long before a bus he knew from previous experience was destined for Queens came into view.
Crunching a few numbers in his head, He hopped of the roof, clearing the street with easy but not enough to clear the road and began to rapidly fall. With a web line anchored to the side of a building near him, he kept himself from becoming street pizza and swung against the flow of traffic, but above the view of those in vehicles. Quickly releasing his hold on the web line, he let his own momentum carry him onto the roof of the on coming bus, landing with a soft thump that would go unheard except for the homeless man directly below him and used his sticking ability to stop him from sliding or over shooting his target.
While on all fours, Spider-Man turned around, facing forward and felt the wind crash against his body. Thankfully, the mask filtered out most dust particles and the lenses protected his eyes from the wind and dirt. Out of the corner of his eye, Spidey caught for the brief moments he could see them, people on the streets staring in amazement at a man riding on top of the bus.
He snorted and laughed, "You think these people never seen a guy ride a bus before!"
JFK International Airport
The stench of mildew and farts greeted the less than enthused Otto Octavius as he stepped into the airport, letting the many other passenger's from the flight move around him. Why bother fighting through the hoard when you could just let them go around you? Never expend more energy than necessary. That was his motto and life style.
It would be impossible to tell that the thin, muscular build of Octavius had, was not the result of intense psychical training, but in fact a rather natural state for his body. Having a very high metabolism was a benefit as he was an absolute sucker for anything sweat and sour. His brown, bowl cut hair was rather stiff which fit his posture to a T. Solid black glasses with small round lenses hid his eyes from view. His sour expression seemed to be sculpted into his flat, pudgy looking face.
Otto's black-gloved hand fished into the pocket of his tan overcoat for his cellular phone. Bringing it up to his face, he dialed in a phone number and placed it against his ear. He grunted, tapping his foot rather impatiently before moving over to one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the departure/arrival area, setting his brief case next to him.
Dr. Octavius smiled as his call was finally answered. "Hey Kurt, guess who's in town?"
Finally done! Alright, please leave a review and any thoughts and comments if you please. I'll try and get the next chapter up as soon as possible.
Next chapter- Peter meets with Daily Bugle Editor and Chief, hoping to get a quick buck, and looks into the drug sales in Queens, running into a certain horned hero after the same goal, while Dr. Conner's reunites with an old friend and much more! Get a Hair Cut and Get a Real Job Part 4: The Daily Bugle