TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy

Author's Notes

This chapter was inspired by the scene in It's A Wonderful Life, in which George Bailey, played by James Stewart, dives into a freezing river on a snowy Christmas Eve to "save," Angel Second-Class Clarence Oddbody, played by Henry Travers.

The actual words to Peter's satirical lyric are, "Like a virgin, touched for the very first time."

The Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse sits in front of the eastern tower of the George Washington Bridge. The lighthouse was the subject of a famous children's book, The Little Red Lighthouse And The Great Grey Bridge, written by Hildegard H. Swift in 1942. Rendered obsolete when the bridge opened in 1931, it was rescued from demolition by a children's campaign and turned into a national landmark. Its beacon was reactivated in 2002.

Information pertaining to the George Washington Bridge itself can be found at the website of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.

Trigonometry is the branch of mathematics concerned with the relations of the sides and angles of triangles and with the relevant functions of any angles.

Uncle Ben's reference to Dr. Freud, refers, of course, to Sigmund Freud, one of the pivotal figures of modern psychology.

Spider-Man's line about fate closing a door and leaving a window open was inspired by a line from the Mother Superior in The Sound of Music

Disclaimer

This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.

XXVI

GONE FISHING

Except for cabbies and garbage trucks running red lights, New Yorkers shouting at each other as only New Yorkers could, jets flying in and out of Kennedy and LaGuardia Airports, and the occasional "whooooooo-hoooooooo," from a red-and-blue comet streaking overhead, the night was quiet. A few of the brighter stars remained visible through the blaze of the city's lights.

With his hyper-intuitive faculty detecting nothing out of the ordinary, Spider-Man hurtled north along Broadway. Although the world would never know it, he was setting records that no Olympic athlete would ever attain in events in which no Olympian could ever hope to compete. He swung faster, leaped further and higher, and performed even more spectacular feats of aerial acrobatics than he ever had before, all because of the stunningly beautiful redhead who had burst into his world with joy, laughter, and a firm resolve to help him face down his demons.

And, to a somewhat lesser extent, because of the older brother figure he never had while he was growing up, the mentor who would teach him a few things about life on the night shift that he could never have learned working alone.

Both of his new partners would help him bring some semblance of balance to his life.

By the time he reached 165th Street, Manhattan had narrowed to the point where it was only ten blocks wide. He did not usually venture up this far, since there were few buildings tall enough to afford him the leeway he needed to navigate. But his buoyant spirits had put him in an adventurous mood that evening, so much so that he actually contemplated leaping from one side of the island to the other in a single bound.

Forget it, Peter, Ben Parker admonished. You're better off leaving some things to that other guy who wears red and blue.

Veering left at the corner of 165th and Broadway, Spider-Man eventually found his way to the well-lit bicycle path that bisected Fort Washington Park, a, richly wooded, but hard-to-access sliver of greenery nestled between the Henry Hudson Parkway and the Hudson River. It was one of the many lesser-known parks scattered throughout Manhattan, overlooked by tourists but loved by locals.

Confident that he would not be observed, Spider-Man leaped along the deserted bike path in forty- to fifty-foot clips. "Like Bruce Banner", he sang to the tune of Madonna's classic hit, allowing himself the momentary indulgence of breaking his self-imposed taboo on jesting about Dr. Banner's alter-ego. "Zapped for the very first time . . ."

He stopped to recharge his batteries near the base of the George Washington Bridge. Directly in front of the bridge's massive, arched tower stood the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse. Once slated for demolition, this small lighthouse was now on the National Registry of Historic Places, thanks to a little book that his Aunt May had read to him when he was five.

Or tried to. As a small child, he had been deathly afraid of lighthouses. No one knew why. He dimly remembered carrying on like a banshee when Aunt May had opened the book in front of him. It was not until he had seen the Chatham Light House up in Cape Cod a few years back that he had finally gotten over it. And so, despite having lived all these years in the Big Apple, this would be the first time he had ever visited this world-famous landmark.

Spider-Man sat down at one of the picnic tables near the lighthouse, taking in the scenery, inhaling the fresh, cool night air. The Hudson River was as smooth as polished glass, save for tiny ripples made by a light breeze and an invisible but powerful current. The lights from the bridge's suspension cables shined down upon the black water like gigantic diamond necklaces, etching an exquisite tapestry of reflected luminescence that made him think of the white icing that graced his aunt May's gingerbread cookies.

He decided to relax atop the lighthouse itself for a few minutes before returning to his patrol around Midtown Manhattan.

I don't think so, son . . . Uncle Ben said from inside his head, interrupting his peaceful reverie.

All at once, he heard the sound of screeching brakes coming from the bridge, followed by the howls of a thousand horns and hundreds of unintelligible, shouts, many sounding angry, some sounding alarmed.

In a matter of seconds, Spider-Man had scaled the tower and was swinging toward the source of the commotion near the center of the bridge. Something had caused the traffic on the bridge's upper level to grind to a halt. But from the underside of the huge span, he could neither hear nor see what was happening, and so had no idea what was going on . . .

Until his spider-sense went off the dial.

A man's silhouette appeared under the lights illuminating the south side of the bridge. He had apparently climbed over the protective railing and was sliding down a diagonal cross-beam, sidesaddle, his legs facing outward, his intent unmistakable.

Spider-Man sighed, rolling his eyes. It looked like he was going to have his work cut out for him. The man was sitting on a piece of steel more than two hundred feet above the Hudson River. From that height, the impact would be like smashing into a brick wall at ninety miles an hour.

Just stay there . . . don't move, Spider-Man urged silently as he moved in closer to his target. And whatever you do, don't look down. Hanging upside down from the bottom of the bridge, he aimed his spinnerets at the would-be suicide, hoping to bind him to the beam with a extra-thick wad of webbing. Once he got to the guy, he would cut him loose and get him to safety.

The suicide, however, was one step ahead of him.

Time slowed down around Spider-Man as the man wordlessly pushed himself off the beam and plunged head over heels toward the icy blackness below.

Spider-Man fired his webline, but it was too dark for him to draw a clear bead. His shot missed its target by less than a few inches. He would not have time to fire another. The only way he could prevent the jumper from sustaining catastrophic injury was to catch him.

And the only way he could do that was to angle himself toward the jumper's trajectory and intercept him at precisely the right point, a real-life trigonometry problem if there ever was one.

Spider-Man could not have carried out his plan any more precisely. He swooped down and grabbed hold of the jumper a few dozen feet above the river, firing another webline in time to break his fall.

But not in time to stop their plunge into thirty-seven-degree water. The cold was so intense that it drove the breath right out of Spider-Man's lungs, triggering muscle spasms that locked his jaws together and compacted his guts. If ever asked to describe the sensation, he would say that it felt like being smothered under an avalanche and punched in the stomach at the same time.

Holding on to the jumper by the belt, Spider-Man broke the surface, kicking furiously to remain afloat and conscious. The current was already beginning to drag them down-river, stretching the thin webline that kept them anchored to the bridge. He gasped for air as he adjusted his grip on the jumper, holding him around the waist and hoisting him up the webline, one-handed, until they were clear of the water. The abrupt release from the grip of the current caused the line to sway like a pendulum between the sides of the bridge.

As he held the webline tightly with his left hand while trying to hold a shivering, two-hundred-pound man with his right, his water-logged costume prolonging the agonizing exposure, Spider-Man was only beginning to grasp the precariousness of his situation. Without the use of both hands, he was practically immobile. The swinging webline was already starting to fray and would not hold for much longer.

Overhead, traffic remained at a complete standstill as hundreds of people got out of their cars to peer over the railing. They were all shouting and pointing downward, presumably looking for the jumper. Spider-Man tried to yell for help, but his vocal chords were barely functioning. Worse, from where he and the jumper were dangling, none of the spectators could see them.

To Spider-Man, it looked like they were on their own.

Forcing himself not to dwell on the paralyzing cold, he concentrated on finding a way to get himself and his new-found companion back to shore. Maybe we could swim for it, he thought. But one fleeting glance toward the little red lighthouse made it abundantly clear that they would never make it. The jumper would probably succumb to hypothermia long before they reached the river bank.

So would he.

The jumper, meanwhile, had recovered from his initial shock and was starting to twist around. At first, Spider-Man thought he was simply trying to find a way to get warm. But when the jumper attempted to pry Spider-Man's arm loose, the webslinger realized, to his utter dismay, that the man was hell-bent on finishing the job he had started.

"W-W-What are you d-d-doing?" Spider-Man gasped through chattering teeth.

The jumper continued to struggle against his rescuer, making Spider-Man feel as though he were engaged in a one-armed wrestling match with a huge, slippery swordfish that had just been hauled aboard a fishing boat.

"Stop fighting me, d-d-dammit!"

"L-L-Let go of m-m-me you fucking fr-fr-freak!" the jumper hissed as their lateral motion came to a stop, leaving them suspended above the water by less than a foot.

How do I get out of this one? Spider-Man wondered as the burning sensation in his extremities warned him to keep his fingers and toes moving. No sooner had he asked the question when his mind wandered back to the playground in Forest Hills that he used to frequent as a small boy. He recalled the 1940s-era swing set that he had played on, and how Aunt May and Uncle Ben had encouraged him to generate his own lift instead of pushing him the way the other kids' parents did.

Sometimes, they would give him a demonstration.

"Come on, Peter," Uncle Ben would say, trying to squeeze his backside onto a swing made for people half his size. "Pump your legs, back and forth . . . back and . . ."

"That's it!" Spider-Man shouted in a raspy voice as he figured out his uncle's subliminal message.

Using the tiny momentum generated by the jumper's movements, Spider-Man put his legs together, extended them out, and folded them back at the knees. The first few times, they hardly budged, but by the fifth cycle, they had started to move parallel to the bridge. He repeated the motion, settling into a rhythm. With every cycle, their arc grew longer, bringing them closer and closer to the bottom of the span.

"No, no, no!" the jumper screamed as soon as he got wind of what Spider-Man was doing.

What's with this guy? Spider-Man wondered as he tightened his grip under the man's rib cage, trying to keep him immobile without crushing him. They were on their final downward swing, barely clearing the water. On the next upswing, he would release the line and use his momentum to carry them to the nearest truss. "Come on," he whispered as the shadowy steel beams rushed to meet them. "A little further . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ."

His spider-sense went code red.

Now what?

The webline snapped.

Spider-Man and the jumper were once again in free-fall. And somehow, the jumper had slipped out of his grasp.

Spider-Man fired a webline at the truss above him while simultaneously firing another line at the jumper, aiming away from the man's legs to avoid a fatal whiplash. The shot caught the man squarely on the back of his shirt, leaving him to thrash around like a marionette on steroids while dangling over one hundred feet in the air.

Spider-Man quickly glanced up, and then down. He was really stuck this time, hanging by an organic bungee-cord fifty-five feet beneath the bridge, separated from the jumper by another thirty-two feet. From his new vantage point, the patterns made by the bridge lights on the water looked like huge fangs surrounding an enormous, yawning dark maw that was eagerly looking forward to swallowing them both whole.

Swinging was out of the question this time. The momentum would catapult the jumper right into the bottom of the bridge like a slingshot, mangling him in the process.

On top of that, Spider-Man was running out of time. He gasped in disbelief as he watched the jumper undo his top two shirt buttons.

"Why do I bother?" Spider-Man lamented, exasperated at the thought of freezing to death beneath the world's busiest bridge, completely invisible to anyone who might be in a position to help, trying to save someone who did not want to be saved.

Because you have to . . . How many times have we been through this?

"That's easy for you to say, sitting there in your warm car," Spider-Man said to his uncle. "I could really use a suggestion right now."

Go for exposed skin, any part of his body that you can get a handle on.

"But I have to let go before I can fire another line. What if I lose him?"

Just trust yourself and go with it.

Holding his breath, Spider-Man executed the tricky maneuver, firing another webline before the jumper could go into another free-fall. The thick glob struck the jumper squarely on the neck and upper back. Spider-Man's eyes gleamed with satisfaction beneath his twin reflectors as he watched the jumper struggle in vain to tear the webbing loose. Try as he might, there was no way the almost-successful suicide would be able to break free this time.

With the jumper secured ,Spider-Man started to coil the webline to the bridge around his wrist and elbow like he was winding up an electrical cord. He hardly felt the jumper's weight, which made the task somewhat easier. But his upward progress was agonizingly slow. If he moved too fast, the line would snap, as he learned on his last try.

The webline held, but just barely, giving way the moment his hand made contact with the truss. Despite the numbness in his fingers and toes, his electrical adhesive force was still functioning at optimal levels, enabling him to keep a solid grip on the surfaces above him. He could hear sirens off in the distance, but could not tell whether they were coming from ambulances or squad cars.

This has to be the most bizarre rescue I've ever attempted, Spider-Man thought as he began his arduous, upside-down walk back toward the tower on the New York side. He carefully negotiated the girders above while using both hands to hold the jumper by a twenty-foot cable of webbing underneath. Massive amounts of adrenaline generated both heat and sweat, keeping his body temperature within the normal range.

"That's it, keep moving around," Spider-Man urged the squirming jumper. The man's resistance was a good sign. It meant that he was not injured, at least not seriously, and that he was able to keep his circulation going and ward off hypothermia. Despite knowing the jumper's intentions, he had to give the man credit for putting up a hell of a good fight.

Five minutes later, his burden safely under his arm, Peter climbed down the tower and leaped over the barbed-wired fence that surrounded it. He carried the jumper to the picnic table where he had sat down earlier.

By now, the breezes from the river had picked up, and the man was shivering intensely. His knees were up against his chest and his arms were wrapped around his legs in a feeble effort to keep warm. Spider-Man immediately started rubbing the man's back, arms, and legs in an effort to generate some heat-bearing friction.

He could hear approaching sirens, and there were quite a few of them. Lights on the river were moving rapidly toward the bridge from the south. Presumably, the Harbor Police had been alerted and had dispatched search and rescue squads. On the bridge itself, chaos and cacophony still reigned.

"W-W-Why d-d-didn't you just l-l-let me go?" the jumper demanded, close to tears.

"Not an option." Spider-Man replied tersely, resisting the urge to joke about being the man's guardian angel. "It's against my religion."

"This isn't any of your b-b-business!"

"It is my business when people try to kill themselves."

The little red lighthouse's beacon swung around, briefly enabling Spider-Man to get a reasonably clear view of the jumper's face. He let out a gasp as his eyes widened beneath his mask.

The jumper could not have been more than eighteen. He had a pudgy, angelic-looking face.

"What's your name, kid?" Spider-Man asked he continued his efforts to warm the young man up, wondering what could have driven him to attempt suicide.

"I d-don't have to say anything to you." The bitterness in the jumper's voice spoke volumes about his emotional state. "And get your motherfucking hands off me!"

"Okay, okay . . . if that's the way you want to play it." Spider-Man complied with the jumper's "request."

Around them, the sirens were getting closer, and louder. A whistle had sounded off from somewhere on the river. Some of the harbor patrol boats had changed direction and were now approaching the lighthouse. "We don't have much time," Spider-Man warned. In a few minutes, the police will be swarming all over this place."

"I don't give a shit," the jumper snapped.

"You should," Spider-Man said, pointing toward the bridge. "You see what's going on up there? Traffic's going to be tied up for hours, because of you. If I turn you over to the cops, which I'm obligated to do, by the way, you'll probably be charged with reckless endangerment. And that'll mean jail time."

"Go ahead. Be the big shot hero and turn me in." The jumper remained defiant, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him.

But there was something false about the youth's bravado that Spider-Man had picked up almost immediately.

"Somehow, I don't think incarceration would do you a lot of good," Spider-Man said softly. "And I'd really like to help you if I can."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"Most people don't deal with their problems by jumping off a bridge, my friend." Spider-Man pointed out. "Presbyterian Hospital is only a few blocks from here. We still have time to get you to the emergency room before. . ."

"I don't want your help, and I don't need no doctor. Just. . . ju . . ."

The jumper's angry facade suddenly broke apart, like a mirror that had just been shattered. Unable to contain his anger, grief, and frustration any longer, he started sobbing between shivers.

Spider-Man knelt down and patted the jumper's shoulder. "It's okay, kid. Sometimes, you've just gotta let it all hang out." He might not have been a psychologist, but he was no stranger to the angst of being young.

"Scott," the kid whispered through his crying fit.

"What?"

"The name's S-S-Scott."

"Do you want to go somewhere we can warm up?"

Scott said nothing. He simply nodded.

"I'll take that as a yes." Spider-Man gently helped Scott to his feet. "Hop on my back."

As soon as Scott was aboard, he quickly fashioned a web-net using one of the trees along the river bank as an anchor. As he had with Mary Jane, he whirled around, wrapping them tightly in the net.

"Are you okay, Scott? Comfortable?"

"I g-guess so."

Together, they left the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse behind, just as the police were closing in on the bridge tower. Fortunately, no one had seen them.

As Spider-Man bounded along the bike path, retracing his footsteps, he felt Scott's arms tighten around his rib cage. Apparently, his passenger was a little frightened. "Just a bit further, Scott," he called out. "Hang on."

A few minutes later, they were on the roof of one of the buildings in the Presbyterian Hospital complex, standing in front of a large vent, on the receiving end of a much-needed stream of hot air.

"Feeling better, Scott?" Spider-Man had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the vent's exhaust fan.

"Uh huh," Scott replied just as loudly, obviously welcoming his respite from the cold.

After a few more minutes, Spider-Man signaled Scott to step away from the vent so they could have a proper conversation. Scott followed him over to the ledge.

A pair of squad cars barreled down Riverside Drive, followed by an ambulance. The sirens from all three vehicles shattered the tranquility of this otherwise quiet neighborhood.

"They're looking for me, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid so, Scott."

"What's gonna happen?"

"It's hard to say. They'll want to question you. Depending on how seriously you mucked things up on the bridge, they could fine you, put you in jail, or both."

"I'm really sorry, Spider-Man. I didn't mean to cause all this trouble."

"I know you didn't. You don't seem like the trouble-making type. But the cops probably won't see it that way."

"It's just . . ." He started to break down again. "My life is so screwed up right now . . ."

Spider-Man knew that refrain by heart. "It sometimes helps to talk about it."

"You wouldn't understand," Scott sobbed. "You couldn't possibly understand. You're probably some rich playboy who can get any girl he wants and doesn't have to work for a living."

Under any other circumstances, Spider-Man would have burst out laughing. But, in deference to Scott's emotional fragility, he kept his tone low-key and sympathetic.

"You've been reading too many comic books, Scott. I'm not rich. I struggle and suffer and try to scratch out a living, just like everybody else. Believe me, there were lots of times when I thought about jumping off the Empire State Building."

Oh come on, Peter. Stop exaggerating.

Quit riding me, will you, Uncle Ben? I'm trying to help this guy.

Scott needed no further prompting to share with Spider-Man the misfortune that had driven him to jump off the George Washington Bridge. "My girlfriend, Laura . . . We were so . . . we were everything to each other . . . Just last week, she told me that I was the only one for her. We had planned to get married right after graduation."

Spider-Man had a hint of where Scott was leading him. "You two broke up?"

Scott nodded. "I took her out to dinner tonight, so we could talk about the wedding. She gets all shaky and nervous, and she says she can't. I ask her why. She tells me that she was seeing somebody else for the last six months. She can't even look me in the eye." He started crying again. "Laura was my whole world. Without her, my life ain't nothing. But all this time, she was leading me around, pretending that she loved me when she was in love with another guy."

For an instant, Spider-Man thought he was back in the bar with John Jameson. What could he say to something like that?

He decided to take a cognitive approach. Carefully maintaining a clinical neutrality, he asked, "What do you think would you have accomplished if I wasn't there to stop you?"

Scott was unequivocal with his answer. "She would've realized what she lost."

"In other words, you wanted to get back at her?"

Scott hesitated.

"You probably would've laid a huge guilt trip on her. But what about your parents? Have you thought about how they would feel?"

Who thinks about anything when they're young and desperately in love, Dr. Freud? Uncle Ben asked rhetorically. Keep him talking.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Spider-Man asked, becoming comfortable in his new role as a therapist.

"One of each."

"How about friends?"

"A few."

"So, there are people in this world that care a lot about you. Did you really want to hurt them?"

"Of course not," Scott responded with a touch of indignation.

"Well, that's what you would have done. Do you have any idea of the pain you would've put them through?"

"Well, I . . .Yeah, I guess so. But I . . . I was just so messed up. My head wasn't screwed on straight."

Even though he thought Scott's move was incredibly stupid, he could still see reflections of his own soul in the young man's forlorn brown eyes. He could not help but like the kid. "Try and get a little perspective, Scott. You're young, you look reasonably healthy. In the big scheme of things, your girlfriend leaving you is one of life's curve balls, and it probably won't be the last." Noticing that Scott was starting to shiver again, he resumed his heat massage. "Don't worry. I'm not getting fresh."

"It's okay. I k-kinda need it."

"This may seem hard for you to believe," Spider-Man continued, "but your ex might have done you a huge favor."

Scott shrugged. "It sure doesn't feel like it."

"Have you heard the saying, 'when fate closes a door, she leaves a window open'?"

"I don't get it."

"All I'm saying is that there might be someone out there, waiting for you. But you're never going to find her if you keep throwing yourself at the feet of a girl who doesn't care for you anymore."

A little blunt there, aren't we, Peter?

Perhaps, Spider-Man thought. But when he saw a glimmer of hope appear in Scott's eyes, he knew that he had made the point that needed to be made.

"I . . . you're probably right," Scott agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "I just need some time . . ."

"That's the spirit, Scott," Spider-Man encouraged. "Now, what do you say, we go to the emergency room?"

Scott looked at him questioningly. "Do I really have to? I think I'm okay now."

Spider-Man held firm. "You had prolonged exposure to very cold water. They'll need to look you over to make sure there aren't any residual effects or injuries. Once they do that, they'll refer you to counseling if you need it." He was very careful not to use the word psychiatrist "Just be truthful with them about what happened."

"But what if the cops find out?"

"They will, eventually. But let's not worry about that, right now. When we get inside, I'll give you the name of a lawyer who'll represent you. Are you cool with that?"

"I think so." Scott gestured for Spider-Man to cease his massage. He rubbed his hands together and ran in place for a few steps. "Spider-Man . . . ?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"Any chance we keep this out of the news? I don't want to cause my family and friends any embarrassment."

"I know what you mean. I need to start avoiding the media myself, if you can believe it."

That elicited a chuckle from Scott.

"If a reporter tries to contact you, just say no comment."

"Okay."

"And don't ever let me catch you on that bridge again, or any bridge, unless you intend to cross it," he warned as he gave Scott another friendly shoulder-pat. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, I'm going to strap you in for the ride downstairs. Stand up against me, with your chest on my back . . . Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Here we go, then."

Spider-Man escorted Scott into the emergency room and explained to the on-duty nurse what had happened. The nurse pulled a blanket out from a closet and draped it over Scott's shoulders.

While Scott waited for the next available physician, Spider-Man scribbled something on a piece of hospital stationary.

"Here," he said as he folded the paper and handed it to the young man. "I hope you won't need this, but take it, just in case."

Then, in what was for the nurse a rather poignant moment, rescuer and rescuee embraced.

"Good luck, Scott. I think you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Spider-Man."

As the ER's sliding door closed behind Spider-Man, Scott opened the note the webslinger had left him. It said, Matthew Murdock - nelsonandmurdock. com. Referral by your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.

Spider-Man was soon on his way home. Unfortunately, he had not been in front of the exhaust vent long enough for his costume to get completely dry. The insides of his gloves and boots were still soaking wet.

Nice job there, Michelangelo. You've done Dr. Phil proud.

"You think it helped?" Peter asked his uncle.

I suppose so. But I'll be more interested to see how you explain your little fishing trip to Mary Jane.