My name is Herman Schultz.

You should know me as the Shocker.

I've been around for a few years. I've been arrested seventeen times. I've been convicted fifteen times. I've escaped from jail fifteen times. I've fought seventeen different superheroes, including Spider-Man, who's handed me my ass six times out of eleven. It's enough to get me on "America's Most Devious." You've seen me on TV. Five-foot-eight, one hundred eighty-five pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Even got my own Wikipedia page.

What it hasn't gotten me is a lick of respect.

I mean, seriously. The Lizard gets more respect then me, because, and I quote here, "he represents man's losing the fight against nature." Mysterio "dazzles Spider-Man with spectacular effects." The Vulture "swoops and cackles with glee at the thought of killing Spider-Man."

One is a two-legged reptile in a white lab coat, one wears a damn fishbowl on his head, and one is a balding guy who flies. But they're "A-list." I'm "B-list." I'm a guy who doesn't even get a full response from Code Blue when I show up.

Ah...sorry. The last thing in the world I want to do is throw myself a god damn pity party. But it's the truth, and it's just one of those things that irk me. I don't have a PhD in electronics and mechanical theory like Doctor Octopus, but I built myself these very gauntlets, over four months, while working in a prison laundry. Maybe if I added "Doctor" to my name, I'd get more respect. And I thought about that, while drunk one night, until I found out there's a porno starring Ron Jeremy called "Doctor Shocker."

Granted, I didn't get into villainy solely for respect. I went in for the scores. The big payoffs, the jobs that would set you up for life. Planning for months at a time, getting the gear, gathering the people, setting the timetable...that's what I lived for. I prided on being creative and above idiots who walk into a bank during their lunch hour, start blasting, and complain when Luke Cage is handing them their ass five minutes later. The guy who caused a blackout and then spelled out his name using the ConEd power grid before demanding a million bucks to turn it all back on? That was me.

Not Electro.

Me.

In the end, that didn't make a bit of difference. Spider-Man showed up, beat me up, wisecracking the entire time, and left me hanging from a lamppost for NYPD bike cops to arrest. Meanwhile, someone like the Green Goblin (ahem...sorry, someone like the "rehabilitated" Norman Osborn) goes on a killing spree and he's considered a cunning and dangerous foe. Not the guy who planned bank jobs specifically to NOT kill anyone. Makes me a "pineapple-colored loser" in Spider-Man's eyes, even though I have a better record against him...

Granted, in the end, both Green Goblin and I get the same thing from Spidey: a punch in the face. But a guy like Osborn says "look, I'm reformed" and everyone believes him, while if I tried to pull that shtick, the first question asked would be "who are you?"

God damn it. Sorry. Trust me though, it explains my motivation for why I was doing what I was doing, instead of taking advantage of this crisis to knock over Citibank. Ok, bad example. Like Citibank had enough money for me to waste time on...

Alright, this all started when I was sitting in the Bar with No Name. There I was, celebrating my thirty-second birthday with the usual bunch of scum and villainy. One guy was running late, but everyone else was there. Fred Myers, who shares a spot on the "B-list" with me as Boomerang. James Sanders, better known as the Speed Demon. And Peter Petruski, aka the Trapster. All of us had been part of the Sinister Syndicate. Turns out, we made tolerable drinking buddies, the four of us. We usually included the Beetle, but he went legit and became MACH-I. That night, it was just us supervillains...

X

"I'm thirty two years old, and what do I have to show for it?"

"Your health, mate." Boomerang was bent over the pool table, lining up a shot. "You're healthy, you ain't in jail, and you can afford to actually pay your bar tab here from time to time." With a crack, the stick hit the cue ball, which smacked into the nine ball, which hit the eleven ball, which ricocheted off the felt and into the eight ball, which rolled across the entire length of the table before landing in the corner pocket.

"Why do I play pool with you," I said, shaking my head.

"Because I'm too good at darts," the Aussie replied. "Go ahead, loser racks, winner breaks."

"I'll rack, but see if someone else wants in. I'm gonna grab a brew."

I started taking the pool balls out of the pockets as Fred yelled across the bar towards where the other guys in our party sat. "James, Peter, you guys want in on this?"

"In a few minutes, sure." Speed Demon was popping the top off of a Budweiser as he responded. He put the cold bottle to his exposed cheek and sighed in relief before taking a swig. "Give me a few to get my buzz on."

Trapster had just finished his third beer of the evening. Getting up from the bar, he strode over to the table just as I finished racking. "I'll play, Fred. Winner gets James?"

"Sounds good." Boomerang was chalking the end of his pool cue as Trapster took a hold of the one I had been using. The pool table was ratty and had been refelted too many times to recall, but there were always brand spanking new pool sticks for us to use. At least once a week, someone would get upset and break the stick over their knees. The policy of "you break one, you bring one" had served the watering hole for a long time, and even the worst scum and villainy respected the code of the Bar with No Name.

"Just don't cheat, alright," I heard Trapster say as I sat next to Speed Demon and ordered myself a Budweiser too. The bartender had been behind the bar for as long as I could remember, no matter where the Bar itself had been located. Hell's Kitchen? He was there. When the Bar was over in Red Hook, he was the guy slinging the drinks. Shea Stadium? He had on a damn Yankees cap. All those years, and I never once got his name...

It was just the five of us at this point in the early evening. The Bar had just moved to Alphabet City, and it usually took a few weeks for the normal clientele to make their way to the new locale. At the night went on, the place would start to fill up. Tonight, though, the four of us were going to get a head start on the evening's activities.

"So why the long face, man?"

"Huh?" I had just taken a pull from the bottle as Speed Demon asked his question. "Aww, nothing..."

"Bull. I've been around the block, Herman, so don't bother playing it off. The hell is wrong with you tonight?" Demon had already finished half the bottle. He was obviously trying to get hammered, and with his fast metabolism, he was trying to drink twice as much, half as fast. It was weird to have James here. The two of us had worked on a safecracking job a few months back that had gone south when the capes had shown up. Before I could blink, the man has disabled my weaponry, taken everything out of the safe, and shot out into the street, leaving me facing some very unhappy good guys. I caught up with him, no pun intended, two weeks later, and when I asked him, at point-blank range, why he had left me to take the rap, James slid me a cold beer and said "Gambling debts. The Bookie was going to break my legs." And just like that, I let it slide.

I knew what it was like to be on the Bookie's bad side.

"It's your birthday, Herman. Celebrate, be happy you ain't in Ryker's or something." He had a point, just like Fred had made before. Instead of sitting in solitary, I was in a bar, having a brew, and could go for a walk any time I wanted. With the help of Trapster, the two of us had robbed an armored car the previous day, and I was currently sitting on $337,000 of bearer bonds back in my hideout. That in and of itself was something, since a few years ago, I had tried to collect a bounty on Trapster's head. But I hadn't, and then we worked together as part of the Sinister Syndicate without killing each other. When I needed someone to help tie up and keep the truck's guards busy while I cracked the safe, Trapster had been my only choice. I had to hold my nose while making it, but he had tied up the guards using that "glue gun" of his, and we got away quick and clean. So here I was, working on getting drunk, having more money then I had seen in a long time, and planning on using some of those funds on a hooker later that evening if the escort service decides to return my damn phone calls.

So what was the problem?

"You ever...just feel...I don't know, James, like you had the potential to just do more? Like, some great big score, or this huge heist?"

Under his red glasses, Speed Demon was giving me a confused look. Everyone wore their costumes when they came to the Bar. It identified all of us and made sure we knew who was coming in here to drink. No damn undercover officer was going to come in here in blue jeans and start asking questions about who pulled off the latest heist. My mask and my gloves were behind the bar, letting me drink without any problems. "Herman, you pulled off a big score. How much did you and Trapster get away with?"

"Nah, man, I'm talking bigger," I responded.

"What, like the time you held New York City ransom?" Speed Demon gave me a boisterous laugh. "Man, I remember that. I was in LA and I turn on the news, and there is it, Manhattan completely blacked out! And I'm trying to figure out how Electro pulled it off, but then Midtown starts spelling out your name and your ransom! That was priceless!"

"Yeah, it was," I acknowledged, "and then Spider-Man shows up and I don't get one red cent out of it. Now, if I had pulled the job off..." I get interrupted for a moment as, behind me, I could hear Trapster accuse Boomerang of cheating in that high pitched, sniveling tone of his. "...if I had pulled that job off," I continued after a moment, "I wouldn't be drinking here tonight. I'd be in Vegas, and if you guys made it there..." I trailed off for a moment, lost in a very pleasant thought.

"Dude, this is good enough for tonight," Speed Demon said. He clapped my shoulder in a friendly-for-him gesture. "If you think too big, you're gonna hurt yourself."

Tonight wasn't good enough. That was the problem. But I didn't want to drag my drinking partners down, especially since the final member of our drinking party hadn't shown up yet. So I just smiled and finished my brew, before ordering another one.

It went on like this for nearly an hour. The sun was just starting to vanish behind the buildings here in Lower Manhattan, and I was working on my fifth beer of the evening. Fred, refusing to drink American beer because, and I quote, "American beer is like slitting your wrists in the bathtub...they're both bleedin' close to water," was downing the rotgut that passed for whiskey. Speed Demon was on his twelfth beer and just starting to show their effects. Trapster? That man was smashed, and quietly mumbling under his breath about how, someday, he was going to pay me back for trying to kill him those years ago. I admit, the money had blinded me, but it was the only time I had come close to slipping. Besides, I had to keep telling him, I ended up not killing him, right?

"Alright, settle down," Demon said to the Bar, which currently consisted of the four of us and the barkeep. "I know Aleksei ain't here yet, but for all we know, the poor guy's tying up traffic down on the FDR right now." I crack a smile at the comment, I admit. "He ain't on the news, so we ain't gonna worry about him."

Demon got a fresh brew from the bartender, and held it up in the air. "Tonight...Herman Schultz turns 32 years old!" Boomerang gave me a grin and some applause, and Trapster pounded the bar with his beer bottle. "And we're the poor bastards he asked to come drink away his sorrows this evening. With his sorrows, it'll be a shitload of drinking!"

"Aw, he's rich, he shouldn't be frowning!" Trapster chuckled, even as he had his free hand on the bar to avoid falling ass-over-teakettle off his stool and onto the floor.

"He can't be that rich, I still got a damn bar tab!" The bartender eyed Speed Demon as the speedster kept talking. "But anyway, instead of running my mouth like I normally do, I'm gonna cut to the chase. Herman...the Shocker..."

Trapster laughed again, this time braying loudly. "The Shocker! Should have just named yourself Pinkstink!"

I was weighing if $337,000 was worth not capping the Trapster a few months back when Fred jumps in. "Can it, Peter," Boomerang growled from next to him. "Man's birthday, show him a bit of respect." Fred raised his glass of whiskey to Speed Demon. "Go on, James."

"Yeah, before someone interrupted me. Herman...the Shocker...32 years old...and one of the few among us who given it to Spider-Man as good as that freak's given to him. Just for that, we should be toasting you. But you're also our friend, our colleague...and the guy who buys the most rounds for all of us!" With a grin, Speed Demon raised his beer, and behind him, Boomerang and Trapster did the same. "To the Shocker, and may we be sitting in Vegas for his 33rd birthday with cold beers in one hand and something blonde and incredibly firm breasted in the other!"

"Here here, mate." Boomerang said, lifting his whiskey. We all down our drinks, the beer feeling good in my throat as I finish the entire bottle. At this point, I remember sitting there in the Bar thinking I was overthinking things. $337,000 in bonds, three friends saluting me with one on the way. Perhaps this was the best I could do, the alcohol was telling me, and I was nodding my head internally, agreeing with it. Fred put his drink back down on the bar, sliding it towards the barkeep for a refill. The whole time, he had been watching us with a wary eye, but he knew the four of us weren't going to bust the place us.

"Alright," the Australian said when he took his next drink, "let's get this poor sod his presents before we get too drunk to remember where we left them. James, you wanna run and..."

A loud 'WHOOSH' filled the Bar. The front door was banging shut on its hinges by the time my brain registered what had just happened.

"...grab 'em," Boomerang finished. "Christ, he's got a hair trigger."

"That's what his girlfriend said..." Trapster was smashed. Somewhere between Speed Demon toasting me and Boomerang making his request, he had finished his beer. Currently, he was trying to reach over the bar grab another. "...if he had one!" At this point, the barkeep was reaching for the baseball bat he kept under the bar. Rule #3 of the Bar with No Name. The barkeep got you your drink. You reach behind the bar, you're fair game. Two years ago, Mac Gargan (Scorpion then, Venom now) had tried to get a beer while chatting up Coachwhip. The barkeep broke two of his fingers with that bat before he even opened the cooler. When Gargan tried to go after the bartender, the entire clientele tossed him out, tail first. And his green ass (well, symbiote ass now) hadn't come back since.

"Whoa, I got this," I told the barkeep even I was already moving. "Come on, Peter, you know the rules." With Boomerang's help, I steadied Trapster back on his stool. "You need a few minutes between brews, man."

"I'm fine," Trapster replied. I didn't know you could slur those words, but he had found a way. "I'm fine...just need another beer, that's all."

"No, you really..."

"Aw, who are you to tell me what to do, Shhhhocker." The old man was staring at me, but the way he was swaying, I was probably one of three Shockers he was trying to focus on. "Washn't for me, you wouldn't have all thoshhhhhe bonds..."

"Think he's cut off, mate," Boomerang told the barkeep, who replied with a silent nod and moved away from the baseball bat. "Gonna move him to a table, Herman. Give me a hand?" I got off my stool to help him. The two of us picked Trapster on, one under each of his arms, and took him to the unofficial "passing out" table in the corner. His blood-alcohol level skyrocketed in the shot time we dragged him from the bar to the table, because by the time we threw him down in the chair, Trapster landed face-first on the table, sending peanut shells and a crumpled napkin bouncing away.

As my partner-in-crime started to snore on the table, Boomerang looked at me with a sincere expression. "A man needs to know his limitations."

The honest way he said it got a laugh out of me. "Yeah. Hope no one tries to screw with him. Think Peter's happy a job actually went RIGHT for once and just celebrated a bit too much." With a sigh, I shook my head, but I did have a grin on my face. "Happy birthday to me, huh?"

"Hey, mate, I wanted to take you to a strip club, but...you know...damn Giuliani." We laughed and were making our way back towards the bar when the door banged open again. Standing in front of me and Fred, with the dust trail evident on the floor, Speed Demon held a box out towards me.

"All you, man. Happy birthday, Herman." The box, about 3 feet by 1 foot by 1 foot was crinkled on one side, and packing tape ran all over it. And it was cold, like it had just come out of the freezer. I remember taking it and wondering how the hell I was going to open it. Boomerang came to the rescue, though. He whipped out one of his razorrangs and handed it over for me to use.

The guy caught a lot of flack for his choice in weapons over the years. In America, everyone assumed boomerangs were kids' toys, no different from yo-yo's or jacks. But what they forget is that the natives of Australia used them to hunt game. In Fred Myers' hands, his boomerangs ain't toys; they're deadly weapons, especially when the guy throwing them used to be a Major League pitcher. Right now, though, his weapon's serving as a packaging knife that I'm using to rip into the package.

"This one's from the two of us," Speed Demon said as I managed to get the outer layer of tape off "We were gonna split em, Boomerang and I, but figured you'd probably be around longer to enjoy them then either of us."

"That's what I told him," Boomerang told me in a low voice that Speed Demon could obviously hear. "But I honestly had no clue what to get you and just went in Dutch with James."

"HEY!"

I laughed at the standard Boomerang tactic (he uses it to avoid restaurant tabs, too) as I finally got the box open. I put all the cardboard and tape I had ripped away on the bar, along with the razorrang, before setting the box down next to it. I opened the flaps and gazed upon my birthday present...

"Happy birthday," Speed Demon told me brightly. "50 pounds of meat from Omaha Steaks."

Red meat stared back at me. Thick cuts of sirloin, some on the bone, some off, were packed tightly in the box, separated by layers of wax paper. "Holy..." I looked up at the two of them, and a smile was forming on my face. "You guys are just lucky I ain't a practicing Jew."

The two laughed heartily, and Speed Demon was saying "come on, let's see if we can get the grill in the back fired up..."

Then it all went to hell.