Act 1, Scene 11
The party is ending, and guests are slipping away to their respective transports, mostly stretch limousines. Jameson fairly drags his wife to their limo, a hideously tasteless colourful homage to the Bugle, replete with mock headlines emblazoned on it.
JAMESON: My office! Step on it!
JAMESON'S WIFE: (pleased)You're finally bringing me to your office?
JAMESON: Good point. Driver, drop off my wife at a cab rank on the way.
JAMESON'S WIFE: Don't bother – I'll walk!
She gets out of the limo and storms off. Jameson stares after her, baffled.
JAMESON: What was that about? (to driver) Go!
He speeds off. Elsewhere, MJ emerges, the director on her arm. From her body language she's clearly a little weary of his attentions, and (after several attempts) manages to extricate herself from his grip and join the rest of the dispersing crowd.
We cut to Harry, who's sitting on the pavement with his back against the window of an all-night pizzeria. He looks like a down-and-out, utterly depressed and pathetic. He glimpses MJ through the crowds and manages to get to his feet and dust himself off. He calls to her but she doesn't hear, so he follows her.
We go back to MJ, who's still glancing around. Something attracts her attention from an alleyway, and she – surprisingly fearlessly, for a woman who's been in mortal peril many times now – wanders in…
…and right into Peter's arms. He's in full Spiderman outfit except for the mask, which is why he's lurking in the shadows. MJ runs her hands over his chest.
MARY JANE: One thing I wanna know, tiger…where do you keep your other clothes?
PETER: Around.
He points upwards. There's a small bag made entirely of webbing suspended high above the alley. One of Peter's shirtsleeves hangs limply from it.
MARY JANE: Wanna go back to my place, mister?
PETER: What about my clothes?
MARY JANE: You're already wearing more than you need.
They kiss. When it ends Peter tenses his legs and springs high into the air, taking MJ with him, and leaving behind an empty alleyway…
…not quite. Harry Osborn emerges from the shadows, having seen all, having heard all. He looks like a man who hit rock bottom and fell through it. He tries to take a few steps and falls to his knees.
GOBLIN: (V/O) Harry…
HARRY: (sobs) Oh God, no…
His father's face emerges from the shadows, only half-there, only an apparition, but one contorted with hatred and glee. It whispers to him seductively, insanely.
GOBLIN: She knows, Harry. She knows about him and still she doesn't care. How they must be laughing at you now. Look at you! Pathetic! On your knees in an alley! Is this the son I raised?! Is this the boy worthy to call my own?! You're no son of mine.
HARRY: I AM YOUR SON!
GOBLIN: Then prove it, Harry!
HARRY: (sobbing brokenly)Tell me, Father. Tell me what to do…