Chapter 3: Southern Concerns, Northern Concerns.

Summer is when the days lengthen to most children's delight. But where some youngsters look forward to extra playing time, others cringe knowing that the delay of darkness could mean the giving away of their hiding places, their refuge.

On a little Mississippi farm, two-and -a half-year-old year old Paige Guthrie hid behind the old, weather-beaten shed, The late afternoon brought slightly cooler air to pass a comforting breeze upon the sweaty little girl.

Her hand-me-down pink t-shirt and gray shorts hung around her frame loosely. She held Holly closely. Holly needed reassurance to calm her fears. Holly was a cotton-leaking, dirty Raggedy-Ann doll that she and her brother found on the road. The doll had since been cleaned and Dr. Sam— Paige's brother— had patched her up.

There was a reason why Paige and Holly were hiding. Tolerating the southern heat and humidity was just one of a long string of reasons why Poppa got drunk. And when Garrett Guthrie got drunk, he got mean. Hitting mean! Paige looked down to trace the scars on her left arm. That happened the last time he had thrown her down the porch steps.

Paige loved the man, but when he became violent, the girl didn't like her daddy as much. Actually, when Poppa became drunk, she hated herself, … her freakish self.

Momma told Paige Ann Guthrie to go visit the Billings house down the road. There she could join her older brother Sam and play with her girlfriend Franny. Momma always escorted the girl everywhere, so if she sent Paige off alone, that meant that Momma must have gotten wind that Poppa was drinking in town.

Lucinda Rae Guthrie was going to check what mood her husband was in. If necessary, she was going to hold off Poppa from striking out. Lucinda's children didn't need to see any of it.

Paige knew she was being a disobedient bad girl, but she couldn't go and leave momma with poppa.

Poppa's pickup truck screeched as it pulled up to the main house. The loud noise meant that the brakes were over-working. The breaks over-working meant Poppa was speeding. Poppa's speeding meant trouble. She brushed back the light-rusty, curly hair that the wind tossed into her face. She looked on as the man made his way into the house with unsteady and angry strides.

The little girl held Holly closer and began singing softly. Holly needed singing to chase away her worry. But Paige's own voice was beginning to tremble. That couldn't be all that calming for Holly. Paige's cheeks began to feel the familiar running of tears.

This was all her fault. Poppa deserved a better daughter than her. Who could blame him that he just couldn't take fathering a freak. She was a bad girl and all this was her fault. Her fault, … her fault, entirely.

The bad girl's whimpering began to increase in volume. She was losing her fight to stay calm for Holly's sake. There was a second reason why she had to stop crying, though. In her own little mind, Paige thought that her parents would have been able to hear her from forty yards away.

Then the little child heard what she feared the most. Banging came from within the old wooden house. Momma? Yes. When Momma cried out in pain, Paige knew that Poppa was using her as a handball.

Paige's tears now cascaded as she visualized what was happening. Paige should be the one getting smacked around. She was the horrible freak, not Momma.

She shouldn't go back for her mother. She shouldn't. Momma said she shouldn't. She also should had stayed quiet, but her own voice cracked in hysterics as she heard Momma cry.

Then came smacking sounds, like skin hitting skin…. Like hand hitting face. Her little body trembled as Momma's voice got louder. Paige should stay out of the house. She should. She promised.

Immersed in her inner conflict, the crying girl hadn't noticed that she was hypnotically inching her way towards the house. She was suddenly pulled out of her trance by the shouting of her name.

The girl turned around to see her brother running her way.

Samuel Jonas shouted, "Paige, … Pa's skunked ag-in. Yah-in stay back. Ah'm gonna help Ma."

The girl quickly placed Holly on the sun burned grass. Just as speedily, Paige then hurled herself at his feet, tripping him. She held on to the fallen boy's legs. "Not wid'out me. Id's mah faul' dat he's d'unk. AH should be da one —"

The boy raised his face off of the grass and turned with anger. But the anger wasn't directed at her.

"Stop talkin' crazy. Yah'll ain't nutin' ta do wid Pa's stupid-ness. Now stay he-ah."

It became apparent that the more time that they spent arguing, the more battering their mom was suffering. The boy turned towards the noises coming from the house and then he turned back to Paige.

"Ah-kay. Y' wanna help? Come on."

Sam took his sister up in his arms and began running. He explained that he had a plan and she had to do as he said. The little girl wasn't sure if his "plan" meant that she stay hidden and Sam would enter the house. When Paige shook her head and said no, Sam's face exploded with the same rage that she had seen many times in Poppa. Paige's heart nearly leaped out of her chest in fear.

"Do wha' ah say, girl. God gave yah-ll dat talent of yers fo' some good. An' taday, dat good is ta save Momma. YER DOIN' WHA' AH SAY!"

Just then a shriek that the children had never heard before robbed the air of all space. The small hairs on the back of the boy's head stood electrified. It sounded like Poppa was killing her.

Suddenly a weird glow surrounded Sam's body. And according to Paige's estimation, the remaining thirty or so running paces to the porch didn't happen. They were suddenly in the living room facing Poppa's back as he hunched over. Between his legs they saw Momma sitting on the floor before him. They saw her upright torso, but not her hands. That meant that she was trying to stop Poppa from choking her.

"Now Paige!" Sam yelled. The girl's skin became loose and started to fall off, but not fast enough for Sam. He placed her on the floor and pulled off her skin with the strength beyond that of his nine-year-old frame. He didn't care that he ripped off her t-shirt as well— decency had to take a back seat now. In the place of Paige's smooth skin, there was a stony exterior. Then Sam glowed brighter. Sam took Paige in his arms once more, stepped to the side and then with the strength that could have rivaled a gorilla, he tossed the statue-like girl onto his father, striking the man's head with hers. Both daughter and father hit the floor— Paige obviously landed with no pain.

Even though she was now made of stone, Paige could move like any other person. Paige rolled over onto her back to see Sam putting his arms around her mother. The sobbing, coughing woman was okay.

But now something sparked in the girl's mind. Amazingly, Samuel Jonas Guthrie was a freak like her. It caused a warming feeling in her, but she questioned how did he manage to keep it hidden for so long?

Still, there was a different mater, an urgent matter that the little girl had to check out. On her hands and knees, Paige crawled slowly to her unconscious father.

"Poppa?" she whispered with a frightened quiver. Her hand gently brushed away his hair to reveal the red, swelling bruise on his forehand. It was her fault he was drunk. Now it was her fault that he was injured. New tears began to run.

"Wha' I told yah'll abou' talkin' crazy," she heard Sam call. "He's ah-kay. He's breed-in,' right?"—Paige looked at her father's moving chest and she nodded.

Sam continued, "It's jus' a time-out fer 'im. We all need time-outs some-taimes, don't we?"

Momma slid over the wooden floor to hug the girl and reinforced Sam's words: Paige was innocent of any influences that moved her father to do things. As a matter of fact, she was God's little blessing angel to the family.

"Yep," Samuel agreed. Stroking his sister's hair he added, "Yah-in did good, Paige… liddle angel."

But the girl pulled away and hung her face over her father's eyes hoping to see them open. The stone skin began to crack and fall away in little pebbles. She moved away as the face portion began to fall off of her. Paige didn't want it hitting Poppa. It took seconds to finish the transformation. Her brother pulled the shirtless girl towards him in a one-arm hug.

"Yah-in did good," Sam repeated.

Paige sat on the floor, joining Sam and Momma. They hugged and cried. A cool breeze came through the open door as if it knew that their faces needed drying. They continued crying until all the tears were spent. Then Sam broke the silence.

"Y'know, Paige. Fer a tiny angel, yah'll weigh an awful bunch."

Her giggling sliced through everyone's somber emotions.

"If-in dat wasn't bad enough fer me, who d'ya think is gonna get stuck sweepin' yer pebbles away?"

Her giggles became an infectious laughter.

The Jacob Kurtzberg Building wasn't as tall as those found across the river, but it was second to none in imaginative, exciting design. It even eclipsed anything one might see in Washington, DC. In two of the eight lobby elevators a visitor might notice four additional floors that could be accessed only by a credit card-sized security pass that could be slid along a thin linear opening on the right of the floor-button panel. These top floors housed the training room, laboratories and living quarters of one Dr. Henry Steven Pym.

From one of those two special elevators, three figures stepped onto the lower level of the four-tiered penthouse. Inside the foyer, young Yolanda Vanko placed her pocket book down on a table that was set against a wall opposite the elevator. To Yolanda's left, Dr. Pym's eyes were being entertained by his co-Avenger girlfriend.

Jan Van Dyne had taken off the head-hood portion of her famed Wasp costume. Her hair was matted down, but she still looked mighty attractive. Jan decided to deal with two pressing issues at that moment. To fluff out her hair, she bent over, shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. The second reason she bent over was to give her Henry a good view of her, eh, …background credentials. She made sure that those credentials shook with as much energy as her head.

She didn't have to look back—she knew she had enslaved her blue-eyed hunk-a-bundle. A conquering smile had spread across her face.

"Henry," Yolanda said, " I have sandwiches waiting and the soup will be ready by the time you wash up."

"Thank you," Hank responded.

The happy expression on Jan's face quickly soured even before she made a slow turn towards Hank. Sure enough, her eyes confirmed that she had lost her prisoner. … And he was recaptured by the curvy, young snot-nose. Hank had flipped back his mask to smile at her. Body languish, Jan thought gritting her teeth. He was open to her. Damn it, where's that cactus?

"We can go for that," Henry said, commenting on the food.

"Who is we?" Jan muttered.

Jan raised her voice to nearly sing, "That's so nice." Then in a sarcastic tone, she added, "Who wouldn't miss an eight course dinner in a mansion for that. Yuuum-my."

"Food is food, Jan." Hank replied sharply. "I think that we should be thankful for Yolanda's consideration." He turned and headed for the bathroom.

That cactus would have two butts riding it if Jan could've gotten her hands on it right then. Jan didn't like Hank siding with anyone other than her. Miss Van Dyne was the lioness in this den, and to prove it, Jan displayed her fangs… in a yawn, not a confrontation. Jan didn't want Hank present for the type of face-off that the older female wanted.

"You're right," Jan smirked. "I just thought that food over there would be good, that's all."

"I'm sorry if my food doesn't agree with you." Yolanda said coldly. "But you never complained before."

Henry stopped his forward motion, but he couldn't hear Jan's reply. Hank felt responsible for the recently developed tension between the two females. At the time, he hadn't any idea that his praise of the late teen would have caused all this. Even now, he wondered how the words that he used in appreciating Yolanda Vanko's high intellect and bright personality could have been tempered. It wasn't over-the-top. He never mentioned her great looks or her sizable… eh, never mind.

Henry turned around to witness a staring match between the two. He immediately intercepted the visual challenge by stepping in front of Jan.

He whispered, "Despite whatever is bothering you let's try to act civil, shall we?"

Henry then turned to the younger woman and smiled. "Your cooking has been more than excellent. I never found it a let-down.

"Tell the truth, I couldn't stay in the mansion any longer. Jarvis would have insisted that we sleep over and I never have a comfortable rest away from my bedroom."

Perhaps it was due to the anger that she felt over Henry's siding with the snot, but the fiery brunette rolled her eyes and sassed him. "Oh, brother. Come on, you're a full grown man, Hank. "

As if warning bells sounded in her head, Jan became concern as to how he'd take that. She didn't want to cause a divide in front of Russian rodent. She added some endearment to her words (besides, pet names were clear markers stating that Hank was spoken for).

"Sweetheart, I think it's childish to think you can't survive in a different bed for one night. Would it help if I bought you a teddy bear and warm milk for those sleepovers, honey?"

Henry stepped away silently. But Yolanda came to his defense.

The young women slid herself in front of Hank's path to say, "I understand your uneasiness. And as for being a full grown man"— her tone and her glace towards Jan was definitely combative— "you have the right to decide where to go and where to stay. One who works as hard as you do fighting criminals and inventing new technologies deserves that minimal right.

"As I said, I understand you, Henry. Though my work load isn't as heavy, I also prefer my own bed."

Jan fumed. WHAT? The big-boobed bozo was acting like she's defending Hank from her? Jan gestured towards Yolanda with her hand opened and her palm facing up. "When I said childish, do I need further proof?"

"Jan!" Hank shouted. The older female put both hands up to allow her to finish.

"All I'm saying that adults don't have that problem. I can sleep anywhere."

"Yes, " Yolanda hissed. "I'm sure that we could find an army of men that could testify that you don't care in what bed you sleep."

The woman charged towards each other. Henry again stood between them. Facing the new lab assistant, he stretched his arms out to the sides. This prevented Jan from getting around him. Henry's face shown surprise, and his tone was angry.

"That was uncalled for, young lady. Apologize right now."

Well about time he was taking my side, Jan thought triumphantly.

It wasn't the urge to apologize that motivated the agitated Russian beauty to angle herself in order to get closer to Jan. It was when Hank angrily called out her name that the two sets of blue eyes met. After a few seconds Yolanda repented unconvincingly.

"Janet Van Dyne, I apologize," she said with a cold voice to match her look. She turned to leave, but Henry told her to stop. The man then turned to the feisty Miss Van Dyne.

"In the future you will not address Yolanda as a child. She has earned both our respect as a colleague and a woman. Am I clear?"

Oh no, he didn't, Jan thought. He didn't just call me out in front of Miss Frozen Diaper Rash of 1964, did he? Where's that cactus?

"I think it's your turn to apologize, Jan." he concluded. The woman tilted her forehead forward towards Hank like an angry bull ready to charge.

"Janet?" Henry's voice rose.

Oh yeah? She thought. Well, we'll have some talking to do in private, Mister.

Jan finally nodded and returned the sentiment as frigidly as Yolanda had done.

"I'm sorry Yolanda Vanko." But Henry swore that he heard her mutter something about a "hole." He thought it was best to ignore it and not reignite a smoldering fire.

"Thank you, ladies. Jan, please wash up. Then come to me at Lab B. I have a present for you."

Jan thought, Oh, nice recovery, big guy. Her Hank had said that loud enough for Yolanda's ears. That will show the Russian Rat who rules here.

"Certainly, dear," Jan said with a big smile. Though her pearly whites were primarily directed towards her hunk-a-bunch she moved her head a bit forward and beyond his shoulder's deltoid. She wanted to make sure that Yolanda saw her celebratory, reigning smile.

It was only in the privacy of his room that Hank started to think about the incident before the bird attack. The suicide bomber began to say "This time," just as Jan's boot met his face. As he pulled off his costume, Hank asked himself, was it a mindless rant, or was he about to repeat the battle cry of the Sons of the Serpent?

Did it have anything to do with the press conference held months ago? In New Mexico the Avengers, with the unwitting help of the Hulk, turned away the surface invasion of the subterranean Lava People. The Avengers returned to New York City, where The Avengers' financier, Anthony Stark arranged for Captain America, the Wasp and Giant-Man to participate in a press conference.

During the session, the questions diverted from the danger of the Lava Men to what was happening in certain areas of the nation.

Giant-Man revealed that he and Thor had denounced the racists practices in the past. If it didn't attract vengeance-minded enemies and bomb threats, both Thor and Giant-Man would have joined the Civil Rights Marches.

"Outrageous," "atrocious" and "cancer to the nation" were some of the words Hank used in describing the violent Sons of the Serpent, in particular.

Cap joined in to remind the reporters about the dreams and goals that America was founded upon. There was obvious hypocrisy in some of the founding fathers, but the realization that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness was divinely bestowed, and therefore unshakable. No individual, group, or government gave it to us. Hence, no human individual or institution could rightly take it away. Anyone attempting such a crime against the law-abiding was no better than the communist oppressors.

Cap turned to Giant-Man knowing that the red garbed Avengers had more experiences with the post-Hitler overseas totalitarian threat.

"Yes," Giant-Man said. "But at least the communists openly deny the existence of God. Here, practicing racial injustice makes one a liar when he pledges allegiance to a country under God. Your "God" isn't real to you. He isn't the creator of all men—he's just a slogan.

Before he knew it, he was fighting back the impulse to erupt with verses from the book of Isaiah to support his arguments about professing faith upwards and practicing cruelty horizontally. A few scriptures escaped his lips, but giving full voice to the vestiges of his Plymouth Christian Brethren upbringing seemed phony. He had tossed his beliefs over his shoulder after the murder of his wife and he had no intentions of retrieving it.

The fall-out came days later after the media milked his indignation over racial injustice for all it was worth. To continue selling more papers, the Press ridiculed Giant-Man as a brainless, backwards Bible-thumper. He was amazed at how easily their resentment for anything religious stirred them up enough to forget the content of his words.

And now today, it looks like Giant-Man's comments may also have put the Avengers high on the Sons of the Serpents hit list.

Unlike most C.I.A. operatives who acted as if the F.B.I. wasn't in existence, his sister, Yollie, always had a myriad of friends in the "the Bureau". Hank was determined to lean on one of those pals to get his hands on detailed info coming from the bomber. Henry had to know for sure if the man was involved with the SOTS.

She knew that she had thrown away her life. Booze and drugs in college had eaten away much of her reasoning, and in turn, torpedoed her ambition to be a medical surgeon. But the times were happy and perhaps, as the result of the eating away of brain cells, her life didn't seem so bad now.

She was still attractive at 26. Life's deal was accepted— she understood that she was now one of those nameless, faceless "easy" dames that financially-secured men would remember out-of-the-blue, years into their middle ages… and just as quickly be forgotten. She made her way from one guy —or rather, "wallet"– to another in securing her needs and wants. Some were even knock-out handsome. Still, there was a lull in the fishing season. That was why she was here in this dump with a bald, football—shaped dork.

Naked, except for her panties, the good-time-girl leaned her back against the bed's headboard. She took a swig of the cheap liquor bottle that made almost every environment appear to be a palace. She squinted at the back of this bald looser—this Elihas character— sitting on the other side of the mattress. He was talking on the bedside phone.

The first call, minutes ago, annoyed him. Apparently, Elihas was the type that couldn't let things go; he ranted a long while after he hung up on the guy named Wyngard.

This time, with this caller, it was different. His rotund body was shaking the creaky bed with his excitement.

"I can't believe it," he cheered. "You actually got it. The blue prints."

Baldie was weird—big time. His body moved from side to side as the fingers in his free hand appeared to be plucking at an invisible bass fiddle. His laughter sounded more like a chicken with an asthmatic attack than chuckles. But, what the hey—she was there for one thing, and it wasn't for a life time commitment.

"I was really looking forward to the— the Cyclops creation that was— was driven into the A— Aegean."

Evidently the person on the other end got ticked off, because the looser nervously recanted. "But no, no. This is fine. The club, the whole Neanderthal look, at roughly 18 feet. Very good, I can work with that. You won't be disappointed."

"Let's get going," the woman complained.

Elihas brushed his hand in the air in a downward stroke, signaling her to be quiet.

"No, no, I'm alone. That was the TV."—he chuckled —"Do you really think I'd be with someone who sounds like that? Classless, really classless."

She kicked him in the middle of his back and he held back a yelp.

"Sorry. I have this chronic backache that hits me just before bed. ... Okay, see you tomorrow. You'll get to see the second part of my plan. I have to go. Thank you, thank you. Good-night."

He turned threateningly towards the woman who had just kicked him.

She said, with an alcohol-caused slur," Don't even think of hittin' me. You know I can kick you're ape sized a- s in a heartbeat."

He thought for a minute. She may have been right.

This Sunday night, a disillusioned Stark Industries employee cleaned out his desk. There was no need to turn on the air conditioner— his stay was going to be short.

Herman Shultz was taking the last of his things in anticipation of the answer to his third request for a substantial raise. He was sure that Tony Stark would say no again. That must've been why he had been avoiding Herman the last few days.

Finally, with his belongings in his satchel, Herman started out of the office into the dimly lit hallway. The industrial plant was like a ghost town. Almost all workers were home resting for Monday. Only Security and Cleaners walked the campus. They were like scattered mice individually creeping around in the dim light looking for food crumbs, Herman thought.

Well, he was no longer going to be numbered among the rodents depending on scraps while Stark pigged out at the dinner table. He had his little project smuggled out of the company grounds small-piece-by-small-piece since Wednesday. Tonight, it would be reassembled at home and Herman Shultz will be traveling a new, independent road towards his deserved riches.

He only had to walk through the cavernous metal shop to make it to the near-vacant vacant parking lot. The tapping against the windows signaled the arrival of rain again. No problem— it was only a short distance from the door to his car, he thought.

Making his way around the motors and metal chassis of several projects, Herman heard something else— cheering. It was faint, but unmistakable. He looked towards the mechanics' lounge. A frosted glass paneling prevented anyone from looking into the lounge. Upon that glass, he saw a blue-white light. The cheer became a groan.

Someone was here? When Herman heard a familiar voice and moan, he knew who it was. Herman opened the door to see the big boss' chauffer sitting on a chair in front of the wall-mounted television with his face buried in his hands.

"Chino… you walked right into that one," Harold "Happy" Hogan lamented.

Schultz lifted his eyes from the t-shirted brute to the TV. Shultz saw a boxing referee move towards a fighter to then raise his hand in victory.

"Those were the days, Happy."

Hogan turned to the sound of the voice. "Herm. Herm, you would-in-a believed it."

"Yes I would. That's how I turned my attention toward science, remember? 14 years old, I was thinking that I had that fight at the Golden Gloves won. And I left myself open."

Happy stood up and gestured apologetically. "Herm, I'm still so sor—"

"Nah, My fault. When I saw that the fourteen-year-old roster was filled, I got a forgery expert to produce a birth certificate saying I was 16. All that because I wanted to impress a girl; a girl who ended up being impressed only by older guys with driver's permits."

Herman smiled at the crew cut, square-jawed man. "It was your right cross that convinced me that no female was worth getting killed over. I turned back to my dorky ways and I became one on the nation's best scientist. Hey, you even hooked me up with Stark. What's to apologize for?"

"Wha'cha doing here on a Sunday?

"I should ask the same", Herman replied retaining his smile.

Happy turned half way and with one hand gestured towards the TV, said, "I don't have da connections ta gets Mexican Boxing, so I gets Chinese and come here every Sunday night."

How sad, Herman thought. This was the highlight of Happy's weekend.

"Ah yes," Herman said repressing his initial thoughts. "Three networks and a couple of local channels aren't enough for folks who need diversity. Will the mindless sheep, I mean public, ever get more than that?

"Did you ever"—Herman lifted one eyebrow—"think maybe if Stark can enjoy the best things in life why couldn't you? I mean, make enough money to have the proper instillation—Stark does own the satellite, correct? Why not be compensated rightly for your service?"

"Ya mean for drivin' him aroun'. He can get a monkey ta do dat. I'm lucky an' happy ta have what I got."

Shultz shook his head in pity as Happy sat down to watch the introduction of a second match.

Hogan, the one-time contender, had received too many head blows, Herman whispered to no one. He'd never understand that he was under Stark's foot. None of the workers here understood that.

Herman walked between the viewer and the screen. He extended his hand to say, "Well, good-bye Happy. It's been a pleasure."

Until that last word, Happy was moving his head this way and that around the man to see the TV. Now he just looked intently at his friend and demanded an explanation.

I'm finished here, " Herman smiled. "I'm going into business on my own."

"Y' kiddin'."

"No, I'm under-appreciated here. It's just like Abner Jenkins. Shame— he was a brilliant man. We both worked under Anton Vanko's tutelage. When he died, Stark didn't move Abbey up to take Anton's position. No, Stark pocketed the money he saved with Anton's death. No one was going to be Head of Development. That's why Abby put on that ridiculous Beetle suit and used his sophisticated ingenuity to commit crimes.

"Hey, I don't like how'd dat sounds. Foistly, da boss ain't a penny-pincher. Second, yer not blamin' da boss 'cause da joik went bad? And what about you an' yer new business? Yer not gonna do da same stupid t'ing, are ya?"

"Poor simple, loyal, and blind Happy. A man has to look after himself. Stark won't do that for neither of us. As a matter of fact, he'd better watch himself. When I get a full head of steam, I'll run right over him. "

I don't know what dat means, but I don't like ungrateful folks who counts his chick'ns an' spit on da hands dat feed's 'em. Dat better not be a threat."

Herman found Happy's confusion over metaphors amusing. Still, the chauffer's temper could mean trouble for the newly liberated employee. Happy was still a brute of a man with a mean one-two punch.

Herman Schultz touched his right wrist, just under his shirt sleeve. He silently picked up his bag and turned towards the door. The thickly built chauffer reached out and tugged mightily on Herman's arm to turn the departing man around.

Something from under Herman's sleeve hummed and the air around his wrist appeared to become distorted like a small ripple in a pond. Suddenly Happy was forced back and he hit the wall with a thunderous bang. Happy was dazed and unable to get up, but he saw his one-time pal bring his finger to his mouth.

"Shhh. We don't want to arouse security. We can't have a sudden increase of widows and orphans. Stark would never go into his pocket to take care of them."

Herman then walked nonchalantly out of the door.

INSPIRATION: Tales to Astonish # 38, 45, 46; Amazing Spider-Man #46; Avengers 5; Marvel Universe Wiki: Cannonball, Husk