CHAPTER 11 Some Good Plans, Some Bad
That bell. That damnable doorbell. The sun had risen long ago, but to Elihas Starr it was much too early to receive visitors. The Hell-sawn bastard who appeared to have been leaning on the doorbell set Elihas' teeth on grind mode. The ringing noise also compounded the throbbing ache on the left side of his head.
At his third attempt to rock his rotund body off of the bed, Elias was on his feet. A sudden chill made him reach for his robe. If it wasn't for his history with hangovers, he'd have asked himself, how in blazes can one feel cold in summer?
Cursing and stumbling, he finally found himself reaching for the locks. His present malady made him forget about the last time he answered the door, so he was feeling brave. It helped that in his mind, the offender, who apparently thought that a doorbell was incomplete if it didn't have a finger glued onto it, had to be a neighborhood brat. Elihas determined not to yell at the bastard, seeing as it would only increase the headache. But he was definitely going to curse him out.
He swung the door open angrily and found two big ruffians wearing white tie-less shirts and dark pants. Terror re-entered Elihas' heart. He thought, "The armed thugs from last night are back!"
No wait—a second look brought Elihas a recognition of the duo.
Elihas rubbed his left temple and asked, "Was it today?"
The black-haired man on the left made a face. Elihas wasn't sure why until the brown-haired man to the right stepped back and waved his hand in front of his own nose.
"Man, you stink," the hand-wave said.
Free of fear, Elihas was then able to pay attention to his sense of smell.
Obvious, Elihas concluded. He carried upon him the combination sweat, sex and… URINE?!
He opened his robe and looked down. The two men took a couple of steps back upon seeing the repulsive sight. Elihas rubbed the crotch of his wet boxer shorts and brought his hand to his face. He was relieved that it was only sweat. Of the three men, only HE appreciated his discovery.
After a releasing few cuss words directed at the football-shaped freak before him, the brown-haired man said, "It's a good t'ing fer ya dat I'm on a diet. If I had finished a big breakfas' before comin' here, I'd be decortin' yer floor wit' da food and yer head wit' my .44."
The last reference was not lost on Elihas as he had known the blunt pain that came from a pistol's handle. It came to him the first time he met and dismissed Gaxton's hoods. The black-haired man placed the back of his hand on the offended dieter's chest, signaling him to be silent.
"Yeah," the darker-haired brute said referring to the question that seemed forgotten. "It's taday."
"Ahh, goo—ah good morning Mr. Balboni and… " The nervous Elihas looked up at the brown-haired man expecting him to re-introduce himself. The fellow didn't seem bothered that he withheld it from the odd-shaped genius.
Elihas apologized for forgetting the name of the man on the right. He then explained that, as a matter of courtesy, he'd like to address him properly.
The brown-haired fellow stopped him abruptly and barked, "Shaddup, stinky. Dis ain't no f - - king invitation to no f - - king prom dance, got it? We're here ta get yer f - - king monkey a – s ta da boss."
Being 14 inches taller than Elihas, when the lighter-haired ruffian leaned down to meet him (predator) eye-to- (victim) eye, he left an unforgettable impression.
He continued, "Hurry up an' le's get goin'."
Looking into the man's cold eyes, Elihas saw a reflection of the man who sent them— Blackie Gaxton. The notorious gang leader had a short temper and a shorter tolerance for tardiness.
Months ago, Blackie had "convinced" a judge that his prison break was entirely engineered by the extra appendage-carrying Doctor Otto Octavius— a.k.a. Dr. Octopus— in executing a kidnapping plot. Blackie's fellow hoods backed up his story in court. His present lawyer argued that he had shot his former lawyer, Bennett Brant, by mistake. He was aiming at the damned Spider-man who he believed was attacking the late lawyer "and friend."
For years Gaxton had financed the campaigns of ensconced Pennsylvanian Democratic politicos and they were called upon to return a favor. They put the squeeze on the judge and that was the final straw to enable Blackie's early parole.
But the man was on a mission to "pay back" Spider-man— the unlucky stiff who dared to stop Blackie's escape. The costumed clown jumped onto an old cargo ship where the mob leader was hiding. At the time, Gaxton was anticipating the arrival of another ship that was heading for Belize.
Ten days ago, in one of his courageous boast that was triggered by booze, Elihas assured Gaxton that he had a plan that would definitely help the Philadelphia mob boss get rid of the Spider-man. And looking at his two enormous escorts this morning, Elihas knew that he had better deliver on that plan now.
Balboni raised an eyebrow and reconsidered the initial command that his partner had issued. Gaxton wasn't going to be pleased with the two if they brought a guy to him that smelled like this dumpy pile of…
"Da boss hates ta be kept waitin'. But since he'll be on da phone gettin' his Chicago and Balt'more connections ta see da light and since youse in no f - - king condition ta see him like ya are, I'll give ya twenty minutes to wash and get yer clothes on.
"We'll drive aroun' an' when we geds back, be ready. We hates ta be kept waitin', too."
Elihas nervously nodded as the men turned around to leave.
With one hand pulling the front of his robe together and the other messaging his subsiding hangover headache, the awkward genius ran towards the bathroom. On the way, he hit the side of his beaten-up sofa with his left knee. The pain made him scream as the knee ricocheted away. Unfortunately, the hard impact turned his body around while he was still proceeding forward. That caused Elihas to bang the back of his sizable head against the doorframe leading to the in-apartment hallway. The new headache made him instinctively bend forward and release the grip on his robe. This allowed the front of his robe to touch the ground.
He lurched forward with his right hand messaging his left knee and his left hand crossing over to hold the new painful area behind his right ear. His feet stepped on the robe. The snag on the material spun him around. Trying to regain his balance, he spun in a circle two more times, and entangled his feet. Not long after, he was kissing the floor.
In between his yelps he looked up towards the bathroom door on the left side of the hallway. Suffering from the three body bruises (head, knee and mouth), Elihas inched his way towards the goal on his hands and the one good knee. But when he passed the bedroom door on his right, he let out a frightened, high pitched squeal that even a pre-kindergartener would have been ashamed of releasing.
His eyes returned to their sockets and his hands stopped trembling when he remembered. That right foot extending beyond the bed wasn't dismembered. It was attached to that damned whore he took in last night.
There was no time for her, he had to get ready. Avoiding his aching areas, Elihas hurriedly lathered up his football-shaped figure and rinsed off. He rushed to his bedroom aiming for the closet. The aches dwindled to mild throbbings, so another punishment took center stage. Elihas's wrinkled nose, sniffed at the pungent air. He then looked at the darkened sheets around the sleeping woman.
"The bitch urinated on my bed!" he yelled.
The youth's plea over the phone was fruitless. When Kraven, the hunter arrived in New York two days ago, Peter had failed to take pictures of him. J. Jonah Jameson went berserk and fired the teenager.
Presently, Jameson wasn't due in at The Daily Bugle for a few hours, but overnight editor, Joe Robertson, used a second phone line to call him about Peter Parker's request for another chance.
"Robbie" had come back on the first line to tell Peter that Jameson refused to see him. Again, the young man pleaded and promised that he had photos of Spider-man during the rescue attempt of a building jumper and the battle against Stilt-man.
"So did other photographers in the city," was the message from Jameson that was relayed to the teen. The last words that the Publisher/Chief Editor told Robbie to pass on to the youth was if Peter set one foot in the Bulge Building, Jameson would have him arrested for trespassing.
Peter thanked the night editor and hung up the phone. He looked at the clock over the fireplace. It was 7:50 AM. In an hour his gal, Betty Brant, would begin her secretarial duties for that tight butt, Jameson. Peter could ask her to soften her boss while Peter was in his first period chemistry class.
Should he do it? Last night he had proclaimed his love and loyalty to Betty. Wouldn't that now look like he was just using her so that she could fight to get Peter his job back? No, Peter wouldn't torture his beloved by planting those suspicions in her heart. Then again, the money situation in his household was desperate. Damn it, what was his plan to get out of this mess?
The scholarship? After high school, would he be in a bigger financial bind if he cashed-out on Dr. Pym's Scholarship today? Would another scholarship cover as many expenses as Dr. Pym's program did? Peter very rarely cussed, but he did this time. Why does life have to be so complicated? Fewer and fewer things were clear-cut smart or dumb, right or wrong, great or bad.
"Peter, dear," Aunt May called from the kitchen. "Breakfast is ready. I made your favorite, sweet apricot pancake. Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Yesterday I picked up a darling blouse that I thought you could give to that charming girl, Betty. I know that with your studies, you don't have time to shop for your sweetheart.
All right. There was one thing— one person— within hugging range who was clearly smart, right, and great.
To the west of Massachusetts, was the New York State county of Colombia. Just miles into the county, a forest had grown and swallowed up all memories of a British Officers' residence. Two years and a month after General Cornwallis sent his substitute, General O'Hara, to surrender to the ceremonial-worthy French and the American Colonies' rag-tag Continental Army, the last British regiment left New York on November of 1783.
179 years later, on November 30, 1962, the time-forgotten spacious remains were discovered by a "wealthy hermit." The land purchase and renovation followed quickly after. It suited the rich loner well in that it was miles away from the prestigious Westchester Mansion of a friend-turned-foe. And he could move in some individuals who were also isolated from society, though not by their desires, as was the case with the reclusive landowner.
Almost two years from the discovery, on this June 22 morning, the secretive master of the house, Eric Lehnsherr, sat in a dim, large room. He didn't need to move his curtains and allow the morning rays into the room. There were only a few things in that spacious room, therefore he didn't need much light to find things. Besides, if he wanted something, it came to him, he didn't go to it.
Sufficient was the light that came from the television in front of him. His section of the woods was not telecast-wave accessible, but since he built a large signal receiving dish on the roof, he could steal international programming using the Stark Industries orbiting satellites. Today, the US news stations were most informative.
His right hand rested atop the helmet— this symbol of his authority sat on his lap as Lehsherr, in turn, sat on his elegant arm chair. With a point of a finger the television was shut off. The man had seen enough. The last images were still playing in his mind.
Rushing through the LaGuardia Airport, ahead of camera men and reporters, where two young brave Ukrainians who were credited with stopping an airplane hijacking.
Now this isolated man had a master plan brewing. The success of Eric's mission depended on his followers going about undetected. Pietro and Wanda had stepped into the limelight through no intention of their own. He would say nothing in the way of a reprimand. Stirring unnecessary strife with the hot-headed Pietro seemed pointless. But he would have to train them to take extra precautions, should such conditions arise again.
As is, he thought that the media's over-sensationalizing of the Homo Sapien's inferior heroes— Captain America, Spider-man and the Wasp— would relegate the brother and sister to the forgotten oddities files in the back room of the outsiders' consciousness. Soon they would be thought about with less frequency than Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster.
As for Eric, he had better things to do than argue with fellow mutants or worry about this latest outsider attention. He had a search to continue. His right hand slid down from the top of the symbol that would soon represent terror to the outsiders. His fingers finally reached his lap. Mysteriously, the metal head piece rose from his legs. It gingerly settled around his head, exposing only his eyes, nose and mouth.
Eric stood up and walked out of the room. Yes, Magneto had a hunt to attend to.
There were similarities between the female friend who stayed overnight at Elihas' place and Danny Cohen. Both had promising futures that could have been accessed by hard work. Both of them took an easier road that directed them away from their better expectations.
Danny blinked rapidly. The last blink finally brought him out of his sleep. He stayed on the hard ground motionlessly trying to figure out where he was. Oh, yeah—it was the same old alley that he always parked his butt in. This time he was puzzled because he usually faced the street, not the back fence that lead to another restaurant's back yard. With his confusion vanquished he was now ready to turn the wheels in his head.
He could now, you know. Danny knew that he was in the 'tween camp because he could feel the cool wind blowing on him. The 'tween was the period between the glorious hit and the hellish torture that crashed in on him when there was no "smack."
This was the period when he had to figure out a way to get some scratch for the next hit. When his body went ape-sh –t for the smack it was an ugly scene, man.
It wasn't always like this. He used to be one of the top eyeballs for the Gov, you dig? Man, he dropped dimes like a broken payphone on gangsters, spies and saboteurs. His tips helped put them away. The Suits paid him real boss, too. They greased his palm as good as if he made it to the nowhere career that his family had planned for him.
He smirked, he could've been Doctor Daniel Cohen. Doctor of the boring and pointless. Get married, become a prisoner of society… naaaw. That sh – t wasn't for him.
He didn't need a ball-and-chains of a job and wife. There was plenty of time and dough to make the scene with his main babe, heroin. The Feds were happy and Danny was in the breeze zone. He vaguely remembered Mr. Mini-Man himself thanking him. But maybe that was just a dream. After he took the good sh – t, he always had those spaced-out dreams.
Like man , Mr. Mini was into all that ant sh –t and he probably was a square, going home to his ant-wife and reading his ant-paper, warning his ant-kids to stay away for glue-traps. Like, why would he give the skin to a cool cat like Danny, man?
Anyway things changed. Four bad canary songs later and the Suits forgot all he had done for them. The Feds got no collars and they frosted him, man. They were like, who the f - -k is Danny Cohen? Now the cat's palm went dry, but he still had his babe, heroin, to support, you dig? So he goes all shadow-and-shakedown like.
Dig it, even with the toasted gray matter in his head, Danny knew that one day he'd mug the wrong cat. May be it would be a Narco or a Pu - - y Daddy. Undercover badge or pimp, both those crazy mother - - kers carried heat and Danny knew that he wasn't agile enough to dodge flying lead, man. That was some scary sh –t to ponder. So that's why last night he had to take the dip again and see if he could slide into a happening that the Feds would eat up, dig?
There was a pigeon's cage break coming in the middle of his trial before the robe. The thin, pale Danny Cohen got himself nested into the peepers spot—you know, what the squares on TV cop shows called a "look out." Now the pigeon was biiig, man— heavy important, like. Because of that, Danny got a good bill for signing on and he used it on his "date".
But now he had to get himself re-familiarized with the bigger Feds scratch before his body sweated for his babe again. After all, he had a long term relationship to think of.
He shuffled to the entrance of the alley and thought for a minute. Oh Yeah, the frap house was to his left. He'd get to his pad, find the Suits' number and the Mini-Man's untraceable number. He'd come down to the corner phone booth and, like, asked if the Suits or the Ant was interested enough to waive some green in his direction, you dig?
Ahhh, now this was a plan, man.
She sat down. Yolanda had to. The newspapers printed things that were too much to take. She turned on the stool to bring her feet under the counter that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. Suddenly, as if she just discovered that she was holding on to dog feces, Yolanda threw the paper on the counter top.
The pictures were horrible: The Wasp bringing Captain America close to her. Her lips were parted in a manner looked like she was about to attempted that dangerous "French Kiss" that Yolanda had heard drains a person of self-control.
The articles were cruel: One tabloid christened Captain America and that dreadful creature the "it" couple in everyone's conversation from here on. Another paper declared them to be the "hip" twosome of the year. But all the papers indicated that if the Wasp hadn't already thrown Giant-Man away over her shoulder, then he may still be giant, but he was no more a man than a pitiful, cowering cuckold.
Infuriated, Yolanda's fists tightened as they rested to the right and left of the newspapers. She was angry at the abusive media coverage, but she was beside herself with rage towards one very despicable Janet Olivia Van Dyne.
How could she do this? How could she callously humiliate him in public? Henry was kind, encouraging, charming, intelligent and handsome. Any woman would give her right arm for a man who was a quarter of the man that he was. Henry Pym deserved a better wom-
She had to stop her thoughts. There was a weird sensation that sneaked into her heart. Was it… relief… and elation? How disgusting of her—Yolanda scolded herself and began suppressing those feelings.
What was wrong with her? When poor Henry finds out about that creature's alley cat ways, he'll be totally crushed. He'll probably throw her out. Hmmm, out.
What's happening here? Yes, she felt shock, but why wasn't it followed by feelings of distressed for that wonderful, gentlemanly, muscular, attractive hunk who could give Yolanda a run for her money in the intellect department.
WHAT? …. What were these strange words entering her head that clouded the seriousness of this scandal? Her heart was beating strongly, but it didn't seem to be the drum rolls of despair on Henry's behalf.
Oh come on. How whacky was this? Henry will soon need someone to go to; someone who could comfort –
OH LORD, BE MERCIFUL! It came again. That wave of thrilled sensation and hope. Yolanda put her hands to her face feeling confused. It took a while, but the brilliant young woman's fingers felt the rolling of her cheeks. Was she smiling?
This was almost as disturbing as the newspapers. It felt like her body was being possessed by another woman… a frivolous, uncaring woman. No wait, uncaring wasn't the word. In fact, it held the furthest definition to the sensation. The word frivolous was also buried under the weight of determined calculations. Those planned calculations were swirling in her head. They raced at tornado speed and she couldn't get a handle on them.
Suddenly, she came back to the world and she quickly dropped both her hands and her smile. In shame she looked up to see if the two sisters had seen her disgraceful display. She sighed in relief at seeing the back of Delfina, as she hunched over to take out glassware from the dishwasher. And though she initially was equally thankful that Brygitka had also turned away, shame returned to her. Brygitka was looking out through the glass patio doors and wiping her left cheek as if she was removing tears. That was how Yolanda should be feeling, as well. If she could muster the emotion right then, she would have hated herself.
Yolanda had to get control of her emotions. Maybe these were hormonal- induced feelings. Yes, that must be it. It was a relapse of her early teen problems. These strong and strange sensations will go away.
She shot up from the stool and excused herself. This morning, Yolanda had wanted Henry to see her in her mature, casual-classy attire. But when he wakes up, he will find himself burdened under a great weight of humiliation. This wasn't the time for fancy clothes. Yes, they made her feel very attractive, but the somber moment was shaming her into returning those clothes to the closet. She would put on the plain outfit that she used to go to the Happy Valley Day Care Center.
Yolanda made it to the front of the elevator doors. Their gold polish had a reflection quality to them. Yolanda thought, she did look good. Wait a minute. Henry will need help coping today. Yolanda would drop her self-centeredness and occupy the mind of that wonderful man with a planned Spanish lesson.
Poor dear; if only a good woman could catch his eyes. One of the reflective elevator door was sending back to her eyes an image of a pretty good looking female. The new person in Henry's life should know how to dress as attractive as she did, Yolanda thought.
No, she had to concentrate. They should have a Spanish conversation about something that would take his mind away from the hurt. Hmm, a Spanish lesson about …. about …
Yolanda's mind unexpectedly screamed. "QUE EN EL INFIERNO ESTOY PENSANDO? ("What in hell am I thinking?")
She can finalize a lesson on the fly. Right now, she was going to march into her room; look through her magazine; find an alluring hairstyle; come back down; drag Delfina up to her room to help fix her hair; find the perfume that the sisters had bought her, but she never used; and oh yes— THE OUTFIT WAS GOING TO STAY ON HER.
She wasn't all conscious of the fact that the elevator arrived and the golden, mirror-like doors disappeared. Instead, she just smiled and said, "Now that's the best plan I have ever conceived."
Reference:
Blackie Gaxton vs Spider-man is found in Spider-man #11 (1964)