Chapter 16: Let's Have A Talk.

In the Neshoba County, Mississippi, just outside of the city of Philadelphia, Marvis Feed Store had some good acreage behind the establishment. There, a mill produced and bagged the store's own animal nutrition.

In the driver's seat of a forklift, Garrett Guthrie's hands began to shake. He knew that the inner cramped-in feeling was sure to follow. He couldn't stop what he was doing just then. The bags of grain on the wooden pallet had to be placed by the chain-linked fence— to the left of the store— for passers-by to see and be enticed.

He rubbed his hands as if that would stop the trembling— it never had before. The redness on the back of his hands was welcome. The sun's baking on his outwards hid the small red dots that indicated a punishment to his inwards. Red dots— such as tiny spots of busted veins areas that come from unnatural rushes of blood speed. They were evidence of long term hard drinking.

His dancing right hand returned to the steering wheel of the forklift and his trembling left eased back on the lever. The palette went up and the engine rumbled. In seconds, the forklift deposited the feed where it belonged. Garrett seriously doubted that he could make the next two trips without the shakes getting worst.

Halfway back to the mill's door, he shut off the work vehicle and jumped off. He ran into the back of the store, to the employees' lockers. From his metal storage, he took out the "medicine" that would solve his problem. Two long swigs should do the trick. Well, that and a ten minute sit-down. But he would have to wait on that last thing. He hopped onto the forklift, took a deep breath and then continued his chores.

From the small "pet section" window, Amy Mavis saw his sprint back and forth. Everyone here knew who the "alchies" were— people like that couldn't hide their habits forever.

It was a shame, she thought. He was a good worker; almost 28. Garrett had a good wife, Lucinda, and two darling children: Sam and Paige. She wouldn't comment on his dependency. It wasn't her business, really, except that he should show better love towards his little family.

Besides, another man— her husband Ben— should be the one to talk to Garrett about the shortening of his life. She turned to the burly man reading the paper behind the cash register. White hair was encroaching on his short red beard. Ben was a good, but uninvolved, man who fit her own lifestyle; but there were times when he had to exert himself.

She walked over to her husband in this slow portion of the day.

"Ben, how about now?"

He looked into her eyes. "Okay, okay," he begrudgingly responded without another word from her. Amy had been on him for days about it, sooo … Ben gave it whirl.

Ben put the paper down and moseyed out the back door. Amy hoped that this time Ben would actually say what needs to be said instead of allowing Garrett to change the subject.

To the bulky man's relief, a customer had pulled up, parked his car and made a bee-line towards Garrett. Ben shrugged and turned around. There was always next time.

If Ben had stayed the course, he would have been there when s the new man giving a congratulatory slap on Garrett's arm.

The man cheered, "Well, Ah needs ta say, we taught dem darkies an' a couple a ni - - er lovers what for."

Erica asked over the phone, "Where is she, by the way? You know, the one who uses you for a doormat."

"Where do you think she is after a night of -" Brygetka's mouth was immediately covered by the hands of the two women at her sides.

Yolanda said, "She is still sleeping, to the best of my knowledge."

Erica replied, "She wasn't drinking, was she? The poor reserved little thing."

"She wasn't," Henry blared out. "I think we can lose your unfavorable opinions, Erica."

"Mine? Even the press called her a socialite before she moved in and contaminated you."

"Socialite?" Yolanda asked. "Is that bad?"

"Here's the translation sweetie," the voice on the phone began. "Dr. Van Dyne's daughter was not comfortable with the entry point where her family connection put her in High Society. The broad will do what she needs to do to get higher up the ladder of prestige. She will – shall I say— entertain certain men who can help her launch her fashion design business.

"That was where my dim-wit brother found her. I tried to tell him that she would never change, because her chosen path in life was too entrenched for anyone to cause a lasting detour. But, oh no— my brother said that people can change. Hey— very, very few can, Nee."

"We need to discuss this privately," Henry interjected.

From her Arlington, Virginian home Erica replied, "We need to discuss it with everyone present. You know you owe it to them, Nee. We're talking about a potential powder keg that could bury everyone."

"What does she mean, Henry?" Yolanda asked fearing that this all involved more than just a woman of loose morals. Erica's brother looked at the women and found the two older females nodding in agreement with Erica's assessment.

Big sis answered Yolanda. "I mean that there's nothing innocent about flirting. Doing it constantly means that you want something bad enough that you'd even trample on the emotions of someone who cares deeply for you. Or at best, you advertise that your moral boundaries are as strong as a punctured tissue paper. Reactively, you cannot keep some ludicrous act outside your behavioral borders. Proactively, something ugly inside of you can also get outside and pull something even uglier in."

Hank began softly, full of repentance. "When Jan moved in, it took a short while to discover that she had a … well, an addiction to things; … mainly thrills and attention."

"Damn it, Nee stop with all the vagueness. We're adults here. Tell Yolanda the first time she was drunk and brought home a rich pig for her roasting."

"Erica! Stop!" Hank said. " … Yolanda,… you know Jan has this dream about starting her company and rubbing elbows with elites. Well, I don't like to go to parties and to that effect I should take the —"

"God help me," Erica screamed. "Every time you take the blame for even a bit of her whore-behavior, I feel like reaching into the phone and boxing your ears in."

She continued, "For the millionth time, you are responsible for your actions and your actions alone. If she had any morals, letting her go to parties alone wouldn't result in the way they had."

"Let me finish," Hank said indignantly. Then he turned his attention to those who were present. "Yes, Erica is right; it's an old habit that I need to stop. At any rate, he was a CEO of an advertising firm, and up in years. Maybe that was why I was able to catch them before they did anything. He was as drunk as she was, but his age made him undress slowly."

"Could you beat that?" Erica interjected. "The tramp brings Mr. Moneybags into the home that my dumb brother had opened to her. He brings her in and the whore thanked Hank for loving her by trying to pork a rich old bastard."

"Stop. I mean it." Henry covered his face with his hands. Yolanda wanted to hold him. Thankfully, before she did something that stupid, Henry glided his hands up and over his short hair. He leaned back and returned to the narrative in a calm tone.

"Jan promised that she would stop drinking."—Henry ignored the scornful laugh at the other end of the phone—"She kept her word and things went smoothly. Months later, another party took place with the same influential people. I went with her, but I had to leave by midnight. She asked to stay behind because she was close to making some sort of connection."

"And she sure did." Erica interrupted.

"I was in my lab in the old Manhattan location, working on a solution that could reduce fatalities in combat. I was almost possessed by the project. It was a solvent that could clog weapons and dissolve a soldier's clothing without harming—"

"Hank," Erica steamed. "They aren't interested in that. Get to the point. Here is where you let other assume your motive was to escape high rents. What's the real reason that you had to leave that penthouse in Manhattan?"

He shook his head sadly. "Jan had become better at sneaking her potential benefactor into the home. Working hours behind the microscope was giving me sore eyes. I decided to break for a 3 AM snack. On my way to the kitchen, I heard muffled laughter coming from her room.

I had, at that time, a habit of carrying around an all-purpose key to the doors and… They were both naked and flushed as if …

Hank' had tailing off, and that angered Erica once again.

She responded, "As if she was happily going for the second session where he'd drive his dipstick into her stank-engine. Only this time she rolled herself on top of him just as you entered. Is that right, Hank?"

"Details are so important aren't they," Hank sarcastically replied to his sister, the former CIA operative.

Erica said, "Everyone— well actually Yolanda— needs to discover the tramp's true nature. Everyone needs to know that you can give a person so many chances and if you aren't an idiot, you discover that the person will not change. And none of five adults in on this conversation should continue to fool … HIMMMMself."

Hank continued. "I pushed Jan off of him and brought him up from the bed with my hands around his neck. That was when I discovered that he was just … maybe eighteen?"

"How convenient. We wouldn't want to venture a guess that he was younger. That would be statutory rape, huh?"

"Erica, I'm talking. okay? … I looked at his scared young face and I saw that he wasn't the problem."

"Oh, Hallelujah!" Erica shouted in ridicule. Yolanda admired Hank for staying in control. Being an experienced debater herself and facing down stiff assaults in college, she knew that emotional outbreaks undermined the most positive presentation. She also felt something else; as much as Yolanda was on Erica's side, the brilliant young woman began to resent her disrespect towards her younger brother. Still, she said nothing because Erica was family to the wonderful man.

Henry said, "I stopped myself from beating him within an inch of his life. I forcibly put his pants on him and I shoved his shirt and tuxedo into chest and dragged him out.

"Details, little brother. The young snot-nose was the son of J. L. Morrison, the international banking tycoon. She still wanted to get to her business going even if it meant using the stupid kid and crushing you. Oh, and don't forget, as you were dragging the shirtless little jackass out, your prim-and-proper Janet Van Dyne was pulling you back by the arm.

"What was it that the drunken tramp was saying to you at the time? I think it went: Don't get angry and don't throw him out. There was also enough pu - -y for you after she finished him.

"Sorry I was so crude. Just wanted to illustrate that she gets extra vulgar when she's soused, as two of our audience knows."

Henry continued, unruffled. "He wasn't the problem, but as I got him to the elevator, he said something that definitely was. In the middle of his panicky apologies, he blurted out that he didn't want to be squashed under foot by Giant-Man.

I asked him, what was this nonsense that he was speaking? He answered that after Jan revealed her identity by shrinking, he rejected her offer to fly up his …. "

Unlike his sister, Henry's modesty prevented him from finishing the comment.

"Anyway, his words stopped me from throwing him out. Actually, her suggestion to him almost made me throw up."

Hank took a deep breath and resisted telling the four women that Hank came so close to slapping Jan, and hard. The urge was particularly strong when she took his right forearm and tried to pull him away from the youth. Hank then used the same forearm to push her against the wall. He raised the forearm up to her neck securing her against the wall, without actually choking her.

The wild, beastly look on Hank's face was enough to scare Jan. She shrunk and flew away, leaving her lover to fend for himself. Self-preservation trumped her desire for another sex session.

He continued, "You heard Erica mention a new truth serum that I perfected. It makes the mind overly receptive to suggestions. I got the youngster into the lab and used it to erase his memory about the tryst, about Jan's exposure, even about our address.

"The kid was fully dressed when I walked him out. He had a vacant expression as he hailed a cab home.

"Still, I couldn't take a chance. If his memory returned, even if it was foggy, no one could guarantee that the wrong person wouldn't be listening to him. Jan, Delfina, Bridgitka, even the neighbors in the building would be in danger.

We moved out without a forwarding address. Using the same serum, our former neighbors and landlord now remember me as an old, feeble man.

"After that, everything gave me the impression that Jan had improved."

"Yeah," Erica countered. "Now she doesn't need alcohol to act like a tramp. Just ask Captain America."

"Okay, as I said to everyone in the kitchen, I'm going to handle this. I won't let her whoredom— I'm sorry— her crassness … her crassness endanger anyone. As for you dear sister, we've accomplished enough character defecation for the day. Jan isn't here to defend herself and—"

"Defend herself against what? She's going to say that none of it happened?"

He retorted angrily, "Good-bye. Let's talk again when we have better subjects to discuss." Hank stood up, disgusted that he contributed to the denouncement.

"For my part, I could have stressed that I planned to defuse the danger without bringing out so much humiliating details." Apologizing for his poor discernment, Henry reached down for the cell phone that was cradled between the speakers. He pressed the button to end the call and he marched out of the living room.

Brygitka followed him out. She stood up and smiled. "That went satisfactory."

Her sister stood up behind her and could only manage a disapproving shake of her head in Brygitka's direction.

Yolanda turned her attention away from the sisters and towards the door through which Hank had disappeared.

Her esteem for the man increased. She always felt that he was wonderful, but after seeing how he hated to denigrate the one who caused him so much pain, it seemed like she was just now truly discovering the benevolent nature of the man.

Once inside the safety of Lab A, the corner of his eyes spotted the blinking light on his Ant-Man phone line. It was probably Cap again. Hank was going to phone him and thank him for his considerations and support. Meanwhile, he might as well hear this last message, also.

But the recorded message revealed someone else. It was Danny Cohen—a long forgotten informant whom Erica lent to Hank during his spy-smashing years.

If his faith was still whole, Hank would have thanked God for his soon-to-be career change. In truth, Hank's corporate venture would allow him to distance himself from a few regrets. One of those was Cohen. Danny gave law-enforcement info, they would give him money. He's use it on drugs, the Feds turned the other way.

The FBI and the local police needed a snitch inside of the slimy world of crime. Only a fellow slime could fit into that inner circle. No one tried to wean him off his addiction— it preserved his fervor. Being hungry brought out Danny's reliability and the animal drive to succeed in gathering information.

Hank flowed away from counter intelligence and into the typical Superhero-versus-bad-guy crusade because of the government's use of people like Cohen. Yes, saving thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of innocent lives made it easier to aid the Danny Cohens of the world to flush their own lives down the toilet. But for Henry Pym, many times it came down to those self-incriminating minutes just before he closed his eyes to sleep at night.

The "minutes" usually became an hour – and that was only because of sleeping pills. Lately, he didn't need the pills because he hadn't been involved with any self-destructive informants. Yet right that very second, that luxury disappeared.

On the recording, Cohen sounded nervous and that meant one thing. There was big time trouble up ahead. Why he called the Ant-man instead of the Feds would have to be investigated later. Hank replayed the message to memorize the phone number that Cohen had left.

It was 11 AM at Hillcrest Heights, some miles outside of Washington D.C. The series of houses varied from ranch to two-story. The relatively new housing development prided itself on the young , slender trees standing guard over clean, curving streets. It was a community for the family; a community of quite safety. But there was one abode that housed nothing resembling kinship, tranquility or security. These contradictions were walking along side with one hidden irony. The Sons of the Serpent had claimed that they were led by the death-defying General Lee. It wasn't his name that was on the pre-paid mortgages of six side-by-side homes, but it was his money that purchased the properties on Lee Lane.

In the basement of one of those two-story structures stood a thin man whose facial wrinkles added a decade to his actual age. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and then finished his project by closing the small compartment door over the heavy duty 9 volt lantern battery.

After 18 straight hours of work, the only thing keeping Gregor Shapanka on his feet was his adrenalin. The man with graying temples lifted up the fruit of his long labor from the work table.

It was just inches longer than the distance from his fingertips to his elbow, and it was ready— the freezing gun. Measuring only two thirds the weight of the original design, the extra ease in turning it against multiple targets was assured.

Gregor turned around from the work table with the weapon in his hand. He reached for the newspaper on a near-by rustic bench. The scientist then threw the newspaper in the air. Shapanka aimed his gun. While the chaotically fanned paper was in the air, his long, slim finger pulled the trigger— Fffft!

One particular section of the newspaper fell faster than the others. It hit the floor with a crack. He reached down in an attempt to pick up the potion that appeared frosty, but readable. Obviously, the non- clarity meant that he also hit some dust particles. But that was of little consequence.

Hmm, there's a small article about a home exploding in Long Island. Did it read Freeport? In mild curiosity, he slipped his finger under it. The newspaper cracked into smaller pieces.

Small sacrifice, he said to himself. At least now he can show his financier, General Lee, that his faith in Shapanka was justified. Realizing that he again could look forward to his reign of terror as Jack Frost, a victorious laugh escaped his mouth. Now, wouldn't his arrogant fellow house guest swallow hard at this same realization?

Speaking of the devil, Shapanka heard the running water surging through the basement pipes. A toilet flush meant that the braggart Abner Jenkins was awake. Let's see how dismissively he talks to Gregor now. Jack Frost had nothing to fear from The Beetle.

Dmitri Smerdyakov had lost contact with his revolutionary comrades who were sent to the U.S.A.. But if he didn't have accomplices to pursue espionage activities, that didn't stop him from moving on. Taking the guise of Professor Carlton Olbermann he began an impromptu meeting at a coffee shop just two blocks from Manhattan's New York University. Youths always had the mindset that they were smarter than the generation that raised them. Youths without jobs lend themselves to a rebellion that was deeper than their early teen resentments.

Dmitri's newly acquired Oxford accent was flawless. His round rim glasses and subtle wrinkles on his forehead relayed the image of a seasoned teacher in higher academia. The students who gladly heard him never bothered to ask where he had taught. It was sufficient that he spoke as one of them, but with more eloquence.

He said what they wanted to hear. Professor Olbermann explained that they were in the invisible prison camp of a repressive capitalist system. And they were the chosen, the higher intellects above the masses, who were called to eventually throw down the government; to overthrow the impossible-to-crack ruling class.

Soon the small get-togethers grew in number. But it was shaky at the start. About 18 months ago the core six students included two members who asked questions that were more challenging than inquisitive. One Negro student, Oscar Gambling, was quickly put in line not by directly addressing his questions, but by denigrating him. Without using the word "stupid" he was made to feel out-of-touch. Without calling him an "Uncle Tom" he was backed into a portrayal of favoring racial oppression, so long as he received his education.

This was the best and quickest method to smooth out the road in front of a revolutionary. Attack the person's integrity and his question became lost in the defenses and continued attacks that followed.

"Bourgeois," "Judas," "Opportunists," "Mind-enslavers," "Racists" all useful words for question-deflecting. They took a more sinister feel to them when the audience was rived up after hearing about the injustices of the capitalist pigs who downtrodden the unthinking masses.

It worked on Oscar, but one girl whose face seemed too young to be a University student, did not bend. Alice Potts took Oscar's claim that Negro car salesmen, land brokers, and insurance sales men became wealthy as they advertised in the stadium and program guides associated with the Negro Baseball League and she ran with it. She produced articles and copies of worn pictures. It was as if she was an professional archivist.

She became quite a troublesome stain of manure as she deflected charges that she must have been pro-segregation. In addition, she masterfully returned to the main counter-argument against the claim that no one but those thieves born into power can have power in America. Even when the other students ganged up on her, she was resilient, saying that she was worked over by the best. These students were armatures to her.

The students had to shout her down, because she was countering their assaults by pointing out the hypocrisy of the person assailing her. In a turn-around of the tactics of the racial, the girl asked things that brought humiliation to her attackers.

When was the last time that these anti-racistshad lunch with a Negro?

When did those who claim that there were no meaningful jobs available for "outsiders of the system" last look through the Want Ads?

How could they seriously say that they were fully aware of social-economic ramifications if they spent a considerable amount of time smoking marijuana? It left the majority of users in a state of paranoia and 100% of everyone who Alice knew in a mental fog.

Dmitri was quiet in his admiration for the young, light-blue eyed demon's professional debating tactics.

Yes, drowning out her voice was the only way to win the day, but soon the objectors became hoarse and the small Rock of GIbralta was beginning to get some of her words in. She even exposed the maneuvers of the radicals by stating that no answers came forth from her questions, only character assassinations to quiet her down… and of course, it did the opposite. She became a lioness.

If she had not suddenly transferred out to another school, Dmitri feared that his influence would've soon been weakened. Then Dmitri would have had to do something about little Alice Potts.

But she was gone now. Dmitri, or rather Professor Olbermann, had control again and the numbers of the ears of the disgruntled, and the questioners of tradition increased.

This morning their beloved professor had, himself, left the bourgeois, elitist Plaza Hotel suite that overlooked the Central Park— the epitome of how the greedy capitalist pigs exploited the sweat of the proletariat. It was going to be a busy morning. He had pick up a package at a near-by Greenwich Village post office and then return to the suite. But he had to address his followers. It was a twice-a-week ritual to make sure that they knew that he remained one with their struggle.

He entered the café this morning. More than three-quarters of the eyes within the establishment met his charismatic smile.

They applauded; Dmitri cleverly put one humbled hand onto his chest and with the other, he waved in downward strokes to calm their acclaim.

Their favorite professor explained that he had not much time, but he, in turn, had to applaud their courage and clearness of mind to stand against the repressive system that was the very definition of the United States. They were encouraged to continue in this struggle, but he had to add one more awareness to their superior, expanding minds.

"As you know, the whole system seeks to choke the life out of the working class. It seeks to keep us under the boot of the ruling class tyrants."

A series of "boos" had to be silenced by the professor.

"And those who defend it are equally as dangerous. The police, the FBI"—again he had to subdue the cat-calls and derision from his followers— "Yes, they are workers… workers who have been brainwashed by the very institutions that would put their boots on our necks, brothers and sisters.

"They are today's House Slaves. You know what I mean. During slavery, the plantation owner was ruthless, heartless. The House Slave, the one whom the slaves thought was one of their own…. Ohhh, but he was in many cases, far more dangerous than the master.

He had to secure his position of ease, by preventing anyone else from attaining that position. He betrayed his own, giving the master the information about his people's every attempt to escape. Once he was exposed and unable to mingle with the other Negros, he was given power to put his own… HIS OWN … under the whip."

The crowd murmured in disgust.

"These House Slaves are here among us. The so-called law enforcement who protect the law of the master over the underclass. I give you the police, the FBI. .. the much ballyhooed superheroes." The last classification left his mouth with derision.

"The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, that other detestable House Slave, Spider-man. They capture smalltime crooks who stole from the reeeeal crocks—the institutions, the bankers, the ruling class.

"When Doctor Octavius saw through the façade, when he saw that the Halves had long conspired to keep the rest of us struggling as Have-Nots, he broke away from the mind-enslavement and faced up to the oppressors."

A cheer erupted.

"And where did it get him? Brother and sisters, he's been marked by the Zionist Imperialist Propagandizing Media as an outlaw. Even now, after being attacked by that House Slave, Spider-man, our brave comrade rots away as a political prisoner as an example of how a free-thinking plantation worker will be dealt with.

"Brothers, sisters, a time will come when it will be your turn to drive this corrupt nation into an egalitarian utopia. It will one day be you who snatch the press from the lying Imperialist Industrial-Media-Zionist-complex and bring us truth."

Another cheer rang out.

"Until then, spread the word. The hands of the oppressive capitalist slave owners that would strangle our throats, … our future… these hands are Spider-man and the others fascist supporters in their cleanly pressed, ridiculous Halloween costumes."

The crowd laughed scornfully.

"Remember we are the future. Remember the chant that was thought to be forgotten decades ago, "We are The Progressives."

He smiled broadly as they chanted his last line over and over with burning fervor.

He bide them good-bye with hand gestures and they repeated loader, "WE ARE THE PROGRESSIVES!"

Dmitri hurried out, denying some hangers-on their request to aid him in whatever he was planning to do. He had to be alone when he picked up his package and returned to the elegant hotel suite. Of course, he'd have to change his appearance to match the ID card that corresponded to the recipient. The package was addressed to Sam Alinsky. And Sam looked very different from Carlton Olbermann. That presented no problem for the Chameleon.

On his expansive Estate's firing range, one "capitalist pig", Norman Osborn, was showing incredible accuracy. His rifle shot many times into the poster board figure, but one could only see one hole. It was located between the eyes of the figure painted on the board. Instead of the traditional black silhouette drawing of a man, Osborn had a red and blue figure with large white eyes that slanted down as they neared the "nose." No one dared asked him why.

On the white luxurious outdoor table behind the shooter were the untouched tea, finger sandwiches, and vermouth that he declined from his servants. The mood that Master Osborn exhibited, especially the obscenities between shots, was enough to keep his butler and maid from getting close to him. They were not going to offer him any more drinks or food.

His mind had no time for anything other than his target. He was consumed with a burning hatred that was fueled by humiliation. That bastard, Spider-man—a nobody— made Norman's triumphant entry into a new endeavor look like a mockery.

He'll pay… dearly. He'll pay … slowly, agonizingly slow.

The servants jumped back as he howled in almost demon-like rage when the rifle emptied. He collected himself long enough to reload.

Arthur Shapiro was in a lighter mood as he turned off of the highway. With his worry subsiding, his stomach found room for a late breakfast. The dinner that he was presently sitting in was substandard. But in his state of relief, even the undercooked eggs were fine.

As he waited for his check, Arthur was wondering how he could better please Norman Osborn with the recruits.

Well, for one, he wasn't getting a positive response every time. Perhaps he could show his boss that he was proactive. He would not only go after the names that his brother –in-law provided, he'd also try to get meta-beings that had talents closer to what his employer had first looked for. The list that Arthur presently had to work with may have been only reluctantly assembled by Norman. So…..

Arthur looked at the first three candidates that he had convinced to come on board, three weeks ago. Well, they were committed until that horrible villain, who the press called the Green Goblin stole them away.

The three went by the name, the Enforcers. Long and lean Jackson "Montana" Brice could make a lariat into a lethal weapon. Though small in stature, "Fancy Dan" Brito was a master in hand-to-hand combat and a great marksman with a pistol. The extremely tall Raymond Block had the thickness and strength to back up his street name, "The Ox".

Let's see. Montana provided the long range threat. The Radioactive Man, Dr. Chen Lu, could more than fill that spot. Fancy Dan provided the up-close-to-the victim attack as well as the long range with his pistol. The Cobra, the eerie Klaus Voorhees, was a far deadlier answer to fill that slot. The Ox was mainly a close range attacker. The other three names that Norman Osborn had gaven him to recruit didn't fill the bill.

Arthur thought that he would win over his boss in a big way if he found someone who could specifically replace the loss of the Ox's muscles.

After leaving the waitress a big tip, Arthur opened the dinner's glass door to leave. Suddenly his brain opened up as well. He got it… HE GOT IT!

The guy that Arthur thought about was the perfect substitute muscle; actually, he had more strength. And the new guy had something else that the Ox couldn't match. He had incredible speed that no one could match. And since his brother-in-law felt that shadowy figures on the wrong side of the law were the best intimidators against potential kidnapers (as oppose to squeaky clean men who would not step over moral boundaries to stop a threat), this guy was PERRRFECT!

Proud of his brilliance, Arthur ran to the payphone located by his parked car on the lot.

He was instantly connected to Norman's secretary who forwarded the call over a private line to the Osborn Estate. Kevin Mygatt, the butler, answered the phone by the patio furniture. Mygatt explained that Master Osborn was standing no more than fifty feet from him. He was reloading his rifle.

"He's in a frightfully angry mood," Mygatt warned.

"Well, get him to the phone. Tell him that I have a plan that will get him out of his rage and put a wide smile on his face."

It took a while before Osborn took the phone. As his butler relayed, his boss was half a step behind the threshold of a volcanic tirade. Osborn warned Arthur that whatever info he was about to share had better be worth his distraction from target practice.

"Oh, it isss, Norman, it most definitely is. I think I can direct my attention to getting you the perfect candidate to be your body guard. I'm going to get you the guy who would not only make you feel at ease, but also make your life a spinning-top pleasure.

"Norman, you'll love him, absolutely love him. I'm going to get you Spider-man."

Post Scripts:

Danny Cohen is an original character.

Bourgeois (Boor- zhwaa): In Marxist circles, this refers to scheming

wealth-producers who are very exclusive and ruthless.