Chapter 23: Rage is Infectious.

In Virginia, two FBI agents who specialized in communications security entered the telephone switchboard room of Georgetown University Hospital. Two other agents had entered the hospital elevator heading for the 12th floor. They were to be posted at the door of one particular room. This four-walled area had been transformed into a classified confidential governmental facility because of one individual's use of the room's phones.

In her husband's hospital room, Erica Collingsworth moved her chair so that she sat between the bed occupied by her Barry and an empty bed. Erica was heating up the phones on the two bed stands. Years ago she had issued a standing order that any activity performed by former U.S. counter-espionage collaborator, Ant-man had to be made known to her. It was Erica who was the liaison between the FBI and the tiny combatant. Past executions of missions were so successful that even now that she is in the Pentagon as the Under Deputy Secretary of Defense, she had A-1 clearance, in perpetuity, to any information that pertained to the hero.

It was a small feat for the incredible woman who had many aces up her sleeves. Her former employer, the Central Intelligence Agency had a distant relationship with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They were two kids in the same sandbox who not only never shared toys, but one continually hid his activity from the other. It was her investigative skills that opened up the FBI to her.

In Washington, there are many skeletons in different closets. With the aid of her brother, crafty Erica collected more than her share of stomach-turning dirt. It was a survival route for her back then. It was a source of job security now. Her hubby, Barrymore, never knew if she was kidding when she hinted that Henry Pym had taken photos of FBI Director, Edgar J. Hoover— or "Bulldog-face" as Erica called him— in a dress. But whatever she had on Hoover made the Washington Big-Wig very cooperative.

Armed with information provided by the military, FBI, CIA and the allegiance she had secured with NBC News, Erica was able to paste together a full picture of national security concerns. This landed her in that safe haven of indispensability. She was the most sought-after problem-solver in the Lyndon Johnson Administration.

This day in the hospital room, information was coming to her from the phone by Barry. Her orders went out through the second phone. The recipient of her instructions was Little Snot— her favorite FBI contact. Originally, Walter Hadley was her biggest obstacle in arriving at a cohesive symbiotic relationship with the Bureau. When he discovered that a partnership with Erica and her "little friend" benefited his career, he then became very accommodating. Soon after, Erica elevated his moniker from "Big Ugly Snot" to his present name.

Hadley's successful collaboration with Erica eventually awarded him the management position over the Central Atlantic FBI units. Hadley also had a strong influence on the New York branch. And that was where Erica had to extend her hands .… in particular, the downtown Manhattan court area.

"Lit, you know by now the press has wind of the battle at 125th Street. Reporters don't put potential consequences before their drive to break a story. If their stupidity resulted in a large body count, that only means another news story.

"I don't know if all these Meta-antagonists were purposely brought in by the Thinker as a precautionary distraction to the bomb plants. Maybe it's coincidence. It could be revenge-driven or a result of frenzied rage and fear. Twice, I have seen where whole villages were swept up in an internal battle for survival when there was no mortal threat to begin with. All it took was a rumor to bring a hidden fear to the surface. One negative action brought a counter-reaction and soon the whole place exploded.

Metas have the same survival instincts that we have. They can be provoked by real or imagined threats.

"Right now the reason isn't as important as keeping that pug-ugly Thinker in the dark. He can't know that the Avengers are posted at the entrances of the borough. If he does, he may go to a back-up plan to spring his release."

Her husband, Barrymore, sat on his bed, with his chin on one hand, just looking at her. Wow, Barry thought. The woman was always a knock-out; but never more so than when this marvelous female-Napoleon placed her battle pieces together in the map of her fantastic mind.

She noticed that dopey, but specially endearing, look on Barry. She blew him a kiss and then resumed. "Tommy-2 is in the car about a minute ahead of him. There is a pig-sty-fill of reporters outside the courthouse. You know some idiot is going to ask what The Thinker knows about the free-for-all."

Referring to Hadley's supportive FBI Supervisor in the New York office, Erica said, "Your boy already has people there. Give me two, one on each side, talking loud into his ear all the way from the car to the court security screeners. Low tech, but effective.

"Oh, Lit,… make sure they are accident prone— you know what I mean."

Outside of the court building, the circus began. The man—the media-produced celebrity—know as The Thinker got out of the long, black government car. He stood there for a while, with his handcuffs intentionally lowered out of the camera range. He basked in the photo flashes. Why not? The one concept that he shared with his chief rival, The Wizard, was that the public should be treated to a glimpse of supreme genius. It made they're menial existence temporary fulfilling.

One of his plainclothes prisoner escort officers moved the Thinker along.

"Note to myself," The Thinker mused. "After I'm free, .. for a Christmas present, I must send this time-sensitive fellow a clock … attached to a bomb."

Right on cue, two FBI agents muscled themselves to the front of the crowd and identified themselves to the escorts.

A reporter to the right of the captive genius shouted, "What do you think of the meta-brawl in—"

One of the FBI agents turned around and accidentally rammed his elbow into the reporter's mouth. Well, hey, the reporter was almost on the agent's back why wouldn't that mishap occur?

Beginnings of familiar questions were shouted from the Thinker's left. The second agent tripped over his own feet taking a large portion of reporters down with him. The agent got to his feet quicker than those who cushioned his fall. He then joined his partner behind the prisoner.

They went through all the detailed and unnecessary explanation of what to expect in the courthouse lobby, elevator, the dismount of the elevator and the courtroom.

The desired effects were achieved. The brilliant Thinker could not be bothered with childish gibberish from inferior minds— he put his cuffed hands to his ears, yelled to be left alone. Outward appearances led the agents to believe that he mentally turned off all outside noise. When he cleared the security check point, the FBI men suddenly lost their voices.

Seconds ago:

With the powerful mechanical monster under his control, Zhi Ming Xu was racing towards his giant victim. His machine held a full-size sedan in his right hand, and a station wagon in the other. His forward movement was slowed down several times. Three times he stopped because he saw camera flashes. They didn't look like professional photographers, but he posed threatening with the cars in his hands. The great Communist Party Vice Chairman, Chen Yu, had always stressed that fear must be instilled into the capitalists-vermin to shake them. They needed to be scared away from their secret plan to bury The People's Republic of China.

All good, self-respecting, America-derisive Communists Chinese also knew what the esteemed Chairman Mao Zedong said about these dimly seeing, non-governmental people. Their shallow minds were ruled by paper tigers—all intimidation and no teeth. The great Faithfuls of the Communist Vision had to use the same intimidation against the imperialist, capitalist pigs.

It was no different than Genghis Kahn's world-conquering campaigns. He would camp around the people who he was about to raided and had his soldiers announced that Kahn was God's punishment to them. If they had not shamelessly sinned against Man, and consequently their dreamed-up God, Kahn would not be readying their deaths. Every human had a number of regrettable past behaviors. Kahn's cleaver mind game made the foolish God-believers weak-in-the-knees. Hence, the slaughter and pillage were easier.

What better way to make these childish Americans tremble than to let them witness the coming champion of the great Communist China—the real China. The people will take their photos to their lecherous Paper Tiger leaders. And then using the unwitting US media, all the world will see and shake at the potential of the Great Nation. No imperialist slime will stop the Red Chinese foot from settling on Taiwan, then the Himalayan territories that India had contested. After that … the world. National righteous anger rose at the very thought of outsiders' opposition to stop his country from taking what is rightfully China's.

Xu's fourth distraction came when a curious sight captured him. To the right of the American giant, a statue was jumping down from a tree. A statue? Jumping?

If that wasn't enough, along side Giant-man stood a contained three or four-story tornado. These Americans harbored so many mysterious technologies. They will be a good source for his county to feed upon intellectually.

Xu skipped sideways to avert overturned vehicles, but he kept his focus on the Giant-man.

Sudden, in front of him appeared a long grey canopy of … webbing? Xu refused to break his concentration. The faithful communist had sufficiently stopped three times. If he would have investigated it, he could miss Giant-man. The mechanical monster ran under it, undeterred.

As Xu got closer, the stationary tornado suddenly stopped. A second statue, a shiny dark blue-and gold metal statue, appeared where the top of the twister had been. It fell in front of Xu's intended target. Suddenly, large pieces of black top and sidewalk that were once circled inside of the tornado came flying his way. It banged hard against the metal man.

Xu swung the cars in his hands in front of him to shield his machine. The radar on the console in front of him picked up a movement behind him. His priority was to protect his machine, therefore he did not turn it around. Instead he strained his own neck to see if the movement meant danger.

A distance behind him, a strange giant, white, tan and pinkish ball rolled towards the area where he first saw the long, mysterious canopy. It was inconsequential.

Then Xu felt a jolt at the machine's feet. It was probably a larger chunk of asphalt, he concluded. When he realized that the shower of debris had finished, he brought the cars to his sides and over his head.

The young Red Scientist was temporarily stunned at the sight under him. There he was— Giant-man!

He looked up to Xu in equal bewilderment. Xu understood all this to mean that the American had thrown himself at his feet. He was begging for mercy even before the contest began.

Americans were certainly cowards, just as the great Chairman had always said. Xu could afford to be merciful, though. If the fearful oaf would come back with him in chains to China, then the whole world would see which nation was superior. And Zhi Ming Xu would be hailed as the champion of the greater country.

Xu froze both mechanical arms that held the cars over his head. In his euphoria, Xu, fumbled around to reach for the switch that activated the load speaker located below the protective dome and above the gun nozzles.

He beamed as he began, "You have made a good cho—"

Suddenly, a flying police car hit him from the right and Xu went down to his left. The machine flipped over the Rambler Station Wagon that hit the ground before he did. The Buick in his right hand twirled loose.

The metal man went down. Giant-man sat up to see the menacing Grey Gargoyle running towards him. Giant-man tucked his feet under his 12-foot frame. Duval's chiseled features and in-control voice gave way to rage— rage that was fueled by frustration.

"Szat foo-ell wahz easzy e-new-ff. But you, eleph-int szize Aveng-air, brrring me you-air fa-rend, Szor, or you die."

The Gargoyle leaped into the air. His descent from that incredible height would have enabled him to reach the Giant-man in seconds. Hank Pym jumped to the side and commanded his body to shrink to ant-size, all in a split second.

Henry had mastered the art of shrinking at the precise moment when the momentum of Giant-man's powerful legs could hurdle the small Ant-man a great distance away. At the beginning of an eye blink, he could increase his size to his 6 foot, 1 inch frame just before hitting the ground. By the time one's eyes opened from a normal blink, he would be minuscule again.

Paul Duval landed on dirt ground. He looked this way and that, but he missed the fraction-of-a-second vision of his intended victim twenty yards away. Duval was befuddled by the apparent ease with which the accursed American could employ his magic.

The two teenage girls were inside of the police van that was surrounded by turbulence. Tabitha Smith , the youngest, wondered if having windows only in the back and the front of the cargo van was a blessing or a curse. She wanted and hated to see what was going on. The rusty-haired 13-year-old sat on one of the long vehicle's two benches clinging onto the arm of 17-year old Lorna Dane.

Being mutants did not exempt them from the bodily experiences that came from fright. Their hearts pounded fast; the small hairs on the back of their necks straighten with electricity. Their hearing ability had heightened to a peak, anxiously searching for outside sounds and voices.

Outside of the van they had strangers who promised to beat back the threats that were hounding the two girls. But they were only that—strangers. When things got too mean and too hot, would they still be there to defend the girls who they had no connections to?

On the inside of the vehicle, they only had their short 3-hour long friendship. Would it come down to every girl for herself? Would one run if the other was captured by their stalkers? And then there was that other immediate urgency that Lorna had to address.

"Easy on the arm," Lorna said. "You're cutting off my circulation."

"Shhh," Tabitha responded. She was desperately trying to decipher the events that were taking place outside… since it would immediately affect her safety.

Shhh, nothing; Lorna had to get back the use of her left arm. She once heard that a loss of blood circulation could lead to the loss of her hand. The older girl tried to pull her arm away from the cemented fingers that had a strangle hold on it. Lorna had to finally push her head into Tabby's neck and mightily use her right hand's fingers to battle the other girl's fingers in rescuing her arm.

Just as the girls began to argue with themselves over the need of reassurance versus the need of blood flow, they heard a thump on the roof of the van.

Wellllll, …. that pretty much put a dimmer into the little ray of hope that Lorna had. Seconds ago, the noise of the cyclone died. They heard the white-haired jerk talking about teaching maggots a lesson. Lorna understood that he was talking about their defenders. On the other hand, Tabitha never thought maggots were as smart as dogs. That Whitey-guy was going to be busy for a looong time with those little decay-eaters …. maybe so long that he'd forget them.

They heard the woman who Whitey took along with him yell "Pietro." It didn't take much to figure out that Pietro was Whitey's name. The panic in her voice and the armored woman's shout of "Good" sounded marvelous to the girls. That meant that the two who chased them were getting clobbered. That was seconds ago, but now, upon hearing the noise on the roof ….

Lorne put one arm around her young friend and encouraged her with a fearful voice, "Get ready with those shiny explosives. Before the door fully opens, I'll magnetically push the van away and you throw those things.

"And if it's the metal lady or Giant-man?'

"Ehh," Lorna started. "Okay, let me think about that."

Tabitha was having doubts that the street-wise Lorna was wise at all. If it wasn't for the two superheroes outside, she would have been driven crazy with anxiety. Tabby knew that Lorna was frightened enough without her contribution, but the young girl could not keep her feeling bottled up.

"I'm scared," Tabitha said.

The seventeen-year-old fought back her own emotions and frowned. "Scared of what? You've got some impressive stuff going for you. What— didn't your folks show you how to defend yourself in a bad situation?

Right now, the only thing I remember my step-momma telling me was always have clean underwear in case of an accident."

"Oh, that's great," Lorna replied. "You can get squashed by a truck so bad that no one recognizes you, and all that's important is that the funeral parlor guys can say, 'But man, she sure has clean underwear.' "

"My step-momma made me promised to always have a clean pair, but if this here van begins to tumble roof over wheels, I don't think I'll be able to keep that promise."

Lorna thought to herself, "You and me both." Suddenly from the windshield they saw Giant-man tumbling backwards. They stood up from the bench and ran to the window. By the time they made it to the front, Giant-man was rolling away on the ground.

"Oh please, don't tell me he's been drinking," Tabitha pleaded. Lorna gave her a look of incredulity. The younger girl continued, "I saw him looking like he was dizzy. My dad falls back like that when he's drunk and he just rolls until he stops."

"Big as he is, I'll bet he won't stop until he's in Mexico."

Then something hit the sliding door so hard that the van shook. The insides echoed with the loud noise of the impact. They looked at each other, preparing for the van roll and their bodily reactions.

When they heard the metal woman loudly daring the "Scarlet Bitch" to get up, their smiles returned to their faces and their … eh, evidences of fear returned to their places as well.

When encouragement escapes from the chains of sustained fear, many times that courage comes out attired with the armor of rage.

"Beat her f- -king brains out," Lorna shouted from within the van.

"Yeah, break that Pietro's legs, too," Tabitha added.

"Get your globe-thingies ready," Lorna said. This time Tabby nodded.

Atop the Manhattan side of the Battery Tunnel Tony Stark had jumped up to his feet. Great concern had swatted away all contentment. Iron Man was tuned into two channels simultaneously. One was a nostalgia radio program; the second was the NYPD band.

The police had announced that a conglomerate of Meta-beings had appeared at the Triborough Bridge bomb check point and all hell had broken loose. That was where Giant-man and the Unicorn were stationed.

Stark could hardly swallow—Yolanda!

No matter what Giant-man said, he was sure that his new partner was the young Russian woman. Anger rose in his heart towards the complying Giant-man and his previously unconcerned self.

Tony had sworn to the dying Anton Vanko, that he would look after his daughter. All these months, he had relegated the job to his secretary and housed her… or rather, dumped her into Dr. Henry Pym's lap.

It was gross negligence on his part, he saw that now. And if this stake-out resulted in her harm, he didn't know what he would do.

"Iron Man to Giant-man. Come in, Giant-man."

"Presently occupied, Iron Man," Yolanda's voice came back to him. The relief was overwhelming.

Iron Man continued, "Reports are that things are bad up there. And I just heard the Sandman has joined the ruckus."

"I have the same frequency feed that you have, sir. I heard the Sandman had attack some patrol cars in the area, but he has not made an appearance here. We are on alert if he does. I must cut off our—"

"Listen, Unicorn, I'll make it up there in –"

"NOOO! No sir. I'll tell you what I told Thor: We can handle this.

"You still have an important job to do. Help the police find and defuse those bombs. Our fight here is contained, but you are needed for the good of the entire city. Hold your post. We have the upper hand and we are in the closing minutes of the confrontation. That is all."

Stark shook his head. "Son of a gun. She was barking orders like seasoned pro… actually, apart from the "sir" part, she sounded like a Drill Sergeant…. And I was just a snot-nosed, droopy underwear, first-day recruit."

The nerve of that little… Well, she was right in what she said about holding down his post. And that irritating sass wasn't all that insufferable because it reflected a confidence that came with –as she indicated—a soon-to-be victory.

The third thing that enabled Stark to fight his urge to get over there was, he knew his Avenger-buddy. Even if Stark was ticked-off at him, he knew Giant-man would not let anything happen to her.

Iron Man moved his eyes downward. Well, now he had to really concentrate solely on the mission. He had spilled his 90 proof "coffee" on the ground.

That call came at the most inconvenient time and Yolanda hurriedly disconnected the link with Iron Man. She expected him to protest her command to stay in place. He was the experienced one of the two armored fighter, but she was in no mood for a debate.

Dressed in fine, but now soiled, white blouse and black slacks, the Scarlet Witch was sitting on the ground, two arm's length away from the Unicorn. The female mutant was trying to clear her head. And oh boy, did Yolanda want that. The enraged Yolanda had cut off her power level so that only her natural strength was powering her movements. She didn't need motorized strength, as her fists were ready to smash the mutant's face in after her cowardly attack on Yolanda's beloved Henry.

The Unicorn challenged the woman once more,"Come on, come on. Get up! You have this coming to you and I'm ready to deliver it."

The Scarlet Witch was rising slowly. Her head dangled almost lifelessly off her shoulders. Wanda's two hands, her left knee and her right foot were keeping the rest of her unsteady body off of the ground.

The Unicorn was sidetracked when she heard the degenerate woman's equally detestable brother moaning from on top of the van. If that meant that he was reviving, that was great. In the height of her emotion, Yolanda was aching to destroy a nose and mouth— it didn't matter if they belonged to Sister Sewer or Brother Bowel Movement. If both, all the better.

A few minutes ago, if one had told the Russian beauty that she could attain to such seething rage, she you have brushed those words away. But now, after all the trouble, the attempted murder and the betrayal that the mutant siblings resorted to, her hatred for the two burned hotter than an inferno. Images of tearing their heads off of their shoulders circled her head.

Aided by the long period of inactivity, Yolanda came to herself. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that the rage inside of her heart was nothing less than murderous. It made her no better than these two scums. The Unicorn would deal with them, but not in such a barbaric fashion.

Being impatient with the female mutant's progress to recover her balance, the Unicorn lifted off the ground. She was still angry enough to hope that Quicksilver's nose was ready to be introduced to her knuckles. His movements were methodical, careful. The jerk seemed to have need of more time to regain his wits, as did his cowardly sister.

An instant later, her eyes moved beyond the prone, green-costumed mutant. The heroine saw a police vehicle fly from left to right and hit a metal structure. That structure tipped over and a different full size sedan suddenly flipped into the air.

A wide-built, grey man wearing a bluish-grey swimming trunk ran across her field of vision in the same direction that the car's flight had taken. He shouted things that weren't clear: "foo-ell, Szor, die"— all of it incoherent.

The grey man took an unbelievably high jump that convinced Yolanda that this was a meta-being, not merely a body-painted lunatic. He landed on an area where the earthen ground pushed back the blacktop for space. The grey man began looking in every direction and swearing … Wait, Yolanda recognized the language. The man was French.

He may be trouble but, the Unicorn had to first deal with the two villains within her reach and then quickly find Giant-man.

The metal maiden re-engaged her mechanical strength to the level of about 30 horses. She then grabbed the belt of the Scarlet Witch's slacks and lifted her off of the pavement. The heroine's booster boots allowed her to rise above the ground with her prey.

Pulling on the back of the shirt portion of Quicksilver's jumper, the young heroine yanked the white-haired antagonist from the roof. She headed to a corner, half a block away, where there was a Stop sign.

The Unicorn placed them back to back in a sitting position in front of the sign. The stop sign, itself, was hanging loosely from its metal pole— no doubt thanks to the slimy speedster's little hurricane.

The Unicorn effortlessly whacked off the red and white octagon. She then proceeded to bend the metal pole around the dangerous sibling. She could hardly look at the two for fear that her great scorching anger would re-ignite. Barely conscious, Wanda gave out a grunt. Yolanda had unintentionally hurt her— "GOOD!"

Since that word initiated the Scarlet Witch's sucker-punch on Henry, Yolanda said it loud enough for her to hear. It was just a reminder as to why she got slammed against the van and barely escaped a bigger butt-kicking.

The Unicorn was still on one knee finishing the final twist of the pole, when she shot a look towards the police van behind her. She found the side door open. The two girls looked at her with wide eyes and opened mouths.

Yolanda stood up and threw out her hands to her side, with her palms up. "What are you doing?" the heroine shouted. The girls gave no response, so the Unicorn brushed her hand sidewise to tell then to close the van door. It was the same sign she had given the crazy Brygitka a little more than an hour ago on the roof of the penthouse. It worked just as well now.

The younger girl burst into a big smile and applauded wildly. The older looked at the younger and then she also released a happy celebratory clapping.

It was enough to afford Yolanda temporarily relief from her rage. The Unicorn made a playful curtsy and then she flew to the girls. At her elevation, she spotted action at a distance.

"SPIDER-MAN! He's here?!"

To Yolanda, the arachnid-named hero appeared to be heaping webbings upon a shitless man; probably a street-dweller (Yolanda couldn't bring herself to say "derelict bum." That and "mentally disturbed" were what the Soviet officials called the free-thinkers, like her mother, before hauling them off to Retraining Camps.)

However strange his actions appeared, Yolanda was very thankful for the hero's change of heart.

The Unicorn told the teens, "Stay inside. As soon as I find Giant-man, I'll get the three of you to safety. I have to come back and see what is happening with Spider-man."

"Spider-man is here?" The younger girl asked excitedly. "Can we see him? Can we?"

"KEEP THE DOOR CLOSE. I'll see if I can get him to meet you later."

Before they could protest, the Unicorn slid the door closed with a push from her pinky.

Okay, that last little stunt didn't work so well, Peter Park thought. Mighty Mutt was on his feet after Peter thought that his foe was finished. Spider-man was three-quarters of a block behind the Second Avenue-bound powerful house after thinking that his apparent victory should've been chronicled in pictures.

The hero took a tremendous jump from the street to the first lamppost. He took another to mount a second lamppost closer to his target.

At the mention of "the amazing Spider-man," a city-wide feud would erupt between supporters and those who viewed him as a threat. But it was the ignored 17-year-old Master of Science and Math behind the web-crawler's mask who was at work. He had figure out the angle, momentum and wind velocity needed to spray a wide field of clingy, sticky webbing in front of his silent opponent ; Peter would freeze his feet to the ground. With his foe rendered immoveable, Spider-man had a chance to think up something new.

The brilliant youth loaded two fresh web cartridges onto his wrist-shooters and he sprayed a wide and long blanket of webbing in an arch into the air.

Oh, Dear Lord, Peter Parker said to himself. A twenty-foot –or so—robot had run diagonally in front of him and under his blanket of webbing.

It kept going, so it didn't pose a danger. Whatever that freaking thing was, it passed by while holding two cars. If it was Detroit publicity stunt, the marketers should consider a different job. They picked the wrong venue. On a slow day, midtown Manhattan had more people than this location ever had on its best day.

The momentarily humorous distraction did not disturb the steady stream of airborne webbing. The layers landed yards in front of the mutt, and true-to form, the fool had no intention of walking around it.

He probably saw it as a wall that he was challenged to walk through. But the shower of grey adhesive stopped before the stranger reached the site. Now in front of the mutt was the impassable …. OH LORD IN HEAVEN, NOOO!

The stranger was actually kicking himself free. Chunks of the street were still attached to the soles of his shoes, but he was going forward.

The hero brought his right hand to his forehead and lamented, "This isn't your day, Parker. It isn't your day."

The preoccupation with the threat that he could see kept Spider-man from figured out that his spider-sense was really alerting him to an enemy— a grainy enemy— who he had hasn't seen. The new foe was sifting down upon the hero from above. It wasn't clearly defined, but something like a giant-hand was reaching down to capture Spider-man's head in an apparent attempt to smother his breathing orifices and nose.

Ironically, the powerful Mighty Mutt indirectly saved Spider-man. The remarkable teen was single-mindedly intent on stopping the seen menace. He leaped forward towards his target just as the longest sandy finger brushed the top of his head.

A frustrated yell rang out behind Spider-man, but now wasn't the time to investigate where it came from.

A meager web line came out of his almost spent left wrist shooter. It was enough to swing him over to his foe, but he would have to reload pronto. He reached the apex of his swing and a thin shot from his right wrist went out to the street lamp just above the stranger. This was it. He was purposely swinging into a collision course with…. Oh no.

The sense of danger came from his right. He let go of the thread and dropped to the ground. In the exact spot where his torso would have been if he had continued his course, something whizzed by with a strange buzz. A second later, those amazingly powerful legs cushioned his landing.

Spider-man looked in the direction where he guessed that flying object came from.

He saw the Grey Gargoyle—Stone-butt— a little more than a block away lifting a police car. Well whatever the projectile was, it must have come from him. Whoa— he's in a tossing mood. Mr. Stony was spinning around throwing whatever he could find. He seemed to have saved the bigger debris for the metal giant who was advertising cars.

Maybe Gargoyle-guy was a German Auto fan? Oh well, the dude in the machine was well insulated. Spider-man had to take care of business on his side of the street.

The presumptuous teenager was wrong when he figured that the Grey Gargoyle had hurled the buzzing object at him. But the sand cloud that followed Spider-man actually located the source. A long arm of hardened sand stretched forward and grabbed a strong tree limb. The arm whipped the cloud in the direction of a roof over a two-story structure located many yards to the right of a fool who was dressed up as a statue.

An arrow with a powerful suction-tip hit the bricked wall above the top window of an abandoned three-story warehouse on 124th Street. The small motor on the steel arrow reeled in the attached hair-thin wire. This allowed Hawkeye access to the adjacent two-story roof of what was once an auto repair shop.

The archer wanted a good angle from which to finish off Iron Man's oversized, over-rated Avenger pal.

As if he couldn't believe his luck, there was the big clown. Laid out on the street like dog sh –t behind a sort of metal man. The robotic thing was holding a car in each hand like they were mittens.

It didn't matter, Hawkeye had to run to the other side of the roof to get around the robot and get a clear shot at Giant-man.

The aspiring assassin fixed his acid-bottle arrow to his bow-string. But before he could pull on his bow something wide and smoky-colored ran towards the Avenger and it was carrying a police car.

Hawkeye hesitated at seeing the curious sight. What the hell? Was this a car-lifting contest? The grey thing threw the vehicle at his competitor and the robot tipped over. One car twisted free from its grip and twirled in the air before falling earthward.

This smoky man-thing kept running and then it took a powerful leap that Barton could not believe was humanly possible. He was going to come down on his target.

OH NO, HE'S NOT! THE GIANT WAS HAWKEYE'S GAME TO BAG!

He pulled back on his bow, confident that his acid arrow could beat the grey man-thing to the giant, but then…

THE F - -KING BASTARD DISAPPEARED!

The grey figure mirrored Hawkeye's frustrated foot-stomping and his bewildered arm stretches towards the sky. That thing… THAT THING made Giant-man disappeared. If the cowardly giant had not been charged by that….

Clint Barton drew his bow again. He lost his target because of that stone-man thing. And he was going to pay. The arrow shot straight and true, but it bounced off the Gargoyle's stony hide without his notice.

Hawkeye then threw a bigger fit. He had planned kill the Avenger and make his beloved Natasha swoon over his superior masculinity. She would've stayed awake longer this night. He was going to have an extra taste of her bedroom talents, but now… NOW…

In his pacing and spinning, the archer spotted Spider-man on a lamppost spreading a large blanket, of some sort. Spider-man finished and the hero appeared as if he was ready to advance towards Second Avenue.

Well, this wasn't going to be a total lost. Barton said to himself. The coward, Giant-man, will eventually show up. Right now Hawkeye had his sights set on another trophy.

With two heroes dead at Hawkeye's hand, his temptress will surely reward him until dawn—yes, sir. Barton's fingertips identified the markings of his electrocution arrow. He pulled again on his bow.

"Good-bye Spider-man."

Incredible! Barton's eyes bulged. His sure-hit unexpectedly dropped to the ground and his electrically charged arrowhead just kept sailing through the air.

Again ,the short-tempered marksman cursed, flagged his arms and stomped. But just as Spider-man had failed to notice, the perfect vision of distracted Hawkeye had not spotted an angry sand cloud heading his way.

Charging back to his bounder-hard adversary, Dr Pym was on top of his steed—a fast flying winged ant. He held tightly to her, fearing that a stronger bout of dizziness would soon come calling. Below him was a small collection of flying ants that could perform a last minute rescue if he fell. Behind him was his cavalry—the unlikely legion of Wasps and ants.

Hank Pym had a hunch. The Grey Gargoyle's body was made up of impenetrable stone, but what about his eyes? The sclera around his two dark iris' were still white. It was an educated guess to take this supposed path to victory. But torpedoing the Gargoyle's face was still going to be a high-mortality risk plan for the Avenger. The Gargoyle's first instincts would be to quickly defend his eyes with powerful swats from his rock-hard hands.

And what if his eyes were just as stony? Hank's aggressive attack, and possible death, would've been for nothing. There was no turning back, though. Either the Gargoyle or the Ant-man was going down within the next few seconds.

Spider-man leaped forward. There was trepidation in the youth. This fight had all the appearances of a marathon. There was a real fear that didn't come from realizing the power of his opponent, but from his own potential.

In the past he had traded punches in tough fights. The longer the battle took, the more blows he had suffered, the more enraged he became. The last time that Dr. Octopus and Spider-man were wailing away at each other, a fire broke out in the building where the battle took place. But before the flames ended it, the rage within Doctor Octopus was beginning to infect him. He didn't know where it would've ended the fight,Peter himself losing control and it frightened him. He was Spider-man— he wasn't faster than a speeding bullet, nor was he able to leap over tall buildings with a single bound… but yes, he could bend steel with his hands. If through weariness, Dr. Octopus allowed him to get close to his head, would he have crushed it like an eggshell?

Peter needed a plan. He couldn't go out there and trade punches blindly, or things would turn ugly, win or lose. The mighty youth took another leap forward and then he stopped a way before reaching his intended target. Something huge and round was coming from the main intersection. It wasn't as big as the stupid metal man— it was rolling towards the mutt.

It stopped. Peter was spellbound to see that this humongous sphere sprouted a head, chubby legs and arms. It was a ball-shaped man. He had a white t-shirt and tan shorts— each looked like they could double as a circus tent.

He stopped a few feet before the stranger. The round figure was looking away towards his left, obviously he was curious about Stone-butt and the mechanical duffis. But the fat guy was oblivious to the powerhouse who was walking his way.

As Mighty Mutt looked a head taller than Spider-man, likewise the powerful stranger probably reached the ball-shape mass of humanity's chin— his lower chin.

Peter's mind flashed with remembrance upon studying the guy's face. His fear for the guy eased greatly as he recalled a few newspaper ads announcing a circus arrival. Presumably possessing the same durability and strength of that overgrown guacamole, one performer was billed as the "Non-Hulk Hulk."

If the round fellow was who he thought he was, Spider-man was going to get there a little slower. He could pull back and hatch a good plan to drop his opponent while the mutt exhausted himself knocking heads with the newcomer. HOO BOY! This was going to be the fight of the century.

Hold on, hold on. The Blob was an awesome adversary, but Peter hadn't any proof that he was an experience fighter. The frustrated youth sighed and crouched. Spider-man had no choice but to go forward into battle before devising a scheme.

The youth froze yet again. For what appeared to be the umpteenth time, his senses tingled— something was coming at him again and it was fast.

No wait! TWO things were coming.

Post Script:

Before this tale, Spider-man's last tangle with Dr, Octopus was Spider-man # 11 (1964). His fear of losing control at that time is an original concept.

Thanks for your patience. This update was a long time coming. The end of the battle is already planned, so don't think that I have a writer's block. No, my tardiness stems from a more serious nature. Please stay with me as these next few chapters will hopefully be no more than two weeks apart. After that, I hope to get back into the rhythm of things (Wednesday and/or Sunday updates). Again, MANY THANKS.

-HC