Spiderman 1 (18 page)

I'm starting to realize how much she's hurting. And I think that she
likes me, or could like me . . . but she also desperately wants to be
happy. And Flash's folks are loaded. He's got money. He can make her
happy. I mean, jeez, he got a car for his birthday. My last birthday, I
got a sweater, not to be confused with the birthday before, when I
got a sweater, or the birthday before that, when I got a sweater and
that weird knit stocking hat that pulls down over my face... a baklava, I think it's called.

I mean, don't get me wrong, Uncle Ben and Aunt May are great,
and I remember when he blew a bundle to buy me my camera and I
know it set him back. So there's no way they'll wind up getting me a
car. And a photographer doesn't pull in big money either, and if I do
get into a career with science, it's not like the starting salaries of re
search assistants are anything to write home about.

And M.J. deserves to be happy. She deserves to have a guy who
can surround her with fancy stuff. She's had such a crummy home life,
it's the least she deserves. I think that's one of the reasons she still
hangs with Flash. That and some other reasons I don't really have to go into now.

Anyway, I think I've got a plan how to make some serious money. Uncle ben always says things happen for a reason. Well, when I was
cleaning up the kitchen, putting away the drop cloths and getting
ready to toss some of the old newspapers he'd been drying the
brushes on, I found an ad. I've got it right here. It says,
attention am-

ATEIUR WRESTLERS! THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! FOR JUST THREE MINUTES IN THE
RING! COLORFUL CHARACTERS A MUST!

Let's face it: I didn't just beat Flash. I clobbered him, and it was no
effort at all. None. I wasn't even trying. Sure, I don't have any
wrestling experience, but if I was able to do that to Flash when I
wasn't trying, imagine what I can do to someone when I am trying.

So I've been putting a plan into motion.

They want colorful characters? I'll give them one they'll never forget.

The first thing I needed was a costume, of course. I've got to have
a mask. Anybody sees my teenage face that I shave maybe once a
week, and they'll be too busy laughing to take me seriously. Besides,

I've seen pictures of those Mexican masked wrestler guys, so no one
should think anything about it. So I started with costume designs. I
must have gone through a hundred different kinds, with wings, and an
tennae, and extra legs hanging off it... anything you could imagine. I
finally came up with a design I liked, with web lines and a spider de
sign on it. And I'll just use that baklava as a mask.

There's so much to do, though, and I'm doing it all alone. I also
started practicing with the webbing. It's going to be of absolutely no
use to me if I can't find a way to make it go where I want, when I want.
Heck, it could wind up hitting me in the face, and I don't think I'm ready
to depend so completely on my weird "spider sense" that I'd want to
get into a fight with my eyes closed.

So I set up two empty glass bottles on a bookcase, went to the
opposite side of the room, and tried to hit them with a web strand.
Didn't even come close. I tried again, and again, thwip and thwump,
thwip and thwump, and inside of five minutes I'd managed to cover
nearly every object in my room with webbing except for the freakin'
bottles. Luckily it dissolves away to nothing after a while. Aunt May
must've heard it, because she came knocking on my door and asked me
what was going on. I told her I was exercising and wasn't dressed.
"Well, don't catch cold," she said to me. She didn't have to worry. With
my aim, I couldn't catch an elephant, much less a cold. It was like try
ing to precisely aim water while using a broken hose.

But after a while, I got the hang of it. It went just where I aimed
it. I can't tell you how thrilled I was. I started shooting right and left, like a gunslinger taking out bushwhackers. And it wasn't enough to
just "shoot" stuff with the webs. I snagged stuff with pinpoint preci
sion and pulled on it, sending it flying across the room. I was totally
into it, not thinking about what I was doing. I don't know, maybe I kind
of blanked out or something. All I know is that suddenly Uncle Ben
was pounding on the wall, calling to me, "What are you doing in
there?!" That snapped me out of it, and I looked around at my trashed
room and said, "Studying! Hard!" Which sounded so incredibly lame,
but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Mom . . . Dad . . . God, I wish you could be here to see this. I mean,

I know, I know, if you had lived... if I'd been with you . . . then this
whole accident could never have happened. And don't get me wrong: I'd
trade all the wall climbing, all the feats of strength, all this incredibly
exciting bizarreness that I'm experiencing right now for eighteen
years of mundanity with you guys.

Like I said before: Uncle Ben claims things happen for a reason. Well, maybe my winding up here, and everything I've been through . . . maybe this was the reason for all of it. I'd be lying if I said I'd figured
out all the ramifications and long-term ins and outs of these powers,
but as far as the short-term goes, I'm on the verge of making some
serious breakthroughs. And wherever you're watching from, all those
times you've had to sit there in frustration while people walked all
over me and called me Puny Parker . . . well, you don't have to worry
about that anymore. Things are changing, starting today . . .

. . . as soon as I get my room cleaned up.

VIII.

THE TEST

Norman Osborn, standing just outside the glass-enclosed
isolation chamber, deep in the bowels of OsCorp, checked
the readings for the third time in as many minutes. Incon
gruously he was wearing only a pair of green trunks. A gurney
lay nearby, with restraining straps hanging open and
waiting for an occupant. He thought about the number of
times he'd seen movies with mad scientists trying out some
sort of formula on themselves, transforming themselves into
human guinea pigs. And he'd always shaken his head and
wondered, how could any scientist ever be that dumb? It was
like the old advice about never investing with your own
money; use someone else's. Same thing. Never test formulae
on yourself. Always use volunteers, cat's-paws ... whatever
is available.

Yet here he was, realizing that for such a scenario to play out, one didn't need to be a scientist, or stupid. Just someone
who was desperate. And as he checked the latest printouts
for the fourth time, he realized that he, himself, was just that
desperate.

His head snapped around and his eyes narrowed suspi
ciously as he realized that Doctor Stromm was looking over
his shoulder, checking the results as well. Stromm looked positively ill. And to think that not long ago, Stromm had
been the picture of confidence and heroic defiance as he'd
advocated starting the project over from scratch. Yet now

here was Osborn, ready to put his own butt on the line, and
Stromm was showing a marked lack of nerve. That just went
to show who was a real man, when it came down to it.

"Mr. Osborn, please," Stromm said, "I'm begging you for
the last time...."

"Don't be a coward," Osborn said disdainfully, drawing strength from Stromm's fear. "Risks are part of laboratory
science."

Stromm's brow was soaked with sweat, and it wasn't be
cause it was hot in the room. "Let me reschedule this with a
proper medical staff and a volunteer. If you'll just give me
two weeks ..."

Osborn put down the pages he'd been checking and fixed
a level gaze on Stromm. "In two weeks, this project, this
company, will be dead," he said in a flat, implacable tone.
"Sometimes you have to do things yourself. Now give me
the barium phosphate."

Obviously Stromm was confused by the sudden change in direction. "Sir?"

"Decreases nausea when the vapor hits the bloodstream."

Stromm let out a heavy sigh, apparently realizing that
nothing he could say would dissuade Osborn. This was of
great relief to Osborn, who had a lot to accomplish that
evening and didn't have time for misguided debates.
Stromm handed him the bottle of phosphate.

Osborn stared at it for a long moment, as if he were about
to drink from the Holy Grail. "Forty thousand years of
human evolution, and we've barely even tapped the vastness
of human potential." He drank it down and then offered a be
lated toast: "To the realization of man's true physical and in
tellectual capability." Stromm simply nodded in response
and offered a weak smile.

Osborn took one, final deep breath, then lay back on the
gurney.
 
Obediently,
 
Stromm went to
 
it and—in quick

motions—buckled one strap across his legs and another
across his waist. Then he stepped to the control console, breathed a silent prayer, and hit an array of switches.

The gurney, with Osborn still strapped to it, was lifted up,
up, and slid neatly into place in the glass tank. As frantic as Stromm obviously was, Osborn could not have been more
calm. It was as if he neither knew nor cared where he was or
what the possible consequences of his actions might be. He
was convinced of the lightness of what he was doing and
was perfectly content to let all other aspects of the adventure play out.

There was a petri dish in the middle of the tank, and from
it a thick, noxious, white gas arose. Osborn could imagine
that the gas was forming faces; demented specters with their
mouths twisted into sneers. But instead of fear, all he felt
was rage, even challenge, as if he were more than willing to take whatever was thrown at him, by all creatures real or
imaginary.

The gas, lighter than air, crept over Osborn's body, start
ing with the feet and working its way upward. Despite the fact that he'd asked for this, despite the fact that he wasn't
afraid, Osborn reflexively took a deep breath. The white
cloud enveloped him and—for just a moment—he felt a
surge of fear. But then he reminded himself of just how
sniveling, just how useless the emotion of fear could be.
Newly resolved, he opened his mouth and forced himself to
take in a tiny bit of air.