Spiderman 1 (23 page)

Then he looked up. Peter, clinging to the top of the cage, waved down at him.

"What do you think you're doing?" demanded Bone Saw,
staggering to his feet.

"Staying away from you for three minutes," Peter replied,
sounding more cheerful than he felt.

With a roar of indignation, Bone Saw leapt up at him. His
leg muscles were powerful enough to carry him within reach
... except the lithe teen had already vaulted out of the way,
somersaulting to the opposite side of the cage. He clung
there for a moment, then dropped to the ground.

And then he heard something that completely astounded
him.

"Yeeeeeeaaahhh! Go, Spider-Man!"

It was the heckler whose face Bone Saw had rearranged. He was back in his seat, dried blood on his face, and he was
shouting encouragement and pumping the air. Other people
in the crowd were joining in, as well, apparently pleased by
the show that Peter was putting on.

Then his spider sense kicked in. It had been warning him
since the moment he set foot in the ring, starting with the buzzing signal that began in his head as the cage was de
scending. But he'd had too many distractions to know where to
look first. Now, however, he was beginning to focus on what was important, and he realized that not only was it necessary to defeat Bone Saw and win the money
. . .
it was also impor
tant to do so in a way that would be entertaining to the crowd.
If he was going to do this with any degree of regularity and get
the big purses—money that would make this three-thousand-dollar payday look like chump change—he'd have to give the crowd what they wanted. What Bone Saw gave them.

A show.

His spider sense had warned him that Bone Saw was
coming at him again, and Peter leapt effortlessly between his
outstretched arms. To him, it was as if Bone Saw were moving in slow motion. But this time he didn't settle for just get
ting out of the wrestler's way. Instead he landed in a
one-hand handstand on Bone Saw's head. Beneath his bala
clava he was grinning, his confidence growing.

"Not a bad costume," he said to his opponent as if chatting
in a Laundromat while watching clothes dry. "What is that? Spandex? I used Lycra for mine, and it itched like crazy."

But Peter had gotten too cocky, too quickly. With a fast,
economic move, Bone Saw grabbed one of his outstretched
legs and shouted, "I got you now, insect!" And he swung
Peter in a spin that sent him crashing against the side of the
cage.

"Owww," Peter moaned softly.

The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some cheered the vio
lence, but others were rooting for an upset. Clearly they
liked this upstart with his dazzling gymnastic style.

Bone Saw hauled him away from the edge of the cage and let him loll back on the floor. "You know," said Peter, feeling
woozy, trying to pull himself together, "technically it's
'arachnid.' "

If the students in Peter's class hadn't seemed interested in the specifics of spiders, Bone Saw seemed even less so. He
barreled toward Peter, whose spider sense was now scream
ing at him over the imminent danger. Peter, his mind
snapped clear by the intensity of the warning, looked up in time to see Bone Saw leaping at him with a flying-elbow. In a second, that elbow would be slamming down into Peter's
chest, very likely breaking several of his ribs.

Fortunately for Peter, he didn't need a whole second. Instead he brought his feet up, catching Bone Saw in the chest just in time to use the brute's own speed and strength against.
him. At exactly the right moment, Peter uncoiled his legs
like a python snapping at its prey and sent Bone Saw
hurtling across the cage, slamming with full force into the iron bars. The entire cage shook from the impact, and Bone
Saw sank to the mat unconscious.

Peter couldn't believe it. Neither could the crowd. For a
long moment there was dead silence. And then, as if with
one throat, the crowd erupted in a joyful chant.

"Spider-Man! Spider-Man! Spider-Man!"

Springing to his feet and realizing that he didn't feel the

least bit winded, Peter spread his arms wide, drinking in the

adulation.

"Ahhhh ... showbiz," he said.

"Spider-Man?" Aunt May said in slow amazement, un
able to believe what she'd just witnessed on the TV screen.
"Spider-Man?"

"Apparently he does whatever a spider can," Uncle Ben
said as he pointed his remote control and shut off the TV

"What nonsense. I'll tell you, Ben, if I were his mother,
I'd give him a piece of my mind. I mean, anyone who's
clever enough to come up with tricks like he used should be
able to put his mind to more creative things than ... than
brutality!"

Ben reached for his keys and headed for the door. "If I
ever happen to run into him, I'll be sure to tell him you said
so. In the meantime, I've got more than enough to worry
about in trying to figure out what I'll say to Peter." The door
closed behind him with a click.

And as it did, Aunt May felt a chill pass through her. She
had no idea why. There was just . . . just something about
the way the door had clicked shut, a sort of finality to the
sound....

Then she shrugged it off and went to put on a sweater.

Peter, still in his costume but holding the balaclava in his
hand, stared at the single hundred-dollar bill that the promoter was handing to him.

They were up in his office, upstairs at the arena. It was
seedy and the corner of the desk was propped up by a phone book. The promoter dabbed at his sweaty, balding head with
a handkerchief as he said brusquely, "Now get outta here."

"A hundred bucks!" Peter said incredulously. "The ad
said three thousand!"

"Check it again, webhead," said the clearly irritated pro
moter. "It said three grand for three minutes. You pinned him
in two. For that I'll give you a hundred, and you're lucky to
get it." He came around the desk and waved a fat cigar in
Peter's face. "You made my best fighter look like a girl out
there."

Peter felt rage building up inside him. He'd punched
Flash Thompson into the middle of next week, and Flash
still got Mary Jane and was the big hero. He'd flattened the terror of the ring, the great Bone Saw, and now this yutz
wouldn't even give him the money owed him. What the hell
did he have to do to get some respect?

Barely containing his fury, Peter practically snarled in the
guy's face. "I
need
that money."

For a moment the promoter looked intimidated. But then he looked into Peter's eyes and obviously realized that—de
spite his ire—Peter posed no threat. He wasn't going to
break the guy in half, no matter how tempting it might be.

"I missed the part where this is
my
problem," he said
coolly.

Peter fairly trembled with rage and then, disgusted with
the promoter for his trickery and with himself for what he perceived as weakness of character, he turned and stalked
away. As he walked out the door, he passed a squirrelly look
ing man on the way in, his hair dyed platinum blonde, his
gaze darting about in agitation. For a heartbeat he met
Peter's eyes, and then he looked away.
Good,
Peter thought,
at least someone has respect for me.

Stalking down the hallway, he clutched the hundred-dollar bill in his hand, muttering under his breath. Part of
him tried to find the upside. It was, after all, a hundred bucks
for two minutes work. It was the most money he'd ever seen

in his life. But it really wasn't about the money; it was about
what he'd done to earn it, about what he'd risked—the pain,
the humiliation. And in return, all he'd received was more
humiliation at the hands of that weasel promoter, refusing to
fork over what he'd been promised, what he'd earned, what
he'd . . .

"Hey!"
It was the promoter's voice, shouting from his of
fice.
"What the hell do you—?!"

Peter thought, just for an instant, that the promoter had been yelling at him. Maybe he'd had a change of heart and
was going to try and do right by him. That was when the
door of the office banged open, shattering the glass, and out
darted the blonde-haired man, clutching a canvas bag.

"Help! That guy stole the gate,
he's got my money!"
came
the outraged howling of the promoter.

From the far end of the corridor, a security guard—
middle-aged, out of shape, huffing and puffing—ran down the hallway as best he could. The thief was charging right toward Peter, and just behind the teen, the elevator door
opened, accompanied by a cheerful
ding.

"Hey! You!" the security guard shouted to Peter. "Stop that guy!"

Peter instantly knew what he was going to do, was going
to say.

And the moment he came to his conclusion, he reviewed it from all angles. He knew it was contemptible and spat in
the face of all the conscientiousness he had practiced
throughout his lifetime.

Yet all he could think was that all that conscientiousness,
all that fair play, had come down to two things and two
things only: Flash Thompson had Mary Jane, and the promoter had his money. Except now the thief had the promoter's money, and dammit, sometimes karma evened out
faster than expected. All he had to do was stay out of karma's
way, and the unjust would get what they deserved.

So with smug satisfaction, with more of a sense of right-
ness than he'd felt in ages—perhaps ever—Peter stepped
back and allowed the thief to dash into the elevator.

"Thanks, pal," grunted the thief as the doors slid shut.

The security guard got there a heartbeat after the doors
closed and slammed his fists against them in frustration. He
whirled toward Peter and bellowed, "What the hell's the mat
ter with you?! You just let him go!"

And sure enough, there was the promoter. Better and bet
ter: There was a large red welt growing on his forehead
where the thief had clocked him. So Peter had taken the high
road and the promoter had still gotten the worst of the deal. Oh, yes, payback was definitely a bitch. And then the pro
moter said exactly what Peter had hoped he'd say: "You
coulda taken that guy apart! Now he's gonna get away with
my money!"