I've been working on designs lately for a new, higher capacity web-shooter to replace my old model. There's nothing wrong with the current ones; it's just that my technical prowess has advanced a bit since high school, y'know? Unfortunately, the parts I need to make this thing a reality don't come cheap, and surprisingly, the spandex act doesn't exactly pay the bills. Luckily, that's why I've got my photographer gig. It all started when the
Daily Bugle put out an ad offering a cash reward for pictures of Spider-Man. Never thought "selfie culture" could pay such dividends for me. It ain't exactly a living wage: J. Jonah Jameson is notoriously tightfisted to begin with,
and he's got me over a barrel because I refuse to divulge my "trade secret" for how I always find the Webhead in action. But that sword cuts both ways because Jolly Jonah wouldn't dare risk losing my prized photographs to a competitor. So our stalemate means I can usually scrape a few extra bucks for Spidey pics, or more if the
Bugle has a freelance job available and needs an extra lens. And today, that's exactly what I'm after.
Located in the heart of Midtown, the
Daily Bugle building is a breeze to reach by swing. And in the course of my many comings-and-goings, I've learned that the rooftop access door isn't alarmed. Oh sure, I
could use the front door like any other employee, but where's the fun in that? Landing behind the oversized "B" in the rooftop sign, I ditch my mask, boots, and gloves and throw on my civilian clothes over the rest of my costume. And just like that, Spider-Man becomes Peter Parker once more. I bury the extra costume pieces at the bottom of my shoulder bag and head downstairs. I hear the bullpen before I see it: the familiar sounds of frantic typing, printers running, and ringing phones playing like music to my ears. More than just a place to make quick cash or hear about breaking news for Spider-Man's attention, the
Bugle is like a second home to me. The hum of the bullpen never ceases to get me amped up.
I've made it no more than three feet inside the door when I hear the bellowing of our "beloved" editor-in-chief. "Save it, Urich! I don't have time for your conspiracy theories today," Jonah growls from around the corner. I can tell by his tone of voice that today's one of
those days. I suddenly regret coming here empty-handed. Moments later, Mr. Jameson storms into view, teeth gritted and flanked by Joe "Robbie" Robertson, the
Bugle's city editor and the "yin" to Jonah's "yang." Jonah walks fast, barking to anyone who'll listen, "Terrorists are holding S.T.A.R. Labs, Iron Man is currently on the scene, and I want to know why WE DIDN'T BREAK THE STORY!" Before I can lose my nerve and scurry out of view, J.J.'s narrowed eyes fall upon me. "Parker. Leeds tells me that Spider-Man was spotted at the docks last night, cavorting with known criminals. Do you have something for me?"
I bite my lip. In all of last night's excitement, I forgot to set up my automatic camera. I was just hoping Jonah wouldn't hear about the fight with the Enforcers. Rubbing my neck, I avert my eyes and admit,
"I don't."The vein in Jameson's neck tightens. That's
never a good thing. He leans forward and, with lowered voice, snarls, "Then stop wasting my time!" With an angered huff, he turns away and stomps towards his corner office.
Before Robbie can turn to follow his boss -- no doubt in an attempt to quell Jonah's rage -- I clear my throat.
"Hey, Joe?" He stops to consider me.
"I was wondering if you had any assignments today.""Sorry, Peter," he shrugs. "All I've got is the S.T.A.R. Labs situation, and Bannon's already on the scene."
Bannon, a.k.a. Lance Bannon, a.k.a. the
Bugle's other photographer. He and I have been known to butt heads. He resents me for usurping his status on the staff, and I dislike him because... well, because he's a pompous jerk, mostly. Shaking his head, Robbie continues, "Sorry to leave you hanging like this, but I've gotta run. One of those days, you know." He claps me on the shoulder before marching off towards Jonah's office, flipping through the folder in his hands as he walks.
I slump my shoulders and find a cubicle wall to lean against. Wow, what a dud of a trip this turned out to be! No job, no paycheck, which means no new web-shooters. And not only that, but Lance Bannon scooped me for the S.T.A.R. Labs hostage crisis, which he'll surely use to weasel his way back into Jameson's good graces! I guess it could've been worse; if Jolly Jonah hadn't been so preoccupied, he would've laid into me even harder for not delivering new pics of Spider-Man. Not like I'm heartbroken to rob him of ammunition for his endless vendetta against my alter-ego. I'm sure he would've found a way to use the pictures to further some agenda about Spider-Man working
with the Enforcers.
"Argh! Stupid thing!"
I recognize that voice; and from the sounds of it, she's not having a much better go of it than I am. Shifting the weight of my bag, I wander over in the direction of J. Jonah Jameson's office. There, seated behind the reception desk, is Jonah's personal assistant and the one-time apple of my eye, the lovely Betty Brant. Currently, she's going after her desktop computer with a ferocity matched only by her employer, so she doesn't notice my approach. Over her shoulder, I can see a blank webpage displaying an error code. As she slams the Enter key on her keyboard, she mutters a string of obscenities that would land her in seriously hot water if my Aunt May could hear her now.
"Having trouble?" I ask.
She swings her head around, and her expression softens slightly as she sees me. Still, her brow is furrowed in disgust as she explains, "The website's down, and our webmaster called out sick this morning. When Mr. Jameson finds out, he's gonna blow his top."
I lean in closer, resting a hand on the back of Betty's chair for support and trying not to get distracted by the smell of flowers in her hair. I scan the error message and say,
"That's actually an easy enough fix if I can get into your code." She gives me a curious look.
"I'm no 'webmaster,' but I know a thing or two about web design. So, how about it? Do you have the administrator password?"Betty nods and rips off a Post-It note from her desk. After scribbling down the user ID and password, she passes it to me. "You can use Foswell's old cubicle, right over there," she points. Placing a hand on top of mine, she adds, "You're a life-saver, Pete."
I can't help but smirk. If you only knew the
half of it, Bets!
"I'll give a holler when it's back up." Post-It note in hand, I make my way over to the abandoned cubicle. It clearly hasn't been used except as a staging area since its previous owner died. Poor Frederick Foswell, made to take the fall by the
real Big Man and paid the ultimate price for it. I try to banish that thought as I take a seat. It takes some re-positioning of papers and folders to get to the keyboard, but I finally carve out a small workspace. I stick the Post-It to the bottom of the screen and crack my knuckles, getting ready to go to work.
As I predicted, the fix is easy enough. After shouting of my success across the way to Betty, I hit F5 and watch the
Bugle homepage load seamlessly. A livestream of the standoff down at S.T.A.R. Labs is positioned front-and-center, but what catches my eye is a short blurb in the corner of the page about Spider-Man's activities from the night before: "SHOOTOUT AT THE DOCKS, SPIDER-MAN AND UNKNOWN VIGILANTE SPOTTED." Of course, I now know that the "unknown vigilante" goes by Spoiler, but it's not like I can tell Jonah or Robbie that. Beyond that, though, the girl is a mystery. I still can't stop thinking about the last thing she said to me: "If you want another clue, you'll have to buy one." It's been lodged in my brain all day. Rubbing my chin, I lean forward and click on the
Bugle search bar. I type those words in and hit Enter.
The first result that comes up is a review article. "QUIZBOWL: A TRIVIAL GAME OF TRIVIA." The name instantly registers with me.
Quizbowl was a short-lived game show from the '90s. I know because Uncle Ben and I used to watch it every Thursday night when it first aired. Truth be told, I hadn't thought about it in
years, but Spoiler's words finally click. It's something the host would say to the contestants: they each started the game with a set number of clues, and once their allotment had run out, they could buy more clues at the cost of some of their winnings. Smiling to myself as the memories come rushing back, I open the review to see what the
Bugle to say about the show.
Quizbowl is the newest entry in the world of trivia games and game shows, but if the first episode is any indication, it will have a hard time living up to that lineage. The show operates on a simple enough conceit: participants are quizzed on a series of increasingly difficult trivia questions with a handful of lifelines to help them outpace the competition. Among these, the most valuable are the clues. Each participant starts with the same amount of clues as their competitors, but they are also given the opportunity to "purchase" further clues from the host. This is where Quizbowl's ultimate Achilles' heel presents itself. The host, Arthur Brown, is charismatic enough, but he projects a certain air of condescension when interacting with his guests, as though he wishes to convince all involved that he is the smartest person in the room. This self-proclaimed "cluemaster"...
I stop reading, and my eyes go wide. "Cluemaster." Combined with Spoiler using one of
Quizbowl's catchphrases, that can't be a coincidence, can it? Does Spoiler know something about the Cluemaster's true identity? Was she trying to give me a hint, or did she simply let it slip? My mind races with the possibilities. I glance back up at the article and find the host's name again. Arthur Brown. Scrolling back up to the top of the page, I enter the name in a search of the
Bugle's archives. The search returns a handful of hits, including the first review and another short article on
Quizbowl's cancellation. It's the third result that catches my eye, though. "FORMER GAME SHOW HOST ARRESTED ON ASSAULT CHARGES," the title reads. I instantly open the article.
Arthur Brown, the one-time host of failed game show Quizbowl, was arrested Thursday night on charges of public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and assault. Brown, 42, was escorted out of the Iceberg Lounge in handcuffs after getting involved in a physical altercation with another patron. Officials within the Gotham City Police Department state that the incident began when Brown took offense to a statement made by the unnamed party. The two continued to argue until Brown threw the first punch, according to the other patron. Brown has largely remained out of the public eye since Quizbowl's cancellation. Although sources claim he was forcibly removed from the network's lot on multiple occasions after the announcement, no charges were ever filed.
Alright, so this Arthur Brown is certainly an unstable fellow. That doesn't mean he is the Cluemaster, but it certainly lends more weight to the idea. I glance at the date of the article: 2014. So, this was two years ago in Gotham. What's Arthur Brown been up to since then? I scroll through the other search results, but the only other relevant hit is another blurb following Arthur's trial. I'm about to scroll past when a picture stops me. It's Arthur Brown, looking far more haggard than I remember him from
Quizbowl, on his way up some court steps. To his left is a man in glasses that I can only assume is his lawyer, but it's the two ladies on his right that intrigue me. One is a woman about Arthur's age; the other, a young girl with the same golden hair as Arthur himself. I glance at the caption.
Arthur Brown arrives at the Gotham City courthouse accompanied by wife, Crystal, and daughter, Stephanie."Stephanie," I mutter to myself. I study the grainy photograph. The picture may be two years old, but it's not hard to imagine the same girl just a little older, a little taller... It would explain her connection to Arthur Brown and
Quizbowl, as well as why she's so dead-set on bringing the Cluemaster down. I minimize the tab and bring up a new one, navigating to the white pages. A quick search for Crystal and Stephanie Brown brings up an address downtown. After scribbling it down on the bottom of Betty's Post-It note, I tear off the incriminating half and stuff it inside my jacket pocket. I don't know if I'm onto something or not here, but I intend to find out.
