Half Pint
Ezekiel
PatientBean
Mao Mao
Retired
Cyberlad
Qia
Festive
mickilennial
AndyC@Master Bruce is sick. Someone fetch @Hound55 his nurses outfit
Can't. Need my own nurse.
I had an incident whilst I was being an NPC in @Retired's life.
Hound55 Member
Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
STATUS: A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing 2 yrs ago
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2 yrs ago
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A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing
Bio
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
Most Recent Posts
Can't. Need my own nurse.
I had an incident whilst I was being an NPC in @Retired's life.
And here I was thinking it was a form of ADHD.
That would be my own extensive list of issues which make me a nightmare to exist around...
I'm free-falling to earth, tumbling end over end in an uncontrolled spin. That special sense I have is blaring in my head like the half-time buzzer at Midtown High. My own momentum has me trapped in a way that even if I could see which way was up, 'up' wouldn't remain 'up' long enough for it to mean anything.
The only way hafway reliable thing I have to keep track of my bearings before the ground rushes up to meet me is that special sense... and like I said, it's so loud right now it's hard to cut through the fog.
I wonder if that Devil they have down in Hell's Kitchen ever has to deal with things like this.
I have time to wonder that, because of how high I'm falling from.
I'm about to pass some of the tops of the larger supertall skyscrapers now. So if I'm going to live through this, I'd better start to get my wits about me now. I'd be below One World Trade Center. But seeing as how I'm falling on Midtown that's not much good to me now.
Central Park Tower.
I throw out an arm and thwip blind.
The webline catches nothing but sky, as I keep spinning out of control. Which does nothing to quiet that sense I was telling you about.
Not gonna lie, that one was a hope and a prayer in the first place, for its distance.
I throw out a line to One Vanderbilt. I tag it, but not well. Well enough to pull myself back on balance and stop spinning though. If I slow down at all it's negligible.
But that's okay. You're upright now. You can do this. You're not gonna die. The trumming in my head eases off as the fog lifts a little.
I throw out another line and the light on my wrist blares red and it makes a noise as it ejects the last of its web-fluid in a line which barely hits another skyscraper. I try to make the most of it, but the frittering line flies from my grasp.
"That ain't good..."
The sense blares again. But fortunately... two hands, two web-shooters. It's only nervous panic and I fight through the thrumm, and take aim with my other wrist.
My webline strikes true and both it and my grasp holds. I pull myself taut with my other hand, making it useful regardless of it's lack of remaining webbing.
I throw out another line and--
Once again, the red light blares and the noise repeats.
"Oh, you have gotta be kidding me--"
I manage to keep my grasp of what little webline is produced and hold my swing to get what use I can from it.
The thrumming eases and with it I can regain my senses for my predicament.
I feel it before I see it. The sense tells me of a previous webline I used when I was swinging around in pursuit in the first place. Blowing in the breeze. I focus on my breathing to clear the sense as much as I can.
I really should figure out how to change these web-cartridges one-handed on the fly...
Nope. Doesn't help. Not useful now. Focus Parker. You're going to let go of this line and leap through the air and grab that other webline.
...while it blows in the breeze. Almost a thousand feet off the ground.
I time my jump to give me the most wiggle-room possible. The wind tries to blow it clear, but my hand manages to strike true.
"Oh thank God. Oh man... OhIthoughtIwasGonnaDieThere..."
I use the webline to swing around the building, and pull myself up to a solid ledge.
With shaking hands I reach to my belt and quickly replace the web-cartridge in my right hand. I grab another cartridge for my left and suddenly the sense blares like a klaxon.
"Oh c'mon, what now--hoik!" I manage to get out as the web cartridge falls to earth.
I'm hauled skywards once again by the lunatic in his green winged monstrosity.
"What, we've got two-for-one offers on all spider-buzzard related fights today?"
Not wasting any time I take out a fresh cartridge and snap it into my left web-shooter.
How do I get myself into these things..?
It all started when I was out on assignment for the Bugle.
...
...alright, it all started when I put myself on assignment for the Bugle. I may have been feeling myself a little and thought I'd try my luck and my new press credentials to get into a Tech show for a local start-up made good - Bestman and Toomes.
"Peter Parker. Daily Bugle."
"Uh-huh. And they should have provided you with a press pass, buddy. Which says that. So I'm not expected to just take your word for it."
Which I would have if I actually went down to the offices like I said I was going to, gave them my paper work and actually picked up my press credentials. Before I decided to try out those press credentials I hadn't even physically laid hands on yet.
Live and learn.
"Umm... I-- must have left it in my other pants. If you call them up, they'll confirm it though. I'm theiir new Science and Technology--"
"Yeah, I'm not calling nobody. See, pal, even if I were to believe that you left it in your other pants, kid... which I don't. This sounds very much like a 'you' problem and not a 'me' problem."
I love New York.
"Look, I'm not kidding. I work for the Bugle. I need to get in there. Can you just--"
"Twenty bucks."
Oh. I see. The 'other' Press Pass. Accepted more places than American Express.
"...and you're not going down the front with the rest of the press. You're hanging back by the door with me. If it turns out I let you in and you're not press, could be my ass."
I reach for my wallet, and somehow find a twenty before moths fly out.
"So long as I can see and hear, that's fine."
Bestman and Toomes began as a small engineering startup out of Newark. A story of two local hometown boys, made good. Their work in electromagnetic generators promised to cut down considerably on the emissions of backup generators and increase efficiency across the board. They also were working on early proposals for converting the MTA New York City transit system to Maglev technology throughout the subway lines. It would be by far the biggest infrastructure project the burgeoning startup had ever undertaken, and the city would likely want to see a few more success stories before handing such an enormous undertaking to the local pair.
Afterall, this city may love its own, but New York expects.
Which is what this was about now. Their latest release. They were targeting a niche market with new personal devices and data storage units for the commercial and corporate sector.
It was a tricky bullseye to hit. The market for personal devices was fairly settled and it was difficult to enter. They were relying on the efficiency standards to appeal to a greener market and companies looking to hit greener targets that were now being brought in. Anything that could slice into that imprint without detracting from business in a meaningful fashion, and with a local release the pair hoped that sales trends might lead to a market spreading beyond the five boroughs as the product's usefulness and reputation spread.
"So it's all set up to specs as I asked?"
"Well, yes, but remember what I said... Don't open too many applications at once, you're going to want to close them as you go, or it might lock-up as you're--"
"Wait-- You're telling me the product which I've repeatedly hassled you about, which you have assured me is ready for launch, might lock-up if our customers 'try to open too many apps'."
"Our consumer-base its fine. It should fit their needs. But you don't want to go highlighting an issue at the launch. Tech-bloggers will have a fiel--"
"We're electromagnetic engineers. We work in data storage. And you're telling me there may be an issue with memory--"
"It hits our consumer-base's needs specs that you provided. And I've told you this for weeks. RAM is not--"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this..."
"And don't act like you're an electromagnetic engineer in the first place, Bestman..." His partner spat.
"And don't act like you have a creative bone in your body or the vision to see beyond your nose, Toomes."
A dark glower crossed Adrian Toomes face. He'd done all of the work. Bestman fired ideas for features and applications with no technical nouse or know-how or even appreciable ability to determine whether his requests were actually possible, let alone how they could be executed in the first place.
And there was funny business with the financial numbers. It wasn't Toomes forte, so he'd sought outside help to run a second more meaningful eye over the books, but Gregory Bestman had been making moves and manoeuvering. To what end Adrian still didn't know. But people in Bestman's position seldom did these things for any kind of benevolent or fair reason.
Which was why Adrian took his own extreme precautions to protect himself in the only way he knew how, with the only tools he had ever had at his disposal...
Peter's mouth was agape.
Gregory Bestman was dead. Much was still to be uncovered, but it looked like he had tanked this product's launch, and had been making moves to redistribute the company's capital to a second Bestman T. Electronics company of his own creation, with re-defined investment between his very irate partner.
He'd tried to take the company right out from under him, after a solid loss which would make it more affordable. One he was going to look to blame on the hardware of his partner's design.
And Toomes had snapped.
Some of it might have seemed justifiable... if it weren't for the corpse, and the wounded bystanders in the press row.
Peter slipped out the door at his back in the chaos, a masked figure returned.
"I'll tell ya, that was just murder. Sorry I'm late. You know how it is though. It's always crazy, the lines for the latest generation product..."
"Who?"
"Gotta say, you look more buzzard than owl with that beak of yours. But it's me. Your friendly neighbourhood Spider-man."
The dark glower returned over Toomes. His wings spread, and he turned to face the blue and red clad hero.
"And as your local representative authority in all things friendly in this neighbourhood, THAT does not seem very friendly at all. No, sir." He addressed the carnage at the front of the room.
The green winged figure soared towards the newest source of its irritation with a scream.
Peter hit him with both web-shooters without a real plan of what to do with the rapidly approaching figure once the threads hit him. They did little more than anger him further, as the figure grabbed Spider-man and drove him through the pull doors of the entrance.
The green figure didn't have much more of a plan either, and threw him aside once he got out to the street, before flying away down the street.
Peter shook himself off and threw a web-line up to swing off in pursuit.
This would prove to not be much more of a plan either.
Minutes later he'd be getting thrown from a height which small planes don't reach over the city.
I look up at Toomes from his grip as he once again looks to control the terrain of the battleground, taking us skyward.
Think Peter, think. What are we looking at here?
I run my eye over the contraption, presumably of his own design. Hard to believe you could buy kits of this kind of thing at Best Buy.
It's wings are clearly designed with sharp edges. Not sure if that was a feature, but it's already shown practical use cutting my web-line once or twice, and I wouldn't want to let myself get caught by them either.
So... Sharp wings. Probably powered by some kind of electromagnetic generator, knowing the man. Electromagnetic. That, I can use...
What that means, is that somewhere inside of this box, on the fetching green harness this batty buzzard is rocking. There's at least one magnet spinning rapidly on a coil... not unlike a certain Spider was several minutes ago... providing power by way of induction.
So I stop that, well, he's effectively wearing an ugly Halloween costume and not much more.
So let's stop that.
Ideally if I had a magnetic inverter, or some other kind of even more powerful magnet I could clean this thing up with no hassle at all.
"But if ifs and buts were candy and nuts--"
"What?"
"Oh nothing. Just had enough of the ride. Flaps." I say, as I strike the front of his left wing with a webline and yank down forcefully, causing Toomes to stall his flight's ascent as he seeks to regain control after slicing through the webline.
Well, that didn't do much. He's got too good a grip on me.
"Let's try this again, with meaning this time. FLAPS!"
I yank harder, and keep pulling, trying to force him into a barrel roll. At this point we have enough altitude that we're in no danger of hitting anything. If last time was anything to go by, not far off of where he plans to throw me from.
"You want me to let you go? Fine! Have a nice flight!" He growls, in frustration.
I seize the opportunity, hit his other wing with a webline and use my momentum to swing onto his back.
"Not just yet, Buzzard. I still have to get my baggage."
Using as much strength as I can muster, I throw a punch into the box and try to crush the panneling, doing whatever I can to expose the innerworkings. The panel buckles and I try to pry open the crack as best I can, but it barely budges.
This'll have to do. Now or never. I aim my web-shooter into the box and pour it on. Clogging the mechanism and preventing induction. Within seconds the thrust has gone and I'm now riding a glider.
"What have you done!? You've killed us both!"
I get to work on wrapping up his arms and legs with web-line. He clearly doesn't need these to control the wings.
"I've got to say, I find it really upsetting the lack of faith you seem to have in your local hero community. We really need a better class of villain. Do better."
I shoot a webline to the corner of each wing and lean back in the saddle.
"Now pipe down. I don't have my pilot's licence, so this is probably going to take some level of concentration..."
We start what could only be described as a controlled descent under the most generous interpretations of the term.
The man the media would come to call 'The Vulture' starts screaming at the rapid drop in altitude.
"Stop screaming... Like I said, this is harder than it looks. Any more and I'm gonna have to put you down in the Hudson."
The screaming doesn't stop.
"Alright. You called my bluff. Because I can't steer this thing at all."
After a singular inhale, the screaming gets louder still.
We descend rapidly through the skyline of the city as the sun begins to set. I throw out a webline and catch a building, wrapping my arm around the screeching supervillain and whisk him away, choosing to go with a landing more in my own particular style. Behind my mask, I smile as I see a store selling variety goods.
By the time the officers from the 86th Street Central Park Precinct get to the man hanging from the light post, with his harness covered in 'I Love New York' fridge magnets, the only evidence of how he got there is swinging away uptown.
I really should swing by the office while I'm in the city...
The only way hafway reliable thing I have to keep track of my bearings before the ground rushes up to meet me is that special sense... and like I said, it's so loud right now it's hard to cut through the fog.
I wonder if that Devil they have down in Hell's Kitchen ever has to deal with things like this.
I have time to wonder that, because of how high I'm falling from.
I'm about to pass some of the tops of the larger supertall skyscrapers now. So if I'm going to live through this, I'd better start to get my wits about me now. I'd be below One World Trade Center. But seeing as how I'm falling on Midtown that's not much good to me now.
Central Park Tower.
I throw out an arm and thwip blind.
The webline catches nothing but sky, as I keep spinning out of control. Which does nothing to quiet that sense I was telling you about.
Not gonna lie, that one was a hope and a prayer in the first place, for its distance.
I throw out a line to One Vanderbilt. I tag it, but not well. Well enough to pull myself back on balance and stop spinning though. If I slow down at all it's negligible.
But that's okay. You're upright now. You can do this. You're not gonna die. The trumming in my head eases off as the fog lifts a little.
I throw out another line and the light on my wrist blares red and it makes a noise as it ejects the last of its web-fluid in a line which barely hits another skyscraper. I try to make the most of it, but the frittering line flies from my grasp.
"That ain't good..."
The sense blares again. But fortunately... two hands, two web-shooters. It's only nervous panic and I fight through the thrumm, and take aim with my other wrist.
My webline strikes true and both it and my grasp holds. I pull myself taut with my other hand, making it useful regardless of it's lack of remaining webbing.
I throw out another line and--
Once again, the red light blares and the noise repeats.
"Oh, you have gotta be kidding me--"
I manage to keep my grasp of what little webline is produced and hold my swing to get what use I can from it.
The thrumming eases and with it I can regain my senses for my predicament.
I feel it before I see it. The sense tells me of a previous webline I used when I was swinging around in pursuit in the first place. Blowing in the breeze. I focus on my breathing to clear the sense as much as I can.
I really should figure out how to change these web-cartridges one-handed on the fly...
Nope. Doesn't help. Not useful now. Focus Parker. You're going to let go of this line and leap through the air and grab that other webline.
...while it blows in the breeze. Almost a thousand feet off the ground.
I time my jump to give me the most wiggle-room possible. The wind tries to blow it clear, but my hand manages to strike true.
"Oh thank God. Oh man... OhIthoughtIwasGonnaDieThere..."
I use the webline to swing around the building, and pull myself up to a solid ledge.
With shaking hands I reach to my belt and quickly replace the web-cartridge in my right hand. I grab another cartridge for my left and suddenly the sense blares like a klaxon.
"Oh c'mon, what now--hoik!" I manage to get out as the web cartridge falls to earth.
I'm hauled skywards once again by the lunatic in his green winged monstrosity.
"What, we've got two-for-one offers on all spider-buzzard related fights today?"
Not wasting any time I take out a fresh cartridge and snap it into my left web-shooter.
How do I get myself into these things..?
S P I D E R - M A N
S P I D E R - M A N
S P I D E R - M A N
It all started when I was out on assignment for the Bugle.
...
...alright, it all started when I put myself on assignment for the Bugle. I may have been feeling myself a little and thought I'd try my luck and my new press credentials to get into a Tech show for a local start-up made good - Bestman and Toomes.
"Peter Parker. Daily Bugle."
"Uh-huh. And they should have provided you with a press pass, buddy. Which says that. So I'm not expected to just take your word for it."
Which I would have if I actually went down to the offices like I said I was going to, gave them my paper work and actually picked up my press credentials. Before I decided to try out those press credentials I hadn't even physically laid hands on yet.
Live and learn.
"Umm... I-- must have left it in my other pants. If you call them up, they'll confirm it though. I'm theiir new Science and Technology--"
"Yeah, I'm not calling nobody. See, pal, even if I were to believe that you left it in your other pants, kid... which I don't. This sounds very much like a 'you' problem and not a 'me' problem."
I love New York.
"Look, I'm not kidding. I work for the Bugle. I need to get in there. Can you just--"
"Twenty bucks."
Oh. I see. The 'other' Press Pass. Accepted more places than American Express.
"...and you're not going down the front with the rest of the press. You're hanging back by the door with me. If it turns out I let you in and you're not press, could be my ass."
I reach for my wallet, and somehow find a twenty before moths fly out.
"So long as I can see and hear, that's fine."
Bestman and Toomes began as a small engineering startup out of Newark. A story of two local hometown boys, made good. Their work in electromagnetic generators promised to cut down considerably on the emissions of backup generators and increase efficiency across the board. They also were working on early proposals for converting the MTA New York City transit system to Maglev technology throughout the subway lines. It would be by far the biggest infrastructure project the burgeoning startup had ever undertaken, and the city would likely want to see a few more success stories before handing such an enormous undertaking to the local pair.
Afterall, this city may love its own, but New York expects.
Which is what this was about now. Their latest release. They were targeting a niche market with new personal devices and data storage units for the commercial and corporate sector.
It was a tricky bullseye to hit. The market for personal devices was fairly settled and it was difficult to enter. They were relying on the efficiency standards to appeal to a greener market and companies looking to hit greener targets that were now being brought in. Anything that could slice into that imprint without detracting from business in a meaningful fashion, and with a local release the pair hoped that sales trends might lead to a market spreading beyond the five boroughs as the product's usefulness and reputation spread.
"So it's all set up to specs as I asked?"
"Well, yes, but remember what I said... Don't open too many applications at once, you're going to want to close them as you go, or it might lock-up as you're--"
"Wait-- You're telling me the product which I've repeatedly hassled you about, which you have assured me is ready for launch, might lock-up if our customers 'try to open too many apps'."
"Our consumer-base its fine. It should fit their needs. But you don't want to go highlighting an issue at the launch. Tech-bloggers will have a fiel--"
"We're electromagnetic engineers. We work in data storage. And you're telling me there may be an issue with memory--"
"It hits our consumer-base's needs specs that you provided. And I've told you this for weeks. RAM is not--"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this..."
"And don't act like you're an electromagnetic engineer in the first place, Bestman..." His partner spat.
"And don't act like you have a creative bone in your body or the vision to see beyond your nose, Toomes."
A dark glower crossed Adrian Toomes face. He'd done all of the work. Bestman fired ideas for features and applications with no technical nouse or know-how or even appreciable ability to determine whether his requests were actually possible, let alone how they could be executed in the first place.
And there was funny business with the financial numbers. It wasn't Toomes forte, so he'd sought outside help to run a second more meaningful eye over the books, but Gregory Bestman had been making moves and manoeuvering. To what end Adrian still didn't know. But people in Bestman's position seldom did these things for any kind of benevolent or fair reason.
Which was why Adrian took his own extreme precautions to protect himself in the only way he knew how, with the only tools he had ever had at his disposal...
Peter's mouth was agape.
Gregory Bestman was dead. Much was still to be uncovered, but it looked like he had tanked this product's launch, and had been making moves to redistribute the company's capital to a second Bestman T. Electronics company of his own creation, with re-defined investment between his very irate partner.
He'd tried to take the company right out from under him, after a solid loss which would make it more affordable. One he was going to look to blame on the hardware of his partner's design.
And Toomes had snapped.
Some of it might have seemed justifiable... if it weren't for the corpse, and the wounded bystanders in the press row.
Peter slipped out the door at his back in the chaos, a masked figure returned.
"I'll tell ya, that was just murder. Sorry I'm late. You know how it is though. It's always crazy, the lines for the latest generation product..."
"Who?"
"Gotta say, you look more buzzard than owl with that beak of yours. But it's me. Your friendly neighbourhood Spider-man."
The dark glower returned over Toomes. His wings spread, and he turned to face the blue and red clad hero.
"And as your local representative authority in all things friendly in this neighbourhood, THAT does not seem very friendly at all. No, sir." He addressed the carnage at the front of the room.
The green winged figure soared towards the newest source of its irritation with a scream.
Peter hit him with both web-shooters without a real plan of what to do with the rapidly approaching figure once the threads hit him. They did little more than anger him further, as the figure grabbed Spider-man and drove him through the pull doors of the entrance.
The green figure didn't have much more of a plan either, and threw him aside once he got out to the street, before flying away down the street.
Peter shook himself off and threw a web-line up to swing off in pursuit.
This would prove to not be much more of a plan either.
Minutes later he'd be getting thrown from a height which small planes don't reach over the city.
I look up at Toomes from his grip as he once again looks to control the terrain of the battleground, taking us skyward.
Think Peter, think. What are we looking at here?
I run my eye over the contraption, presumably of his own design. Hard to believe you could buy kits of this kind of thing at Best Buy.
It's wings are clearly designed with sharp edges. Not sure if that was a feature, but it's already shown practical use cutting my web-line once or twice, and I wouldn't want to let myself get caught by them either.
So... Sharp wings. Probably powered by some kind of electromagnetic generator, knowing the man. Electromagnetic. That, I can use...
What that means, is that somewhere inside of this box, on the fetching green harness this batty buzzard is rocking. There's at least one magnet spinning rapidly on a coil... not unlike a certain Spider was several minutes ago... providing power by way of induction.
So I stop that, well, he's effectively wearing an ugly Halloween costume and not much more.
So let's stop that.
Ideally if I had a magnetic inverter, or some other kind of even more powerful magnet I could clean this thing up with no hassle at all.
"But if ifs and buts were candy and nuts--"
"What?"
"Oh nothing. Just had enough of the ride. Flaps." I say, as I strike the front of his left wing with a webline and yank down forcefully, causing Toomes to stall his flight's ascent as he seeks to regain control after slicing through the webline.
Well, that didn't do much. He's got too good a grip on me.
"Let's try this again, with meaning this time. FLAPS!"
I yank harder, and keep pulling, trying to force him into a barrel roll. At this point we have enough altitude that we're in no danger of hitting anything. If last time was anything to go by, not far off of where he plans to throw me from.
"You want me to let you go? Fine! Have a nice flight!" He growls, in frustration.
I seize the opportunity, hit his other wing with a webline and use my momentum to swing onto his back.
"Not just yet, Buzzard. I still have to get my baggage."
Using as much strength as I can muster, I throw a punch into the box and try to crush the panneling, doing whatever I can to expose the innerworkings. The panel buckles and I try to pry open the crack as best I can, but it barely budges.
This'll have to do. Now or never. I aim my web-shooter into the box and pour it on. Clogging the mechanism and preventing induction. Within seconds the thrust has gone and I'm now riding a glider.
"What have you done!? You've killed us both!"
I get to work on wrapping up his arms and legs with web-line. He clearly doesn't need these to control the wings.
"I've got to say, I find it really upsetting the lack of faith you seem to have in your local hero community. We really need a better class of villain. Do better."
I shoot a webline to the corner of each wing and lean back in the saddle.
"Now pipe down. I don't have my pilot's licence, so this is probably going to take some level of concentration..."
We start what could only be described as a controlled descent under the most generous interpretations of the term.
The man the media would come to call 'The Vulture' starts screaming at the rapid drop in altitude.
"Stop screaming... Like I said, this is harder than it looks. Any more and I'm gonna have to put you down in the Hudson."
The screaming doesn't stop.
"Alright. You called my bluff. Because I can't steer this thing at all."
After a singular inhale, the screaming gets louder still.
We descend rapidly through the skyline of the city as the sun begins to set. I throw out a webline and catch a building, wrapping my arm around the screeching supervillain and whisk him away, choosing to go with a landing more in my own particular style. Behind my mask, I smile as I see a store selling variety goods.
By the time the officers from the 86th Street Central Park Precinct get to the man hanging from the light post, with his harness covered in 'I Love New York' fridge magnets, the only evidence of how he got there is swinging away uptown.
I really should swing by the office while I'm in the city...
<Snipped quote by Hound55>
Okay you lost me with that one
There was a famous old Welsh film (and book as well, I suppose) called 'How Green Was My Valley'.
Beat out Citizen Kane and The Maltese Falcon for the Best Picture award and cleaned up the Oscars that year.
It was a reference to that.
<Snipped quote by mattmanganon>
It's redundant to say the same thing twice.
How Green was my Lantern...
So just so everyone knows I go away tomorrow for our honeymoon, there isn't WiFi where we are staying and very probably no phone signal.
I might have signal at some point and appear, I might not we'll see.
My wife murdered me over that.
That's been the twist. You've been RPing with a ghost for years now.
Similarly, I've got a bit too much to establish for the world around Peter just yet.
Banjo released her hand and waved goodbye as the lean blonde boarded the ferry for her shopping day amongst the other Blackjack girls.
"I told you. Don't worry about it. I got the clothes all taken care of already."
She murmured something. It hadn't helped things when he'd shown her the tuxedo t-shirt as a joke.
"What's the matter? You don't trust me?"
The scrutiny never left her eye, but she gave an okay. If she didn't have complete faith, she seemed to trust him at least until she saw he'd gotten it wrong.
"You just have yourself a great day out with the girls, and don't worry about things. It's all under control. I got it."
Too far. If the repeated reassurances hadn't already had the wrong effect, they certainly had now.
She walked up the gangplank and the pair waved each other off.
Six Years Ago
"It's baggy. I thought this stuff was s'posed to be fitted."
"Yer still growin', mate. And I don't know when yer gunna be wearin' it. Or even which school you'll be wearin' it for, tabefair. Make it a bit big and you'll grow into it. Make it a fancy one, and you'll never be underdressed." The Butler said, watching on with no small amount of amusement from his chair as the teen turned and surveyed the suit in the mirror, for once looking the more underdressed of the pair due to the nature of his own dishevelled dress.
Banjo wasn't wrong. The suit was big on him. It looked a little ridiculous, in fact, given it was a full tuxedo.
"Besides. It's a tux and you're seventeen."
"Sixteen."
"About to turn seventeen. It'll play off as 'cute' at this age. You'll win over the mother. It'll trickle down. Trust me, it'll work for you, kiddo."
"You reckon my appeal to girls is in my ability to win over the mothers..?" A leer crossed his face.
"I... really don't want to think about it. I regret sayin' anything. Honestly, please don't say anymore. And for God's sake don't go knockin' up some poor girl. The last thing I need to think about is you leavin' a string of bastards behind us in our wake."
Banjo turned and looked at himself in the mirror again, frown on his face.
"Don't care what you say, mate. This looks ridiculous. And the bow tie--"
"It's a tux. It's gunna come with a bow tie."
"Do I look like I know how to tie a bloody bow tie..? if I did, somebody'd be flushin' my head down a toilet. And tabefair, its a strong stance they'd have on the issue, but I'd support it."
"Alright. C'mere..." He put his glass down and got up from his seat. And beckoned him with a finger, despite covering the entire distance between the pair himself.
Banjo did up the top button and popped the collar, waiting for the older man.
"Alright, so this crosses with this, ya flip this like so..."
The Butler flipped a loose end of the bow tie across his nose with a cheeky grin, making the younger boy flinch as the silk pinged off of his nose, and scowl at the treatment.
"...then you put a fold here, you take this through here, you start foldin' here... then when you pass it through here-- Bob's ya bloody uncle, and you just pull here and here to make the two sides match and slide it to centre. Ya got that?"
"No..."
"Well then find me, or better still, find someone else who does on the day. It's easy enough. You know how to tie a regular tie. Hell! You know how to tie a double windsor!"
"Yeah! Cos I've gone to bloody private schools for years! We don't wear bloody bow ties! Frankly I'm curious how you know how to tie a bloody bow tie!"
"Because, I'm cultured, mate." The older man replied calmly, returning to his seat and swirling his glass with a sniff of the contents.
"And quite frankly it wouldn't hurt you to get a bit of culture up you, either."
He looked at himself again in the mirror. He pulled at the baggy sleeves and trouser legs.
"Cultured, eh? Bloody ridiculous..." He shook his head in disbelief.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Banjo looked at himself in the mirror.
Silver linings. Somehow, despite everything, the tuxedo fit perfectly.
It had been six years, he'd grown a lot. But the weightloss he'd experienced from his peripheral neuropathy diet had left it fitting so well it was almost as if there was a divine hand at play.
His limp was still there, his recently discovered rage was still there, his girl wasn't, but the tuxedo fit like a glove. Cruelly comedic.
There was an assassination attempt on her scumbag father, her brother got caught in the middle, and now a fractured family was coming together, seemingly.
He wanted to go, he didn't like the thought of her being left alone with him. But she said his presence would be antagonistic.
He didn't have a counter for that. Because he almost certainly would be. With very little provocation required, even on his best behaviour...
She had the Butler's phone number and would check in to announce she'd get there safely. Saved as just that as well.
Because there's trust, and then there's stupidity.
He got changed again, safe in the knowledge that the suit fitted. A little frustrated that he couldn't send her a picture, but he was pretty sure he'd probably show up in the group chat for her anyway.
A hand on the door, he stepped out of his room and--
"Getting excited for the--"
"No." He flatly replied before the question was completed. Too much. Waaaaaay too much.
"You still goin'?"
"Said I could use the laugh."
"Prob'ly the right call. Fuckin' dog's breakfast in waitin', eh? My bird'd have a handle, but I wouldn't trust these other two to handle a piss up in a brewery."
Big Steve nodded blankly, oblivious to what was just said. Smiling and nodding was a regular response to some of his more regional colloquialisms. Particularly when he double-stacked them.
"Don't wait up. Shit to do."
"Oh, what time are you coming back, we could--"
SLAM!
"Or not..."
"I don't know why you keep trying. He's just an asshole."
"He's not an asshole. He's just sad. And he's going through some stuff."
"He is an asshole. And assholes also go through stuff. The two things aren't mutually exclusive."
"So what are you doing today?"
"Just have CC stuff, then I'm free all day. You?"
"Same. Finally got on Destiny 2, do you want to call some of the others and--"
"I think we both know the answer is 'Yes'."
"Well, alright then."
Banjo made his way to the gym, by way of the Mess Hall, his Community Contribution once again finished. The fleece was coming in on the sheep, and there weren't that many, but he was supposed to leave them for the 'Ag group' who had classes. Fences needed mending. He supposed that was typical of all things in his life. Wouldn't be happening any time soon though.
That was also typical of all things in his life.
He'd have to fire down some diet friendly grains and tasteless boiled chicken thing (and even then only after he lost his shit over the constant tuna and salmon he was getting inundated with), and go off to the gym for mind-numbing exercises. Other people had devices and headphones to break the tedium. The no-phone rule worked against him here, yet again.
It took him a half an hour to realise that Katja wasn't anywhere to be seen in or around the gym.
This was out of the ordinary for them both.
It fell outside of her Community Contribution hours. She wasn't obligated to be there. But she was generally an omni-present sunny vision in the place... well, Banjo assumed she was. Of late that had seemed to start to wane, since the Trials her demeanour had been noticeably shifted. And for the first time he'd really been struck by some kind of deep low feelings from her. Loneliness. Which... she'd sort of always been alone, but he'd never really viewed her as lonely.
'How long had that been the case?' He thought to himself, over regular reps on the adductor.
Had he been so absorbed in his own bullshit, or was this something new? Just how long had he been failing to notice? He tended to leave people to their own devices and trust they'd come to him if they needed anything. Was that the wrong way to handle this?
She'd said something about trying to hit things off with the French bird on their team.
He'd always given her a wide berth as well.
So that didn't help with his blind sport on this one either.
The night before the Trials something had almost certainly happened. He'd seen other people getting in her business and she certainly hadn't cared for that shit at all. Probably whatever happened was still fresh at the time.
He tried to rack his brains over what he'd seen from her here in the gym over the past few days, but it was like his head was in a fog. A steadily increasing haze.
His anger and loathing just bleeding into everything? The leg infecting more of his life? Seemed stupid, but everything in his life had kind of sucked across the board since then. Even at the school. He was actually finding some of the classes difficult, a challenge, and half of the team seemed to skip out altogether. And the frustrating thing... the fact that it was now becoming somewhat challenging, it made him actually kind of care. Which only made things more irritating that he was struggling to keep up.
The Trial itself had done nothing to him... but this leg. It was like he had been poisoned in it ever since. Everything just--
He stopped.
"Thirty fucking reps? The fuck are you doing? You're supposed to stop at six. More sets of lesser reps. How's this throw your sets now?"
"Fuckin' God damnit!"
He got up and got a drink, trying to figure out how he was supposed to adjust for his rehabilitative routine after losing count, or if he was even supposed to.
"The Doctor said more is less... Maybe this isn't the worst thing. It's the adductor anyway, that's the inner thigh, to counter-balance the actual work you're supposed to be doing." He justified to himself.
He drank more water and he sat back down in the next machine in his rotation.
Peter threw open the back door and ran towards the attic.
Aunt May wasn't home, and they'd kept a sizable amount of the lump sum from Uncle Ben's insurance payout in cash for home repairs, and to parse out for day-to-day expenditures.
Fortunately Aunt May was of an age where she hadn't completely bought into the idea of an electronic cashless society, despite how global trends were going. Possibly frustrating for a technologically progressive young teen, but an absolute boon for a young Spider-Man who may need to keep his resource purchases in cash. And the production of his web formula wasn't exactly free.
Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents. Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents. Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents...
He kept repeating the total in his own head so he wouldn't forget as he flew up the steps two at a time.
He opened a large lockable chest, which held a smaller lockable safe. Upon which he got to a lockable tin with compartmentalised slots for different household expenditures which the family had owned for longer than Peter could remember.
Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents...
He pulled from the home maintenance fund three hundreds and a twenty.
A thought flashed through his mind as to what Uncle Ben would think, tapping into the home funds for his own debts.
"He'd want me to be responsible for my own actions, is what he'd want." Peter told himself, the mask now down and the vocal nodes not pressed to his skin.
The grumble in his chest as he put the tin back away wasn't so sure, though.
Suddenly the doorbell rang out. Peter dropped his hand to his phone and opened up the app for the security cameras he'd installed by the front door.
Waiting the interminable few seconds for it to connect he saw a average sized African-American male and a slightly taller caucasian man wearing a long-coat, with a salt and pepper flat-top and a bold choice in facial hair that only Adolf Hitler, Charlie Chaplin... and for some bizarre reason Michael Jordan have ever attempted. The doorbell rang again.
Peter ran from the attic to his bedroom to throw a change of clothes on.
Downstairs, the sound of the teenager's echoing footsteps around the house gave the pair renewed hope that someone at least was home and would soon answer the door.
"Now when he comes to the door, just let me do the talking Jonah. You can sometimes..."
"Look, Robbie... You may have found this guy, Parker. And you may even be right that we need him. But I still run this paper. And I'm still responsible for hirings and firings. I'm not going to say anything that might turn him on us. But negotiations are still with me. I'm not having you try and handle this grown man with kids gloves and let him run roughsho--"
"Jonah, he's coming. Sssh."
The pair took half a step back and closer together to put on a better united front.
Peter opened the door and looked at the pair of them quizzically, with an eyebrow raised. Somewhat confused by who these two men were and what they wanted.
"Hello young man, is your father home?" The man in the longer coat asked, trying his best to take the grizzle out of his voice and failing miserably.
"Uhh... he's dead." Peter replied.
Robbie looked down at a piece of paper that gave him the lead.
"Oh. How about a... Ben Parker?" He read off of the scrap.
"Dead as well. Is that what this is about?" Peter asked the pair.
"Well... not really. We were hoping to speak with a Peter Parker abou--"
"Well that I can help you with. What do you want?"
"Peter-- Peter Parker? The one who runs 'Tech/Sci: Amazing Fantasy or the World of Tomorrow'?"
Peter's nervous eyes went between the pair before he uttered a gentle "Yeah?" hoping that he wasn't looking at more trouble he couldn't afford.
Jonah's grin suddenly widened with crocodile teeth showing, feelingbetter about his negotiating position now that he knew he was dealing with a child.
"That's the name you went with?" Jonah poked, hoping to already put the younger one in his place.
"Well, for a while there I was self-conscious about my age and I called it 'Amazing Adult Fantasy', but yeah, that-- that didn't attract the right kind of click-base."
"Oh that's good because we work at the 'Daily Bugle', my name is Robbie Robertson and this is J. Jonah Jameson and we--"
Are charter members of the New York alliteration club and we're proud that we've finally met our new member for 'P'... Peter thought to himself, but remained silent.
"--are proud to present you with a rare and exciting opportunity to take up our new Unpaid Internship program!" The crocodile teeth flashed, and his eyes squinted over in a gnarled version of a grin as Jonah presented his opening beyond lowball offer.
Robbie turned and looked at him, barely able to take in the audacity of the offer himself.
"Oh." Peter said. Thinking for less than a half a second before replying "No, thanks." And starting to close the door.
"Err-- it's an incredibly exciting opportunity, looks great on a college application. Foot in the door. Umm... Get the opportunity to work with professionals and build important networking relationships--"
"--in a dying field. That's fine, sir. I'm not really interested in becoming a journalist. I'm already getting offers of internships in the scientific fields that I actually want to pursue when I go to college, sooo..." The door once again began to close.
"Uhh-- it's not actually an internship, Mister Parker!" Mister Parker..? Peter thought to himself. The door stopped.
"Robbie!" Jonah snapped.
"We actually came to offer you a paid position to administrate the internet presence for the Bugle. Also, to possibly integrate your blog and vlog into a weekly feature..."
The door swung open.
"A paid position?" Peter asked. He turned to flat top in the long coat.
Jonah's snarl had Robbie slightly hesitant. Peter was pretty sure flat top was the one who was supposed to take the lead.
"Yes." He said through gritted teeth. The gnarl through his voice all-encompassing. "A... paid... position. Scaled by your age, of course. And limited by... your billable work hours... since you'll presumably be at school and unable to work full time..." Jonah gradually looked to pull back whatever kind of control he could find in this negotiation.
"A paid position..? Like a proper real job?"
"That's right." Smiled Jonah, relieved that the power in the situation seemed to be shifting. Clearly thinking that 'Maybe this kid doesn't even know how much an adult would get paid to fill the role.'
"So, how much would we be talking?"
Robbie wasn't game to open his mouth. They were prepared to offer whoever opened this door $150k to potentially keep the paper from going under. Jonah was the nostalgic type who held the value of print media itself to be intrinsic and fought the medium's move to an online platform hard. As such, it had become something of a relic, one of the few major newspapers in the world which published as many print copies as it did, and still had classified ads within its pages. Part of this was because of Jonah's ownership and control of the Bugle itself. He liked to call himself Editor-In-Chief, but really he was much more. His preference coming down to the fact he found it less impressive to be able to sign a check and become the owner of a thing, than the reverence he held for the Editor-In-Chief position itself.
As tight with money as he could be, and he was, there was no doubt that he was sinking his own funds into the paper at this point. And how much of a loss he was currently running to keep the Daily Bugle afloat.
Hiring someone for this role was not something he took lightly. He really didn't want the role to have to exist at all. But he was only now beginning to realise that the 'online presence' was not merely a trend that he would be able to outlast.
So it was bittersweet when Jonah gave his offer of...
"Twenty five dollars an hour..." He tried to get a read of the high school kid behind the door. "Plus... I guess... the scale minimum for your weekly articles. Blogs... Vlogs... Frogonalogs... Whatever you want to call them." He tossed in an extra crumb that he was legally obliged to give anyway.
Peter scratched the back of his neck whilst holding onto the door.
"Well, Flash was making eighteen bucks an hour for those few months when he was just working at Big Belly Burger..."
"Err-- well..."
"...That's FANTASTIC!" He exclaimed. A sigh of relief passed over the two men. "He even had cash enough to take Liz Allen to the movies like every week... I mean, his parents usually pay for everything, so I s'pose it wasn't so big a thing... but..." It finally occurred to him that the two adults were waiting on his response.
"I mean... I should probably ask around. Check with the family about how good that really is, but... I mean, you said it's all usual and to scale, so..."
Jonah turned sheepish, as he considered how the offer would hold up to the informed scrutiny of an adult's eye.
"Well, uhh... I mean, that would be great, except that it would mean you'd miss out on the, err... signing bonus..."
"Signing bonus?"
Robbie watched as the deal was close to fruition. J. Jonah Jameson was racking his brain trying to think of how small a figure would sound large enough to get this deal done with a child with no experience of the workforce. It was amazing. He was going to gouge this kid for a fraction of the value he'd bring to possibly hold back the tides of progress which had so threatened to flood the paper.
"That's right. In return for signing today, here and now, there's a one time payment signing bonus of three hundred dollars."
"Three hund--?!" "--red dollars!?"
The pair exclaimed with vastly contrasting expressions on their face. The grizzle had well and truly returned to Jonah's voice, along with a snarl which Robbie was well more than acquainted with, and Peter would come to find familiar in the following days.
Woooooooow... Peter thought to himself.
Jonah reached for his checkbook.
"Waitaminute." He said, a smile stretching across his face. Well, if they've come this far...
"Draw it up to three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents and you've got yourself a deal."
The pallor dropped from Jonah's face, and the aggression replaced with bewilderment at the audacity of the youth. A warm grin spread across 'Robbie' Robertson's countenance.
"Deal."
The flush rushed back into Jonah's face as he scrawled out the check to the exact figure. The snarl coupled with growled mutterings which Peter couldn't quite make out, as he wrote the check out on 'Robbie's back, complete with a particularly hard and emphatic period separating the dollars and cents, which brought a chuckle to the man as he smiled up at the young boy, a rare sparkle seemingly in his eye.
They handed over paperwork, which Peter filled out basics and signed against the doorframe of the house.
"Rrr... this part you give to the girl in admin."
"You can't run it to her for me?"
Robbie clenched his teeth and winced, knowing what was coming.
"WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO GET YOU COFFEE TOO?!? THE YOUTH OF TODAY, ROBBIE! THIS IS WHAT I KEEP TALKING ABOUT! WORK ETHIC! LAZY, SHIFTLES--!"
"Or not... that's fine Mr Jameson. I should probably come by the office sometime anyway, just to see who I'll be working with, even if most of it will just be by remote online..."
Robbie handed over the check and the pair walked away, as he looked to extinguish the fire Peter had accidentally set off between Jonah's ears.
He slapped the check in his own hand with a smile, and gave the pair a wave as they returned to their car.
"Well, howd'ya like that, maybe the ol' Parker luck has turned around, huh?"
He went inside to update his site and inform his followers of the changes that would be taking place.
Peter's face grew more animated, the further he delved into the topic of discussion on his last Vlog to be hosted by his own site for a while.
"...and the fast paced world of Artificial Intelligence and self-learning logorithms and robotics, with the likes of ICM Corporation's Doctor Petty, Professors Ivo and Thomas Morrow, Doctor William Magnus working from his own laboratories in Hoboken, the question is less 'will the supercomputer of tomorrow utilise Artificial Intelligence' and more 'when will it be upon us?'
And that's the Amazing Fantasy for this week's look in Science and Technology. Oh! And exciting news! This will be the last update hosted from here in a while! Look out for the newest blogs and vlogs to be coming at you from me, Peter Parker, courtesy of the website for the 'Daily Bugle'! Oh... and look for the site itself to get a bit of an overhaul in the coming weeks, as they've brought yours truly on board to straighten out the online presence! Tuck in the corners, new coat of paint... we'll see what we can do. Until then, though! Excelsior!" He concluded the recording session and wondered if they'd let him continue to use his regular send off line. It did seem a bit hokey for a major newspaper publication, but they also wanted his impact on their presence. Their words.
Everything was working out! He'd be able to take on an internship after all, and was once again beginning to get excited at his choices, now that he was going to be getting paid to do something he was basically doing in his own time for free, just on a slightly different scale.
Afterall, how much could the Bugle's online site and coding infrastructure really need an overhaul? He'd been solo running his own site for a while now, he had a good handle on things. How much change could a major publication really need? He was familiar with the Bugle's building, he'd pop in tomorrow, do the basic introductions, hand in his paperwork and run an eye over the code.
Afterall, it was going to be his responsibility now. And they were paying for his services.
Wait-- responsibility. Pay.
Oh no!
Peter ran a first sweep on the vlog recording, and pulled off the outer layer of clothing and pocketed the money he'd taken from upstairs, and threw his mask on before running out the back door and swinging away.
Peter touched down just outside the bodega, shattered chunks of broken glass cracking beneath his feet, and went inside.
"Uhh... Hi." He offered sheepishly to the man behind the counter.
"I've got your money. Right back, as I said."
"You call this 'right back'?!" The man behind the counter yelled.
Peter dug into his pocket and pulled out the four wrinkled notes. "There ya go."
"Okay. You stay on board though. No checks!"
"Wait, I thought we agreed, this was all just a misunderstanding!"
Peter's eye strayed to the board which had been through some changes since he was last here a few hours earlier. There was now a large circle on the board saying 'Circle of Trust' with a scrawl which appeared to be the signature of Robert DeNiro, where all of the photographs on the board appeared well outside of the circle. Including one incredibly distinctively dressed blue and red superhero.
"No asshole. But stay on board. No checks. That's fair! Spoke with Mister DeNiro, he agree. That's fair!"
"Wait... you spoke to him in the few hours since? What, is he running this place with you? How often is he here?"
"No. Concerned citizen. Good neighbour. Spoke with him, told him what I think. He agrees."
"I'm... so confused..." Peter replied, palms outstretched.
"Well, whatever... I guess we're all square now at least. From here, I guess all I can do is try and win back your trust."
The automatic doors opened and he stepped out into the early night, before realising with a moderate panic that Aunt May would be expecting him home for dinner.
He hoped that the good news with the job would be enough to keep him out of the doghouse.
...and that he'd have time to cash the signing bonus check before she'd next look at the Housekeeping funds.
Aunt May wasn't home, and they'd kept a sizable amount of the lump sum from Uncle Ben's insurance payout in cash for home repairs, and to parse out for day-to-day expenditures.
Fortunately Aunt May was of an age where she hadn't completely bought into the idea of an electronic cashless society, despite how global trends were going. Possibly frustrating for a technologically progressive young teen, but an absolute boon for a young Spider-Man who may need to keep his resource purchases in cash. And the production of his web formula wasn't exactly free.
Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents. Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents. Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents...
He kept repeating the total in his own head so he wouldn't forget as he flew up the steps two at a time.
He opened a large lockable chest, which held a smaller lockable safe. Upon which he got to a lockable tin with compartmentalised slots for different household expenditures which the family had owned for longer than Peter could remember.
Three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents...
He pulled from the home maintenance fund three hundreds and a twenty.
A thought flashed through his mind as to what Uncle Ben would think, tapping into the home funds for his own debts.
"He'd want me to be responsible for my own actions, is what he'd want." Peter told himself, the mask now down and the vocal nodes not pressed to his skin.
The grumble in his chest as he put the tin back away wasn't so sure, though.
Suddenly the doorbell rang out. Peter dropped his hand to his phone and opened up the app for the security cameras he'd installed by the front door.
Waiting the interminable few seconds for it to connect he saw a average sized African-American male and a slightly taller caucasian man wearing a long-coat, with a salt and pepper flat-top and a bold choice in facial hair that only Adolf Hitler, Charlie Chaplin... and for some bizarre reason Michael Jordan have ever attempted. The doorbell rang again.
Peter ran from the attic to his bedroom to throw a change of clothes on.
Downstairs, the sound of the teenager's echoing footsteps around the house gave the pair renewed hope that someone at least was home and would soon answer the door.
"Now when he comes to the door, just let me do the talking Jonah. You can sometimes..."
"Look, Robbie... You may have found this guy, Parker. And you may even be right that we need him. But I still run this paper. And I'm still responsible for hirings and firings. I'm not going to say anything that might turn him on us. But negotiations are still with me. I'm not having you try and handle this grown man with kids gloves and let him run roughsho--"
"Jonah, he's coming. Sssh."
The pair took half a step back and closer together to put on a better united front.
Peter opened the door and looked at the pair of them quizzically, with an eyebrow raised. Somewhat confused by who these two men were and what they wanted.
"Hello young man, is your father home?" The man in the longer coat asked, trying his best to take the grizzle out of his voice and failing miserably.
"Uhh... he's dead." Peter replied.
Robbie looked down at a piece of paper that gave him the lead.
"Oh. How about a... Ben Parker?" He read off of the scrap.
"Dead as well. Is that what this is about?" Peter asked the pair.
"Well... not really. We were hoping to speak with a Peter Parker abou--"
"Well that I can help you with. What do you want?"
"Peter-- Peter Parker? The one who runs 'Tech/Sci: Amazing Fantasy or the World of Tomorrow'?"
Peter's nervous eyes went between the pair before he uttered a gentle "Yeah?" hoping that he wasn't looking at more trouble he couldn't afford.
Jonah's grin suddenly widened with crocodile teeth showing, feelingbetter about his negotiating position now that he knew he was dealing with a child.
"That's the name you went with?" Jonah poked, hoping to already put the younger one in his place.
"Well, for a while there I was self-conscious about my age and I called it 'Amazing Adult Fantasy', but yeah, that-- that didn't attract the right kind of click-base."
"Oh that's good because we work at the 'Daily Bugle', my name is Robbie Robertson and this is J. Jonah Jameson and we--"
Are charter members of the New York alliteration club and we're proud that we've finally met our new member for 'P'... Peter thought to himself, but remained silent.
"--are proud to present you with a rare and exciting opportunity to take up our new Unpaid Internship program!" The crocodile teeth flashed, and his eyes squinted over in a gnarled version of a grin as Jonah presented his opening beyond lowball offer.
Robbie turned and looked at him, barely able to take in the audacity of the offer himself.
"Oh." Peter said. Thinking for less than a half a second before replying "No, thanks." And starting to close the door.
"Err-- it's an incredibly exciting opportunity, looks great on a college application. Foot in the door. Umm... Get the opportunity to work with professionals and build important networking relationships--"
"--in a dying field. That's fine, sir. I'm not really interested in becoming a journalist. I'm already getting offers of internships in the scientific fields that I actually want to pursue when I go to college, sooo..." The door once again began to close.
"Uhh-- it's not actually an internship, Mister Parker!" Mister Parker..? Peter thought to himself. The door stopped.
"Robbie!" Jonah snapped.
"We actually came to offer you a paid position to administrate the internet presence for the Bugle. Also, to possibly integrate your blog and vlog into a weekly feature..."
The door swung open.
"A paid position?" Peter asked. He turned to flat top in the long coat.
Jonah's snarl had Robbie slightly hesitant. Peter was pretty sure flat top was the one who was supposed to take the lead.
"Yes." He said through gritted teeth. The gnarl through his voice all-encompassing. "A... paid... position. Scaled by your age, of course. And limited by... your billable work hours... since you'll presumably be at school and unable to work full time..." Jonah gradually looked to pull back whatever kind of control he could find in this negotiation.
"A paid position..? Like a proper real job?"
"That's right." Smiled Jonah, relieved that the power in the situation seemed to be shifting. Clearly thinking that 'Maybe this kid doesn't even know how much an adult would get paid to fill the role.'
"So, how much would we be talking?"
Robbie wasn't game to open his mouth. They were prepared to offer whoever opened this door $150k to potentially keep the paper from going under. Jonah was the nostalgic type who held the value of print media itself to be intrinsic and fought the medium's move to an online platform hard. As such, it had become something of a relic, one of the few major newspapers in the world which published as many print copies as it did, and still had classified ads within its pages. Part of this was because of Jonah's ownership and control of the Bugle itself. He liked to call himself Editor-In-Chief, but really he was much more. His preference coming down to the fact he found it less impressive to be able to sign a check and become the owner of a thing, than the reverence he held for the Editor-In-Chief position itself.
As tight with money as he could be, and he was, there was no doubt that he was sinking his own funds into the paper at this point. And how much of a loss he was currently running to keep the Daily Bugle afloat.
Hiring someone for this role was not something he took lightly. He really didn't want the role to have to exist at all. But he was only now beginning to realise that the 'online presence' was not merely a trend that he would be able to outlast.
So it was bittersweet when Jonah gave his offer of...
"Twenty five dollars an hour..." He tried to get a read of the high school kid behind the door. "Plus... I guess... the scale minimum for your weekly articles. Blogs... Vlogs... Frogonalogs... Whatever you want to call them." He tossed in an extra crumb that he was legally obliged to give anyway.
Peter scratched the back of his neck whilst holding onto the door.
"Well, Flash was making eighteen bucks an hour for those few months when he was just working at Big Belly Burger..."
"Err-- well..."
"...That's FANTASTIC!" He exclaimed. A sigh of relief passed over the two men. "He even had cash enough to take Liz Allen to the movies like every week... I mean, his parents usually pay for everything, so I s'pose it wasn't so big a thing... but..." It finally occurred to him that the two adults were waiting on his response.
"I mean... I should probably ask around. Check with the family about how good that really is, but... I mean, you said it's all usual and to scale, so..."
Jonah turned sheepish, as he considered how the offer would hold up to the informed scrutiny of an adult's eye.
"Well, uhh... I mean, that would be great, except that it would mean you'd miss out on the, err... signing bonus..."
"Signing bonus?"
Robbie watched as the deal was close to fruition. J. Jonah Jameson was racking his brain trying to think of how small a figure would sound large enough to get this deal done with a child with no experience of the workforce. It was amazing. He was going to gouge this kid for a fraction of the value he'd bring to possibly hold back the tides of progress which had so threatened to flood the paper.
"That's right. In return for signing today, here and now, there's a one time payment signing bonus of three hundred dollars."
"Three hund--?!" "--red dollars!?"
The pair exclaimed with vastly contrasting expressions on their face. The grizzle had well and truly returned to Jonah's voice, along with a snarl which Robbie was well more than acquainted with, and Peter would come to find familiar in the following days.
Woooooooow... Peter thought to himself.
Jonah reached for his checkbook.
"Waitaminute." He said, a smile stretching across his face. Well, if they've come this far...
"Draw it up to three hundred and twelve dollars and thirty six cents and you've got yourself a deal."
The pallor dropped from Jonah's face, and the aggression replaced with bewilderment at the audacity of the youth. A warm grin spread across 'Robbie' Robertson's countenance.
"Deal."
The flush rushed back into Jonah's face as he scrawled out the check to the exact figure. The snarl coupled with growled mutterings which Peter couldn't quite make out, as he wrote the check out on 'Robbie's back, complete with a particularly hard and emphatic period separating the dollars and cents, which brought a chuckle to the man as he smiled up at the young boy, a rare sparkle seemingly in his eye.
They handed over paperwork, which Peter filled out basics and signed against the doorframe of the house.
"Rrr... this part you give to the girl in admin."
"You can't run it to her for me?"
Robbie clenched his teeth and winced, knowing what was coming.
"WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO GET YOU COFFEE TOO?!? THE YOUTH OF TODAY, ROBBIE! THIS IS WHAT I KEEP TALKING ABOUT! WORK ETHIC! LAZY, SHIFTLES--!"
"Or not... that's fine Mr Jameson. I should probably come by the office sometime anyway, just to see who I'll be working with, even if most of it will just be by remote online..."
Robbie handed over the check and the pair walked away, as he looked to extinguish the fire Peter had accidentally set off between Jonah's ears.
He slapped the check in his own hand with a smile, and gave the pair a wave as they returned to their car.
"Well, howd'ya like that, maybe the ol' Parker luck has turned around, huh?"
He went inside to update his site and inform his followers of the changes that would be taking place.
S P I D E R - M A N
S P I D E R - M A N
S P I D E R - M A N
Peter's face grew more animated, the further he delved into the topic of discussion on his last Vlog to be hosted by his own site for a while.
"...and the fast paced world of Artificial Intelligence and self-learning logorithms and robotics, with the likes of ICM Corporation's Doctor Petty, Professors Ivo and Thomas Morrow, Doctor William Magnus working from his own laboratories in Hoboken, the question is less 'will the supercomputer of tomorrow utilise Artificial Intelligence' and more 'when will it be upon us?'
And that's the Amazing Fantasy for this week's look in Science and Technology. Oh! And exciting news! This will be the last update hosted from here in a while! Look out for the newest blogs and vlogs to be coming at you from me, Peter Parker, courtesy of the website for the 'Daily Bugle'! Oh... and look for the site itself to get a bit of an overhaul in the coming weeks, as they've brought yours truly on board to straighten out the online presence! Tuck in the corners, new coat of paint... we'll see what we can do. Until then, though! Excelsior!" He concluded the recording session and wondered if they'd let him continue to use his regular send off line. It did seem a bit hokey for a major newspaper publication, but they also wanted his impact on their presence. Their words.
Everything was working out! He'd be able to take on an internship after all, and was once again beginning to get excited at his choices, now that he was going to be getting paid to do something he was basically doing in his own time for free, just on a slightly different scale.
Afterall, how much could the Bugle's online site and coding infrastructure really need an overhaul? He'd been solo running his own site for a while now, he had a good handle on things. How much change could a major publication really need? He was familiar with the Bugle's building, he'd pop in tomorrow, do the basic introductions, hand in his paperwork and run an eye over the code.
Afterall, it was going to be his responsibility now. And they were paying for his services.
Wait-- responsibility. Pay.
Oh no!
Peter ran a first sweep on the vlog recording, and pulled off the outer layer of clothing and pocketed the money he'd taken from upstairs, and threw his mask on before running out the back door and swinging away.
Peter touched down just outside the bodega, shattered chunks of broken glass cracking beneath his feet, and went inside.
"Uhh... Hi." He offered sheepishly to the man behind the counter.
"I've got your money. Right back, as I said."
"You call this 'right back'?!" The man behind the counter yelled.
Peter dug into his pocket and pulled out the four wrinkled notes. "There ya go."
"Okay. You stay on board though. No checks!"
"Wait, I thought we agreed, this was all just a misunderstanding!"
Peter's eye strayed to the board which had been through some changes since he was last here a few hours earlier. There was now a large circle on the board saying 'Circle of Trust' with a scrawl which appeared to be the signature of Robert DeNiro, where all of the photographs on the board appeared well outside of the circle. Including one incredibly distinctively dressed blue and red superhero.
"No asshole. But stay on board. No checks. That's fair! Spoke with Mister DeNiro, he agree. That's fair!"
"Wait... you spoke to him in the few hours since? What, is he running this place with you? How often is he here?"
"No. Concerned citizen. Good neighbour. Spoke with him, told him what I think. He agrees."
"I'm... so confused..." Peter replied, palms outstretched.
"Well, whatever... I guess we're all square now at least. From here, I guess all I can do is try and win back your trust."
The automatic doors opened and he stepped out into the early night, before realising with a moderate panic that Aunt May would be expecting him home for dinner.
He hoped that the good news with the job would be enough to keep him out of the doghouse.
...and that he'd have time to cash the signing bonus check before she'd next look at the Housekeeping funds.
This is practically how we discuss villains in the OOC.
And it's the correct conclusion, as well.
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