Spiderman 3 (26 page)

Consciousness slid away from Marko as he slithered down the drain, his thought before dissipating being:
Penny, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, damn that Spider-Man, let me live so she can live and he can die
…

And then he was gone.

Minutes later, when the remains of his body dribbled from a drainage pipe into the East River, there was no indication that the dark brown substance was anything other than dirt mixed with water and had ever been anything other than lifeless mud.

PATHS BOTH LOST AND FOUND

"Rent!"

Peter felt as if he'd just gone ten rounds with a cement mixer. He was worn out physically, emotionally… every way possible.

Earlier, when he had emerged from the subway tunnel squinting against the daylight, dark clouds had started gathering ominously, suggesting an imminent weather change. The day went from pleasant to stormy in minutes, and rain was pouring down as he slogged to his apartment building. The clothes he was wearing ill-fit him, which made sense since he'd grabbed them out of a Goodwill deposit box. It was the only choice he had: there was no way he was going to be able to sneak in and out of his apartment in broad daylight, dressed in a skintight, black Spider-Man outfit.

Now, as he staggered down the hallway toward his apartment, his landlord, Mr. Ditkovitch, stepped out of his own residence and blocked Peter's path. Peter could see Ursula inside, washing a dish.

"Rent!" snarled Ditkovitch.

Peter slowly turned toward him. "Rent?" he echoed.

"R-E-N-T!"

Every time in the past when Ditkovitch had harassed him for rent—which was admittedly perpetually overdue—Peter had stammeringly promised to make good on the debt. Ditkovitch and his power over Peter had always loomed large. Now, however, Peter stared at Ditkovitch, and instead of quaking in fear or being consumed with regret that he was behind, all he could think was
Who the hell does this guy think he is
?

He suddenly envisioned Ditkovitch dangling twenty stories… no, make it fifty stories… high above the ground, a single gossamer thread his only link from death. There was the acerbic landlord, screeching like a howler monkey, begging for his life, and right above him, dancing about like a loon, was the deliriously happy, black-suited Spider-Man.

Peter had never realized just how angry Ditkovitch's rants made him until that very moment. Doing nothing to restrain it, Peter stepped toward him. The motion was so decisive and unexpected that Ditkovitch automatically took a step backward, looking confused, as if they were doing a waltz and Peter had abruptly decided to lead.

"Rent?" Peter said, and his voice grew progressively louder with each passing second. "Rent, when you fix the showerhead. Rent! When you stop painting over the mold. Rent! When the hot water's hot and the heater gets repaired and you fix my windows and patch my ceiling and the smell of your sardines doesn't creep under my door!"

Ditkovitch's eyes were popping. Ursula, witness to Peter's unexpected explosion, looked as if she didn't know whether to be frightened or thrilled. Peter turned and went to his door, only to discover that it stuck worse than when it had frustrated Mary Jane. He whirled and bellowed at Ditkovitch, his fury reaching fever pitch.

"You want rent? Fix this damn door!"

He shoved so hard that he actually ripped the door off its top hinge. He glanced back, and Ditkovitch looked terrified. As for Ursula, whatever entertainment she'd found in Peter upbraiding the surly landlord had given over to pure fear at Peter's outburst.

Even Peter was stunned at his ferocity. Without another word, he entered his apartment. He rebalanced the door so that, although it was still free of its hinge,
it
was at least securely closed. Then he threw the bolt for good measure and stood in the middle of his room.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. His entire body was trembling. He had no idea how to feel. Part of him was giddy, riding some sort of bizarre emotional high. But another part was intimidated by the intensity of the feelings he'd unleashed. Particularly so since he had no idea just how far they could lead. Would he possibly have completely blown his stack at Ditkovitch? Lost his temper? Punched him? Ditkovitch wasn't a super-criminal with a sandy body that he could make rock hard with a thought. He was a normal human whose head could literally be shattered by the force of a single blow.

Lightning blasted the sky outside, and Peter jumped at his reflection in the mirror. For a split second he thought he saw something else in it—the black spider-suit, but larger than it was at the moment, with bristling teeth and an impossibly long, frightening tongue lashing out like a serpent's. Then it was gone… except the image of it had been seared into Peter's brain, and now he was beginning to experience the same sense of intimidation that he'd inflicted on Ditkovitch.

He stepped back, studying his image in the mirror. On impulse, he rearranged his hair, bangs now hanging over his forehead, giving it a looser, more aggressive look, and there was steel in his eyes. Then he looked at the busted hinge. Pulling open the top of his shirt, he looked down at the black and silver costume.
Is it making me feel this way? Is that even possible? Of course it is. Anything's possible because I don't know what the hell this thing is. But I've got to find out
.

Shucking the outer clothing, he started pulling off the suit. The gloves and mask he'd easily been able to remove earlier and tuck away in his pockets. Perhaps that had resulted from a meeting of the minds between himself and the costume: after all, he couldn't very well walk around in street clothes with his mask on, and with his mask off, he couldn't have his gloved hands protruding from his shirtsleeves. But now the rest of the outfit didn't appear to want to go anywhere. Somewhere in the back of his head, he was having second thoughts, telling himself that he should leave it on, that he had never felt so free before, so powerful.
Is that me telling me that? Or is it… this…
?

That terrifying thought was all he needed to spur him on. Unfortunately it did not come without a price.

The suit was indeed sticking to his skin, and it was like peeling off a coating of glue. He fought not to cry out as the costume resisted his efforts before finally giving way.

When he did manage to pull it off over his head, it made loud popping sounds, as if he were pulling an octopus's tentacles clear but the suckers were trying to hold on.

It took long minutes before he was finally divested of the costume. Part of that came from its incredible adhesion to his skin, and part from that Peter was fighting not only the costume but also
himself
every step of the way. Toward the end it went faster; it seemed the less of the costume he was wearing, the more diminished its influence upon him…
Is that really true? Is it influencing me? My

God… what if it decided to turn me into a mass murderer? Except it would never do that… except… how do I know that?

He threw open the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed where he habitually tossed all random stuff scattered around the apartment whenever somebody (i.e., Mary Jane) came to visit and he needed to clean up fast. Wadding up the black suit, he tossed it into the trunk. He stared at the crumpled ebony heap, waiting for it to move. To do something. To spring back out at him and wrestle him to the ground. Instead it simply sat there as if to say,

What's your problem? I'm just an article of clothing, for crying out loud. It's all in your head, boy. All in your head.

I got enough stuff going on in my head without you there
, Peter thought frantically, and yet he felt an impulse to reach down, put the suit back on, let the world know that the power of Spider-Man was to be feared and—

Shaking it off, he slammed the trunk lid shut, then locked it for good measure. He sank into a chair, unable to take his eyes off it, still trembling from the intensity of his emotions.

When the phone jangled sometime later, Peter was still in the chair.

He jumped a few feet, startled by the noise, and when he grabbed up the phone, he was relieved to hear Aunt May's voice. He wasn't sure he could handle Mary Jane right then.

"Peter," she said, getting right to it, "I'm worried about you. I told Mary Jane, and maybe I shouldn't have, but this business with this Marcus person—"

"Marko. Flint Marko. And you don't have to be worried about anything, Aunt May."

"I don't?"

"No." He was about to tell her more, but after taking another glance at the trunk, he suddenly felt the need to get out of the apartment as fast as he could. "I'll be right over, and I'll tell you all about it."

He'd had to be judicious in the retelling. Several times he almost stumbled over a pronoun, nearly saying
I
rather than
he
in describing Spider-Man's confrontation with Flint Marko. He helped himself by sticking as closely to the truth as he could. He explained that Spider-Man apparently listened in on police band radios; that Marko's being sought in connection with the death of Ben Parker had been broadcast; that Spider-Man had confronted Marko, a battle had ensued, and…

Peter wondered if he'd be able to go into the specifics of what had happened, as "told to him by Spider-Man." He didn't hesitate, as it turned out. Indeed, he went into nearly excruciating detail, including Sandman's agonizing last moments and his being reduced to nothing but a small river of mud.

A fitting end for someone who was little more than creeping dime.

Aunt May's eyes widened as the narrative progressed. When Peter finished, he leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath, feeling exhausted just in the recounting. He waited for May to say, "Thank God Ben can finally rest easy" or "Heaven bless Spider-Man for ridding the world of such a monster." In short, he wanted her to react with the same sort of adulation and praise that the rest of the city had heaped upon him during the "We Love Spider-Man" ceremony.

Instead, to his surprise, May said nothing at first. After some seconds had passed, she finally remarked, "Oh. I see."

That was it.

Not exactly the reaction that Peter had expected or hoped for.

He was about to ask her if she fully understood everything—that Marko was gone, Uncle Ben avenged, the city safe. Before he could:

"Spider-Man?" she asked, as if she thought Peter might be misinformed. "I don't understand. Spider-Man doesn't kill people."

Peter was stunned at the response. Until that moment, he hadn't even registered the full ramifications of what he'd done. He didn't regret for an instant how Marko went out. How could Aunt May even begin to understand? When you're in a fight for your life, you don't hold back. If you have an opportunity for a killing blow, you take it, and especially when someone deserves it as much as Flint Marko did…

Except…

When did "deserves" have anything to do with it? Did Norman Osborn deserve to die for all he'd done? Yes. Dr. Octopus? Unquestionably. Yet given the opportunities in both instances, Peter had never even come close to taking them out. Both had perished, but not by his doing. The Goblin had impaled himself on his own glider in a failed attempt to kill Spider-Man, and Octopus had nobly sacrificed himself to save the city. In the case of Sandman, though, it had been no quarter asked nor given.