Authors: Peter David
"We are who we choose to be," the Goblin continued. "But a day will come when you must ask yourself, did I
choose wisely? Why am I risking my life for these ungrate
ful fools?"
"Because . . . it's right . . ."
The Goblin circled him, mockingly, out of reach. Spider-Man was glancing around, as if unable to focus on where he
was.
"Right? Wrong? Capital R, capital W? You're young,
aren't you." It wasn't a question. He was becoming more and
more convinced that he was dealing with someone who was,
at most, college age. "You believe in myth, beauty, profes
sional athletes as role models. Well, here's the real truth.
There are fourteen million people in this city," and he
pointed all around them. "Those teeming masses exist for the sole purpose of lifting a few exceptional people onto
their shoulders. You, me, we are exceptional. I had problems,
but I used my God-given powers and poof . . . those prob
lems vanished."
Spider-Man was focused on him now. The gas might be
starting to wear off . . . and if that triggered a fight, then
Spider-Man might not have time to dwell on everything the
Goblin had said. So it was probably time to bring this to a
close, to leave the "hero" with something to chew upon.
"Imagine what we could accomplish together. What we could create
. . . or . . .
We could destroy, cause the deaths of countless innocents in selfish battle again and again. And
again ... until we are both dead."
The glider, under his guidance, angled upward. "Think
about it, hero," he called mockingly over his shoulder. Then
he flew off into the glare of the morning sun.
Dear Mom and Dad:
I've got good news and bad news.
The bad news is, the early edition of the
Daily Bugle
carried a
headline that read, "Spider-Man, Green Goblin Terrorize City." The
good news is, the next day's edition didn't say that.
More bad news and good news. The bad news is that the next day's edition said, "Spider-Man, It's Time for a Bug-Free City," and featured
an editorial from J.Jonah Jameson about how the Green Goblin and I
don't care about who gets hurt, or about anything except whomping on each other. The good news is . . . well . . . there's not really any good news, I guess.
God help me, the stuff the Goblin was saying made sense. I find
myself clinging on to one notion and one notion only, and that is that I'm "the good guy." Because I'm the good guy, I don't get pulled into
the mindset that creates that sort of creature.
Except... well, it's almost Darwinian, isn't it. Natural selection. The
strong survive. And the fact was that the Goblin had me cold. I got
cocky and overconfident, he hit me with one whiff of gas, and boom, I
was gone. If he hadn't caught me before I hit the ground, I'd be a pan
cake. He saved me for a reason. A twisted, demented reason, but a
reason. And what he said . . . for a moment there
...I
was listening. Really listening. And worse, I think he knew I was listening.
The last thing I want to do is give a monster like him any reason
to think that I could be swayed over to his side.
Still ...the strong survive.
He may be stronger than I am. I mean, I'm still sorting out why I do what I do. Still trying to cope with the notion that I'm busting my
ass for a citizenry that tosses aside common sense in exchange for
believing tabloid headlines written by a man like Jameson.
but the Goblin, he was so sure of himself. He had so much con
viction in his voice, in his attitude. He was like a living incarnation of chaos, and proud of it.
Me . . .
I'm starting to think I don't know what I am.
XXI.
THE STALKER
Mary Jane Watson stood in front of the casting director,
holding the pages of the script in her hand, and she was prac
tically trembling with indignation. She felt her eyes stinging
and willed herself not to cry. It wasn't easy.
The audition room had been hot and cramped, and the
casting director, a woman named April Reese, watched her with cold contempt, which was in startling contrast to the
near-movie-star looks she displayed. M. J. had just read for
a small part in the popular soap opera
Guiding Life
and was
convinced she'd nailed it
. . .
until she looked into Ms.
Reese's eyes and saw otherwise.
Reese studied her meticulously manicured red finger
nails a moment, as if pondering exactly what to say. "Nor
mally, Ms. Watson, I'd say 'Very nice, thank you, next,' and
move on with the audition. But I think I'd be doing you a
disservice."
"You would?" Mary Jane said uneasily.
"Yes. But I'm going to make an exception in this case."
"You are?" For a heartbeat M. J. felt hopeful.
"I am. Ms. Watson, when I asked your agent if he had any fresh young ingenue types with red hair, your agent gave me the impression he was sending a professional over. Someone
with promise. The reading you gave was hopelessly ama
teurish. Hopelessly, as in, no hope of improvement."
Mary Jane trembled, giving the acting performance of her
life as she forced a smile and said, "Really."
"Really. At the very least, I'd recommend acting lessons.
A lot. For a long time.
"At the very most," she said, shrugging, "I'd recommend
finding some nice guy to settle down with to take care of
you. In the meantime, don't quit your day job."
All the blood drained from M.J.'s face. She felt a sharp stinging like a thousand needles in her pores. "I appreciate
your candor," she said in a very clipped voice.
"Good." When M. I didn't move, Reese cleared her
throat and said, "Okay, we've now come to the part where I
say, 'Thank you, next.' You'll forgive me if I skip the part
where I say 'very nice.' Doesn't seem appropriate."
"Well, good," said Mary Jane, fighting to keep her voice
even. "And if it's all the same to you, we'll skip the part
where I deck you. That wouldn't be appropriate, either."
She turned and stormed out the door, leaving April Reese
sitting there, smiling. Then Reese pulled out a cell phone from her purse, briskly dialed a number, and waited.
"Flash," she said. "It's your Auntie April, the casting di
rector. How are you doing, honey? Listen. That little girl
who dumped you on graduation day? Picture this: She
comes in here for an audition, absolutely nails the reading—
probably knows she nailed it—and guess what I said to
her . . . ? Yup. That's right, Flash. Payback, bigtime
. . . "
Mary Jane stomped down the narrow stairs, almost tripping once, and then burst out the side door of the television
studio. She spun, slammed the door behind her, then
laughed bitterly at the sign that read,
artists only.
The temperature had dropped, and there were clouds
rolling in, hinting at rain. She drew her coat around her, try
ing not to give in to the misery she felt. Never had she more
wanted to see a sympathetic face than she did at that mo
ment, but there was no one to
. . .
"Hey!"
She turned and saw Peter Parker walking toward her. He was dressed in jeans and a brown coat, and had an umbrella
tucked under his arm. She couldn't believe it. There were celebrity stalkers out there who had less of a track record
than Peter did for showing up unexpectedly. Not that she was
unhappy to see him; far from it. But he seemed to be turn-
| ing into the king of the unexpected. "Hey!" was all she could
think to say.
He stood in front of her, his hands shoved into his pock
ets. "How was the audition?" he asked.
M. J. was utterly taken aback. "How'd you know?"
"The hotline." Peter shrugged, as if it was the most obvi
ous thing in the world. "Your mom told my aunt, who told me. We have no secrets from each other."
"So you just came by." She didn't know whether to be annoyed or flattered.
"I was in the neighborhood. I needed to see a friendly
face." When he saw her skeptical expression, he admitted,
"Took two buses and a cab to
get
in the neighborhood,
but . . . "
And Mary Jane blurted out, "They told me I need acting lessons." When she saw his surprised expression, she just shook her head in disbelief. "A
soap opera
told me I need
acting lessons."
The rain had indeed started to fall. Peter, prepared as al
ways, snapped open the umbrella and held it over her head.
"I'll buy you a cheeseburger. Sky's the limit, up to," and he
reached into his pocket to check, "seven dollars and eighty-
four cents."
She laughed at that. It felt good. Up in the audition room,
she'd felt as if she'd never laugh again.
"I'd like a cheeseburger, but . . . " She paused, and then
added apologetically, "I'm going to dinner with Harry." M. J.
saw the disappointment in his eyes and thought of all the ef
fort he'd gone to just to be outside when she came down
from the audition. Just to be there
. . .
for her. "Come with
us," she suggested.
"No, thanks," he said easily, and then, less easily, as if the
relationship were a scab he couldn't help but pick at, he said,
"I mean with you and
. . .
never mind, none of my business."
"It's not?" She cocked her head. "Why so interested?"
"I'm not
. . .
am I interested?"
"You're not?"
"Well . . .
why
would
I be?"
And Mary Jane began to feel something stirring within
her. Old embers being slowly stoked to life. The slow real
ization of the difference between being happy
for
some
one
. . .
and being
with
someone who
made
you happy.
"I don't know. Why would you be?" she asked softly.
"Y'know
. . .
just . . . " He seemed totally at a loss for
words. Was it because he was feeling emotions that he
couldn't express
. . .
or that he just didn't have a clue what
she was going on about, because he wasn't interested?
"I don't know," he said finally.
She smiled, waited.
Nothing.