Authors: Peter David
"What? "
he shouted at Peter for no discernible reason.
Without a word, Robertson held up the photos so Jame
son could see them. Jameson blinked, squinted, then looked
questioningly at Robertson. Robertson slowly nodded,
silently affirming that these were the real deal. Jameson
looked at Peter in disbelief, then shrugged and waved them
into his office.
The moment Peter was in, Jonah practically pushed him
into a battleship-gray chair in front of the desk, which
creaked in protest. Peter looked around. The office didn't
look as if a new stick of furniture had been put in there since
before the Nixon administration.
Robertson spread them out on Jonah's desk as Peter tried
not to pass out from the cigar smoke that clung to everything
in the office. He glanced up and saw a smoke detector, hang
ing disassembled from the ceiling. That pretty much said it
all.
"They're crap," said Jameson briskly, flipping through
each one. "Crap. Crap. Megacrap."
Peter couldn't believe it, particularly after Robertson had
been effusive in his praise. "But . . ." he managed to get out.
"Completely static," said Jameson. "You didn't follow the action at all. It looks like you shot them all from a third floor
office window and were too paralyzed with fear to move
your point of view around."
Peter gulped loudly. That was way too close to the truth
for comfort. "There was a lot going on," he said, sounding
lame even to himself.
"A real news photographer doesn't keep a safe distance,"
Jameson growled. "You and your camera should have been
right in the middle of this action."
Well, I was,
Peter thought grimly. Then he noticed that
Robertson was winking at him, sending him a silent but distinct message: Hang in there. And Peter tumbled to the fact
that Jameson was being a hardcase, probably to lowball him.
"I'll give you three hundred for all of 'em," snapped
Jameson.
Subtly, Peter's glance went over to Robertson. Robertson nonchalantly had his hand near his face, as if scratching his chin. And then, very slowly, he extended all five fingers as a mute signal to Peter.
Feeling buoyed, Peter said with confidence, "That seems
a little low."
"Then take them somewhere else," Jonah said brusquely.
Peter shrugged, stood up and started to gather up the pho
tos. But before he could, Jonah Jameson slammed his hands
down on them and scowled furiously.
"Sit down!
All right,
all right." He sighed as if he was offering to open up his
chest and scoop his own heart out with a spoon. "I'll give
you five hundred. That's the standard freelance fee."
Robertson nodded ever so slightly and Peter automatically imitated. Not realizing where the cues were coming from, Jameson scooped up the shots, making sure to keep
one in particular on top. He tapped it. Peter noticed there ap
peared to be ink under Jameson's fingernails and wondered
if it was there permanently. "Tear up page one," Jameson
was saying to Robertson, "run that shot instead."
Peter couldn't believe it. Page one? He was going to be
on the front page of the
Daily Bugle!
No. Not him, he reminded himself. Spider-Man. He had
to remember that. Spider-Man was exciting, mysterious,
interesting. Peter Parker was none of those things, and if he valued his sanity, it was going to stay that way.
"Headline?" asked Robertson.
Jameson held his hands up as if envisioning the words on
a movie theater marquee. " 'Spider-Man, Hero or Menace?
Exclusive Daily Bugle Photos!' "
Immediately Peter was on his feet. "Menace?" he said
incredulously. "Sir, he was protecting that bank from
those—!"
Jameson rounded on him, scowling. "Tell you what, Atticus
, you take the pictures, I make up the headlines. Okay? That all right with you?"
It was everything Peter could do to control himself. He
wanted to shout that no, it was
not
all right with him, and
that Spider-Man had been putting his butt on the line while
Jameson was sitting on his, up in this ivory tower, making
pronouncements that might frighten people, turn them
against him....
But he controlled himself. That wasn't going to accom
plish anything. And besides, people didn't believe every
thing they read in newspapers, right? They'd know that
Spider-Man was one of the good guys. Why, Peter would
fight that perception himself, bringing in photos of Spider-Man helping people. Who cared about the words in a head
line? Weren't pictures louder than words?
"Yes, sir," Peter said, although his fist was clenched and
shaking slightly. "I
. . .
would like a job, sir."
"No jobs!" snapped Jameson, much to Peter's dismay.
"Freelance. Best thing in the world for a kid your age. Bring
me shots of that newspaper-selling clown and I might take 'em off your hands." He made shooing motions toward the door. Come on, get out of here! I got deadlines!"
Dear Mom and Dad:
I feel like I'm totally screwing myself.
For weeks now, I've been bringing pictures into the
Bugle.
Pictures
I've been snapping of myself in action as Spider-Man. And with each
new set of shots I figure, maybe this'll be the one that turns Jame
son's opinion around.
Instead there are always new headlines about what a creep I am.
Not me... the other me. And it's all Jameson. Robbie . . . that's Joe
Robertson's nickname. I feel weird calling a man old enough to be my dad by a nickname, but he insisted after a while. Anyway, Robbie told me on the QT that Jonah Jameson personally skews the slant of all the
coverage. There was one headline that was originally "NY Cheers
Costumed Hero." And Jameson changed it to "NY Fears Costumed
Coward." Robbie got so tired of having his headlines changed that he
stopped making suggestions. So Jameson rose to the occasion and
came up with things like "Spider-Alan: Super-Hero or Super-Zero," "big Apple Fears Spider bite!," and, my personal favorite, "Spider-
Man: Threat or Menace?"
Robbie started getting curious about my "luck." He took me aside
one day and said, "Care to tell me how you're doing it, son? Do you
monitor police band frequencies? Do you have people who alert you
when they see the wallcrawler? Do you have some sort of deal
worked out with Spider-Man himself so he tells you where he's pa
trolling and you split the money from the photos?"
I just shrugged and smiled and said, "A magician never reveals his
secrets, Robbie."
Robbie just kind of shrugged, and didn't push it. As for Jonah Jameson
, it doesn't matter to him. As long as the pictures keep rolling in,
he couldn't care less.
One day I couldn't take it anymore. I admit, when I first met Jame
son, I was totally intimidated, but I got so fed up that I buttonholed
him in his office and asked him why he was so hard on someone like
Spider-Man who was clearly on the side of the law?
And he said, "He thinks he is the law. There's no place in this so
ciety for vigilante justice. Once one person takes the law into his own
hands, it's anarchy."
I didn't know what to say to that. I mean, I don't think I'm taking
the law into my own hands. It's not like I'm going around executing
people or stuff. I'm just stopping bad guys. But how am I supposed to
change Jameson's mind? It's not like I can tell him what's going
through Spider-Man's head. I asked him if I could do something other than Spider-Man pictures, but he said no, I should stick with what I'm
doing.
To my relief, Robbie stepped in. I think he realized how uncom
fortable I was getting with the situation. "J.J., we need someone to
cover the World Unity Festival. Let's send Peter."
Jonah kind of snarled and said, "World Unity Festival! Another epic
display of OsCorp self-aggrandizement!"
"I thought you and Osborn were friends," said Robbie.
"We are! You should hear how I talk about my enemies."
I didn't need to. I knew already. It was in the headlines . . . and Spider-Man had never even done anything to him.
Finally Jonah said, 'Fine, send him," and then turned to me and snapped, "but I never said you have a job! Meat! I'll give you a box of
Christmas meat! Best I can do!
Now get me more pictures
!"
Christmas meat. There's something to live for. Knowing him he'll
wait until it's on sale for half price, like during Easter. It'll be delivered
in a hazardous waste container. Christmas meat. Sheesh.
I suppose the one joy I'm getting out of all this-aside from mak
ing money off the very thing that cost me my internship-is the knowl
edge that J. Jonah Jameson is paying me to take pictures of myself
He'd probably have a coronary if he knew.
XVII.
THE FESTIVAL
Norman Osborn looked out across the New York skyline, of which he had a splendid view from his office at the top of
OsCorp corporate headquarters. He stood there, taking in
the fresh morning sun, feeling as if he could literally reach
out and scoop up the entire city in the palm of his hand and
say, "Mine. All mine."
There was some pronounced throat clearing behind him.
He turned to them, his board of directors, all lined up like lit
tle ducks in a row, with their leather-bound folders open in front of them as they followed his description of the current
state of affairs. Smiling over having made them wait, he
slipped back into his chair at the head of the table and con
tinued as if he'd never stopped talking. "In addition," he said,
"we've secured three major new government contracts, and
I'm proud to announce that—as of today—OsCorp Indus
tries has surpassed Quest Aerospace as principal supplier to the United States Military. In short, ladies and gentlemen of the board, costs are down, revenue is up, and our stock has
never been higher."