your neighborhood friendly spider-man
Peter was exhausted. He'd been fighting the scum of New York for years now and it never got easier, seeing Mary Jane or Aunt May or Harry thrown into the line of fire because of his mistakes and his mission. It tired him out and he wished that he could just get away from it all but the allure of being Spider-Man drew him back each and every time. He wished, more than once, to be a normal kid, to just go to college and get his degree and get out there in the world with dreams in his head and a pretty girl on his arm.
Oh, he had pretty girls all right. He'd had a great girl until his run in with that symbiote ruined his chances with Mary Jane all the way. He'd been such an idiot, flaunting poor Gwen Stacy in front of Mary Jane like he'd won some prize and that Mary Jane would be lucky to have him back. Truth be told, it was probably the other way around. "No," Peter thought, "it was definitely the other way around."
He stretched and pulled out Aunt May's ring again, gazing at the way the low light from his ancient lamp lit up the diamond and made it sparkle. It wasn't anywhere near as big as the ring MJ had gotten from John Jameson that time and probably wasn't anything like what Harry could have given her, but he was satisfied with it. He knew MJ would appreciate the history behind it, the love he had in giving it to her. That was, of course, if she'd even talk to him again.
Sure, he'd saved her from two supervillains (really, that was a new record. Where did these guys come from?) and sent her back on her merry way again but that was Spider-Man, not Peter Parker. Peter Parker hadn't done anything for her in a very long time and, truth be told, he wouldn't be surprised at all if MJ told him where to shove it. He needed to think. Maybe a road trip would do that?
He put the ring back into his desk and pulled out a portfolio of Spider-Man photos: pretty spectacular shots in his opinion. He decided he'd go to the Times and sell them since they were a lot less stingy with their money than Jameson down at the Bugle and then he'd go out west. He'd always wanted to visit California and, if he went to LA, maybe he could see some stars. Heck, maybe he'd even see MJ. She'd always wanted to be in movies.
Peter took the train downtown to the Times and, after waiting in a ridiculously long line, managed to sell the photos of Spidey for a ridiculous amount of money-more than enough to cover a cheap plane ticket, a rental car and a hotel. He took the first available flight and settled into the seat. He always slept on long trips and this was no exception. Even though it was his first ever flight, he slept like a baby and woke up bleary eyed at LAX hours later.
He rented his car, a cheap compact, and headed south, deciding to take a ride on old Route 66 the way they always did in the movies. He was really camping it up this time. He made it to an old hotel and snickered at the name. Hotel California, hah. He decided this was as good a time as any to stop and rued the fact that he didn't have his camera on him: it'd make a great editorial shot.
Of course, at this point, he was more interested in getting a shower and sleeping for a long, long time. He rang the bell and got checked in, hotel key in hand. The service was fast, if anything. He couldn't remember whether or not he locked the car doors and decided to head back out to check on that, maybe make a phone call or two. Weird. He couldn't leave. And was his vision fuzzy? His vision hadn't been fuzzy in years.
"Hey, this isn't right. Did I take a wrong turn at Albuquerque?"
The joke fell flatter than usual: the bellhop was gone. Great.
Oh, he had pretty girls all right. He'd had a great girl until his run in with that symbiote ruined his chances with Mary Jane all the way. He'd been such an idiot, flaunting poor Gwen Stacy in front of Mary Jane like he'd won some prize and that Mary Jane would be lucky to have him back. Truth be told, it was probably the other way around. "No," Peter thought, "it was definitely the other way around."
He stretched and pulled out Aunt May's ring again, gazing at the way the low light from his ancient lamp lit up the diamond and made it sparkle. It wasn't anywhere near as big as the ring MJ had gotten from John Jameson that time and probably wasn't anything like what Harry could have given her, but he was satisfied with it. He knew MJ would appreciate the history behind it, the love he had in giving it to her. That was, of course, if she'd even talk to him again.
Sure, he'd saved her from two supervillains (really, that was a new record. Where did these guys come from?) and sent her back on her merry way again but that was Spider-Man, not Peter Parker. Peter Parker hadn't done anything for her in a very long time and, truth be told, he wouldn't be surprised at all if MJ told him where to shove it. He needed to think. Maybe a road trip would do that?
He put the ring back into his desk and pulled out a portfolio of Spider-Man photos: pretty spectacular shots in his opinion. He decided he'd go to the Times and sell them since they were a lot less stingy with their money than Jameson down at the Bugle and then he'd go out west. He'd always wanted to visit California and, if he went to LA, maybe he could see some stars. Heck, maybe he'd even see MJ. She'd always wanted to be in movies.
Peter took the train downtown to the Times and, after waiting in a ridiculously long line, managed to sell the photos of Spidey for a ridiculous amount of money-more than enough to cover a cheap plane ticket, a rental car and a hotel. He took the first available flight and settled into the seat. He always slept on long trips and this was no exception. Even though it was his first ever flight, he slept like a baby and woke up bleary eyed at LAX hours later.
He rented his car, a cheap compact, and headed south, deciding to take a ride on old Route 66 the way they always did in the movies. He was really camping it up this time. He made it to an old hotel and snickered at the name. Hotel California, hah. He decided this was as good a time as any to stop and rued the fact that he didn't have his camera on him: it'd make a great editorial shot.
Of course, at this point, he was more interested in getting a shower and sleeping for a long, long time. He rang the bell and got checked in, hotel key in hand. The service was fast, if anything. He couldn't remember whether or not he locked the car doors and decided to head back out to check on that, maybe make a phone call or two. Weird. He couldn't leave. And was his vision fuzzy? His vision hadn't been fuzzy in years.
"Hey, this isn't right. Did I take a wrong turn at Albuquerque?"
The joke fell flatter than usual: the bellhop was gone. Great.