Chapter 2: Gross

Hobie Brown volunteered at the Lincoln Dynamic Youth Center. He loved it. He loved working with the kids, he loved organizing and participating in their events, and he loved making a visible difference. The Lincoln Dynamic Youth Center kept kids out of gangs, off the streets, away from drug dealers and in touch with people who cared and listened. The Lincoln Dynamic Youth Center was doomed. It was ironic and sickening. The philanthropic act by the world's greatest criminal boss was to keep kids away from lives of crime. Tombstone's mask was shattered. The world new L Thompson Lincoln was the Big Man of Crime. The ATF, FBI, NSA and a half dozen other acronyms were watching him like a hawk. His assets were frozen, much of it seized. Putting him away would topple a criminal empire from the head, it'd be a great headline and everyone would celebrate. Everyone but the volunteers at the Lincoln Dynamic Youth Center and the 340 kids who needed the place. No more funding. Rent, power bills, cable bills, equipment costs, food costs. They only had til the end of September. You can only have so many bake sales, car washes and fun runs with underprivileged kids. The bills were just too high.

"It's not fair!" Hobie complained to Glory one of the other volunteers.

"I know Hobie," Glory gripped Hobie on the shoulder, "The best we can do is our best. Help who we can help while we can help them."

"The streets are crazy! We've been losing kids in dribs and drabs since the Goblin and--"

"I know you're worried, Hobie. But if you care that much, know you will make a difference."

Hobie deflated. While the Youth Center stood, there was still work to do. Glory handed Hobie a mop. He turned and entered the front door.

Steven Levins left Rikers with an unenthusiastic slouch. He didn't have very much. There were seventeen dollars in his pocket along with the three condoms and two cigarettes. He was wearing the clothes he had been arrested in: a grungy green shirt, a pair of baggy black jeans, dilapidated running shoes and unwashed socks. The pumpkin mask had been confiscated as evidence. He pushed up the glasses that were slipping down his nose. The only thing he had ever gotten from his father was a name and from his mother he had his Korean heritage and some valuable life lessons. He had flushed those down the toilet by his third stint in juvenile detention. Steve was feeling pretty pissed off.

Prison hadn't been kind to Levins. He had been a guarded and cautious crook, until he had become the first of Goblin's pumpkin-headed army. Then he had been locked away in an island fortress with dozens of guys still loyal to the Big Man. His turned coat had cost Levins his cool head and three broken ribs. He was low man on all totem poles. The one chance he had to climb out from under heel earned him a kick in the face from the goddamned Spider-man. Now he was out. Five and a half months, two weeks early parole. The Big Man was down. Silvermane had no teeth. Goblin had died on his own bombs. The city was just waiting for her King.

He was walking across the bridge to Queens. Anger flooded his thoughts because neither his buddy nor his girlfriend had bothered to come get him. The wind off the East River knew spring was just around the corner and was doing its damnedest to get in what winter in it could. He was determined to spend his money on what he had been craving for his entire incarceration: the greasiest cheeseburger he could find. It was a long walk home.

The bus rides cut into his pocket change but Steven finally made it to the Bronx. It was just after eleven am and the sun was making the weather almost tolerable. Teeth chattering, he pushed into the dive he knew his buddies lived at. It had been some time, he'd been jailed since October, his two accomplices getting several hundred hours of community service. The Goblin made me do it! Please! I'm so sorry! Defense only seemed to work for young women with fake tears and goons whose fathers could afford actual lawyers. He was about to announce his entrance, as he pushed into apartment 6 but the sound he was greeted by shut his jaw tight.

She held her own ankle with whitened knuckles. She had torn one of the pigtails out of her red and black hair. She was still wearing her sleeves and dress. The hem was hiked up and bunched up over the tops of her tits. A pair of jeans still hung off her left leg. Steven's best friend plowed his girl. He was the one making noise, a gruff furious grunt, and sharp words that told the girl just how much she liked it. Steven closed the door behind him with a slam.

The girl jumped and his friend looked over his shoulder reaching for the piece in the track pants around his ankles. She covered up, crossing her legs over her sloppy red sex, his friend just waved his cock around as he recognized his old buddy.

"Steve! You're out!"

"You knew damned well I was out today," His eyes ignored the girl as she scrambled to get dressed and decent. "I had to walk from Rikers!"

He looked around at the sty of the studio apartment. The ratty green couch was still there. The battered plaster was still picked away from the red brick walls. The rest was changed. His friend's bed, which had been more of wire and spring cot under a soiled mattress, had been replaced with an unmade king-sized bed. The sheets were pulled off at the right shoulder. The pillows mostly tore up from friction with the chainlink headboard. The handcuffs hanging from the wires told an interesting story. Their old TV, a shitty sixteen inch plasma with more dead pixels than screen had been replaced by a giant fifty two inch hi-definition flat screen with a massive sound system all around the room. The floor was still unswept but the moth eaten rug was gone. A pair of six hundred dollar spike heeled boots were kicked off in its place. Poster's of hot punk looking chicks with guitars and bare breasts adorned the walls. An interesting compromise between the two tenants. The desk, where they usually kept schematics and blueprints for their next job now had a massive gaming PC. Steven looked back to the friends. The girl was dressed again, shoving out her jaw uncompromisingly. Her eyes were full of fear. His buddy was adjusting his pants, making sure his hand cannon of a pistol didn't fall down his ass crack.

"Where's the money coming from?" Steven kept an unimpressed icy glare in reserve for the chick and directed himself at the guy.

"Goblin--" The girl immediately began but the man shut her down.

"Dude, you're on parole," The guy said in a strong and steady tone. "You can't get too close yet. We'll cut you in once you've got a routine you can fake well enough that."

Steven punched his friend in the face. He bulked up almost fifteen pounds in prison. He had been in shape beforehand, but now he was intimidating. The little fat he had was burned away in favor of slender, stiff, wiry muscle. He wasn't too much bigger, except around the chest, but he was stronger. The friend had been expecting the blow and had braced for it pretty well. He staggered back a step and collapsed as his senses rebooted with a quick flicker. The gun at his back hit the floor first and he grunted in pain as his piece forced the entire fall onto his tailbone.

"You fuck my girl. You leave me to rot. You find yourself rolling in green and I'm going to back off and wait until you're ready to give me a chance?" Steven sounded very calm but the girl could tell otherwise. His friend had known Levins since the third grade. He was thinking of grabbing his gun. "Where's the money coming from?"

"We were working for the Goblin!" The girl shouted, ignoring the bloodshot look of death from the man on the floor. "Spider-man attacked when we were moving a truck for the Goblin. He," She indicated the man on the floor, "Managed to get away from the docks without being webbed up for the cops. He stashed away an eighteen wheeler of the Goblin's arsenal. Spider-man had been pounding every crew of pumpkinheads he could find. We figured it was time to get out of the game. The money we got was from selling off Gobby-tech to other gangs."

"What's left?" Steven turned his gaze on the girl. Her motormouth picked up speed.

"A little over half the truck. Two big things, several cannons. Couple drums of gobweb and all of the pumpkin bombs." She took a panicked breath. Her cough made him smile.

"We're not selling anymore." Steven turned to where his friend was considering whether standing on his own two feet was smart. "We're taking over this city."

Peter Parker signed off his email. He had just sent the gala pictures into the Bugle. On screen were the many shots he had gathered of Spidey vs Cat. He was appalled, giddy and very very sore. An hour ago he had lost his virginity. He had memory stick full of photos to prove it. The distance had left a little to be desired, but the new camera he had purchased had so much detail he could count the freckles on Cat's left breast. Two. Peter began with the photos at the gargoyle, cropping and clipping so he had the best of the best. Twice he alt-tabbed over to the more adult sets. His scratches itched as they healed.

The self-satisfied smirk on his face battled his uncertainty. What did this mean? What did Cat want? It couldn't be love, they had left their masks on. Could it be love? He never felt for Cat what he felt for Gwen. He never felt for Cat what he continued to feel for Liz. The Black Cat was the most beautiful woman Peter Parker had ever laid eyes on.

The scratches all over his body stung. He had washed them out in the shower, but they had already scabbed and begun to heal by the time he had swung into Forest Hills. That trip home had been painful. His wounds had kept reopening from the tension in his arms. He must have misted an entire street with a trail of his blood. His spider suit was in rags, he had two spares, but the thermals he had worn underneath were going to be hard to replace.

Money. There'd be some for the photos he had taken with Ned but choice Spider-man pics paid the best. He scrolled back, out of the pictures that showed off Cat's glorious body and into the precursors where Spider-man was taking a beating from the Cat. Jameson did pay more for photos of the webhead's defeats. He knew he could make money hand over fist with the pornographic ones. There were too many reasons why that wasn't an option. Cat didn't know she was being photographed. Peter was unable to take advantage of any woman like that. Also, his aunt's heart would break if Peter became some shameless pornographer. There were legal reasons too. The boy in those pictures wasn't eighteen. How old was Cat? She was a real woman anyways, and totally hot. Maybe he should stop being so proud of himself?

Uncertain and confused, Peter winced as he pulled his undershirt on over his wounds. It ended up on the floor before he could get his elbow's through the holes. He fell backward onto his bed. Well, Peter, He thought to himself, It has never felt so good to be hurt so badly.

Steven and his two friends arrived at the stashed semi truck. The girl was wrapped up in an expensive fur lined winter coat. His buddy was still in his old rough and tumble wear. Steven's windbreaker was little use against the cold. He stomped his feet as his friend opened up the back doors. There were lights along the ceiling and the girl walked around to the cab to turn them on. The arsenal was big. Sixteen munitions crates of pumpkin bombs were on the left. Six of seven gun racks were empty. They stood behind four boxes of magazines and rounds. The drums of Gobweb were labeled with dozens of frightening labels. Steven climbed up and walked around checking on the things they had. At the back, there was the parts to the flying machines Goblin had outfitted his Gob Squad with. Two inhibitor cannons were in a green steel crate.

"I'm going to need our old B&E gear," Levins declared coming back out. His friend was fidgety, thinking about the gun in his belt, "Plus a decent toolbox." He had one of the Tri-Corp rifles over his shoulder. A magazine full of spiked munitions balls was jammed into the breach. "We'll take your car."

"Steve," The friend pleaded, "We've got a great thing going. We can make a killing with this. Enough money to keep us living like kings for years. We start using this shit and we'll have cops crawling up our asses until we're either dead or in prison."

"And then we run out of money, and we fall back into the same piss-ant, petty theft, knee-breaking bullshit squalor we've been stuffed in for three years." Steven sneered, "There's only one way to get respect in this city anymore. You need a costume and ambition. Adrian Goddamn Toomes was respected in the joint. The bloody vulture was a myopic old bat without a success to his name. Fight the Spider, live forever. Someone's got to pick up what the Goblin left for us. We're going to the top. And the only way there is through Spider-man."

"What? Spider-man! You're fucking crazy. No, I'm taking--" The laziness with which Steven dropped the gun and fired was written across his face. His friend's voice rattled as he fell over with a wound in his chest. The girl watched on, all color drained from her face. Steven turned to her and said, "Get the car. I'll take care of him." She nodded as Steven threw his buddy's body into the truck. A box of pumpkin bombs was dumped and he shoved the corpse into crate. The buckles closed and he stepped out to where the shell shocked girl was driving the car. He was wearing his friend's coat, the zipper still slick with blood, but it had been opened and dirty wasn't damaged in this cold weather.

"We'll need to pick up some cleaning supplies too." Levins said as he closed the semi's doors.

"Mr Gargan to see you Mr Jameson," Betty spoke into the intercom as the private detective ogled her. He made her skin crawl, but she did her job and sent him in to speak with her boss.

"Much obliged, young lady," He tipped his imaginary hat to Betty and walked in through the frosted glass doors to J. Jonah Jameson's office.

Robbie Robertson was standing behind his boss's chair to the right. They were sorting through Peter's latest pictures for the next scoop. Jameson had too excellent shots that both showed off Black Cat and diminished Spider-man. Robbie had talked him out of the headline: Trouble In Paradise.

"There you are you layabout!" Jonah put down his pictures and looked up at Mac Gargan. "I sent you after that Parker kid 7.3 weeks ago and I expect results."

"Uh, actually you hired me last Thursday and--"

"I want results Gargan! Not excuses." Jameson growled. "He clearly went after the webhead."

"He, uh, left the gala with the Osborn kid and their girls," Robbie narrowed his eyes at Gargan's tone and body language, "They were at a fast food joint. All of the sudden, the police fly by and he's off on foot after them. I followed, but lost him around two alleys."

"You lost him? One high school kid on foot?" Jameson's anger was outweighed by his disappointment.

"He's a fast runner and he's much smaller. The street was full of people." Gargan floundered.

"Enough of your excuses!" Jameson stood up and slammed his hands on the desk. "You want your next paycheck? You find out how that Parker kid is getting these Spidey pictures. Until then, I don't want to see your degenerate face in my office. I don't want to see you in my town! Get out! Get out!"

Gargan slipped off. Jameson sat down but didn't calm down. Robbie couldn't stay silent. "Jonah, we've got a half dozen capable investigative journalists. If you want this story why not put one of them on it and not some hack P.I.?"

"Parker knows our staff," Jonah scowled, "He's bound to notice if a familiar face is tailing him. No, I'll leave it to Gargan for now." He picked up a picture of Black Cat kicking Spider-man across the jaw. "Run this one."

Spring Break brought visions of morally suspect college girls in sandy places getting more liquor and even more regrets. Spring break from Midtown happened from just before St Paddy's day through the beginning of spring. Harry took Gwen with him down to one of those tropical Gomorrahs. It was a let's-get-away-and-try-to-have-a-moment-to-ourselves-trip with his mother. Peter wondered how George had allowed that to happen. No Pete! Harry's in a bad place right now. He needs Gwen. Besides it's not like he's going to go Spider-man on Black Cat the moment they're out of sight, now is it? Visions of Gwen in Black Cat's catsuit caused his web swinging path to take a more erratic path than his usual smooth flight. Black Cat. That's why he was out tonight. The third night in a row hunting pussy. Hunting Black Cat. He swung by their usual hangout. The gargoyle was empty. Than he just followed his gut making random swings around the city. His camera had a handful of new Spidey pics and the NYPD had a dozen or so web-wrapped presents waiting for them on assorted lampposts and fire escapes. Another busy night. It was only 9:30 but he decided to make his way home.

What the hell? Peter was panicked to see his bedroom light on when he landed in the denuded tree in his backyard. Worse. There was a fiery redhead in his room! What now MJ? And why was she wearing the top to his spare Spider-man costume? Peter than noticed that nothing covered her legs. Eyes up top, Peter! What am I going to do? He quickly swung out of sight to think.

It was about ten minutes later, dressed in his civilian threads, that Peter walked into his home with a half ton of icy butterflies in his stomach.

"Hello, Peter," Aunt May muted the flamboyant television chef she was watching. "Mary Jane came by, I let her go up to your room." Aunt May's smile suggested that Peter's secret was still sequestered to his room.

"Uh, what did she want?" Peter delayed a moment.

"Well, you'll have to ask her dear," May smiled, in a little too knowing way. Peter suppressed a shudder as his overactive imagination recalled Black Cat's costume that time. "There's a plate of chocolate chip cookies cooling next to the stove. Why don't you bring those up to her?"

"Uh, sure, Aunt May," Peter took the opportunity to go to the kitchen and grab the plate of cookies. They were still oven hot. Peter delayed the length of time it took to eat two cookies and drink one glass of milk. His death march upstairs was accompanied by his mental rendition of the Imperial March because it was close to the funeral dirge he was trying to think of but couldn't quite recall. He took a deep breath. He caught himself before he knocked on his own door. He walked in.

MJ jumped when he opened the door. She then caught her breath and gave Peter a stunning smile. Peter quickly closed the door behind her. The cookies he set down on the edge of his desk.

"Oh, Hey Pete," MJ seemed oblivious to the fact that she was dressed in Peter's Spider-man uniform. She actually wasn't naked from the waist down. She had on a short skirt and socks. "I was hoping you can do me a favor."

Not like I can say no now that you know MJ. Peter's heart sank, Well at least you're a good looking blackmailer.

"Oh, um, sorry I looked in your closet," MJ said following Peter's eyes to her chest. "But if you want to come over to my place and put on my hot vampire dress, we'll call it even."

Peter laughed, relief flooding. Wearing his own costume at the Halloween carnival had been done out of laziness. It had saved his secret identity twice now.

"I think I'll take a pass on that, Red," Peter said collapsing into his office chair and grabbing a cookie, "What do you need?"

"Excellent!" MJ's green eyes lit up and her smile seemed less leonine and more genuine. She grabbed her own cookie. "I went down to Kingsley's talent offices today..."

Mary Jane Watson was doing her best to sit quietly and wait in the hard office chairs. The old woman at reception said they were busy but would get her in shortly. That had been at 9 am. It was closer to 11 now. She was looking her best, Aunt Anna had helped with her makeup. Her eyes looked stunning, her lips were hypnotic. Her hair was still straight, but it framed her face perfectly. She wore her best fashions. Her legs were in knee-high leather boots with small heels. The black of the boots contrasted the pale white of her thighs. Her skirt was ruffled, and had cost so much that her father had gone ballistic when he had discovered that she had bought it. She was wearing a smart white blouse, trying to look good and professional, under a soft pink sweater that accentuated both femininity and girlishness. Every man she had passed that morning had looked a third time. She had felt unstoppable, now she just felt bored. Her manicured nails drummed upon Lily Hollister's face. The Magazines here showed off the models but were staffed with hackneyed writers. MJ had run out of interesting reading material some time ago. She looked up at the old receptionist. Good things come to those who wait. She told herself for the umpteenth time. Fortune favors the bold, she countered, loud enough to listen to this time.

"Excuse me," MJ smiled prettily for the old woman and kept her voice pleasant, "I was hoping you could tell me if I would be seeing anyone anytime soon."

"It won't be long now," The woman said, not looking up from the Daily Bugle's crossword.

"Spider-man," MJ said.

"Excuse me?" The woman raised her face.

"Twenty-nine across." MJ pointed, "The biggest threat to New York today. It has to be Spider-man."

"Spider-man's a hero, darling," The woman said, in a polite condescending tone.

"Well seeing the headline on the front page is 'Webbed Murderer Is The Biggest Threat In New York'. I figured the Daily Bugle might be carrying some sort of grudge." The receptionist unfolded her paper and looked. She took a second look at Mary.

"You certainly got the face for the gig, darling. But there are better places to take that brain of yours."

"Ha," MJ was warming up to this old woman, "Maybe, but I can't just overstep an opportunity when it's laid at my feet."

"How do you mean?"

"Mr Kingsley told me to come down." MJ picked his business card out of her purse and laid it on the table.

"Really?" The woman's face turned a little cold.

"And Ms. Hollister said she'd vouch for me."

"You could have named dropped their interest earlier," The receptionist looking up.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to," MJ admitted, "I like getting things done on my own merits."

"But now..."

"I'm not so proud as to ignore help when it's offered." Mary declared, "And I had them back pocket for when I hit an obstacle."

"Way too smart for this circus," Laughed the woman at the table. "I'll go back and scare you up somebody."

"Thank you," MJ smiled warmly. Mary took her seat once again as the receptionist phoned back. After a heated, but civilly volumed, argument. The receptionist flashed MJ a one sec gesture and went through the green doors to the back offices. It was about five minutes when she reappeared and held open the door for MJ. The redhead smiled her thanks. "Give 'em hell," prodded the receptionist.

The back room was five offices and a picture studio. Earlier she had learned she was to look for a woman name Vaughn-Pope. The office was one of the two on the left, the big ones. MJ knocked, and was given a terse "Come in."

"Hello," MJ stepped into the office looking at the blonde behind the desk. "My name is Mary Jane Watson. I--"

"Am here for a modeling job," Vaughn-Pope nodded, "Of course." She was an attractive woman of perhaps thirty years of age. Tall and very fit. She was dressed in a smart and feminine suit. Black jacket over a lavender blouse and a long black pencil skirt. She had several dossiers heaped haphazardly on her mahogany desk. A vase of flowers was opposite her computer monitor. The bookshelves lining the far wall were filled with steel binders and chemistry textbooks. MJ pulled out one of the blue arm chairs and Ms. Vaughn-Pope indicated MJ could sit down.

"May I see your portfolio?" There was a tired feeling in the woman's voice. She skipped all pleasantness, neither introducing herself or providing MJ with her full attention.

"Portfolio?" MJ asked surprised. The sigh Vaughn-Pope gave was old hat.

"The pictures you've done to show that you photograph well. Usually from your previous experience."

"I've never modeled before," MJ explained.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"That's fine," Vaughn-Pope's voice took on an even more condescending property. "To work for me." She stopped herself. There was a harder edge in her voice when she continued, "To work for Mr Kingsley, you'll have to prove yourself. Get a professionally done picture set done. You should be photographed in several different outfits. A few shots in lingerie or swimwear would certainly help. We want to see everything: hands, eyes, shoulders, legs, cleavage. You'll want to be shot from all angles."

"Can't we just give it a try in the studio?" MJ suggested, "I'm willing to try right now if you'll let me."

"We can, but I'm going to ask that you pay the photographer for his time." Vaughn-Pope reclined and looked over the girl in front of her, "We pay our photographers very well and if we just gave every girl off the street a free session, we'd be out a lot of time and money."

"I'm not really off the street," MJ responded, "Mr Kingsley suggested I come down."

"And if he had sent word to expect a teenaged redhead I could make exceptions," Vaughn-Pope clearly did not like Roderick Kingsley. "But for now I must ask that you bring in a portfolio."

"How much will it cost?" MJ was feeling defeated.

"For one of our boys, you're probably, looking at around six hundred dollars and two hours of your time." The older woman responded. "You're welcome to use someone else, but it'd help if the photographer was known. There are a lot of professionals out there who shouldn't even shoot a wedding."

"I do know one great photographer," MJ's lips turned into a smile for the first time since Vaughn-Pope had ripped the one MJ had carried in from the receptionist off her face. "Peter Parker."

"Really?" Vaughn-Pope did not know the name, "And who does Peter Parker shoot?"

"Spider-man." MJ declared triumphantly.

"So you're saying I get six hundred dollars?" Peter took another cookie as MJ finished her story.

"You know I can't afford that, tiger," MJ laughed, "But I really need your help if I'm going to get anywhere with Ms. Desiree Vaughn-Pope."

"Well you're certainly prettier than Spider-man," Peter looked MJ up and down with affected lecherousness. "But I wouldn't want him getting all jealous."

"Ah, poor Spidey," MJ condescended, "But there's plenty of Peter to go around."

"Well..." Peter delayed a moment longer. It's not like he'd say no but he just liked the attention MJ was giving him. Plus she filled out that Spider-shirt in ways that aroused, confused and embarrassed Peter.

"I'll owe you so much forever. Please! Please! Please!" MJ fell to her knees in front of Peter. Her soft hands were cold around his. Peter could do little to stymie his imagination.

"OK, OK, fine." Peter couldn't help but smirk as he pulled MJ up onto her feet. "Just take off my Spider-man shirt before Aunt May comes in and I have to explain this."

"What? Don't I look good in it?" MJ laughed twirling for Peter. The shirt was taut around her chest but hung away from her slender waist. She was just taller than Peter so it lifted and showed a thin circle of skin above her waist.

"You look great. Now take it off." Peter pleaded.

"In a hurry, tiger?" MJ teased, but she acceded. The spider-top came up and off her torso before she threw it at Peter's closet door. She was wearing a lacy green bra but no shirt. May knocked.

"Just a second Aunt May!" Panicked Peter, MJ strode to the windowsill where her previously unseen t-shirt was waiting. May didn't take her usual time waiting for Peter. The girl in the room had unbalanced the equation. Peter blushed and felt his tongue swell up when May watched MJ rush into her top from the doorway. There was a stern look on May's face but the twitch in her lip suggested she was hiding a smile.

"Mary Jane, do you mind heading home?" She asked sweetly, "I have to have a talk with my nephew."

"Of course," MJ was as red as her hair, "I'll see you tomorrow, Pete?"

If I'm ever allowed to see the light of day again, Peter thought worrying about being grounded. "Sure, MJ, good night."

"Good night, May." MJ left the room and hurried out the front door. May walked across the room and sat down on Peter's bed. Peter took his computer and sat across from her. The quiet and waiting was killing him. It was barely a full minute but it felt like a decade.

"Mary Jane is a great girl and I am very happy you found someone you like." May began, "I was your age myself. I know how important love and even heartbreak is to growing up. You've always had a good head on your shoulders, Peter. I trust you."

"Thanks, Aunt May," Peter said, this talk wasn't going like he had expected. Ben had handled all this before and he had been comedic but serious. May was sentimental.