What is this? You sure you want to know? This story is not for the faint of heart. If somebody said it was a happy little tale... if somebody told you it was just your average ordinary fanfiction... then somebody lied. Because for all intents and purposes this story truly isThe Worst Scenario Ever
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Chapter One
Moonlight serenade in Caucasian Flesh Tone
"I stand at your gate
and the song that I sing is of moonlight
I stand and I wait
for the touch of your hand in the June light"
At least it was distracting. Not pleasantly distracting, mind you. Not distracting in the way your significant other's kiss distracts you from the exhausting aftermath of a hard day's work. No, rather distracting in the way your attention involuntarily shifts from your aching head to your toe when the latter is struck with a hammer.
But it was a distraction still. And somewhere in her mind she imagined the tune, set it right and applied it to the horrid croaking of the old janitor. There, with a little effort it did seem a little bit better already. Maybe if she had time, maybe if she had a lot, she'd walk over to him and teach him how to hold a note.
"The roses are sighing
A moonlight serenade
The stars are so low
And tonight how their might
Sets me dreaming
My love do you know"
…or how to recite well-known lyrics properly. She turned around and her radiant hair glimmered briefly, mixing with the faint blue light on the ceiling, giving it an eerie violet glow. "A chair. A chair. My kingdom for a chair" she muttered and observed her own breath dissolving in the cool air. The cold marble floor was definitely not an option. She had been assured that seating arrangements were soon to be added. Windows were soon to be added. Comfort was soon to be added.
"That your eyes, are like stars
I bring you, and sing to
A moonlight serenade"
Like sand the prospect of romance was slowly running through her nearly frozen hands, disappearing on the way or mixing with the dirt on the ground. On second thought it was her. Her idea. Her alone, bravely claiming her willingness to face terror, only to be with him. That of course was back when terror was still a little bit less like…
Let us stray, till break of day
In love's valley of dreams
Just you- watch out! WATCH OUT!"
Now that one was new to her. The other horrid modifications she could at least vaguely trace back to their origin but creating a new piece of text, especially in such absurd nature as-
"MARY JANE! THE LADDER!"
It took only a fraction of a second for her to look up, falling dust taking her sight as the debris came crashing down besides her. She held up her arms and stumbled backwards, fell over her dress and hit the floor. Again she looked up, her vision blurred, barely clear enough to see the silver shimmer falling towards her.
A flash. Something pushing her down, pressing hard against her chest and almost tossing her to the side as the silver shimmer struck the ground next to her with a deafening clatter.
"So basically what you're saying is-" "Of course! Because you see, mechanical tentacles don't kill people. People kill people!" "Well, actually-"
He groaned and threw the remote control with full force. The usual way of turning down the volume did not involve destroying the television set in the progress. Then again, he had never been fond of the usual way. Yawning he put all his effort together and blinked. The room. At least it was his.
Waking up in the morning had become his own kind of adventure which he pretended to enjoy for the sake of not having to change what led to it in the first place. In a moment like this though, when his headache became throbbing and persistent to the point of being far beyond unbearable he was glad about not having to give a lengthy explanation concerning his presence. Or listening to one for that matter.
He attempted to fish for his pillow but only managed to knock over an empty bottle in the progress. How long had it been anyway? How long since he had last been able to sleep? Sleep well? Pleasant dreaming and waking up to the sound of silence. Too long and not even dwelling in the sweet memory of it would do, not with this having become his most important task. This… oblivion.
Silence… it was lost to him, in any case. Except for death. Except for death? Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder. Sometimes, when it became all too persistent, all too vivid, when no amount of alcohol was enough to drown it out… the shrill voice in his head.
No. No, not the voice. The voice.
Does whatever a spider can.
Spins a web, any size,
Catches thieves just like flies.
Look out! Here comes the Spider-Man!"
"Pesky street musicians." he growled angrily and turned around, burying his face under the blanket, refusing to face a day for which 'couldn't get worse' was nothing but a blatant lie.
'At least it can't possibly get worse now.'
"Oi, Miss! Are you hurt?" the janitor asked worriedly, hobbled over and offered Mary Jane a wrinkled hand. "Okay. Uh… I mean no, I'm okay," she mumbled and turned to the stained window glass behind her to observe the damage the incident had done to her hair.
"Mary Jane… are… are you hurt?" a voice asked from somewhere on the ground, seemingly weak and dazed. "Oi Miss! Are you hurt?" the janitor asked again, this time turning to the figure on the ground with concern. "No, I- wait, Miss?" Peter Parker jumped up and gave the old man an irritated glare, which he failed to catch entirely. "Sure that was quite a stunt back there, young lady. If you hadn't pushed her away your friend here might have enjoyed her last flirt…ever" "Actually I-" "It's no place, a run-down factory, really no place for two lovely gals to stay over night." "But-"
It was supposed to resemble a conversation. At least he thought the old man still had some talking to do. Instead he just blinked and turned around, picked up his mob and hobbled off into the darkness.
Peter shook his head and for the first time in two weeks he wondered if maybe the janitor wasn't an actual employee at all but rather some confused beggar, pretending to mop here everyday for the sake of killing time. Or maybe the slightly mental type was just cheaper to maintain.
"Mary Jane, I-" The woman turned, some of the debris still in her hair, the dust stealing away the fiery quality it usually possessed. "I think maybe it wasn't such a good idea for me to come. What you're doing is great, but…"
But painting murals was not the same thing. When she left John for Peter her thoughts were further away from him than she wanted to admit. What she'd really wanted back then was Spider-Man. The hero who'd literally sweep her off her feet and risk his life to save her. Being saved had always been the most exciting part. But the great villains were reduced to badly organised terrorists and even further down to common bank robbers. And now they were all gone. It almost seemed as if the city was finally at peace. Sleeping safe and sound together with the hero she once admired. And all that was left now was Peter. Peter Parker and his murals.
"Oh. I understand." Peter Parker, his murals and that bloody look on his face that could make a sociopath feel guilty for not brushing his teeth regularly. Well, give or take some imagination but it certainly made Mary Jane regret what she said soon enough. Of course the idea of painting at night had seemed odd to her and still was, but everything else could hardly be called his fault. The company had promised to have the old factory ready long before the exposition but now all but one week was left and personally Mary Jane could see no sign of the run-down place being ready for anything other than steady decay. 'And who am I to blame him for this? For actually trying to make things work?'
Through the dusty and broken glass she could see the faint reddish glimmer of the sun rising over the rooftops and hear the gulls outside gathering on the beach to commence their pesky serenade. Peter had turned from her and was cleaning up his supplies from the ground.
She bent down, picked up a yet unopened tin of Caucasian Flesh Tone and put it into the tattered sport bag behind her. "Peter?" Her voice seemed exhausted and raspy. "Hm?" He didn't turn around. "I… I shouldn't have- I'm sorry. What you're doing… what I said was selfish. I was selfish. I was wrong…"
"I was right. I WAS RIGHT!" the majestically bothersome voice boomed and sent several employees backing off nervously, quickly reconsidering their intention of entering J. Jonah Jameson's office at this very moment. Or perhaps at all.
"And I knew it all along!" His triumph was more than apparent, his fingers grasping the photograph as if it was some kind of magical ticket to paradise. Then again, for Jameson it probably represented just that.
Betty Brant eyed him worriedly. She didn't know how the mysterious envelope and its contents had found their way to his desk but she wasn't very happy about it. Usually those type of things were accompanied by some freak in smelly clothes and his demand for a ridiculously high amount of money. This time at least the demand and the smelly clothes appeared to be missing which made Betty all the more suspicious about the yet invisible freak and his intentions behind all of it.
Unfortunately Jameson was war from sharing her concern. In fact, in a world where concern equals water, Jameson's office would have been a desert. Or the Antarctic, considering that while even in the desert rain showers sometimes occur, the icy climate makes rain in such place virtually impossible, even though water is of course present in its frozen state.
Putting the metaphorical trivia aside, Betty Brant was still plainly worried. And of all the things in her mind it was the thud of Jameson slamming the photograph down on his desk that immediately confirmed her worst fear.
"STOP THE PRESS! I WANT THIS THING ON THE FRONT PAGE! NOW!"- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
My oh my! Whatever does the mysterious photograph display? Who took it and who will need to worry about it? Will Mary Jane and Peter solve their artistic differences? Why are those criminals so goddamn lazy these days? Why didn't Peter use the Caucasian Flesh tone yet? Will the zany old janitor ever get his lyrics together? Who hired the guy anyway? And who is that miserable remote-control-throwing individual on the couch?
Answer to these or strikingly similar questions will be given in the next chapter of The Worst Scenario Ever