The darkened bar is empty save for two figures sitting at the counter. Even the bartender has left, knowing full well that he couldn't physically throw out at least one of the characters who occupy the bar stools, swilling their beer. Out of the two folk, one is hunched over, dressed in rags and staring into space. He doesn't seem to hear the ravings of his famous, yet newfound companion. The 'ravings' are the thing of none other than our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. He rocks back and fourth on his chair, beer in the air, mask half the way up his face so he can gulp down the golden-brown liquid which at this point is the only thing to give him comfort. He spouts out all manner of 'soap-box' worthy claptrap, and his audience of one is always eager to listen, without hearing a thing.



"They don't respect you ya' know. You'd think after you saved a few lives or two the peoples would respect you. But no. Nope they just go on with their lives forgetting that I saved their city thousands, nope, nope, actually quadrillions of times before."



The tipsy wall crawler looks at his silent comrade expecting a reply. After a few second of silence he just continues.



"Its not like I care that they don't care, Its just that I'd like a little respect every now and 'hic' then. Nothing much, just a pat on the back or a key to the city. They don't love me, no body loves me."



At this point this sad and sorry sight just gets worse as Spidey breaks down and begins to weep openly on the counter. After a time however he snaps out of his sobbing as quickly as he snapped into it and he turns to the gent to his right.



"You respect me don't you? You love me? It's that Jameson that has it in for me 'hic'. Goddamn war monger! I should 'toilet paper' his house or something, get some buckets and fish and just go over there and mrfle mumph mmmph…"



Our hero trails off into thoughts of wreaking an immature yet provoked revenge on his deserving boss/aggressor. Suddenly he perks up, with all the exuberance as if he had just starting ranting;



"Mary Ja... Mary Jane. Mary Jane, I have to get to Mary Jane! The Goblin has her, I have to get out of here."



He gets up, full of vigor and proceeds to stumble toward the door. He stops however about 3 steps from where he began. Then he begins to stumble back to his familiar sitting place.



"Oh wait… I had to save her last week, that's right, I need some sort or diary or record of these 'hic' things. Anyways, I best be off, got stuff to do you knows."



Parker makes a valiant attempt to rise, but he falls at the last hurdle and cracks his head on the cold, tile floor. He doesn't hurt himself, he just sleeps, the sleep of a drunken hero.



"Unappreciated… but I save… Mary… Gwen!…"



And so, lying on the floor of an undisclosed bar in Queens, our favorite web slinger prepares himself for the headache he warned himself against when happy hour started and his presence here cleared the building, except for old 'mutey' of course. He dreams the nightmare of a man whos seen it all and an immortal who takes it in their stride, his cries for respect unheeded and unrequited. But that's what makes him special – the unglorified hero we all know and love.