Sing Us A Song, You're the Stilt-Man! (completed)

[Chris Myers]

“Come on, man!”

He looked down at the screen, a shaking hand running over his smooth scalp. “I don’t think I can...I’m too nervous. I can’t focus! I’m definitely not drunk enough for this.”

“Take a breath,” one of his colleagues yelled. “Just calm down and put your mind on what you’re doing!”

“No,” a second voice replied, “just don’t think about it! You’re over thinking it, just do it!”

A third voice, rough and gravelly, threw out his own opinion. “Either do it or quit wasting time and let someone else have a crack at it!

“Alright, alright, alright!” He couldn’t believe he was this apprehensive. The man at the front of the crowd was a world traveler. He came from a far away continent. He had gotten into many adventures and misadventures in his lifetime. He had stood before stadiums packed of rabid fans, and cowered in the face of near-deities. So, why now was he getting butterflies in his stomach at the very thought of what he had to do? It was easy. Other people had done it before him...

The man took a deep breath, trying to calm down and find his center. All he had to do was come near enough to what was on the screen, and he’d be fine. Considering that his entire career revolved around being able to strike objects with pinpoint accuracy, “close enough” was something he could easily do.

His hand had stopped shaking when he reached out and hit the button on the side of the machine. The familiar thumps and whistles, upon recognition, drew laughter from the crowd, along with a smattering of applause. The positive reinforcement reassured the man, and when the words on the screen began to be highlighted, Fred Myers, aka Boomerang, found his fear was nearly gone as he brought the microphone to his lips.

#Travelling in a fried-out combie#
#On a hippie trail, head full of zombie#
#I met a stranger lady, she made me nervous#
#She took me in and gave me breakfast, and she said#
#Do you come from a land down under...#

[Chris Myers]

Earlier that evening, the door to the bar creaked open. Behind the counter, Maxwell looked up as the overcoat clad form of Dr. Otto Octavius entered the establishment, the first customer of the evening. “Evening, Doctor. The usual?”

“Make it a double, Maxwell, neat. I have had the most difficult day.” One of the metal tentacles fused to the spine of Doctor Octopus reached out from the collar of his overcoat and shut the door behind him before the scientist made his way to the far end of the bar. Maxwell already was reaching for the good whiskey, top-shelf Canadian bought second-hand from Hammerhead’s crew a few days before. Octavius’ usual spot was unoccupied this evening, as it was most nights. The bar stool sat under one of the few lights in the Bar With No Name that functioned at 100% capacity, shining brightly upon the seat. As such, most villains tended to avoid sitting there if they could help it. Octavius had his theory on this phenomenon, that most of his fellow criminal ilk tended to avoid the bright light as it reminded them of a police searchlight, or the bright ceiling fixture that dotted the interrogation rooms of many New York City police stations. Subconsciously, they preferred to sit in the shadows, where they could hide or blend in to their surroundings, avoiding the light. A strange dichotomy, since these were men and women who often walked in bright costumes or suits of power armor and boldly proclaimed their superiority to the world.

For Otto Octavius, PhD, the matter was different. Aside from not having to boldly proclaim his superiority to the world due to his status as a criminal mastermind, the bright light provided him the perfect place to read, placing less strain on his already poor eyesight. This evening, he already had the book in question ready, removing the hardcover from his overcoat pocket and placing it on the bar before taking off the heavy coat, revealing the set of four metal tentacles that had been fused to his back in a scientific accident. This evening, the tentacles were nearly motionless, moving slightly in a non-threatening manner as Octavius made himself comfortable on the bar stool. Maxwell put the drink down in front of him immediately, amber liquid in a slightly scuffed tumbler. “Here you go, Doctor. Should I just keep them coming?”

“No thank you, Maxwell. I am here to study, not to get inebriated. A little alcohol will hopefully take the edge off my mind and allow me to focus.”

The bartender nodded as Octavius picked up the glass with his hand. “Got it. Wave if you need anything. I’ll be doing prep for tonight.” Maxwell moved away towards the other end of the bar as the villain sipped at the whiskey. It was strong, potent, and smooth going down his throat, just the thing to remove the strains and stresses of the day before diving into some seriously scientific study. Over his shoulder, a tentacle reached down and picked up the book gently by its spine. A second tentacle whirred in from his other shoulder, and opened the book, carefully turning the pages to the introduction. Settling in, Octavius made note of the author of the text before diving into the written word.

*****

Octavius rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. The text was turning out to be drier then he had originally thought. The author was going over the same ground treaded by hundreds of past scientists, and doing so in a carefully constructed manner. It was knowledge that Doctor Octopus already knew, picked up second-hand during his studies and tenure at Empire State University. Halfway through the book and he had yet to see one original idea, one new thought, one progressive experiment. This book was turning out to be a waste.

“What are you reading tonight, Otto?”

The villain turned to see who was sitting next to him. A figure wearing a yellow-and-brown quilted uniform nodded towards the book being held by his tentacle just above the surface of the bar. “Anything good?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in, Schultz.” He turned the cover towards the man sitting next to him, the villain known to the world as the Shocker, and known to Otto as Herman Schultz.

“’Waves of the Future – A Comprehensive Study of Gamma Rays and Radiation.’ Wow, Otto, that sounds complex, even for you,” Schultz said.

“It’s not that complex, but then again, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re an engineer, not a scientist,” Octavius sneered. “You didn’t even go to college, Schultz. I’m surprised you can work an iPod, let alone those contraptions on your hands.”

“Ah, Christ,” Schultz replied with some irritation. “Can we not start this argument tonight, Otto? I had a crap day and I just want to drink it off. Just trying to make some polite conversation, alright?”

Otto drank some of his whiskey before answering. “Fair enough. I apologize, Herman. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. My day has been less than perfect as well. I just wished to read for a few quiet hours, but this material...it’s as dry as burnt toast.”

“Quiet hours? Otto, you picked the wrong place for that.” Schultz motioned with one of his hands to the bar behind them. “It’s Friday night, this place is gonna be packed soon.” Indeed, in the hour or so that Octavius had been engrossed in the scientific material, more patrons had entered the Bar With No Name. They were spread out, scattered among the less-than-palatial pub. At the pool table, Boomerang and Hydro-Man were in the midst of a game of 8-Ball, which the Australian was clearly winning. Sitting at a far table, the massive form of the Rhino sat reading the sports page of the Daily Bugle. His lips slowly moved as he studied the box score of the baseball games he had bet on the night before. In a corner booth, the lovely ladies of the Serpent Society, Asp, Black Mamba, Coachwhip, and Fer-de-Lance were already ordering their second round of drinks.

“Ugh. You are right, Schultz. Soon, this place will be packed with cretins and miscreants, and it’ll be impossible to read even a children’s book.” The two tentacles holding the book spun around, and as Octavius finished his original double of whiskey, they slid the hardback into his overcoat. “Well, when in Rome, do what the Romans do. Maxwell! Another whiskey.”

“Right up, Doctor,” the bartender said as he slid a bottle of beer in the opposite direction towards Machete. “Sorry, Machete, we’re out of limes.”

“I got Otto’s too, Maxwell.” Herman finished the Budweiser and plunked the empty down on the bar, soon followed by a twenty dollar bill. “We’re both having bad days. Might as well share in the misery.”

“I disagree, Schultz, but I am not one to turn down a free drink.” The scientist and the engineer got their drinks, and as they sipped at them, Otto asked Schultz, “so, what happened to cause your bad day?”

“Oh, now you want to share the misery,” the Shocker joked. “Fine. One guess.”

Otto’s face twisted into a sneer. He knew the answer immediately. “That damnable wall-crawler.”

“That’s why you’re a genius,” Schultz replied. “Bank job, all set up, all perfect. I even set a distraction across down to pull the NYPD away, a bomb scare at Grant’s Tomb. Everything’s going perfect, everyone’s down, the alarm’s cut, the money’s all packed and the dye bombs are gone...and then as I’m walking out the door with at least two hundred grand, Spider-Man comes swinging through the door and nails me right in the face with both feet. I go sprawling on my ass, and next thing I know, he’s sitting on my chest, looking down at me, and says ‘Herman Schultz failing at bank robbery. Gee, there’s a shocker.’” He took a long pull from his beer, shaking his head. “I managed to get away, but...it’s the fact that Spider-Man’s so damn nonchalant about what he does. Those damn one-liners...I’d have given away all that bank money just for the chance to land one, just one, good punch on him. Break his damn nose or something.”

“You and I share the same boat it seems, Herman.” Octavius downed about half his whiskey before spinning his tale. “This morning, I was on the docks, obtaining some Soviet-era tritium from some Eastern European brokers when Spider-Man showed up. It’s 2009, and there he was, knocking these men around, spouting quips about the Cold War before turning his attention to me. I have fought him many times, but at each battle, he seems to come up with new and different ways to call me nearsighted and fat. Clearly, Spider-Man was not held enough as a child.”

“Heh...how did you get away?”

“Broke several crates over his head before escaping overland. Without the tritium.”

“Damn. Sorry, Otto.” Herman raised his bottle of beer to Doctor Octopus. “To Spider-Man. May someday, we all get a chance to give him exactly what he deserves.”

Otto touched his glass to the bottle. “That, Herman, I will drink to with you.”

[Chris Myers]

“So what’s wrong with being an engineer!”

“All you do is play Tinker-Toys with known theories! When was the last time an engineer every pushed an envelope or had an original thought? You would be nothing without scientists to give you ideas in the first place!”

“Yeah, scientists, who don’t have to deal with reality! You just stand there and play with equations and theories all day, while engineers like me build stuff that’s practical and usable, instead of some doomsday device that gets shut down because a scientist like you feels the need to add a self-destruct button!”

“It wasn’t a self-destruct button, it was a failsafe mechanism, you ignorant dolt!”

Next to the Shocker and Doctor Octopus, Speed Demon put his head in his hands. “Now I know why this was the only open seat in the entire bar,” the speedster moaned. “Maxwell, just run an IV from the Harp nozzle to my veins. It’s the only way I can get drunk enough to deal with this.”

Shocker spun around, pointing a finger at Speed Demon. “Oh, don’t you start James. You’re a chemist, you should be on my side!”

“No,” Doctor Octopus loudly retorted. “A chemist is much more a valuable member of the scientific community then an engineer! Chemists discover penicillin, engineer just make a bigger gun!”

“BOTH of you leave me out of this!” Speed Demon turned away, his back to his sometime partner-in-crime. He sipped at his Harp as he looked at the female standing in front of him. “I just came here to drink and enjoy the eye candy...”

“Huh. In your dreams, Sanders,” Black Mamba replied with a hint of a grin, just the right bit of flirting mixed in with a very solid “no chance in hell” tone.

“Well, in my dreams, I’m buying you a drink. Tell you what, how about one of you girl slides over and I’ll buy the next round,” the speedster replied with a sly smile.

“Sorry. Saving room for Anaconda," she lied smoothly. "Maybe next time.”

Black Mamba took the tray of drink from Maxwell and headed back towards the Serpent Society’s table in the back. She had to weave her way through the crowded bar, which had become packed as the Friday night progressed. Every table and booth was backed, and it was quickly becoming standing room only. The Rhino had been joined at his table by the Ringer, Boomerang, and Hydro-Man. The line of barstools featured a motley lineup of villains – Doctor Octopus, the Shocker, Speed Demon, Sandman, Aqueduct, Piledriver, Machete, and Batroc the Leaper. And many, many more costumed super villains drank and made merry in the bar. Aside from Herman and Otto’s argument, though, the atmosphere lacked tension. A snide remark or two was made in jest, or some heated words exchanged over a game of darts, but these were people, super villains, just looking to blow off steam and enjoy a normal night out.

When the door opened again that evening, though, it stopped being a normal night out. It became something that, for years, was talked about in super villian circles. Even when the superhero community fought over registration, even when mutants suddenly were depowered all over the world, even when Captain America was shot and killed, it was this night that super villains would inevitably discuss when gathered together over a case of beer, or sharing a cell in a police station. In time, many who weren’t anywhere near New York City that night would tell about what they had done that evening, and just by virtue of that alone, the night would spin from fact to myth to legend, to the proportion that even those who were there that night couldn’t quite remember who else had truly been there.

And it all started with the most unlikely super villain of all...

*****

The front door to the Bar With No Name opened, and the figure in power armor clanked inside. A few patrons near the door looked up to see who had entered, and once noticing, they quickly returned to their drinks. At the far end of the bar, Shocker, who had just thrown up his hands in protest to one of Doctor Octopus’ comments, caught a glimpse of the figure. Quickly, he lowered his head, trying to hide behind Speed Demon, but the figure raised a hand, waving to Herman before starting to make his way down the bar. “Aw, damn it,” Herman muttered under his breath. “He’s coming this way.”

“What?” Otto looked up, and saw the metal-clad person coming towards them. “Oh, damn it all,” he commiserated. “Just when this evening was going well.”

The person clanked to a stop. Under the silver half-mask he wore on his face, he smiled at the Shocker. “Hey, Herman. What’s up?”

Herman sighed, and turned to face him. “Hey, Wilbur. How’s your day been? Achieving great heights?”

Wilbur Day, aka Stilt-Man, the laughing stock of the New York City super villain community, smirked at Herman’s comments. “Cute,” he replied. “You think that one up by yourself, or did Doc Ock here give you a hand?”

“Wilbur, that’s DOCTOR to you.” One of the Doctor’s tentacles whirred over his left shoulder, snapping its claws shut for emphasis. “I earned my degrees and a little thing like being a criminal genius does not change that fact.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilbur said, waving a hand.

“Alright, Wilbur, what do you want?” Herman studied the man in front of him. Wilbur Day was an engineering prodigy. Not to the level that Herman Schultz was, but he was smart enough to steal a hydraulic ram design from his employer, and incorporate it into a suit of power armor for the purpose of committing crimes. Aside from giving him superhuman strength, the calling card of his suit was its powerful telescoping legs, two hundred and fifty feet worth of height packed into the lower part of his suit. Over the course of his criminal career, Stilt-Man had numerous run-ins with Daredevil and Spider-Man, and every time, had lost in an embarrassing manner. No matter what he did, be it a new strategy, or new gadgets, or even trying to go legit briefly, Wilbur always ended up in jail. On the super villain pecking chain, Stilt-Man easily ranked at the bottom of the list, to the point where even the White Rabbit and the Walrus had turned down an offer to work with him.

“First off...” Wilbur tapped a button on his suit, slid opening a side compartment. “...I got that thousand bucks I owe you.” He reached into the compartment, emerging with a bound stack of hundred dollar bills. “Sorry it took so long to get it back to you. Times have been a bit rough lately.”

“Wow...you’re paying me back? For real?” The Shocker took the stack of money from Stilt-Man’s metal hand, and counted it quickly. “This is real money, too. How the...you’re paying me back in real money?”

“Well...yeah, I ain’t gonna give you fake money, Herman,” Stilt-Man responded. “A thief like you could detect it in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks, Wilbur. You might be the first guy in a year to actually pay back a debt to me.” Shocker pocketed the money in a fold in his quilted suit...and then looked at Wilbur for a second, not believing what he was about to ask. “Did you pull off a successful job today or something?”

Wilbur smiled again. “Damn right I did. Held up a bonded courier down in the Battery. Spider-Man was distracted with some bank robbery, so he didn’t show up for once and ruin things.”

“Really...lucky you,” Shocker groused. “Well, good for you, Wilbur. Guess the sun shines once in a while. How much did you make out with?”

“This much.” Wilbur turned away from the Shocker, facing the entire bar. “Yo, everyone!”

When no one paid attention to him, he cleared his throat, and yelled a little louder. “Hey, can I get everyone’s attention for a second?” Again, no one even looked in Stilt-Man’s direction. Next to the Shocker, Doctor Octopus gave him a pitying look, shaking his head sadly.

Finally, Stilt-Man raised his voice, cupping his hands around his mouth, and yelled the words every bar goer in the world likes to hear, the one that immediately grabs their attention.

“HEY, EVERYONE! DRINKS ON ME TONIGHT!”

Conversation came to an immediate stop. The clinking of glasses being lowered onto tables was the only sound for a few more seconds. All eyes turned towards the loser in thick power armor. He stood, arms out, grinning for a second. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m the Stilt-Man, and I’m buying tonight for everyone here.”

From one of the tables, a peal of laughter escaped one of the patrons. “Yeah, right, Day. Pull the other bloody one,” Boomerang snarked, drawing laughter from the other patrons.

Wilbur responded strongly. “I ain’t joking, Fred.” Wilbur reached into that side compartment again, and produced two more stacks of cash. “Two thousand bucks, Maxwell. And there’s plenty more when that came from.” The bartender took the money with an amazed look on his face, happy to actually, for once, get this much cash front. The pride in Stilt-Man’s voice was telling as he turned back to the bar. “So, like I said...drinks are on me tonight!”

After about three seconds of shocked silence, a roar of approval erupted from the patrons. The Shocker was the first one to pat Stilt-Man on the back, before he was engulfed in the crush of brand new friends.

[Chris Myers]

“Look at that,” Herman said to Doctor Octopus as he finished his fifth beer of the evening. “Guy gets a little bit of money to throw around and suddenly the girls are all over him.”

“Don’t be envious, Herman. Wilbur being fawned upon by those ladies is no different than the last time you hired a call girl. He shells money out with no chance of getting love in return.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault the girl wanted to be just friends after I paid her...”

The two villains, minutes away from having argued over their professions, both now had their eyes on Stilt-Man. Wilbur had been invited to sit at the table of the women of the Serpent Society. Somehow, in the first ten minutes, he hadn’t screwed up badly, and still maintained his seat. Black Mamba was running a hand down the length of his arm, and the smile on his face said enough.

“Lucky bastard,” Herman said, envy dripping from his voice like venom. “One good score and the ladies...”

“Let the man have his brief moment in the sun, Herman.” Otto was on his fourth double whiskey, and the effects were definitely starting to hit him. The tentacles on his back were moving more now, mainly trying to keep him balanced as he slowly swayed. “This might very well be the high point of Wilbur Day’s life, the day when females paid him attention.”

“Yeah, but...” Herman was interrupted as the table suddenly erupted in a round of clapping and squealing. Black Mamba was gripping Stilt-Man’s arm, and grinning widely at him.

“Oh, come on, Wilbur, go get it. It’ll be fun,” Herman’s audio enhancers picked up as Black Mamba made her breathy request, joy evident in her voice. To his right, one of the tentacles focused on the table as well, running sound and visual directly into Otto’s brain.

“I don’t know, Mamba. This ain’t exactly a bar for that kind of thing. We usually ain’t the type for..”

Coachwhip chimed in, speaking with a Texas accent. “You’re buying for the whole place, you could bring a head of cattle in here, Wilbur, and they won’t blink an eye. They’ll go along with it, long as you keep buying the drinks.”

“Yeah, but...I don’t want them...I don’t want them laughing at me. What if they don’t like it?”

Black Mamba’s voice had to hold an evil smile, Herman thought as he heard her speak. “They’ll like it. Go on, Wilbur, grab it. We’ll clear the pool table.” The chair squeaked against the floor as Wilbur stood up, promising the girls he’d be right back. As he left, Asp and Black Mamba got up. The two villains at the end of the bar watched the Serpent Society ladies saunter towards the pool table, where Boomerang and Whirlwind were involved in a cutthroat game of pool.

“Huh,” Shocker said, watching as the girls turned on the charm, leaning forward just slightly over the table, speaking sweetly to the two pool players. After a few seconds, the two men nodded at each other, and proceeded to sweep the rest of the balls into the side pockets before putting this sticks up. “I’ve never not seen Boomerang finish a game. I wonder what they’re up to...”

“I admit I’m perplexed. What could Wilbur possibly have that these girls could want to badly?”

“Maybe he’s got a telescoping ram in his pants,” Herman offered with a leer.

“Disgusting,” Otto replied.

After a few minutes, the door opened, and Wilbur stepped back into the Bar, carrying a box in his arms. The four girls had kept the pool table open and clapped again as Wilbur set the package on the table. As he opened it, Coachwhip turned and yelled across the bar to Maxwell. “Hey, Max, we gotta borrow the TV for a minute!”

“Go ahead. It’s been worthless since they cut the cable last week,” the bartender replied. Wilbur has removed a bunch of bubble wrap during the conversation, and he set a small black box down on the pool table. Coachwhip started to run cables from the black box up to the television. Herman instantly recognized the yellow/white/red connecters as A/V cables.

“Is that like a new Blu-Ray player, Herman,” Otto asked.

“Nope,” Herman answered. “I have no idea...”

Pause.

“Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no...oh, man, Wilbur, what the hell are you thinking, dude? This can’t...this WON’T end well...”

The tentacles, all four, whipped around to face Herman as the sound of fear laced his voice. “What, Herman,” Otto asked. “What is it that’s causing you so much anxiety?”

“Only the ultimate party killer, Otto.” Herman shuddered as the group made the final connections. “A karaoke machine.”

*****

"Stilt-Man!"

The cigar chomping editor of the Daily Bugle threw the evening edition of the paper on the desk in front of him. The gathered staff in the office barely moved at the sound of the impact, immune to the dramatic motion through years of exposure. "Years and years as a laughing stock and now he pulls off a successful heist and no one's got any pictures! We had to buy this picture from the Associated Press!" He slammed his hand down on the paper, where a two-year old picture of Wilbur Day walking down the street, four stories above it, was above the fold. "Unacceptable, verboten, inexcusable! I want a fresh picture of Stilt-Man for tomorrow's morning edition. PARKER! Get me that picture!" After the order, the editor of the Bugle looked around the office for his star freelance photographer. "Parker, where are you! I want that picture!"

From outside the office, a hand reached up above the bottom of the window. "On it, Chief!"

"PARKER! Get in here!"

After a few seconds, the scrawny photographer stuck his head in the office of J Johan Jameson. "I said I'm on it, Chief!"

"I prefer telling you face to face! Parker, get me that photograph of Stilt-Man! And don't get yourself killed, I'm going to need you for the United Nations gig later this week. What are you waiting for, the opening night of the next ‘American Pie’ movie, get going!"

Peter Parker closed the door to Jameson's office, shooting a hapless grin in the process to Jameson's secretary, Betty. "The big guy's a little more worked up then normal today."

"What do you expect? Stilt-Man actually pulls off a successful crime and every single paper in town is left holding the bag." Betty smiled at the young man. "Whoever gets that picture is gonna be one up on everyone else. Who would have thought everyone would be scrambling for a picture of Stilt-Man?"

Parker returned Betty's smile. "Time for me to go scramble, then." He walked out of the newsroom, Jameson's voice audible over the sound of telephones and keyboards.

*****

"Stilt-Man. Who would have thought Wilbur Day could do anything right?"

Spider-Man mused this as he swung 30 stories above Second Avenue, swinging south towards the Battery. Below him, the city was just beginning to turn its light on for yet another summer Friday night in the Big Apple, and the street was packed with cars on the road and pedestrians on the side walk. He shot another web towards the skyscraper on his left and pulled himself through the air with practice ease. "Alright, if I was Stilt-Man, and I just pulled off the score of my career, where would I go? There aren't any adult clubs down near the Battery..."

He shot a new stand of webbing, and turned right towards the Hudson River. "The Bar. Yeah, he'd be on top of the world, buying drinks for everyone, and probably getting pick pocketed for his new bankroll. Now, just gotta find out where the criminal element is drowning their sorrows this week."

[Chris Myers]

“Well here’s your problem, ladies. Someone didn’t put the plug in the right place.”

“I’ve heard that story before,” Fer-de-Lance murmured under her breath.

Herman chuckled under his mask as he quickly and easily fixed the connections on the back of the television. Glancing at the screen, he nodded in victory at the red text staring back at him. “There you go. Should be up and running now, no problem.”

“Thank you, Herman,” the assassin replied with a smile. “You ever happen to run one of these things before by any chance?”

“Not on your life,” he replied as he stepped away from the television. “Mrs. Schultz didn’t raise a Broadway star. You imagine me trying to sing with this voice, de-Lance? It’ll be bad enough with anyone else in here.”

“Not a fan of karaoke, I take it?”

“One bad review or criticism and a bar fight’s gonna break out. Bet on it.”

Fer-de-Lance shrugged. “If that happens, at least there’s nothing in here that can’t be replaced. Thanks again, Herman.” The Shocker waved a hand at the woman before staggering his way back to his bar stool. With a final check of the cables in the back, Fer-de-Lance made her way to the pool table. Stilt-Man was still going through the instruction manual, she saw, while Black Mamba and Coachwhip flipped through a large binder.

“Wow. This thing’s got a hell of a selection,” Coachwhip said. “Got songs from a couple of months ago. How in the hell did you get your hands on this thing, Wilbur?”

Stilt-Man shrugged his metal shoulders. “It was in the back of the courier’s car. I figured, the guy was carrying a duffel bag with $200,000 in it, odds are the cardboard box he had should have something good inside it too, right?” He rapped a metal knuckle gently on the top of the box. “Just this thing, though. Guess it’s pretty high-tech, though.”

“So how does it work?” Asp had sauntered back up to the table, leaning forward with both hands on the edge. “We just punch in a song and follow the words?”

“Kinda. Every song’s got a code, just punch the code in and it comes up.” Black Mamba looked up from the binder. “We’re all good to go?”

“Mic’s plugged in, speakers are on...” Wilbur checked one final thing in the manual. “I think we’re all set.”

“Alright,” Black Mamba said with a grin. “So, who’s gonna sing first?” She looked at the owner of the illicit machine. “Wilbur, you want to give it a try?”

“Um..not yet. I ain’t exactly the best singer in the world,” he politely demurred. “I mean, I want to eventually, but right now, I think we need...someone good to start things off.” He glanced at the Egyptian woman standing next to him. “Asp, didn’t you used to be a performer, right?”

“If by performer, you mean stripper, then yeah, she was,” Coachwhip gently teased her friend.

Asp gave an exasperated head shake to her partner-in-crime. “Yeah,Wilbur, I used to be a dancer.” She looked down at the black binder on the pool table, starting to flip through the pages. “You know, I will go first. This crowd needs an opening act, and I think I’m just the girl to give it to him.”

“You got a song in mind,” Black Mamba asked.

“Actually...yeah, I do.” She ran her finger down the page. “And they got it. Wilbur, if you’re not singing, you get to be in charge of the programming, alright?” Stilt-Man nodded, and took the binder from Asp. He keyed in the song, and pointed to Asp when he was done. “Let me know when you’re ready, Asp.”

“One second. We need to warm up the crowd a bit first. Hand me that mic.” Wilbur handed the wireless microphone over to Asp. She turned, and walked to the edge of the pool table closest to the rest of the bar. With practiced ease, she hopped up, sitting on the railing, slowly and patiently crossing one leg over the other. The motion got the attention of the table closest to her, as Boomerang stopped raising his mug of beer to his lips, instead taking a very long and blatant look at the luscious gams in front of him.

“Hello, boys and girls,” Asp said into the microphone, sultriness lacing every word she spoke, shifting her legs just slightly. “And welcome to the first, and probably last, Karaoke Night here at my favorite watering hole.” Her gaze swept the crowd, making as much eye contact with the bar’s patrons as she could. “We’re gonna have some much needed fun here, tonight. A little song, a little dance, maybe even...”

She leaned forward, just enough that a couple pairs of eyes went from her face to a spot just a bit lower. “...a little romance, if some of you are lucky enough.”

The patrons were mostly silent. Most of them wore a look of confusion on their faces. The Bar With No Name was most definitely not the place for lip-syncing pop tunes. Stilt-Man had been right about one thing. If it had been him up there trying to work the crowd, he would have been thrown out the front door within ten seconds.

Asp, though...she sat back up, ramrod straight, pushing her chest out just a little bit to grab even more attention. “Now, I know some of you boys are nervous about standing in front of a crowd, worried about...performance, and how you might not be able to last long under pressure.” She saw the feathers ruffling in the crowd of men, and right there, she knew she had them in the palm of her hand. “Well, don’t you worry. I’m going to show you just how...easy...it is.” Still on the edge of the pool table, she turned to look at the karaoke runner. Wilbur was giving her a wide-eyed look, but a sly, knowing smile was mixed in with his features. “Wilbur, would you be a dear and get that thing...turned on?”

To his credit, Wilbur shot back almost immediately. “Way ahead of you,” he quipped. The chuckle she gave was more then such an easy comment deserved, but some of the men in the bar tittered along with her. Wilbur punched the code in a second time, and then hit the red button. Nodding at Asp, he turned the volume up slightly as the music began to kick in.

If one was a child of the 80’s, like some of the patrons in the bar that night, the song was recognizable from the opening chords. Asp knew the song nearly by heart, and threw herself into it from the very beginning, tapping her toes in mid-air before singing along with Patty Smith’s boisterous words.

#You run run, run away#
#It’s your heart that you betray#
#Feeding on your hungry eyes#
#I bet you’re not so civilized...oh, oh, oh oh...#

She was looking directly at the big man, Rhino, as she sung those words. A small, slightly evil smile formed on his features as they shared a glance for a brief moment.

#Well isn’t love primitive#
#A wild gift that you want to give#
#Break out of captivity#
#And follow me, stereo jungle child#
#Love is the kill...your heart’s still wild!#

Asp leaned back, microphone above her head, belting out the chorus like she was back on the pole and trying to hustle tip money from the crowd.

#Shooting at the walls of heartache...bang bang!#
#I am the Warrior...#
#Well I am the Warrior, and heart to heart you’ll win...#

She lowered her head, and spoke in a soft tone, eye contact made with Machete, all the way across the room at the bar.

#...if you survive#
#The Warrior...the Warrior#

#You talk talk, talk to me#
#Your eyes touch me physically#
#Stay with me, we’ll take the night#
#As passion takes another bite...oh oh, oh oh...#

Slowly sliding off the table, Asp walked towards a nearby booth, passing by Boomerang’s table with a gentle sway of the hip. In the booth, Whirlwind, sitting alone, ran his eyes up and down Asp’s body as she stopped at the edge of his table. She leaned in, staring at the long-time Avenger’s foe, giving him a bit of a show while waving her firm bottom around for the rest of the bar to admire.

#Who’s the hunter, who’s the game#
#I feel the beat, call your name#
#I hold you close, in victory#

She spun in place, reversing the luscious views, and as Whirlwind raised one eyebrow while studying her posterior, she raised one arm into the air, putting everything into the last few lines of the song.

#I don’t want to tame your animal style#
#You won’t be caged...in the call of the wild!#

Singing the chorus a final time, Asp walked back over to the pool table. Every set of eyes in the place followed her, as she turned, back against the rail, leaning backwards, singing boldly one final time.

#Shooting at the walls of heartache...bang bang!#
#I am the Warrior...#
#Well I am the Warrior...and victory is miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!#

[Chris Myers]

The song slowly came to an end. Asp lowered her head, wiping a bit of sweat from her forehead. She always felt good after a bit of physical exhaustion, and while it didn’t compare to dancing or fighting, a good rendition of a crowd favorite had its own rewards.

As the sounds of Scandal faded out, the bar erupted in applause, mixed in with a good bit of catcalls and whistles. Breathing a bit heavily, Asp took a bow. One of the things she had loved about her old, pre-Serpent Society profession was the recognition of the crowd. Hearing it from her peers felt very good, and she soaked it in for the few moments it went on.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said into the microphone. “Alright, boys. Now that I’ve shown you just how easy it is...who wants next?”

The clapping died down, and a general sense of...curiosity settled onto the patrons. They all looked at each other, some of them giving half-hearted shrugs of non-commitment. Asp crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot as she looked out at the crowd. “Oh, come on, boys. No one here’s got the stones to sing a little itty bitty song?”

“Asp, I don’t think anyone here can follow that performance up.” Piledriver slammed down the remains of his beer. “They definitely can’t work their booty like you just did.”

Asp joined in with the laughter that filled the room. “I’m not interested in your behind, Piledriver. I’m interested in the size of your...jackhammer,” she replied. Piledriver, chuckling, and gave a half-point to his lower body. “Well I’m sure it’s great at generating horsepower, Piledriver, but how does it hold up under strenuous conditions?”

“I’ll sing.”

The voice spoke from the bar. Attention in the room turned from the verbal sparring between Asp and Piledriver to the brave soul who had thrown his hat into the singing ring. Doctor Otto Octavius finished the whiskey with a gulp, before his tentacles helped the inebriated genius to his feet, using the bar for support. “If just to end that horrible exchange of what hoped to pass for wit, I’ll the proverbial bullet for the lot of you.”

“Otto,” Herman Schultz said from the bar stool next to him, “what are you doing?”

“Something new and different,” Otto replied. “I’m a scientist, after all. Finding new things is what I excel at.”

“Alright, Doctor!” Asp clapped, along with the rest of the Serpent Society and a few of the patrons, as Otto slowly weaved his way towards the pool table. One tentacle rested against the nearby wall, passing over a railing, keeping the Doctor upright and steady. “I’m impressed, Otto,” Asp said as he arrived at the pool table. “I never suspected you for a singer, at all,” she joked.

“I never suspected myself, either.” As one tentacle gently gripped the edge of the pool table, another one took the microphone from Asp. “Would you be a dear and pick the song, Asp? I trust you and your colleagues to pick something not only entertaining, but well within my talent. My intellect is vast, but my vocal range, alas, pales in comparison.”

Coachwhip was on it. She flipped through the binder, stopping in the “D” section. “How about this one, Doc?” Coachwhip held the binder in front of Otto, who studied it through his thick glasses for a moment before shaking his head.

“Thomas Dolby is too cliché for me, Coachwhip.”

“Alright, alright...should just be happy you’re up here...alright...” She closed the binder, and then quickly opened it again. The laminated pages fell open, and where the split happened, the Texan ran a finger down the list. “How about this one? Ain’t cliché, but it might have just the right bit of irony for a man of your smarts.”

Otto peered at the song title that Coachwhip pointed to. After a few moments, a tight smile appeared on his face. “That will do nicely. Just have Wilbur punch it up, please.” The doctor chuckled to himself as Wilbur put the song’s code in the machine. It was, in a way, very fitting to the doctor and his life experience. And a very easy song to sing as well.

Only one person in the bar recognized the music as it started. Hydro-Man, sitting at Boomerang’s table, let out a loud guffaw at the opening chords. “Now THAT’S appropriate, Doctor,” the water-based villain said with support in his voice.

The words were blurry to Otto’s eyesight, moving slightly under his gaze, but the two free tentacles peered from beside his arms, letting his brain clearly figure out the lyrics, which were somewhat familiar to him from a long time ago.

#I study nuclear science, I love my classes#
#I got a crazy teacher, he wears dark glasses#
#Things are going great, and they’re only getting better#
#I’m doing alright, getting good grades#
#The future’s so bright...I gotta wear shades#

The final lyric was the catalyst for recognition. Most of the bar laughed at the song choice, clapping their hands and cheering at the good Doctor. He smiled at the recognition, nodding his approval, as he followed up with the next verse, not quite singing, not quite talking, but finding that happy medium in the middle.

#I’ve got a job waiting for my graduation#
#Fifty thou a year, buys a lot of beer#
#Things are going great, and they’re only getting better#
#I’m doing alright, getting good grades#
#The future’s so bright...I gotta wear shades#

They were clapping along with him now. The super powered villain community of New York City, tapping their feet and putting their hands together for the man who, even after turning to a life of crime, insisted on being called “Doctor” instead of “Doc.” For a brief period of time this evening, he had their total and complete respect. Out of the corner of his eye, Otto saw Asp grinning at him, and he flashed a smile in return.

#Well I’m heavenly blessed, and worldly wise#
#I’m a peeping-tom techie with x-ray eyes#
#Things are going great, and they’re only getting better#
#I’m doing all right, getting good grades#
#The future’s so bright...I gotta wear shades#

Behind him, the tentacle that wasn’t holding him the microphone or reading the lyrics, snapped it claws to the beat, subconsciously tapping along with its master.

#I study nuclear science, I love my classes#
#I got a crazy teacher, he wears dark glasses#
#Things are going great, and they’re only getting better#
#I’m doing all right, getting good grades#
#The future’s so bright...I gotta wear shades#
#I gotta wear shades...I gotta wear shades#

When the song ended, Herman was the first one clapping. “Alright, Otto, not bad, not bad!”

“Thank you,” Otto replied to Herman, and then into the microphone. “Thank you, everyone.” The tentacle placed the microphone on the table as Otto took a small bow, his other three tentacles joining in with half-bows of their own. He walked back to the bar stool, where a grinning Shocker slapped him on the shoulder.

“Ok, never again, Otto, never, will I say you don’t got balls. Not that I said it before, but...that was pretty good.”

“Thank you, Herman.” Otto was smiling, the familiar scowl gone from his face for the moment. “I must admit, that was as much fun as I’ve experienced in a long time. I’ve already forgotten about that meddling Spider-Man from this morning.”

“Here, Doctor. On the house from Stilt-Man,” Maxwell told him, putting another double whiskey in front of him.

“Oh. Well, thank you, Maxwell. But please make this my last one for the evening. I am afraid my tentacles might soon have a high blood-alcohol level at the rate I’ve been imbuing this fine whiskey all evening.” Otto sipped lightly at the amber liquid before turning to look at the next singer who had taken hold of the microphone.

The shapely form of Black Mamba smiled as Stilt-Man cued up her song. “Alright, everyone, I don’t know how I can follow Asp and Doctor Octopus, but I’m sure as hell gonna try. Wilbur, hit it.”

It was a gentle song, soft and full of acoustic guitars as opposed to the synthesizers of Timbuk 3. She swayed her body just slightly, putting the right amount of scorn and teasing into the song that it demanded.

#You walked into the party, like you were walking onto a yacht#
#Your hat strategically dipped below one eye, your scarf, it was apricot#
#You had one eye on the mirror, as you watched yourself gavotte#
#And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner, that they’d be your partner#
#And...#

She smiled and, with huskiness in her voice, she sang.

#You’re so vain#
#You probably think this song is about you...#

[Chris Myers]

“Come on, just tell me where the Bar is this week.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know,” the Trapster screamed.

“Trappy, you left your place on a Friday night, wearing your costume, and have your gear packed in a duffel bag.” Standing on the edge of the water tower, Spider-Man looked down at the villain dangling below him. “Either you’re about to go commit a crime, in which case I can leave you hanging here for the cops to find you, or you were going out to the Bar for a couple of drinks, in which case, I’ll just leave you hanging here until the webbing dissolves. Your call...”

The webbing stretched slightly, maybe six inches or so, but it was enough for the Trapster to suddenly yell out, at the top of his lungs. “Alright, alright, alright, I’ll talk, just pull me up!”

“Wise choice.” With both hands, Spider-Man pulled the web-wrapped Trapster up from the side of the water tower on top of the Lower East Side apartment building that Peter Petruski was currently calling home. It had been a simple matter to get the drop on the Trapster, wrap him up, and then dangle him over the edge of the water tower until he spilled the beans. Bound hand and foot by webbing, Trapster was set on the roof of the water tower by Spider-Man. He struggled against the tight synthetic bonds that kept him constrained as Spider-Man crouched down next to him. “Ok, Peter. Where were you heading tonight?”

“I was heading down to Alphabet City. The bar’s in the basement of a condemned building that got gutted last year, just off the river.”

“Meeting anyone in particular?”

“What’s it to you,” the villain responded. “You looking for someone in particular?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you, Peter that Stilt-Man was on my list...oops.” Spider-Man put a hand to his face in mock horror. “Oh, look, I’ve revealed my secret plan,” he said in an exaggerated tone. “My schemes are ruined.”

“Stilt-Man? Why the heck are you looking for him? Are you that bored on a Friday night, you feel the need to find Stilt-Man? Why don’t you just go slap a couple of stray kittens around, Spider-Man. You’ll get the same self-esteem boost and get more exercise in the process.”

“Yeah, the difference here is, Trappy, he got away with a heist this afternoon. Someone’s gotta nip that problem in the bud before Stilts turns it into a winning streak. Of course, the chances of that happening are about as small as you getting out of those bounds within the next two hours, but why leave anything to chance?” Spider-Man turned and shot a web across the street to the opposite apartment building. “Thanks for the tip, Trappy. Have a good weekend. Don’t get too tied up.” Trapster’s obscene reply was lost to Spider-Man’s ears as he swung away, heading towards Alphabet City.

*****

#I ain’t as good as I once was#
#My how the years have flown#
#But there was a time, back in my prime#
#When I could really hold my own!#
#So if you wanna fight tonight#
#Guess those boys don’t look all that tough#
#I ain’t as good as I once was#
#But I’m as good once, as I ever was#

Otto laughed at the lyrics Whirlwind was belting out in his off-tone voice. The lack of musical talent didn’t seem to bother Otto, or Herman, or Whirlwind, or anyone else currently clapping along with the Toby Keith song. The song definitely fit him, a villain whose moments of glory may have passed, but could still thrown down and hold his own with the best of him. “Admit it, Herman, this is turning out alright.” When his drinking partner for the evening didn’t respond, he asked again. “Herman, this isn’t as bad you thought it would be, isn’t it?” When there was still no answer, Otto turned in his seat to face him. “Herman, don’t tell me...”

Pause.

“Oh, Herman, this is truly a sight I somewhat suspected I would see at some point this evening.”

“Bite me, Otto,” Herman groused as he wrote down the song code on the bar napkin. “Said you yourself, Doctor, when in Rome, do what the Romans do.” The Shocker snapped the binder shut, and held it into the air. “Who wanted this next?” Hands shot up around the bar, and a cacophony of requests assaulted Herman as he tried to choose the next victim.

Whirlwind finished his song to firm applause from the Bar, and from the unofficially elected MC of the evening. “Thank you, Whirlwind, for breaking out the first country song of the evening,” Asp said after the Emerald Eviscerator handed her the microphone.

“Anything to make you happy, sweetie,” he responded with a bit of a slurred voice.

“I’m just thankful,” Asp chided him, “that the song didn’t include the words ‘tractor,’ ‘horse,’ or ‘pick-up truck’ in there.” Whirlwind waved a hand in a mock “forget you” motion as Boomerang and Aqueduct gave him a friendly laugh. “Alright, boys, let’s keep this moving right along. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having a lot of fun tonight, thanks to Stilt-Man’s little gift. Why don’t we give Wilbur a round of applause, everyone?” Asp turned, clapping her hands at the man currently working the karaoke machine, and the rest of the bar joined in with polite applause, with a few calls of “Wilbur” and “you’re the man, Day” peppered in. Day responded with a wave of his hand, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning under his half-helmet.

“Ok, let’s get our next singer up here...” Asp dug her hand into a fishbowl that sat on the pool table, and pulled out a small slip of paper. She read the name on the paper, and her eyes went down to the song title...and let out a loud laugh, almost a guffaw. “Oh, my,” Asp said into the microphone. “Now, this is a perfect song for this singer, as I’m willing to bet he’s the only person in here who could pull it off! So, let’s get Speed Demon up here!”

“That’s my cue,” Speed Demon said on the barstool next to Herman. “Wish me luck.” He stood up, moving slowly for him (normal speed for everyone else), and walked up towards the impromptu stage.

“Asp seems to be enjoying the hell out of herself,” the Shocker mentioned to Doctor Octopus as he eyed the dark-skinned MC. “She’s really getting into this.”

“The eye candy is appreciated,” Otto said after taking a sip of ice cold water. “She knows how to work a room full of testosterone-fueled super villains, without a doubt. If anyone else was holding the reins this evening, I dare say this whole event would have been a wash, or even a melee, as you suggested earlier.”

At the pool table, Asp greeted the speedster with that professional smile. “Hello, James. I have to say, this song is a perfect fit for you.”

“Well,” he said loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “if you like it enough, maybe later, we can find out whether or not I’m a perfect fit for you,” Speed Demon said with a leering grin.

“Oh, James, maybe someday, once you’ve had the lower body equivalent of Tommy John surgery,” Asp replied without missing a beat. Herman was surprised when Speed Demon replied with a loud laugh and a bigger smile at the verbal lash.

“Well, if you change your mind, promise you, Asp, it’ll be the best seven seconds of your life.” Speed Demon zipped a finger towards Stilt-Man, a smirk plastered on the speedster’s face. “Wilbur, hit the music.”

The rolling of snare drums and tom-toms led into one of the 1990’s best known songs. Speed Demon had to slow himself down to actually get the words out, but he spat them out with clarity, never once missing of stumbling over a word...

#That’s great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane#
#Lenny Bruce is not afraid#

He took a deep breath...

# Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn. World serves its own needs, jealous of your own needs#
#Feed it up a notch, speed, grunt no, strength turn#
#Ladder structure clatter with fear of height, down height#
#Wire in a fire, represents the seven games in a government for hire and a combat site#
#Lefty wasn't coming in a hurry with the furies breathing down your neck#
#Team by team reporters baffled, trump, tethered, crop. Look at that low plane!
#Fine, dead. Uh oh, overflow, population comin’. What we gonna do? Save yourself, serve yourself#
#World serves its own needs, listen to your heart beat. Tell me which direction we can bend it in the right – right#
#You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched#

Speed Demon took a large, exaggerated breath, before leaping into the chorus. A good bit of the bar, knowing nothing of the lyrics but extremely familiar with the core part of the song, joined in without hesitation, bringing a smile to Speed Demon’s face.

#It’s the end of the world as we know it...#

[Chris Myers]

#Hey man!#
#I’m trying to reason but you don’t understand!#
#Talking in circles, we’ll never get it straight!#
#Just you and me in our theatre of hate!#

Rhino had the mic right up to his lips. His gravelly voice rumbled through the karaoke machine’s speakers, somehow avoiding feedback as he screamed out the Anthrax tune.

#Can’t stand it for another day!#
#I ain’t gonna live my life this way!#
#Cold sweat, my fists are clenching#
#Stomp, stomp, stomp, the idiot convention!#
#Which one of these words don’t you understand!#

“Christ, it’s like watching Rob Halford...” Herman said as his friend stomped in time with the music, knocking over several bottles of beer and causing a bit of plaster to drop from the ceiling.

#I’m caught in a mosh!#
#Talking to you is like talking with one hand!#
#What is it?#

Rhino held the microphone in the air, and the thrash metal fans immediately shouted out the refrain.

#CAUGHT IN A MOSH!#
#WHAT IS IT!
#CAUGHT IN A MOSH#!

Rhino gently, but firmly, thrust the microphone back at Asp as the bar burst into thunderous applause, through several of the patrons tapped at their ears as the loud song came to an end. “Wow, you really got into that one, big guy,” Asp said in an awestruck voice. The normally stoic walking tank was grinning as he walked back to his booth. Several colleagues slapped him on the back of his thick armored suit as he passed by. “Alright. Well, hopefully our next singer is gonna be a little lower on the volume. Black Mamba, the lucky contestant, please.”

The black-haired, leather-clad vixen reached into the fishbowl next to the machine with a bit of a flourish, thrusting the hand holding the paper into the air before handing it over to Asp. “Ok, and the winner is...heh. Oh, this should be interesting. One hand hitting the other makes a very nice noise for the Ringer!”

On the pecking order, the Ringer ranked just above Stilt-Man, and that was only for a string of cigarette truck heists a few ago when New York had hiked the taxes on the items. The applause was polite at the orange-and-green-armored villain made his way to stand next to Asp, greeting her with a nod.

“You know, Ringer,” Asp said as she covered the microphone with one hand, “you may want to reconsider a song where the chorus keeps referring to ‘girl problems’ and ‘bitches.’”

“I ain’t gonna tick off a woman who could kill with a touch,” Ringer replied in a low voice. “Trust me, I got a remixed version in mind.” Asp studied him for a second, and then stood back up with a shrug, handing the microphone over to him. “Ok, everyone, you know the song, but I gotta a different take on the words, thanks to some lovely gangbangers I shared a cell with a couple of months back.” Wilbur punched the song’s code into the karaoke machine, and as the words popped up, Ringer sang something a little lyrical different.

#If you’re have police problems, I feel bad for you son#
#I got 99 problems, and the cops ain’t one#

#I got the rat patrol on the gat patrol#
#Cops who want to make sure the case is closed...#

*****

The entire bar, even the four members of the Serpent Society, had their eyes locked on Skein as she slowly twisted and danced. The black haired temptress had sung her song choice in a suggestive, provocative way that had impressed even the former exotic dancer Asp. Her words were almost whispered, barely registering over the music. No one spoke, no one held a conversation. All attention on the gyrating woman formerly known as Gypsy Moth.

#I don’t want, anybody else#
#When I think about you, I touch myself...#

*****

#I use public toilets, and I piss on the seat#
#I walk around in the summertime saying...#

“HOW ABOUT THIS HEAT!” The entire bar roared the rest of the lyric, shaking the very walls of the Bar, as a grinning, beaming, having-too-much-fun-but-he’d-never-dare-admit-it Herman Schultz picked the song right back up.

#I’m an asshole, oy ee oy, oy oy, oy ee oy...#

[Chris Myers]

Coachwhip and Fer-de-Lance, sharing one microphone, smiled at each other as they sang, in near perfect harmony, the song’s final lyric.

#I’ll...fly away...on a...sin wagon!#

The fiddles brought the song to a close, and the two women grinned brightly at the crowd. “Thanks, y’all,” Coachwhip said before handing the microphone back to Asp.

“Wow. Never knew you two could hit perfect pitch,” Asp joked. “After a bit of country, let’s see what the next genre of music is...” She grabbed a slip of paper from the fishbowl, and unfolded it. “And, it’s...alright, guys, come on.” Asp, with a scowl on her face, held the paper into the air. “Who’s the smartass? Don’t put in joke requests, please. It’s demeaning, and it wastes time. And besides, this person isn’t even here tonight.”

“Of course I’m here!”

The voice boomed bombastically from the back of the bar, overpowering all conversation. At the sound of the voice, Herman Schultz groaned into his beer. “Christ...when did he show up?”

Speed Demon looked over at the newcomer, taking in the purple cape and green suit of armor. “I think he snuck in through the back door.”

“This place doesn’t HAVE a rear entrance, James.” Otto rolled his eyes behind his thick glasses. “It should have been deduced. Wherever a spectacle is put upon a stage, he will show up...”

“I apologize for my late entrance, and I would like to give praise and thanks to all of my opening acts. A fine job, worthy of the finest off-Broadway understudies!” He strode through the bar, bold, powerful, making a statement just by his grand, sweeping motions. “I humbly beseech there, Mistress Asp, to allow my voice to grace the air this fine evening!”

Asp sighed loudly. “Can it, Mysterio. You can sing if you want to.” She knew he had to be smiling underneath the glass-bowl helmet that adorned his head. “I don’t know if this song will go over with this crowd, though.”

The Master of Illusion took the makeshift stage with practice ease. “Oh, I shall win them over, my dear,” he offered proudly. “I do not wish to demean the fine singing of this evening, but you must allow a true professional to ply his craf...”

“Oh, shut up and just sing the bloody song, mate!”

Mysterio turned slightly to face Boomerang. “Always a critic, Fred. Fine. Wilbur, enter code BXY27U, please.”

Stilt-Man stared at Mysterio for a second. “How did...how did you know that off the top of your head?”

“It’s karaoke, Wilbur. I am well familiar with the make and model of your particular machine.” Stilt-Man nodded in understanding, and punched up the song in question. After a few seconds, the low tone of a piano was heard, played in a slow, classical style. Very few people in the Bar with No Name recognized the opening to the piece, staring at each other with confused looks, as Mysterio eschewed the microphone and took up position on stage, feet spread slightly, standing perfectly straight.

Only one person in the bar knew exactly what song it was. Dr. Otto Octavius smiled into his glass of cold water as Mysterio started to sing softly.

#This is my moment...this is the day#
#When I send all my doubts and demons on their way#
#Every endeavor, I have made ever#
#Is coming into play, here and now...today#

His voice was steady, and rich in tone. If he was using some kind of vocal tuner built into his suit, the people nearest to him couldn’t tell.

#This is the moment...this is the time#
#When the momentum and the moment are in rhyme#
#Give me this moment, this precious chance#
#I’ll gather up my past, and make some sense...at laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaast#

Mysterio carried the last note, holding it out for a bit in time with the music. Much like Skein’s earlier display, the bar was focused completely upon the singer, but this time, it wasn’t the motions of the singer, but the power of his voice as it rang through the air, accompanied by the rising tones of the piano.

#This is the moment...when all I’ve done!#
#All the dreaming, scheming and screaming, become onnnnnnnnne!#
#This is the day, see it sparkle and shine#
#When all I’ve lived for, becomes mine!#

The Master of Illusion clenched his fist to his chest, speaking with his body to compensate for his hidden face. He was pouring his heart into the song, going from beyond a simple chance to perform for an audience to belting out his feelings, drawing upon personal experience to act out the song.

#For all these years, I’ve faced the world alone#
#And now the time has come to prove to them, I’ve made it on my own!#
#This is the moment, my final test#
#Destiny beckoned, I never reckoned, second best!#
# I won’t look down!#
#I must not fall!#
#This is the moment#
#The sweetest moment of them all!#

His arms came up from his side, his voice booming through the bar without the help of the microphone, emotion reverberating from every word.

#This is the moment! Damn all the odds!#
#This day or never, I’ll sit forever, with the gods!#

The music crashed down.

#When I look back, I will always recall#
#Moment for moment#
#This was the moment#
#The greatest moment#
#Of them all!#

The piano swelled triumphantly as Mysterio carried the last word out, his arms held out to the bar, portraying his triumph as he brought down the proverbial house. Even as he sang, the applause started from the bar, Otto Octavius leading the charge. It wasn’t the loud, boisterous applause that had met Rhino’s powerful song, but recognition of the superb job that Mysterio, normally an overactor, had brought to the song. As the music faded away, the clapping continued, along with the appropriate theater whistles, and a cry of “bravo, bravo” from Batroc the Leaper in the back. Mysterio bowed with a flourish, one hand on his waist, one out to the side, soaking in the acclaim.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said once it had died down. “I hope you appreciated my efforts to add a little culture to the evening.”

“That was...very well done.” Asp stared at Mysterio with a bit of awe in her voice, and a winning smile etched on her face. “I had no idea you were a tenor, Mysterio.”

His bronze glove took her hand, and he made the motion to kiss it, the warm skin pressing up against the cool glass of his helmet. “It depends on the song, my dear. You should hear me sing ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from the seminal classic ‘Les Miserables...’”

[Chris Myers]

“This is officially the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Spider-Man remarked as he hung upside down across the street from the Bar With No Name. The corner of the building he hung from was cloaked in shadow, sitting on a condemned block in Alphabet City, gutted by a roaring fire nearly a year ago. The only light on the road, save for a few pale streetlamps, came from what was once a working class bar built into the basement of a building. The front door was wide open on the abandoned street, and the windows wide and clear. Hanging just below one of the ledges running around the vacant building gave him a perfect hiding point to stake out and wait out Stilt-Man.

But what he got, instead of a patient wait for the long-time lose criminal, was something completely different. He had heard the song before, and knew the beat from when the song was a hit a couple summers back, and it had been played from every car and every boombox in New York City, it seemed like.

The two people currently singing, the song, though...Piledriver and Titania were the furthest thing in the world from Wycleaf John and Shakira.

#I never knew she could dance like this#
#She makes a man want to speak Spanish#
#Como se llama, bonita, mi casa, su casa#
#Titania, Titania#

The massive super villain smiled at Piledriver, a look that promised activities later in the evening, a mental image that made the wall-crawler glad he hadn’t eaten anything that day.

#Oh baby when you talk like that#
#You make a woman go mad#
#So be wise and keep on#
#Reading the signs of my body#
#And I’m on tonight, you know my hips don’t lie#
#And I’m starting to feel it’s right...#

“This must be Hell. I made a deal with Mephisto, and this is the price he’s making me pay. It’s the only reason I’m seeing this,” Spider-Man concluded. Behind the duo, he could make out the armor of Wilbur Day, working what would only be the reasoning behind this evening’s bizarre display. “Oh my giddy aunt...they’re doing karaoke.”

The Bar With No Name was packed this evening...and no one was brawling, or fighting, or shoving one another. In fact, everyone was clapping or cheering along the two brawny super villains as they sang in front of what Spider-Man thought would be the toughest crowd on the planet.

“Either they’re really drunk,” he thought, “or the Puppet Master got really bored tonight...”

Before he could finish the quip, his spider-sense tingled. Normally, he could move faster than anything, reflexes boosted to a superhuman degree.

This time, though, the lightning shooting through the air was quicker than the web slinger. As Spider-Man was spinning to face his long-time foe, the bolt caught him in the side. “Oooof,” he wheezed as pain raced up and down his ribs. The shock of the attack made him lose his grip on the webbing he was hanging from, and he started to fall towards the road. Instinctively, his arm shot out, webbing already streaking from his shooter towards the side of the building. As he extended his limb, however, his wrist struck the edge of the balcony below him. In pain, he reflexively withdrew his arm, grabbing at it with his other hand. By the time he recovered, the ground was already waiting to greet him. Spider-Man slammed shoulder-first into the cracked concrete of the sidewalk, his head impacting a second later. Pain ran through his entire body, and his vision blurred as he finished falling.

“Well, ain’t this just my lucky day?” A gruff voice, familiar to Spider-Man’s ears, confirmed who had assaulted him. He tried to roll over, and get his arms out to defend himself, but his body’s reaction to that was to increase the numbers of stars that he was currently seeing spin around his head. “I was gonna see the show tonight that everyone’s talking about, and thank to you, webhead, I’m going to have a front row seat!”

Before Spider-Man could respond, another jolt of electricity ran through his body, this one aimed directly at his heart. He could feel it skip a beat for a split second, disrupting his body just enough for unconsciousness to set in...

*****

#Darkness falls across the land...the midnight hour is close at hand#
#Creatures crawl in search of blood...to terrorize y’alls neighborhood#

His singing had been less than perfect, but the creepy, crackling voice of the Vulture, clutching the microphone like newfound prey, were the perfect substitute for Vincent Price’s words.

#And whosoever shall be found, without the soul for getting down#
#Must stand and face the hounds of hell...and rot, inside a corpse’s shell#

His grin, stretched across his scrawny face, unnerved some of the patrons. Maybe a bit too much, Adrian Tooms was enjoying himself, a grin of joy instead of evil for once in his career.

#The foulest stench is in the air, the funk of forty thousand years!#
#And grizzly ghouls from every tomb#
#Are closing in to seal your doom#
#And though you fight, to stay alive, your body starts to shiver#
#For no mere mortal can resist...the evil of...the Thriller#

The music cut off, and a split second later, the laughter began, evil, cackling, high-pitched, and most of all, gleefully inspired from the Vulture. The creaking slam of a door ended the song, and the applause was a bit tepid. But it was the chills and shivers that some of the patrons showed that was reward enough for Tooms.

“Thank you, Vulture, for giving me nightmares for a week,” Asp half-joked. “Well, we’ve run the gamut from 80’s rock to 80’s synth to the 90’s alternative scene, from thrash to Broadway, rap to hip-hop...but we still got some names in here. So, unless anyone here wants to go home early...”

“Not as long as Stilt-Man’s still buying!”

“...Rhino, at some point, even you’re going to pass out. But until then, or until the cops show up and we kick their asses for interrupting the show, let’s keep going!”

“Actually,” a crackling voice spoke from the doorway, “I have a better form of entertainment right here, ladies and gentlemen!”

All eyes turned to the open doorway. Standing inside, a man, wearing a bright yellow-and-green outfit, who normally would have been found at the Bar with No Name on any given night, conspicuous by his absence, who just now made his first appearance of the evening. As people realized who it was...it wasn’t Maxwell Dillon that got them talking, but what was thrown over his shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late,” Electro said as he strode into the bar like a conquering hero, walking towards Stilt-Man and Asp. “But I ran into an old friend, and I figured he’d want to come to the show.”

Unceremoniously, Electro dumped the motionless body of Spider-Man onto the pool table. “I’m sure he’s just dying to see the final act.”

[Chris Myers]

Stunned silence in a bar that, for the past few hours, had been filled non-stop with music.

Electro was grinning like the cat that had finally caught and ate the canary. Arms crossed, he leaned against the pool table, back to Spider-Man, looking out at the gathered villains with one hand raised, ring finger extended, a little spark of lightning cackling around the tip. “Let’s take requests. I’d like to personally dedicate Stone Temple Pilots’ ‘Dead and Bloated’ to the wall-crawler, a funeral dirge before the funeral.”

“Guys,” Stilt-Man said, the first to break out of the state of shock that Electro’s prize had brought on. “I think that’s really Spider-Man.”

“Of course it’s Spider-Man, Chrome Dome,” Electro hissed. “He was hanging out across the street, watching us, when I came along and gave him a good zap. Whatever you guys were doing to distract him, it worked like a charm. So, do we kill him now, or torture him, then kill him?”

Slowly, the chairs were pushed back against the floor. The patrons stood up, sliding out of their booths, moving from their barstools, and gathered around the pool table, where their long-time foe, the bane of their criminal careers, was unconscious next to the karaoke machine. Six, seven rows deep, staring over the tops of heads, looking past shoulders, they saw the blue-and-red wallcrawler, completely and totally at their mercy.

“I never thought this day would come,” Hydro-Man spoke. “He’s ours. He’s really ours.”

“I don’t know which bone of his to break first,” Rhino growled, cracking his knuckles.”

“Break bones? I’m gonna filet his skin off,” Machete countered, “then you can make soup from his bones, Rhino.”

“Hell, I just want to rip that mask off, and finally see what this little bastard looks like.” All eyes turned towards the back of the bar, where Herman Schultz, the Shocker, was standing. “This guy has been making fun of us for years. I figure, before we end his career for good, we deserve to know what he’s hiding under that mask.”

After a few seconds, there were sounds of agreement from the gathered crowd. “Yeah.” “Good idea, Herman.” “He’s probably got a harelip.” “I want to see his nose before we break it!”

Herman strode forward, the crowd parting for him as he approached the table. For years, Spider-Man and Shocker had traded shots up and down Manhattan Island and across the Five Boroughs. Here it was, finally, a chance for Herman to finally, for good, get one up on Spider-Man. The last thing this punk would see was the Shocker’s quilted suit as he drowned in the Hudson River. “Alright, little boy, let’s see what you got,” Herman said as he arrived at the pool table. Spider-Man was barely breathing, his chest slowly rising and falling. His uniform was scorched just about his heart, but the rest of his costume was intact. One hand reached out to reach under Spider-Man’s chin...

Cold metal grabbed the Shocker’s forearm. Herman looked down, to see the chittering metal claws of a tentacle gripping him tightly. “What the...”

“No, Herman.”

Behind him, at the edge of the crowd, Doctor Octopus stood. One tentacle reached through the passage Herman had been granted, while other three writhed slightly behind Otto. “That would be foolish, and not the best move at this juncture.”

“Huh? Why the hell not, Otto? Here’s our chance to put Spider-Man down! For good! No more jokes, quips, and all the tritium you want!”

Doctor Octopus walked forward. As he did so, the tentacle slowly withdrew from Herman’s arm, rejoining its brethren behind Otto’s back. “If we killed Spider-Man tonight, Herman...the Avengers would never stop. They would never rest. They would hunt each and every costumed villain in the Bar tonight to the very ends of the Earth, and beyond. I don’t know about you, but with the potential of men like Captain America and Wolverine hunting with a driven purpose, that’s a path I do not wish to walk down.”

“No way, Doc!” Electro stepped forward, standing side-by-side with the Shocker. “This webhead has embarrassed nearly everyone in here, not to mention putting several of us behind bars! There’s no way we can let him just walk out of here!”

A tentacle snapped just inches from Electro’s face, causing the Villain of Voltage to take a step backwards. “I didn’t say that, Maxwell. Oh, sure, we could beat him within an inch of his life...but we all have done that before.” Now, the Doctor stood beside the pool table, gazing down at Spider-Man with his glasses, and all four tentacles slowly scanning the hero. “We’ve all pounded this man, and he keeps coming back for more. None of us can beat him in a fight. And dare I say, not even all of us here tonight can beat him in a fair fight. No, Maxwell, and Herman, and everyone else here tonight. Physically, this man can heal and hound of for the rest of days. What I’m interested in, my friends...is something more...long-term.”

*****

Cold water splashed on the bottom of Spider-Man’s face, soaking the bunched up fabric. “Awaken, Spider-Man.”

Instinctively, Spider-Man tried to sit up...but something strong was holding down his shoulders. He looked to his left, and immediately recognized the metal tentacle that firmly gripped his shoulder. “Doc Ock. I should have known.”

The bespectacled villain leaned over from the edge of the pool-table, upside down in Spider-Man’s eyes. “Is that anyway to greet an old friend?”

“No, I normally like to use my hands and feet,” Spider-Man quipped in reply. He tried to move his legs, but he felt the strong grip of Doctor Octopus’ tentacles on each of his ankles.

“Maybe you’ll show more manners and politeness in a few moments, Spider-Man, when I tell you I just saved your life.” Doctor Octopus smiled at the wall-crawler with a toothy smirk. “These other patrons, this evening, wanted to end your life in a violent manner. I alone convinced them otherwise that you belong in the land of the living.”

“Gee, thanks. Remind me to send you a card.” Spider-Man looked up, raising his head to look around him. His long-time nemesis had him pinned to a pool table, a tentacle firmly gripping each of his limbs to hold him in place. To his left, Electro, smiling, calmly tossed a bolt of lightning back and forth between each hand. On his right, the Shocker, arms crossed, mask on, looked down at him, wearing his quilted suit. And at the far end of the table, laughing, Stilt-Man gave the wall crawler a friendly wave.

“Doc Ock, the Shocker, Electro, and Stilt-Man. One of these things is not like the other, Octavius,” Spider-Man offered.

“Don’t be too sure. It’s Stilt-Man that brought about this evening’s entertainment, Spider-Man. So I feel he has a stake in these proceedings as we let you choose your fate.”

“Let me? What’re my options, cake or death?”

“Not quite. See, most everyone here wanted to kill you and dump your body in the river, so there was the death option. On the other hand...I prefer mental scarring Spider-Man. Pain heals over time, bones mend, but the abuse of the mind and psyche, that’s something that lingers for a very, very long time.” Doctor Octopus chuckled low in his throat. “However, we are nothing but civilized folk, Spider-Man, so we’ve decided to give you options. Both options will allow you to swing out of here, free and clear, with no ramifications on this night.”

“Mental abuse? I’m not signing up for one of your science classes, Doc.”

“At least hear your options. Option number one...Wilbur, if you could?”

Grinning, Wilbur lifted one of his suit’s massive legs. He easily set it on the edge of the pool table, balancing on the other leg with gyro-assisted ease. Easily the size of a small tree trunk, Stilt-Man turned slightly, taking aim.

“Option one,” Doctor Octopus offered. “Stilt-Man here extends his leg, at full power, directly into your groin. Simple, quick, and extremely painful. One shot at both your balls, Spider-Man.”

The webcrawler turned his head to look directly at the Doctor. “You’re kidding me. That’s one of the options? A kick to the groin by Stilt-Man?”

“You’ve been kicking me in the balls for years, Spidey,” Stilt-Man said, the grin on his face slowly turning evil. “I’d love for a chance to directly pay you back.”

“Huh. Well, knowing you, Wilbur, you’d probably miss,” Spider-Man spat out. “But at the same time, I really ain’t in the mood to be known as your friendly neighborhood non-Italian soprano. Alright, Doctor, I’m intrigued. What’s option number two?”

The laugh that came from Doctor Octopus was a mix, a mix of evil, delight, mirth, and revelation. “Oh, you’ll find, Spider-Man, option two is much, much worse.”

[Chris Myers]

“I should have taken the kick to the balls,” Spider-Man groused.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoil sport, young man. Perhaps you’ll find out that this is fun.” Two of Doctor Octopus tentacles gripped each of Spider-Man’s ankles, keeping him firmly standing in one place by the pool table. The other two wavered slightly, snapping at the wall-crawler occasionally. “Why, even Rhino found a bit of fun and joy this evening, belting out a loud and vulgar tune.”

“Rhino finds knocking walls over fun, Doc.”

“Point taken. But, as a pied piper once told me, the show must go on.” Doctor Octopus turned to Asp, and motioned with a hand. “Asp, if you could?”

“Thanks, Doctor!” Asp flashed a smile of sweet poison to Spider-Man as she spoke. “Well, guys, this evening just keeps getting better and better, because now...we have our encore!”

Hoots and hollers greeted Spider-Man, along with a few thrown peanut shells from Boomerang’s table. “That’s right. Tonight, the man we all love to loathe, the bane of our existence, and the most annoying superhero outside of Speedball...Spider-Man is here to sing for us!”

“Alright!” “Woo!” “Put him in a body bag, Johnny!”

Spider-Man shook his head. He had been in worst situations. He had nearly drowned on several occasions, had been buried under collapsed buildings, been beaten to within an inch of his life too many times to remember, and even went through a phase in his life where he was unsure whether or not he was a clone.

This may have been worse than all of them, save the last one.

Just the pure embarrassment of the situation as the gathered super villains didn’t even decide to take a swing at him. No, for once, they put their heads together and came up with something much, much worse. From now on, for the rest of his days, anytime he collided with a person here tonight, they would be reminded of the night that Spider-Man was forced to sing, held in place by the strength of Otto Octavius, for their own personal amusement.

If the Black Cat found out, he’d never, ever, ever live this down.

“So what we’re going to do right now, everyone, is take some requests. We’ll pick the best one out of all the ones thrown out there, and if Spidey here can make it through the song, well, we’ll let him go, no strings attached.” She turned and winked at the wallcrawler. “Scout’s honor, Spider-Man, you can walk out of here, safe and secure in the knowledge that video of you singing will soon be up on YouTube for everyone to see.”

“I don’t suppose I can just let Hydro-Man kick my ass for five minutes instead, huh,” Spider-Man said so the microphone picked up.

“Otto, I’m cool with that offer,” Hydro-Man replied from his seat.

“No, he’ll just beat you and be off scot free. Trust me, my hydrated friend,” Doctor Octopus countered, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Damn it,” Spider-Man muttered when Hydro-Man nodded in agreement. “I thought he’d take it...”

“Aw...is little baby getting stage fright,” Asp teased, before turning to the crowd. “Alright, folks, let’s hear them!”

Sitting on his barstool, Aqueduct threw out the first suggestion. “’Lola,’ by the Kinks!”

“Nah,” Speed Demon replied, “make him do ‘Stayin’ Alive!’”

“I would like to suggest,” the proud voice of Mysterio projected, “a song from the musical ‘Annie,’ ‘Tomorrow!’”

“I like that one,” Asp said, “but come on, this is going to end up on the Internet, so let’s make it a real good one!”

“Oh, oh, got it. Debbie Boone, ‘You Light Up My Life,” Boomerang said with a wide grin. “That’ll bring down the bloody house!”

“I’m not surprised, somehow, that you guys know who sings all these horrible songs,” Spider-Man interjected.

“Tell you what, Spider-Man, I’ll give you a choice between country and western,” Coachwhip spoke. “Either do ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter,’ or ‘I Love This Bar.’”

“There’s a difference,” Fer-de-Lance asked, scratching her head.

“Come on. If you’re gonna embarrass the wall crawler, let’s really embarrass him.” Electro, unhappy to be denied his chance to finally end Spider-Man for good, stared daggers at the hero. “I know this from that Will Farrell movie, webhead...’Afternoon Delight.’”

“Oh, yeah, that’s the one,” Machete approved. “Get him to sing it to Titania!”

“Keep that freak away from me,” the female super villain countered.

“Hmm...” Asp tapped her chin, pursing her lips as she thought. “I’m leaning that way, Electro! Anyone think they can top it?” A few people mulled it over, but the general consensus was approval, enthusiastic nods punctuating the choice.

“Well, then...” Asp began, before being loudly interrupted.

“No! Wait! I got it!”

All eyes turned towards the man who had started this whole chain of events. Stilt-Man was smiling widely, laughing at himself. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before, guys. It’s so damn obvious...” Wilbur looked over at Black Mamba. “You are taping this, right?”

“Oh yeah, baby.” Mamba was holding up a small handheld video camera. She had brought it just in case her evening out with her Serpent Society sisters had turned wild, but never did she think it’d turn this wild.”

“And you’re definitely gonna put it up on the Internet?”

“Damn right, Wilbur,” she purred.

“Then, really, there’s only ONE song Spider-Man can sing.” Wilbur started flipping through the binder rapidly. “This’ll bring the damn house down...here it is.” Stilt-Man stared up at Spider-Man, standing on the stage. “You’re gonna love this one, Spider-Man. I promise.”

“Great...” Spider-Man said dejectedly. He had the microphone in his hands. Maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad. It was Stilt-Man...what’s the worst...

The synthesized drums kicked in, and the hero felt his entire body deflate. “Oh, no...you gotta be kidding me.”
“Oh, no, I ain’t kidding,” a triumphant Stilt-Man proclaimed as the keyboard joined in. “And the whole world’s gonna see it.”

The rest of the bar, immediately recognizing the song, burst into jeering applause. Black Mamba smiled, stepping next to Stilt-Man and zooming in on the slumping body of the wall crawler. “Perfect, Wilbur,” she said. “Great choice.”

“Kill me now, Doc,” Spider-Man said to Doctor Octopus. “Right between the proverbial eyes. It’ll be quicker.”

“And spare you this humiliation? I think not. Now, sing, Spider-Man. Like you mean it!”

No choice left in the matter, Spider-Man raised the microphone to his lips...

[Chris Myers]

#We’re no strangers to love#
#You know the rules...and so do I#

“No, no, Spider-Man, feel the words!” Doctor Octopus tightened his grip on the ankles of the wall crawler, who yet out an involuntary yelp before continuing.

#A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of#
#You wouldn’t get this from any other guy#
#I just want to tell you how I’m feeling#
#Gotta make you...understand#

“Yes, yes, just like that!” Mysterio boomed from the back of the bar, clearly enjoying the show as he found his toe tapping along with the catchy tune. Spider-Man clearly lacked enthusiasm, but the circumstances surrounding the song more than made up for it.

#Never gonna give you up#
#Never gonna let you down#
#Never gonna run around and desert you#
#Never gonna make you cry#
#Never gonna say goodbye#
#Never gonna tell a lie, and hurt you#

“This is worse than fighting Leap Frog,” Spider-Man told Doctor Octopus.

“Oh, I don’t know about you, wall crawler, but I’m having a ball,” a grinning Otto Octavius replied. “Now, the second verse, same at the first!”

#We’ve known each other for so long#
#Your heart’s been aching, but you’re too shy to say it#
#Inside we both know what’s been going on#
#We know the game and we’re gonna play it!#
#And if you ask me how I’m feeling#
#Don’t tell me you’re too blind to see#

#Never gonna give you up#
#Never gonna let you down#
#Never gonna run around and desert you#
#Never gonna make you cry#
#Never gonna say goodbye#
#Never gonna tell a lie, and hurt you#

He had never been happier to wear a mask. Spider-Man saw that the entire bar was laughing at his misfortune. For one brief shining moment, the super villain community had turned the tables on the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. He was the joke...

Now, he knew how they felt when he quipped and made fun of them. That was perhaps the sharpest dagger of all.

#Oooh...give you up#
#Oooh...give you up#
#Oooh...never gonna give, never gonna give...#
#Give you up#
#Oooh...never gonna give, never gonna give...#
#Give you up#

“This is probably the best night of my life,” Stilt-Man told the video-taping Black Mamba. “Watching Spider-Man humiliated in front of me, and knowing he can’t do anything about it...it almost makes all the past pain worth it, Mamba.”

“I know. And it’s all because of you, Wilbur.” Mamba smiled through the viewport of the camera. “I told you bringing the machine would be a good idea.”

“Yeah...” He took a pull of his beer as Spider-Man sang, trying to find his courage. “You wanna...some night...eh, maybe find a karaoke place, just the two of us, and try our hand at it without the other criminals and cutthroats around?”

After a few nervous seconds, Wilbur felt relieved when Mamba replied. “I’ll think about it. Call me next week...”

#We’ve known each other for so long#
#Your heart’s been aching, but you’re too shy to say it#
#Inside we both know what’s been going on#
#We know the game and we’re gonna play it!#
#And if you ask me how I’m feeling#
#Don’t tell me you’re too blind to see#

#Never gonna give you up#
#Never gonna let you down#
#Never gonna run around and desert you#
#Never gonna make you cry#
#Never gonna say goodbye#
#Never gonna tell a lie, and hurt you#

[Chris Myers]

Astley had left the building. Applause was sent his way, sarcastic, jeering, and full of scorn. The only thing he could do was respond with a mocking bow, packing as much sarcasm into the motion as he could.

“Huh...well, folks, he did it. So yeah, good for you, Spider-Man!” Asp reached out, and actually patted the wall crawler on the shoulder. “You need to work on your pitch, though.”

“Gee, thanks,” he replied.

Suddenly, the pressure on his ankles lessened. The tentacles grafted to the spine of Doctor Octopus pulled back to their normal position behind his back. The scientist nodded at the hero. “Thank you, Spider-Man. I can’t wait to see your shining face on the Internet in the next few hours.”

“Can’t be any worse then what the Bugle puts up,” Spider-Man retorted. He looked around the bar. Now that the embarrassment was done, he was expecting the fight. That’s how it worked. You humiliated the hero, tied them up, chained them, and then when they escaped, you cued the brawl. He clenched his fist, glancing over at the Rhino. He’d be the toughest opponent in a bar fight, in which case, he’d have to go down first...

“Well? Unless you want to buy the next round, Spider-Man, you’re free to go.” With a gentle gesture and a small smirk, Otto motioned towards the wide open front door. “I recommend you quickly beat feet, before some of us think better of the situation.”

Spider-Man regarded Doctor Octopus with a wary look. “Seriously? No tricks, no treats, just a pat on my shoulder and sent on my way?”

“Would I lie to you, Spider-Man?”

“Frequently.” But he was already slowly heading towards the door. His head was on a swivel, glancing at the villains surrounding him. They all glared back at him, eyes hooded, but not one of them made a move. Mysterio’s shoulders followed him as he walked. Shocker gazed at him over the rim of his beer. Titania kept her back to the wall in the corner. And, near the entrance, staring with the harshest look of all, Electro, arms crossed, was putting as many daggers at possible into his stare, as if he could will stab wounds all over Spider-Man.

“You know,” Electro said as Spider-Man passed him, “the second you step foot outside...hell, the second you touch outside air...Ock’s little plan doesn’t hold anymore, and I’m gonna light you up like Times Square, webhead.”

“See, Max, that’s always been your problem. You always telegraphed your plans.”

Spider-Man spun in place, both wrists out. Two strands of webbing shot from his gloves, streaking across the bar. One strand shot into the side of Stilt-Man’s karaoke machine. The other covered the lens of Black Mamba’s video camera. Before anyone could react, Spider-Man pulled the webbing back. Both the nimble camera and the bulky box flew into Spider-Man’s hands just as the first villains were standing up from their chairs.

But Spider-Man was the one with incredible reflexes. Electro was bringing his hands up, electricity already arcing between his hands, when the karaoke machine smashed into the side of his head. Plastic and computer chips exploded from the case at the impact, and the Villain of Voltage slumped against the wall, eyes glazing over, blood beginning to flow from the side of his green-and-yellow mask. “Here’s a telegram from me to you, Electro...full stop!”

“Geet heem!” The battle cry came from Batroc the Leaper, shooting up from his bottle of wine at the bar, springing to the space where the wall crawler was standing only an instance previous. Spider-Man sprung into the night air, gliding through the door with the greatest of ease. Behind him, he could make out a multitude of chairs scraping across the floor, and the general cacophony of a few dozen voices roaring out in anger.

He had barely touched down on the street before leaping back into the air, assisted by his webbing. Spider-Man swung up into the air, landing on the third story of an abandoned building. Landing safely, he looked down at the video camera clutched in his hands. “Put me on YouTube. If Jameson found out, it’d be plas...”

His spider-sense saved him, as he leapt away from the incoming blast. A strong vibration of air smashed the brick and wood next to where he had initially landed. Through the dust and splinters, Spider-Man could make out the Shocker, standing in the middle of the run-down street. The criminal had both of his gauntlets pointing towards the building. “You’re dead, Spider-Man!”

“No! I got him!” Spider-Man’s reflexes barely let him duck under the oncoming particle beam. The energy obliterated the fireplace on the other side of the room. Stilt-Man, three stories above the ground, took aim at the hero with his gun. “Damn it, you ruin everything, you damnable wall crawler!”

“When you’re around, Wilbur, that ain’t too far to go.” He spun away from another energy blast, and chuckled at Stilt-Man’s curse. Shooting a web, Spider-Man pulled himself out into the balcony, coming out on the left side of Stilt-Man. The villain was still peering into the first window, looking for the hero. “Hey, Stilty!” Spider-Man raised up the video camera, shining it directly into the helmet of the villain. “Smile for the camera! I’ll make sure you failing to catch me makes it to the Internet!”

This time, his spider sense alerted him to two incoming projectiles. He crouched, letting the two metal claws shoot through where his head had been, pinning themselves into the wall. Below him, the other two tentacles of Doctor Octopus helped pull him up the side of the building. “You ruined a perfectly good evening, Spider-Man. I’m going to ruin yours by putting you in the hospital!”

“No thanks, I got a hot date with a real tiger.” Spider-Man sprung away, leaping into mid-air above the villain. He shot a web down the street, and pulled himself away from the scene of the attacks. Landing on the roof of an apartment building, he turned to look over his shoulder, laughing slightly...

The smile faded as he saw the street fill up below him. The patrons of the Bar With No Name had spilled out into the road, and they were all calling for his head, lead at the front by the Rhino and Boomerang. The Australian pointed up at the roof of the building where Spider-Man looked down. “Up there! Get him!”

“Jeez, you crash one party...” Spider-Man, tucking the video camera with his performance and several seconds of Stilt-Man footage, quickly swung away, heading towards Midtown, away from the howling mob.

On the street, Doctor Octopus flashed an evil grin over in the Shocker’s direction. “I suppose you were right, Herman. This evening has ended in a potential brawl.”

“Yeah, Otto,” Herman snarked. “Could end up being the best Friday of my life.”

THE END