The Green Guy

The Green Guy

"The Green Guy"

 

It was less than he wanted, stuck in this terrible reality, with Peter no less. He didn’t want to save Peter, necessarily, after all that had happen. He convinced himself he was there for MJ and nothing more. He knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t out for her, heck he wasn’t even out for the sweet ride on that air-board. He owed Peter one. And if he died, who cared right? His butler? Mary Jane might cry, that was expected. He’d die a hero. But was it worth it?

 

He didn’t know. It was hard to think of that now. Now when he might actually die. MJ might cry. He thought of it in flashes, as each hit from that sand stung into his eyes, gritted into his teeth, consuming every orfase. He thought of how they would dress, like the day of his father’s funeral. Pete would probably wear the same lame suit since he hadn’t the money for a different one. MJ would dress like a goddess of death. Beautiful, but covered in black. Dashing, yet full of sorrow. It saddened him to think he may be the cause of her unhappiness. That distraction cost him a granite sock in the gut. He lost balance of his sky-board. He fell, dazed through the sand-thick air. He would hit ground in four seconds - three - two -

 

Bloody Pete. He saved him the sorrowful piece of elastic web. He’s off again, to face the black, goey guy. Wish I had a name for him. Harrythought sublimely, flying, slicing, and shooting his rockets, Wish I had a name for me. There’s a crowed cheering Spidey and me. I haven’t got a name, so I have been dubbed “Green Guy!” I hate touirsts. Shouldn’t there be more running and screaming? I wish.

 

Harry seemed to get some form of reprieve. The sandman had to regroup himself after that last shot, so Harry looked around for Pete and MJ. As he thought, they were in a world of trouble. And not just trouble. Pete was going to–

 

This sucked. He was going to risk his life . . .no die . . .for that good-for-nothing false friend of his who has lied since the day his father died. Now Harry was going to waste his life on him. Ungrateful little arachnid. How did his life come down to this?

 

Mary Jane’s make up would make her look pale, drawn looking. Maybe it wasn’t the makeup. Maybe she just went to the blood bank for a donation the day before the funeral. Perhaps the thought of finely being rid of the rich bachelor was comforting. Not to forget he left everything, everything to her. What was he thinking? He should really remember to change that if he gets a chance. His butler should get something. Maybe that fancy table in the dining room, or the piano. He always did like that piano.

 

The knives slid into his back. He didn’t really feel them at first. He was looking at Peter and thinking, you so do not deserve this you back-stabbing twit. Twit? He wasn’t sure where that came from. Maybe the blood loss. It was major, erupting even before the goey-guy pulled the knives from his chest and flung him down an empty well to a couple floors below. Now it hurt. It hurt a lot.

 

He could hear sounds, like bells but louder going off all around him. He couldn’t imagine what Pete was wasting his extra time playing bells for, but it was frustrating him. He felt someone grasp his hand, and instantly he perceived sandman had returned to finish him off. He groaned, twisting his body to crawl away. He needed a weapon, sword, pipe, anything to beat the creature over the head with.

 

“Harry?”

 

He stopped, opened his eyes halfway. “MJ?” he asked in shock. Hadn’t Pete gotten her out of the building? He couldn’t count on the wall-crawler to do anything right!

 

“Harry? We have to get you out of here.”

 

He laughed in his mind at the thought. She needed to save him. HA! “No,” he heard himself say, “Its, no use . . .”

 

“Shut up, and get moving.”