He had never had an interview in his life.
Yet the moment Peter straightened the tie that lied just beneath the jacket that he had spent half the night sewing up after years of use by his Uncle Ben, Peter felt like he was stepping up to the plate. It had been a couple of days since the ad had been published in the Daily Bugle tabloid, and thankfully enough, no one had caught a look or even a brief glimpse of the webspinning wonder that had, apparentally, captivated the media over speculation of his existence.
No one, of course, but Peter Parker.
And that was when he realised it... for the first time in his amatuer career as a masked vigilante hero, Peter had found something good about his double natured dual persona: It was going to earn him the credit and respect he had longed for as a teenager in Midtown High School. When the editor saw the photographs tucked beneath Peter's arm in a yellow folder, there was no question... Spider-Man was going to practically be a houseold name. And he'd be the exclusive link to the wall-crawler.
"What was the name again?"
Peter furrowed his brow, a little annoyed, as the young man... possibly only a few years older than him, checked his appointment book. He had called in advance to set up the appointment, and stressed over it for days. The publisher had only agreed to see him on the grounds that he could fit time in after his lunch and before his one o' clock meeting... which would be in five minutes. Peter was sure the appointment wouldn't take that long... provided, of course, he made it past the receptionist's desk.
"Um... I think it's under, uh... Parker? Peter Parker, maybe?", Peter guessed, looking down at his envelope in anticipation.
"Hmm. Parker... Parker. I'm sorry, pal, but I don't see any Parker listed.", The young assistant answered back.
"Sure you're not looking for the Star?"
"Well... I'm responding to an ad, here,", Peter responded, inconspiculously.
"It's about the... uh... what is it, Spider-Guy?"
"Spider-Man?", The assistant responded, visibly surprised.
"Uh... yeah. I think.", Peter answered, with a smile, trying his absolute best to pretend he had no idea who he himself even was.
"Wow. So the guy is real, huh?", The assistant asked, somewhat enthused.
"I thought it was just another one of those street things. Like the Bat-boy, or Alien Wombat Jesus."
Peter raised an eyebrow.
...Alien Wombat Jesus? Huh. Y'know, I wonder if it's too late for me to switch secret identity themes.
"Oh, yeah. He's real, alright. Photographed him myself.", Peter responded, rubbing the back of his neck.
"What's he look like, anyway? I'm just kinda curious... we get alot of people in here that have claimed to see him. But no one with any evidence or anything."
"Hmm...", Peter stated, mocking as if he were trying to remember.
"Well... he's agile. Kinda muscular. Well... really muscular. And really fast. Lightning fast, almost. And he's tall."
"Really?", The assistant asked, curiously.
"I heard he was kinda short, myself. Almost wimpy looking..."
Peter tried his best to hide the bawling fist that formed, hearing that, as he placed his hand into his pocket.
"The editor's in, right?", Peter asked, somewhat impatient.
"Sorry, it's just... well, I was told to be here at a certain time, and-"
Just then, in that moment, the door to the editor's office flew open. Out stepped a tall, shapely, strikingly beautiful brunette woman, visibly fuming at something or other as she stomped forward, somewhat, and nearly growled between her teeth. Peter froze, as she looked at him for a moment, before walking past.
"Dammit, get back here! I wasn't finished with you, Ms. Brant!", A barking voice boomed out from within the office.
"Bite me, Jonah!", Ms. Brant responded, angrily, departing to her cubicle.
The assistant turned to the visibly shock stricken Peter, as he looked from within the office, to the cubicle, then back to the office again. If whatever that editor had done to that woman to make her as angry as she was now... he was almost afraid to know what he himself was heading into.
"He... was just freed up.", The assitant responded.
"Head on in."
Peter looked at him, hesitant at first, before eventually nodding and walking towards the door.
"Uh... yeah, thanks."
"The name's Robbie, by the way. Just so you know... I'm sure Jameson will be spewing and cursing it out any minute now."
"Is he always like that?", Peter asked, somewhat frightened.
"You should see him on a bad day.", Robbie answered, dreadfully, as Peter entered the doorway... immediately regretting doing so.
Closing the door behind him, Peter turned, slowly, as the back of a chair faced him from the other side of a desk. Cautiously, he walked over, not entirely sure what to do.
"Um... yeah. Maybe this is a bad time for you. I can... well, I can try and reschedule, if you'd li-"
The chair spun, revealing an elderly man, with thinning gray hair, a thick mustace, a cigar in his mouth, and eyes that looked at Peter as if he were nothing more than a spec of dust. Even before it finally registered that the man was looking straight at him, Peter knew that he definately
was regretting ever stepping foot into the building.
"Who in the hell are you?", The man asked, abruptly.
"Me? W-Well, I'm... m-my name is P-"
"Don't care.", The man interrupted, chomping down on his cigar.
"Better question. Why are you wasting my time, kid?"
Peter blinked. He had barely been in the room a minute, and already, he wasn't being given a chance to explain himself. Pulling out the envelope from under his arm, Peter held it firmly in his hands, trying to speak again.
"I-I was... well, I'm here to answer your ad, about-"
"The new coffee boy?", The man asked, pulling the cigar from his mouth.
"Well, about damned time. You can start me off with a mocha right now."
Now, the tense fear was beginning to fade. Instead, Peter was just beginning to get annoyed.
"...No, I'm not the... I'm a photographer.", Peter stated.
"I'm here about the-"
"Photographer? You're here grovelling for a job? At my respectable newspaper?", He demanded, sitting up straighter, more annoyed.
"This isn't a flea market, kiddo. We've got to have men with experience! We've got to have gusto! The flair! The eye! Only the best can work for the Bugle!"
Peter arched an eyebrow.
...Respectable? The Bugle? It isn't hard to figure out who has the ego, here.
Deciding to give up on explainations, Peter simply placed the envelope forward, onto the man's desk. He looked down at it, curiously, before opening it up. And the moment he saw the photos, Peter could tell that his expression immediately changed from one of annoyance... to one of amazement.
There, right there, in all his pictorial goodness, was the man that J. Jonah Jameson had spent weeks trying to prove real. Everyone else was skeptical, in a time where extraordinary circumstances were becoming a bit of a normality, around the city. But deep down, in the bottom of his gut, Jonah had always had a feeling that this particular story was real. Staring at actual evidence of this for the first time was, well... rendering him speechless, to say the least.
Jameson picked up another one of Peter's photos, glancing at it closely.
There he was again. In the same clarity as before. Shooting a kind of... web like substance out of his wrists. Like a rope, or a cable... and swinging on it like a vine. Jameson couldn't believe his eyes, as the cigar dropped from his mouth, viewing the bug-like eyes on what appeared to be a web patterned mask.
The Spider-Man. He was
real.
"...How in god's name did you get these?", Jameson asked, as Peter suddenly glanced over, a bit uncomfortable.
Great. The one question he wanted to avoid so much, yet he knew would be coming from the start. He had come up with at least a dozen plausible excuses for it... but right now, at the moment he needed them, they all seemed to escape Peter's mind. So he had to get creative. And fast.
"...I guess he just likes the attention.", Peter shrugged, before mentally slapping himself.
Are you kidding, Parker?! No one else in the city can catch a glimpse of you!
Jameson couldn't stop staring at the photos, as he held up one to inspect it. Then another. Then several, all at once. Every one of them showing Spider-Man as clear as day, as if Peter had stood directly infront of him with every shot taken. It was almost too good to be true...
Then, that's when it hit him.
Jameson suddenly put the photos down, and looked at Parker, curiously. Something had obviously just came to his mind, as he inspected the obviously nervous young man before him.
"Likes the attention, huh?", Jameson asked, after a tense moment.
"You wouldn't happen to have more... feasible evidence, like video, would you?"
Peter paused.
"Well... no. But the ad didn't say anything about-"
"I know what the ad said, kid. I printed it!", Jameson responded, without missing a beat, staring down at the photographs.
"Look at this. Look at these photos. Does anything about them seem just a bit out of place, to you?"
Peter looked at them, knowing he didn't have to, before shaking his head.
"No, sir."
"Then you're as blind as a bat!", Jameson stated, annoyed.
"These photos are too clear! Too close! Too... convieniant! What in god's name makes you think I'd pass these off as the real deal?"
Peter couldn't believe it.
Sure, he could admit that they looked staged. Possibly... well, because they were staged. But they were genuine. There was no question in that. Yet the skepticism that filled Jameson's voice couldn't be ignored.
"I'll tell you what makes you think that. MTV! Rap music! Whatever you kids do, these days!", Jameson exclaimed, shutting the folder shut, tightly.
"Get out of my sight, kid! Anyone with half a brain could see that these are nothing but a photoshop job!"
"What? Photoshop?", Peter asked, defiant.
"Look, mister... I don't know who you think you are, but I can tell you that these aren't-"
"OUT!", Jameson commanded, throwing the envelope into Peter's chest, before turning his chair back towards the window, closing off any possible argument Peter could've garnered.
Looking down at the envelope, Peter looked up, both confused and distraught. He had come in with the best of intentions, hoping to make as little money as possible for a set of photos that nobody else in the city could even hope to get. But instead, all he had recieved was doubt, distrust, and victim to the rather foul smelling breath of the editor.
Turning, Peter sighed, aloud, hanging his head as he walked out. Dropping the envelope into a nearby wastebasket, Peter continued on out of the office, silently vowing to himself that he'd never enter those doors again.
But the question was...
Now what was he going to do?
