Spiderman 1 by Peter David Read Free Book Online

would've enjoyed writing the stupid paper. And he could've had you as a customer for the rest of high school. What a jerk!"
    Harry moaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Noooo, Flash ... I think you kind of missed the point . . ."
    "The only point that matters is the one on top of Puny Parker's pointed head. What a maroon! What a ta-ra-ra

    goon-de-ay."
    Harry stopped talking, realizing that nothing he was going to say would change Flash's mind about Peter. Indeed it was possible that nothing in existence would do that, short of Peter caving in Flash's face. But as Flash swaggered over to Mary Jane, draping an arm around her as if she were a side of beef, Harry realized that the odds of Peter ever laying out Flash were very, very slim indeed.

    The Ascot Club, situated in a neatly adorned brownstone on Lexington Avenue, was one of those men's clubs that seemed hopelessly out-of-date. That, of course, was exactly what its uniformly male membership enjoyed about the place. All one had to do was walk in and take a deep breath. It was easy to detect, with just one whiff, the history, pipes, fine cigars, and testosterone that filled the atmosphere. There was a sense of gravitas in the air, and a serene quiet. In a number of rooms, discussion was banned entirely, allowing blissful silence to hold sway.
    Norman Osborn wasn't especially in the mood to talk, but all the truly comfortable chairs in the silent areas were

    taken. So he had opted to settle into an overstuffed easy chair in the far corner of one of the conversational rooms and bury his face behind a newspaper in hopes of being left on his own. This hope proved to be futile, although at least it made a perverse sort of sense when he was interrupted.
    "At least you're reading my newspaper, Norman. I appre ciate the show of solidarity."
    Osborn folded the Daily Bugle in half and looked with surprise at the person who had addressed him. "Jonah!" he exclaimed. "A bit early in the morning for you, isn't it?"
    J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the Daily Bugle, didn't need the excuse of his club to puff away on a cigar. He did so whenever and wherever he was inclined, ignoring every thing from prohibitive signs to city laws. But he'd been heard to say that, at his club at least, he could smoke without having to worry about getting dirty looks.
    Jameson's face had a lived-in look. He had a habit of walking with his chin thrust out, like a boxer daring people to take their best shots. Jonah Jameson also had said on any number of occasions that he led a life without apology. It had been observed by others that he didn't need to apolo gize; that's what he had a staff for.
    In contrast to the impeccable designer suit that Osborn was sporting, Jameson was attired in one of his customary ill-fitting gray off-the-rack things that looked like he'd slept in it for two days. Since he seemed to spend every waking hour either in the office or at the club, he might very well have been sleeping in it. It was a total mystery to Osborn how anyone with as much money as Jameson had could pay so little attention to personal appearance.
    Mustache bristling, Jameson dropped into a chair oppo site Osborn. "Early for you as well, Norman. Me, I just walked out of a meeting with my idiot accountants."
    "Ah. So you came out of an unpleasant meeting. Me, I have to head into one. So I figured some quiet time with a

    good newspaper . . . and a better brandy ...," and he held up his brandy, swirling the contents slightly in the glass, "... might be just what the doctor ordered, to help get through it."
    "Where is it? Your factory out on the Island?"
    Osborn nodded and leaned back in his chair. There was a look of amusement on his face. "Yes, Jonah, it's my factory
    out on Long Island, and no, I'm not going to go into details.
    With an old newshound like you, less is always better to say than more."

Jameson didn't laugh, since Jameson never laughed. The most he ever managed was a sort of gruff bark,