“Spiderman. Spiderman. Does whatever a spider can…”
Brief notes from an as yet unoptioned script for a gritty-realism reboot of the Spiderman franchise: Spiderman – Brood of Destiny.
Scene: Interior. Evening. Hallway outside Peter Parker’s bedroom in the apartment he shares with Aunt May.
Peter is just finishing threading a fine criss-cross mesh of web (Mission Impossible laser-trap style) across the hallway in front of his bedroom door. Retracting his spinnerets, he pulls up his jeans and enters the room, closing the door behind him.
He looks over to Mary-Jane who is sitting on the slightly dishevelled single bed. She looks at him with a combination of anxiety and barely suppressed longing.
Peter Parker: So, I was just thinking…
Mary-Jane: But your Aunt could be home at any time.
PP: Don’t worry, baby. I’ve rigged it so I’ll know if she’s going to interrupt us. We’ve got all the time we need.
He approaches Mary-Jane, but a look of concern, perhaps even fear, momentarily crosses his face.
PP: So, um, MJ?
PP: I – uh – don’t really–
MJ: It’s OK.
PP: –know how to ask–
MJ: Our love is all–
PP: –whether you are thinking of–
MJ: –we need to make this moment–
PP: (in a frenzied rush) –decapitating me and eating my head at the moment of consummation?
MJ: –magic– what?
PP: (laughs nervously) Ah, just a weird dream I had.
MJ: Peter, why don’t you let me make all your dreams come true?
Peter walks gingerly towards her, with a shuffling, slightly ritualistic, gait. He leans down and raps his knuckles rhythmically on the floor as he approaches.
Fade to black
Scene: Interior. Dawn. Peter Parker’s bedroom.
The only illumination is provided by the David Attenborough Life on Earth screensaver on the desktop. A standing fan swings lazily, circulating dust motes across the room.
Approximately three-thousand-five-hundred-and-seventy-six of Peter and Mary-Jane’s eggs, clustered together between the standing desk and the bed, are hatching at the same moment.
With an exquisite, sinister, grace, the hatchlings rise from their eggs on single, slender, threads of web. Caught in the fan’s breeze, they are propelled out of the open window and into the waiting city below.
File under: with great power | is he strong? listen, bud – he’s got radioactive blood
(Image source: Wikimedia)