I Am The Spider Man

Hello, ma’am. Please, do not be afraid. It is only me, the Spider Man. Allow me to explain what has occurred: I can see that you know you are not in danger. The reason for this is me. It can be confusing, yes. One minute you are standing in this Kohl’s parking lot smoking a smooth, satisfying cigarette, the next minute you are pleased to find that I, a Spider Man, have saved you from grim death. I alone know the true danger that I, me, have spared you. Give me one of your cigarettes?

If you must know the horrible fate I have prevented you from having to deal with, I will tell you and it is this: I regret to inform you that it was my nemesis, Doctor Octopus. Yes, that Doctor Octopus. He had used his gargantuan lizard arms or whatever to throw a cyclist right at your legs, and I stopped it in the Nicholas of time. You did not hear the throwing because of my webs. I would love a smoke. The cyclist is in a tree.

Please feel no need to thank me: saver of your life, for I Spider Man (verb) not for glory but for relaxing, addictive, smokey pleasure. Yes, I am the real Spider Man, like the films come to life before your eyes. Five or six movies, they made. I am also one of the X-Men? I am one of the X-Men. Let me have one of those cigarettes and I will tell you that the Wolverine Man is a nice man in person.

Before you answer about the cigarette thing, consider this: what will your friends think when you tell them that you gave a smoke to the one and only Spider Man? They will love you. I am very much part spider and part man but somehow I have received eight human lungs. I am not sure if this is the result of the radioactive spider bite or some human disease. You see, months ago I was bitten by a radioactive spider at The Spider Museum. The spider had broken free from its leash and made a straight shot for my jugular. Yes, it was glowing. I do not like spiders, especially that one, but I am also grateful because now I am the Spider Man and I have met you and you can give me a cigarette?

I am boring you with my life story. My dead uncle once told me “I need to stop, but these cigarettes are too cheap and too good.” You and he would have gotten along like a spider and my jugular. He got killed by the Sandman, I think. They made one of the films about it.

I like your car, it is blue like parts of my Spider Man garb. I garbed it myself. The garb, I garbed, not your car. Laughter. You are funny and have cigarettes. A lot of people want to ask me if I have big bug mandibles in my mouth. Go ahead and ask me. I do not have big bug mandibles, just a regular man’s teeth and eight lungs craving hard smoke. Give me the cigarettes.

My webs, they hurt. People do not know this. It hurts me to shoot my spider webs at criminals but I have to do it or else it ends up in the newspaper. I feel like, a lot of times, no matter what I do, it ends up in the newspaper. I work at the newspaper. How’s your life? Still on? You’re welcome, give me the cigarettes.

Give me your cigarettes, please.

Wow, thanks. You did not have to do that. Please get a kick out of watching me smoke seven of these hot pups (I call cigarettes “hot pups”) at once in one hot breath.

Take me to a hospital.

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