The amazing adventures of one of the greatest superheroes of all time continue in Spider-Man 2.Two years have passed, and Peter Parker struggles to cope with the demands of life as a college student, a Daily Bugle photographer, and a crime-fighting superhero. But it hasn't gotten any easier. Condemned by the press, tormented by secrets he can never reveal, forced to give up the girl of his dreams-at times the lonely burden of Spider-Man seems almost too great to bear . . . and the temptation to give up grows stronger by the hour.
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December 31, 2003
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Excerpt from Spider-Man 2 by Peter David
Otto Octavius needed several extra arms. Certainly the two he possessed were proving inadequate.
Octavius was a darkly complexioned man, stout but reasonably muscular, hair hanging loosely about his face with very little attention paid to tonsorial trivialities. He was in his mid-forties and had an air about him that managed to be both distracted and intense. In other words, he tended to be very focused on things that had nothing to do with his whereabouts at any given moment.
He was busy trying to extricate himself from a taxicab on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Greenwich Avenue, at the edge of the university campus. He held a slide carousel in one hand; tucked in the crook of his other elbow was a folder thick with notes, and he was clutching a briefcase with his remaining free hand. This left him nothing with which to close the door except his foot, and he was having difficulty maintaining his balance. Then the cabbie informed him, with no small sense of irritation, that the twenty Octavius thought he'd handed him was actually a ten. Now he had to try to get at his wallet.
He muttered under his breath, tried to figure what he could put down where, and was extremely relieved when a familiar voice called from behind him, "Otto!"
A blondish man in a lab coat ran up to him. "Otto, we were supposed to meet at the southeast corner! This is the southwest!"
"Is it?" Octavius asked distractedly. "I'm sorry, Curtis, I'm not a ship's navigator, you know. Can you lend me a hand?"
"If the one will be sufficient, then certainly."
Octavius winced as he glanced at the flapping sleeve of Connors' lab coat, pinned at the right shoulder, underscoring the lack of an arm.
"Sorry, Curtis," Octavius muttered to Connors.
"Yo! Buddy!" snapped the cabdriver.
"I am not your buddy," Octavius informed him archly.
"Damn right! What about my money?"
"Curtis," said Octavius, nodding toward his right coat pocket. "Would you mind pulling out my wallet? The man needs another ten."
"Don't worry, it's my treat," said Connors, removing a roll of bills from his pocket and deftly extracting a ten.