When I first beat the shit out of Peter Parker, it felt good. He'd been spying on us for a while, taking snapshots on the streets, up the stairwell to our apartment, even from outside the apartment window - and we live on the forty-second floor! God knows how he got out there...
But yeah, I ripped into the son of a bitch outside McDonalds. He was taking a photo of me eating a Bacon and Egg McMuffin. Now, I'll explain: a Bacon and Egg McMuffin is something McDonalds can be very proud of. It is the most exquisite of breakfast meals. But Peter Parker had to spoil it all by making me beat the shit out of him.
I took his damned camera off him, took out the film and kept it to myself, and then I threw him to the ground. It was kind of weird, but when he hit the ground I could have sworn his eyes were glowing, even pulsing.
Anyway, I took the film home and developed it in my own personal dark-room. It turned out the son of a male-porn-star was taking pictures of my wife naked. I was foaming at the mouth, so angry with Peter Parker I wanted to find him, skin him, soak him in Antiseptic, roll him up in chickenwire and then crush him in a man sized vice. I was fairly pissed off.
Now, I won't say that my wife is entirely blameless. She does walk around the streets of Manhatten wearing nothing but a fur stole - but taking pictures of the spectacle is an outrage.
I haven't seen Peter Parker for some time. I don't know - maybe it's the white streaks of hair on the sides of my head that make me seem like a good target for photo-journalists. I seem to have similar problems with those damned Superheroes. Maybe it's the henchman I use that are made entirely from granite. Maybe it's the evil overlord sticker I sometimes wear.
All I know is: I beat the shit out of Peter Parker.