black treacle - matt sturniolo

Chapter Three, Beware: do not use the 7-Eleven bathroom in Flushing, Queens

Matt's anxiety about confronting his arch-nemesis hadn't disappeared, and his suit could only do so much.

But... Why were they not attacking?

Yeah yeah, he only cared about the safety of New York and whatnot, but waiting for an hour made him wish that they had terrorised the town before he showed up.

Awful, he knew. But at least he would have been able to cure some of his boredom through some Dora-level exploration of the rubble and ruins. Right then, he literally had nothing to do, and if that made him sound like an awful human being - let alone a superhero - so be it.

Watching the city skyline was only entertaining for tourists because once you've lived somewhere your whole life, the charm wears off.

Similarly, so was his experience being Spider-Man.

Shooting webs and sticking to walls were no longer amusing. Just a burden. Returning bikes to kids was fun the first thirteen times. The free churros never got old, though.

Nevertheless, Matt never got to absorb the serenity of living in the city. With their senior year approaching, time was a scarcity he yearned for. When he's not in school, he's studying or in the newsroom. He couldn't enjoy a meal anymore without drafting a review in his mind.

Worst of all, he now had to write a stupid article about cards and places to visit, and it was too risky to ask Robyn to collaborate.

And he didn't know jack shit about cards.

Letting his feet dangle to feel the cool breeze, he let his head fall back against his shoulders. Somehow, even while waiting for an evil villain to strike an attack on the city he grew up in, he still felt at ease.

Sometimes he felt that even though being Spider-Man had its own sets of issues, he could be himself behind the mask.

Spider-man never had to worry about being the brunt of a joke. Spider-man never had to think thrice before he acted. Spider-man never had to worry about telling the girl he liked where to meet him, what time to arrive, and not worry about being stood up.

His sulk in solitude lasted for three more minutes until his craving for a blue raspberry Slurpee overtook him. It was the most patient he'd been since he'd waited in line for the Tower of Terror ride when he was eight, he earned it.

Feeling the blast of cool air and hearing the welcoming jingle, Matt tried to forget the heinous bathroom he had just changed in. To be fair it was a stall at the back of a convenience store but for a place called Flushing, you'd expect people to know how to flush.

What amazed Matt was how every 7-Eleven looked identical. The endless rows of linoleum aisles are illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lighting: it felt like home. If the Sturniolo household were a 7-Eleven, the triplets would spend less time eating snacks in their minivan.

Even the churning of the Slurpee machine soothed his nerves like white noise to babies. Matt joyously reached over to grab the handle but was suddenly hit with hesitation.

The hairs on the back of his neck shot up.

Cracks in the glass window spread like webs before shattering, sending shrapnel-like shards across the store before the crashing high-pitched noise cut through the cold, thin air. Matt turned to his left, looking for what had narrowly missed him.

A playing card? Oh, shit-

"Duck!"

Fortunately, the only two people populating the scene of the attack were the cashier and himself. In his peripheral vision, Matt could tell that he had taken shelter behind the counter.

Good. Smart man. Please, for the love of God, stay put.

Like bullets, the cards pierced the items like targets. He slowly crawled out of the store to change back into his suit. The security camera better not have captured what was possibly the most embarrassing moment of his life.

Matt began to think of every karma-causing act he'd done that warranted this much torture. Not only did he have to change back into his suit in the bathroom, but he also returned to the scene after the hail of cards had stopped.

Seriously... they made him go back to the bathroom for this?

"Are you okay, what happened?" Matt asked, helping the cashier up from the ground.

Trembling in fear, the man couldn't even look Matt in the eyes. "Cards." He croaked, lungs releasing wobbly gusts of air. "They just broke through the window and destroyed the store. Weirdly enough nothing was stolen."

Matt hummed in understanding and began picking the cards off the items, cautiously examining them as they gathered in his hand. "They're all Queen of hearts." He mumbled to himself.

Everything about this situation bothered Matt. How did they gather this many cards of the same kind? Did they buy in bulk? The size of the deck in his hand had at least fifty cards and red queens still remained scattered beneath the blinding white that shone overhead.

Did they have a hundred decks at home? Maybe they had them custom produced? Wouldn't that cost more than just buying a hundred decks? How would you even find someone who would make this much of an effort to obtain this many Queen of hearts?

And all for what - a damaged 7- Eleven store? At least have the decency to steal a Pringle's can or a Coke.

Property damage wasn't a joke, but their choice of weapon was playing cards? Their commitment to the schtick was admirable, but they could have left the 7-Elevens out of it.

Matt made a mental note to check the closest card factory or card store to locate the perpetrator.

Speaking of them, where the hell were they? What was the point of attacking if you were going to leave before the target arrived? He didn't even take that long to change.

He knew because he moved in record time to escape the bathroom (possibly stubbing his toe against the chocolate bar display while he was at it).

Matt's stream of thought paused when the last card he collected was a Queen of Spades, straying away from the rest of the deck like black swans in a flock of white. He flipped the card over, hoping for a hint.

A King of Spades.

A double-sided card?

He turned his head to his right to find where the cards were aimed at. Matt's heart rate fastened, his heart almost beating out of his ribcage. Those were the cards that narrowly missed his face. Without his spidey senses, he would've been eliminated.

Confusion wreaked in his mind. But he wasn't even wearing his suit then, and the cashier seemed to have gotten by without a target on his back either. So why did he only narrowly avoid an unwanted rhinoplasty via playing cards? What criminal targets a random high schooler? And why was this card not a Queen of Hearts like the rest of them?

And then the realisation hit him. And when it did, it felt as if his heart had fallen to his stomach.

They weren't aiming for Spider-Man. They were aiming for Matt.