Rules One Through Four

1. You never say “I’m the best at web-slinging, I could do this with my eyes closed.” The first time I tried to prove it, I’d swung past a rooftop just in time to see a dog chase a pigeon, and Wade—because why else would you be in a mask that looks like a fish with a bad haircut—decided it was the perfect moment for a “watch this!” He launched himself off the edge, flailing like a drunk dolphin, and landed squarely in a dumpster full of expired pizza rolls. The rolls exploded, the dumpster lid clanged shut, and I heard a faint, “Whoa, dude—” before the noise of police sirens swallowed him whole. I spent the next half-hour explaining to the precinct why a masked guy in a wetsuit was “testing his aerodynamics,” and they didn’t buy it. After the paperwork, I wrote the rule on a sticky note and slapped it on the fridge: “Never brag about web-skills while a pigeon is in distress.” I still have that note; it’s the only thing that reminds me I’m not a cockroach in a superhero costume.

2. You cannot ask Wade to “hold this” when you’re holding a grenade. The second rule came the night we tried to improvise a distraction for the Kingpin’s warehouse. I’d rigged a small EMP device—nothing lethal, just enough to short-circuit the security grid. Wade, ever eager, volunteered to be the “human conduit” because “it’ll be like a live-wire selfie.” I handed him the device, and he looked at it like it was a new kind of pizza topping. “Sure thing, Spidey, you just… put it in my hand and I’ll—” He paused, eyes widening as he realized the little metal cylinder was a live grenade. The room went quiet, the only sound my own breathing and the distant hum of traffic. I tried to stay calm, because panicking would have only made the situation worse, and said, “Wade, it’s a grenade, not a party favor.” He blinked, then laughed, “Didn’t you read the label? ‘Explosive.’ My bad!” He tossed it back to me, and I caught it just as the pin started to wobble. A few seconds later, the grenade detonated—only a puff of smoke and a very embarrassed Wade, who was now covered in a mess of orange confetti that someone had mistakenly packed with the EMP. I wrote the rule on a napkin: “Never give Wade a ‘hold this’ unless you want to turn the city into a confetti party.” The napkin is now stuck under the sink where it rusts, much like my optimism about Wade’s judgment.

3. You may not use “I’ll take care of it” as a code phrase for “I’m about to do something spectacularly stupid.” This one started when we were on a stakeout at the Queens Bridge, trying to intercept a shipment of illegal nanotech. I was perched on a lamppost, scanning the river, while Wade crouched in a dumpster, pretending to be a very unattractive piece of modern art. The dealer’s van rolled by, and I whispered into the comm, “I’ll take care of it.” Wade heard that as a cue for his favorite hobby: improvisational pyrotechnics. He produced a flamethrower from under his jacket—yes, a flamethrower—because “what’s a little fire when you’re already on a bridge?” He launched a stream of flame toward the van’s rear tires, which, unfortunately, were already made of a polymer that loved to melt. The tires burst into a spectacular blaze that lit up the night sky, and the driver swerved, sending the van into the river. The nanotech floated downstream, harmlessly scattering like glitter. The police arrived, and I was the one field-reporting, saying, “We prevented the theft.” Wade, covered in soot and smiling like a kid who’d just discovered a new flavor of ice cream, shouted, “We totally did, bro!” The rule became a sticky note on my spider-web-shaped planner: “Never use ‘I’ll take care of it’ unless you’re actually going to take care of something, not just set it on fire.” I still have the note, and it’s the only thing keeping me from trying to talk my way out of a fire alarm again.

4. You must never leave Aunt May’s answering machine on after a midnight conversation about “the thing that goes ‘boop-boop’ and makes the world spin.” The fourth rule was the most personal, and it arrived in a flurry of beeps and a voice that sounded like a warm blanket. It was a rainy night, and Wade had finally convinced me to take a break from crime-fighting to discuss our latest “scientific discovery” — a device he claimed could “reverse the polarity of the universe” by simply whistling into a jar. I was skeptical, but I also needed a moment of normalcy, so I called Aunt May to ask if she had any spare jars. She answered on the first ring, her voice thick with concern, “Peter? Is everything alright?” I laughed, “Just a weird night, Aunt May, I’m talking to Wade about a… uh, jar that whistles.” She sighed, “Just be careful, dear. Remember, the world is already spinning fast enough without you adding more boops.” I hung up, and Wade, who had been listening from the kitchen, burst out, “See? She gets it! She’s basically our moral compass!” He then proceeded to leave a voicemail for Aunt May, describing in vivid detail how a jar of “universal whistling” would solve all of New York’s traffic problems. The message ended with, “And then we’ll eat tacos, because why not?” Aunt May’s answering machine recorded a long, bewildered beep followed by the soft, tired chuckle of a woman who had heard too many of my late-night calls. The next morning, I found a handwritten note taped to the fridge: “Rule #4: Never leave Aunt May’s answering machine on after a midnight science discussion. She’ll start a chain of voicemails that could ruin the universe.” I kept the note in my pocket, not because I expected to need it, but because it reminded me that even the smallest misstep could echo far beyond a joke. As I stared at the note, I realized I missed her voice more than I let myself admit, and the laugh I tried to force felt thin, like a web thread about to snap.