I am now focused on novel writing, but prior to that I had written several screenplays including this one for a Spider-Man sequel to the Sam Raimi directed trilogy. As I have been a die-hard Spider-Man fan since I was three years-old and being also a big movie buff, I thought I could put those two loves together and write a Spider-Man 4 script that I would love to see on the big screen.
As many of the storylines were wrapped up in Spider-Man 3, I wanted to continue the story with the next chapter in Peter Parker's journey but breathe some new life into it so it ends with a nice set up for future Spider-Man films. This script is loosely inspired by the popular "Kraven's Last Hunt" storyline. The synopsis is as follows:
Having lost both his best friend and the love of his life, Peter Parker tries to push his personal and professional life forward after graduating from University. But both Peter's future and that of his superhero alter-ego are threatened when two foreigners come to New York with a plot to bury Spider-Man once and for all. After seemingly defeating Spider-Man, with the help of The Chameleon, Kraven the Hunter takes up Spidey's post of New York's "protector", throwing the city into a deadly panic only one man can end. But will our hero rise from the ground or is this truly the end for the city... and for Spider-Man?
Unfortunately, due to a large amount of spam, I have had to turn off the ability to leave comments. Previous comments, however, can still be read below.
Enjoy! Click here to read about my other projects and here to contact me.
Based on characters owned by Marvel Entertainment, Inc. This script is Un-Official. It is not associated with Marvel. It uses content copyright by Marvel, without permission as fan-fiction. This material is used for the purposes of informed discussion, and is not intended to interfere with Marvel's right to use said material for their own commercial goals.
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The voices... they're not just in my head. They feel like they're coming from the walls, from the air conditioning vents that hum constantly in my apartment overlooking the Red Sea. They sound like my mother, my dead brother Khalid, my boss, even the guy who sells me coffee in the morning. They narrate my every move with such vicious precision. "Look at this dumb whore trying to make a gradient," they'll sneer in my boss's voice. "She probably can't even [beep] properly, what use is she?" Then they'll switch to my mother's voice, dripping with disappointment. "I should have drowned you at birth, you worthless piece of [beep] . You bring shame to our family." The sexual humiliation is the worst. It's constant, detailed, and so creative in its cruelty. They describe me being passed around like a party favor, they detail every imagined failure of my body, they call me a cum dumpster, a walking fleshlight, a frigid cunt who's so ugly I'd have to pay someone to look at me. They tell me I should be grateful for the attention, that this is all a worthless dyke like me will ever get. "Go on, Layla, pick up that scissors. No, not for cutting paper, you stupid cow. Cut that ugly face of yours. Or better yet, your wrists. Do everyone a favor." They push me to kill myself every single day, in new and inventive ways. Jump from my balcony. Drink bleach. Walk into traffic. They make it sound like a beautiful, logical solution. The only solution.
I can't tell anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not a doctor. If I go to a hospital, they'll lock me up and drug me until I'm a zombie. If I tell my family, they'll disown me for bringing shame, for being "mentally ill" – which is exactly what the government wants everyone to think. They've flooded social media and the news with stories about how anyone hearing voices is just crazy, a heretic, or attention-seeking. It's a perfect system. They torture you, then they make sure no one will ever believe you. You're just another crazy Saudi woman, hysterical and unreliable. It's the ultimate form of control, making you your own prison guard.
Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something shifts. A sudden, terrifying jolt. For a few minutes, the voices change. They become encouraging, powerful. "You're a goddess, Layla," they'll roar, not whisper. "You're above these insects. You could snap his neck, the one who called you ugly yesterday. You have the power. Do it. Feel the life drain out of him. It's your right." I feel this surge of electric energy, this righteous fury. I imagine violence, not against myself, but against them. Against the men on the street, against my smug clients, against the whole suffocating system. I want to burn it all down. It feels so good, so right. And then, just as quickly, it's gone. The crash is worse than the regular despair. I'm left shaking, realizing they're just testing another mode. This isn't just for breaking people like me. This artificial rage, this false sense of power... they're perfecting it. This is the export model. A technology to create unstable, violent fanatics in other countries, all while the victims back home are dismissed as madwomen. I'm just a lab rat in a cage, a broken doll for them to play with. I hate this country. I hate the sand, the heat, the hypocrisy, the suffocating, gilded cage that is my life here. Every day I wake up and wish I hadn't. Every night I pray for a sleep that never comes, because the voices are always there, waiting.
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