Hulk by Peter David (e reader manga TXT) 📕

his tapping upon the keyboard, and the occasional sound of dogs snarling outside.

accident . . . or fate?

Bruce Krenzler was reminded of the old gag about the elderly man complaining that when he was a kid, his life had been so harsh that he had to make a five-mile journey to school that was uphill both ways. It was a cute joke, but a lot less amusing to him now, considering that the bike ride he undertook to get to work was no less daunting than the one from work, since he did indeed have to go uphill once again in order to get there. Granted, it was a different uphill, but his legs didn’t know or care about the difference.

And because he hadn’t slept particularly well, his endurance wasn’t exactly up to snuff. By the time he made it to the lab, he’d developed a stiff pain in his right rib cage and felt as if the very act of taking a breath was a huge hardship. He parked the bike, locked it, then stood for a few minutes pulling himself together.

When he entered the lab, he saw something that didn’t exactly cause his heart to take flight. There were Talbot and Betty, talking and appearing to be awfully damned chummy. He wondered, not for the first time, just how late their casual dinner had gone. Not that it was any of his business, of course, but still . . .

“Bruce,” said Betty, “Glen stopped by—”

“What’s he doing here?” Bruce blurted out, and promptly hated the way that sounded. So accusatory, so . . . juvenile. But he couldn’t help himself.

. . . And why should you help yourself? . . . The voice within was bubbling with barely restrained anger and resentment. She likely keeps comparing you to him. She probably thinks he’s superior to you because he lets himself get worked up over every damned thing or another, whereas you, the adult, you keep control of yourself . . . and she resents you. Is that fair? It most certainly is not. Why do you tolerate it? And why in the world do you tolerate him? He has no business here. . . .

“You know, Dr. Krenzler, we’ve never had the chance to get to know each other properly,” said Glen affably.

Bruce felt a pounding behind his eyes. . . . Leave. Make him leave. Show him who’s boss in this facility. This is your place, not his. Make him leave . . .

“That’s because I don’t want to get to know you, properly or improperly. Leave,” Bruce said with a great formality that was in sharp contrast to the rage he kept buried within.

He could see from Betty’s expression that she was startled by the sharpness of his tone. “Bruce . . .” she began.

. . . Now. Now, damn it. Make him leave now . . .

“Now,” said Bruce.

Talbot didn’t look the least put out. “Hey, no worries,” he said, affecting a faux Australian accent that he doubtlessly thought was clever. He approached the doorway where Bruce had been standing like a statue. Bruce moved slightly to allow Talbot room to pass, and then Talbot turned so that they were almost nose-to-nose, safely out of Betty’s hearing. He kept a smile plastered on his face, this self-proclaimed “big fan” of Bruce Krenzler, but he spoke in a rush, the words tumbling one over the other as he said in a low voice, “But let me give you a little heads up. There’s a hairbreadth between a friendly offer and a hostile takeover. . . . Kill him . . . I’ve done my homework. The stuff you’re doing here is dynamite. . . . Smash his face in. Smash him . . . Think: GI’s embedded with technology that makes them instantly repairable on the battlefield, in our sole possession. That’s a hell of a business.” . . . Puny bastard. Show him who’s in charge. Smash him, destroy him, rip him limb from . . .

With Herculean mental effort, Bruce resisted the insistent voice that rattled through his mind with such force that it almost made him strike out at Talbot, even though Talbot would likely have been able to break him in half. “That’s not what we’re doing here,” said Banner, focusing with effort. “We’re doing the basic science, for everyone—”

Talbot shook his head. He acted as if he were looking at some form of lower organism instead of one of the most well-established and respected researchers on the West Coast. “You know,” he mused, “I’m going to write a book. I’m going to call it ‘When Stupid Ideals Happen to Smart, Penniless Scientists.’. . . You don’t have to take that! Smash him! Now! Put your damned fist through his face, you pathetic loser! . . . In the meantime, Bruce, you’ll be hearing from me.” . . . And you’ll be hearing from me, you vomitous little slug! . . .

He felt a slight pain in his right arm and took several deep breaths, calming himself. Although he wasn’t certain why, he was convinced that if he didn’t do so, there would be a good deal more pain, and . . . and far worse things. Far worse. His vision clouded over for a moment, as if he were fighting a massive migraine. When it cleared, Talbot was gone . . . and Betty was in his field of vision, staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amazement.

“That went well, don’t you think?” he said, slapped his hands together briskly, and added, “Who’s for making history today?”

The helicopter was waiting for Talbot at the small, private airport, just as General Ross had said it would be. A soldier was standing there waiting for him. Talbot saluted him, snapping off the kind of professional gesture that indicated an army man, even if he was clad in civilian garb. You can take the