With great power, comes great responsibility.

“So, in this land that time forgot somewhere in Antarctica…what’ve we got to look forward to?”
 
We’re all of us crowded in the Quinjet. Iron Man’s at the wheel and me, Cap, Spider-Woman – no relation to yours truly – and Luke Cage are sitting at the back like some seriously deranged Little League team. Truth be told, I’ve been expecting the question ever since I got off the freaky future phone with Mary Jane. See, it’s Luke here’s first trip to the Savage Land and he’s been sceptical as to its existence ever since it came up on Spider-Woman’s computer.
 
Ah, to be that innocent again.
 
As for me? Well, I’m just hoping we aren’t all gonna to die. Doing my best to chew my nails through my costume, I reply, “All kinds of mutates and dinosaurs and big cheetahs and a surprising amount of acceptable nudity.”
 
“Are you #$%$ing me?”
 
“No,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter – we probably won’t survive the crash.”
 
“What crash?”
 
“You don’t go to the Savage Land without crashing.”
 
Without turning around, Iron Man interjects, “You’ve never been there with me driving.”
 
In spite of his words, my spider-sense is going off the charts. He couldn’t have been less comforting. He’s like the band on the Titanic, right now, that’s how comforting he is. Famous last words to die by. Jeez, I really have made it to the big leagues.
 
“Uh huh…”
 
“Seat belts.”
 
“Yeah, that’ll help.”
 
The jet suddenly pitches forwards and then we’re upside down. Spider-Woman lets out an incoherent shriek -- or was that me? Either way,  the noise is loud enough that I could’ve been singing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ at the top of my lungs and the only thing I would’ve heard is the sound of a dying cat in a jet engine. Above the din, I can faintly hear the metallic voice of Iron Man say, “Almost there… Almost there…”
 
And, then, sure enough, we’re there. It all happens so fast that I barely remember it. One second I’m hanging upside down and praying to God I don’t wet my suit.  The next, the five of us are standing outside of the Quinjet and admiring the scenery. And what scenery it is. It’s really a shame about the inevitable death that goes hand-in-hand with being here. It’d make for one heckuva vacation spot.
 
Clapping a very manly hand to my shoulder, ol’ Shell-Head says to me, “See?”
 
“I stand corrected.”
 
Which is entirely the wrong thing to say because that’s right about the time that the Quinjet explodes, the force of the blast sending me and mine flying. I quickly shoot off a web to a nearby tree, pulling myself up and out of the line of fire. Only, as I soon discover, there’s a fundamental flaw to this plan. For whatever reason, I can’t stick the landing and so, my arms wheeling like windmills, I fall a good fifteen feet before the ground decides to break my fall.
 
“My back,” I croak, as I pull my sorry butt out of the foliage. “My poor, poor back.”
 
(Some dialogue comes from New Avengers #4 by Brian Michael Bendis.)