**20.00 GMT-5, 30 June 2000, Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, NYC, USA.**
WADE
The air in Sister Margaret's Bar, already thick with the smell of stale beer and desperation, was suddenly split by a soft SPOOF sound.
Weasel, who had been meticulously polishing a single, semi-clean glass, jumped a foot in the air. The glass flew from his hand, and he only just managed to fumble and catch it before it shattered on the bar.
"GODDAMMIT, WADE!" he shrieked, whirling around to find the teenage mercenary now leaning casually against the bar behind him. "I told you not to do that! You're gonna give me a heart attack!"
"Relax, it's not like you have a heart anyway, Lookie what I got!" Wade declared, completely ignoring the outburst. He then slammed a slightly stained with whoknowswhat, high-quality business card and a bunch of photocard onto the sticky bar top.
Weasel squinted at it. The photocards contain a selfie of Wade with Senator Robert Kelly in the background and a photo of Senator Kelly melting before he died. The golden business card itself contains the senator's name.
"Oh, you got him?" Weasel said, his voice flat. "Figures. Your payment will be in the usual spot."
Wade waggled his eyebrows, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Didn't see that coming, did ya? It's all part of the plan… HEHEHEHE!"
(Easy money!)
/We knew the plot wouldn't let that guy live anyway./
"Yo! hand me a beer! I need a drink!" Wade continued, waving a dismissive hand.
"No. Absolutely not," Weasel stated, crossing his arms. "I like my neck right where it is, attached to my body. You know I don't sleep well anymore ever since you bought those two lunatics you called parents here."
"Tch. Pussy," Wade retorted.
Without missing a beat, Weasel shot back, "That I am. Now scram, it's a school night."
"It's summer! School's out!" Wade protested, throwing his arms wide. "I'm a free-range, organically-grown murder-machine! My parents are even off doing their own part-time gig at Professor Chuck's School for Aspiring Boy Band Members. I bullshitted my way so I could take like two years off since I am already ahead of my peers, so I don't have to deal with all that drama in that place. Now, I'm bored and need cash for... important things. Like limited-edition action figures of Captain America or All Might. Local only tho, my mom needs me to babysit the rugrats soon. Something something camp. Idk, I am high when she asked me."
/They somehow becoming X-Men again, but I guess that's a fixed point anywhere in the word/
(Remember, he is the X-MEN! No one is gonna replace him. Till he's 90s!)
Weasel let out a long, defeated sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. He pulled out a battered tablet and scrolled through a list with a grimy finger. "Fine. Here. Someone with a stalker's problem. Client's a teenage girl though. So the pay is not much. Barely covers my finder's fee."
"Stalker? Ooh, kinky! I'll take it! Anything to break my monotonous life!" Wade snatched the thin file from Weasel's hand.
"Now hush! I need some peace! I barely had any since you came into my life!"
"Hehehe! I know you love me, Weasel!" Wade cackled, with another loud SPOOF, he vanished.
The sudden silence was broken only by the hum of the beer cooler. Weasel stared at the empty space for a moment, then turned, grabbed a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey, and popped the lid off. He brought it to his lips.
SPOOF
The glass bottle was suddenly gone from his hand. Wade was now on the other side of the bar, downing the whiskey in one gulp.
"Ahhh, that's the stuff!"
"WADE! GODDAMMIT! YOUR MOM'S GONNA FUCKING KILL ME! I AM GONNA LOSE MY FUCKING HEAD!" Weasel yelled, his voice cracking with panic.
"NOT MY PROBLEM!" Wade's voice echoed through the bar as he vanished once more with a final, mocking SPOOF, leaving Weasel alone with his empty glass.
"Is it too late to change jobs?" He said to the other guys in the bar who are now betting on him being dead in the death pool board.
**21.00 GMT-5, 30 June 2000, Some guy apartment, NYC, USA.**
Wade had let himself in via the fire escape–child's play, really, every guy in the red suit could do it–and was now casually using the guy's bathroom, because why not? A little psychological warfare never hurts. He was just finishing up when the doorbell rang.
Showtime.
(Oooh! Let me get some popcorn! Where is my limited edition Wolverine Popcorn bucket!)
/This gonna be good!/
He flushed, cracked the bathroom door, and listened. The show unfolds beyond the slatted door better than anything on cable.
"Look, what if I slow it down for you? I didn't order the pizza," growled the meathead occupant, one Gavin Merchant, according to the junk mail on the floor.
A higher, needy voice, laced with pathetic desperation, answered. "Is this 7348 Red Ledge Drive? Are you Mr. Merchant?"
"Yeah, the Mr. Merchant, who didn't order the fucking pie!"
"Then who placed the call?"
That's his cue.
Wade shoved the bathroom door open, making both men jump. "I did," he announced, strolling into the living room as if he owned the place. He gave the delivery boy an appreciative nod. "Pineapple and olive? Sweet and salty. Mhmm."
The boy, a scrawny, pale kid drowning in his red uniform, handed over the box with trembling hands.
Merchant, recovering from the shock, puffed out his chest. "Fuck are you? The fuck you doing in my crib?"
Wade didn't bother with words. He just pulled out his pistol, the metal cool and familiar in his hand. Merchant's bravado evaporated, his hands coming up in a placating gesture as he backpedaled.
"Is that burnt crust? Tatatatatta! Don't move!" Wade inspect the pizza while keep his gun pointed at Merchant.
"God, I hope not…"
"Woah, man, look. If this is about that poker game, I told him, I told Howie that uh… Just uh, just take whatever you want." He fumbled for his wallet and thrust it at Wade.
"Thanks," Wade said, pocketing it without a second thought. This was already paying better than the actual job.
The delivery boy, Jeremy according to his nametag, cleared his throat. "Sir, before you do anything to him, mind if I get a big tip?"
Wade's focus shifted, and the air in the room went cold. He looked at the delivery boy, his eyes narrowing.
"Jeremy, is it? Wade Wilson." He gave a friendly, disarming smile. "That is ah, a no-go on the tiperoo, Jer. I'm not here for him." He paused for dramatic effect, watching the confusion bloom on both their faces. "I'm here for you."
Across the room, Merchant sagged with relief. "Oh, hey, wow, dodged a big time bullet on that one!"
"You're not out of the woods yet," Wade shot back, gesturing at the man's bedazzled jeans with his gun. "You need to seriously ease-up on the bedazzling. They're jeans, not a chandelier. P.S., I am keeping your wallet. You did kind of give it to me."
"Hey, look man, can I just have my Sam's Club card—"
"I will shoot your fucking cat," Wade suddenly stated.
Merchant blinked. "I don't even know what that means. I don't have a cat."
"Then who's kitty litter did I just shit in?"
"..."
Wade let it hang for a while before he turned his full attention back to Jeremy, who was starting to look like he might be sick.
"Anywho, tell me something, what situation isn't improved by pizza? Do you happen to know a Megan?" Wade began, watching the kid's face pale further. "Orflowsky? Orlavsky? Orlovsky? Am I getting that right?"
Jeremy nods.
"Good. 'Cause she knows you, Jeremy." He took a step closer while eating a slice of pizza. "I belong to a group of guys who take a dime to beat a fella down. And little Meghan, she's not made of money, but lucky for her, I got a soft spot."
Wade hands a piece of pizza to Merchant, who reaches for it, but Wade drops it on the floor.
Jeremy's mouth opened and closed, a fish on dry land. "I'm, uh..."
"A stalker," Wade finished for him, pulling a serrated combat knife from his belt. The steel caught the light. "Threats hurt, Jer, though not nearly as much as serrated steel. So. Keep away from Meghan. Cool?"
"Yes... Yes, sir," Jeremy whimpered, his face as white as the pizza box.
"Kay, we're cool."
Wade's demeanor flipped like a switch. The menace vanished, replaced by jovial bonhomie. He slid the knife away.
Jeremy stared, bewildered. "Wait, we are?"
"Yeah, totally done!" Wade declared, and then he started laughing. He pointed the knife at Merchant. "You should have seen your face!"
The tension shattered. Merchant started chuckling nervously followed by Jeremy. "I didn't know what to do. I was so scared!"
"Soft spot, remember?" Wade said, winking.
Then, just as quickly, he moved.
His hand snapped out, grabbing Jeremy by the neck and slamming him hard against the wall.
The laughter died in the kid's throat, replaced by a choked gasp.
"You even LOOK in her general direction again," Wade snarled, his face inches from Jeremy's.
"and you'll learn in the worst of ways that I have some hard spots too!" He held the stare for a beat, letting the terror sink in.
"That came out wrong." He leaned in even closer, his voice a whisper. "Or did it?"
He planted a kiss on Jeremy's cheek–awfully close to his lips, then released him. The kid whimpered again, sliding down the wall as Wade let him go.
An hour later, Wade found Meghan Orlovsky at a skatepark, exactly where the file said she'd be.
"Megan?"
He didn't say another word. He just dropped the pizza box and a handful of instant Polaroids at her feet. The photos showed a tear-streaked naked Jeremy, a gun pressed to his temple, holding a sign that read "I'm sorry" in wobbly letters.
She looked from the pictures to him, her eyes wide. "No friggin' way!"
"You've heard the last of Jeremy. He's sorry. Eh, hey, shoulda brought my roller blades, show these kids how it's done." Wade said as his attention suddenly turned into the guys doing tricks.
Megan suddenly hugs him.
"And that's why we do it. But mostly the money."
"Think you could fuck up my step-dad?" One of Megan's friends asked him.
"If I give a guy a pavement facial, it's 'cause he's earned it." Wade said as he began to leave.
"Hey! Wait, You're my hero." Megan shouted as Wade made his way out of the skatepark.
"No, no, no, no, no." Wade threw a final comment over his shoulder, didn't even bother to turn his back. "That I ain't."
He was two blocks away, heading back to his safehouse to count his meager earnings, when his custom Avengers' movie ringtone blared from his pocket. He flipped the phone open.
"You've reached the Agent Fun Toys. To order a dildo, press 1."
The voice on the other end was dry as a desert. "How do you feel about Budapest, Deadpool?"
"That's something cinematic and aesthetic always happened there, good architecture tho," he purred into the phone. "Too bad I can't do international missi–"
"I'll talk to Tony Stark about making you a lightsaber."
"I'm listening…"
(MAKE IT TWO LIGHT SABER!!!)
/THREE LIGHTSABERS! WE GOING SANTORYU THOSE BICTHES!!!/