Post by Deleted on Apr 23, 2015 20:19:02 GMT -5
#2 - Let Me Tell You a Story
Part 2: Merc Work
Written by comixmaster
“You sick freak,” growled Wolverine. He would’ve shredded the merc to pieces if he hadn’t been tied to his chair.
“Am I still not crazy?” asked Deadpool.
Wolverine gave him a long, cold stare, then said, “Yes.”
“Yes? Hmmm… Well, I guess there’s still time to change your mind, ’cause my story isn’t over yet, and trust me, it gets crazier.”
“You’re nothin’ but a deprived murderer, Wade.”
“You know what, Wolverine? My mom deserved to be burned in that house!” Deadpool shouted. His voice reverberated off the walls of the empty room. “You will never understand the things she did to me! Years an’ years of being called worthless, of getting smacked, of getting punched, of getting abused… I’d call out to my dad and yell, ‘Dad, help me! Don’t let her do this!’ And you know what he did? C’mon, Wolvie, take a gander. Tell me what you think he did.”
Wolverine didn’t say anything. He kept his gaze on the mercenary, absorbing his words.
“Nothing,” Deadpool said. “He did nothing. An’ you know why? He was scared of her. Like, ‘scared of the boogieman’ scared. He would just stand there and watch her do her thing. Yeah, I could tell he wanted to help, but he never did. That’s why he abandoned us. He just couldn’t deal with the fear anymore. My parents sucked, man. I had a coward for a dad and a psychotic mom. The day my dad left, oof, my mom was super pissed. Of course, she took her anger out on me. When she was finally done and had gone into her drunken sleep…that’s when I did it. I burned that frickin’ house down like…like…like… I don’t know. Something. But I did what I did, and to this very day, I’m glad I did it. Evil isn’t just weird supervillains trying to destroy the world—evil can be drunkies with anger issues. Trust me when I say this: my mom was evil. I’ve seen tonsa evil, and not one thing has topped my mom.”
The two sat in silence. Deadpool looked as if he was going to cry. He reached his hand into his mask and wiped his eyes. Wolverine sat in his chair, his head bowed to the ground. His face was solemn. His expression wasn’t angry or mad. Just solemn. He lifted his head up and gave Deadpool another long look.
“So what happened next?” he asked. “After you burned her and the house, what happened?”
Deadpool was surprised, to say the least. Did Wolverine actually want to hear the rest of his tale? The mercenary got comfy in his seat and began.
“Picture it, Wolvster—the life of a mercenary. I dropped outta high school when I was seventeen. I knew I had a gift—a gift for killing people. I knew I had to use this gift. So, over the next couple of years, I honed my skills as a gun-for-hire.”
Five Years Ago…
Jakastan (Which Totally Is Not a Fake Country).
Lightning flashed above the large castle. Living inside its stone walls was Jakastan’s greedy leader, Ahro Beokki. Beokki had led his country into extreme poverty. People were starving. No one had any money. There was barely any shelter for people to live in. All for except Beokki. He had all the food, money, and shelter he could want. He had gained a lot of weight since becoming king of Jakastan. He had a thick head of hair and a nicely groomed beard. He always wore white and purple clothing, signifying his royal position.
That night was a very special night for him. He strode proudly to the castle’s dining room. He pushed open the two doors and entered. Sitting at the long table were two beautiful women. That sat a distance from one another awkwardly eating their food. It had been a long time since these two women had had a full meal. It was almost like reteaching themselves how to eat.
Beokki got closer to them and started talking in his hideously gross voice. “<Eating well, I see, ladies? Are we enjoying ourselves?> Yes, yes… Very good… <Ladies, when you are finished, you are to make your way to my bedroom. Yes, it is a very nice space.> Very comfortable.”
The women looked at one another, then looked at Beokki.
The king laughed nervously. “Eh-heh… <Well…you two fine specimens enjoy yourselves. I am going to the bathroom; I have to take my…pill.>”
The middle-aged man left the dining room and frolicked down the corridor to the bathroom. He pushed open the door and walked inside. He hastily opened the medicine cabinet and gasped.
“Oh no! Where is my pill?! It is vital for what is about to transpire!” he said, rummaging through his pill bottles. “What will the girls say when they see that I’m—”
“As flat as a deflated balloon?” said a voice.
The king whirled around and screamed when he saw a young man—no older than nineteen—standing there, leaning against the wall.
“Who are you?” Beokki barked. “How did you get in here? How do you know of my secret?”
“I’m just a guy representing the people,” the young man said. “Name’s Wade. I got in here by climbing through a window. Yes, I do know you’re secret, and I’m going to tell everyone.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“Yes!” Wade pulled out a gun and pointed it at Beokki. “Pucker up, buttercup.”
“Wait!” the king shrieked. “I—I’m a very w-wealthy man, y-you see… I am w-willing t-t-to give you anything you want. Just—just name your price. But please, don’t shoot me! I do not want to die!”
Wade smirked. “I think I’ll pass.”
“No! Wait! Ple—!”
Blam! Wade pulled the trigger and put a bullet right in the middle of Ahro Beokki’s forehead.
Later…
Yoko Lan Meda stood in his tent, discussing with his followers. He was the leader of the resistance against Ahro Beokki. When you first look at him, you might think he was nearly fifty years old. He was actually thirty-six. All his life, he had lived in poverty. He was a very strong-willed man, but the constant struggle to survive had inadvertently made him age faster. Desperate to take down Jakastan’s irresponsible ruler, he hired the mercenary Wade Wilson to eliminate him. Now, he and his followers were anxiously waiting for Wade to return.
“<Where is he?>”
“<Patience, my lieges,>” said Lan Meda. “<We have put our trust in Wade Wilson and his skills. We must carry out our trust till the end. If Wilson is gunned down, then it will be nothing lost from us. For you see, we have already lost everything.>”
“Hey-ooo!” came Wade’s voice. He strutted into the tent and put his hand on Lan Meda’s shoulder. “Well, I got good news, and I got bad news.”
“Mr. Wilson,” said Lan Meda. “It is good that you have returned. Please, tell us what happened.”
“The good news—Beokki’s dead. The bad news—” Wade’s lips spread into a broad smile. “—it’s time to pay up.”
Lan Meda clapped his hands. “Ah! Good news indeed!” He turned to his small group of followers and said, “<Ahro Beokki is dead!>”
The group burst into a fit a of cheers, tears, and, in a few hours from then, beers.
Lan Meda turned back to Wade. “And for the bad news—not to worry. I have your payment right here…” He began digging in his pocket, until he pulled out three coins.
Wade’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Holy $#¿%! Seven hundred and fifty thousand is in just those three coins?!”
“Ehm… No,” said Lan Meda. “In America, these coins are probably worth two dollars each.”
Wade looked the man straight in the eye. “. . . What?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Hell yeah, there’s a problem. That’s, like, six dollars!”
“Well, I’m…sorry. We don’t have the money to pay you. Not right now, anyway.” Lan Meda held up the coins a little higher. “This is, how you say, a down payment. Do not worry; we will pay you in full before you know it.”
Wade looked at Lan Meda, then at the money, then back at Lan Meda. This man had literally nothing. It was amazing he was able to pay Wade anything at all. Wade knew he was being selfish. He could feel it in his own breath. He had every right to want to be paid the whole sum right then and there, but one look at Lan Meda told him to just take it.
“Y’know what?” said Wade. “Keep it. I’ll pick up six bucks on the way home anyway.”
“But you still want your full payment, correct?”
Of course, Wade generosity had its limits.. “Definitely.” He began to make his way out of the tent, but before he did, he turned to Lan Meda. “By the way… Good luck. With everything. You Jakastanians are really nice people.”
Lan Meda bowed his head and said, “Thank you, Mr. Wilson.”
The nineteen-year-old smirked. “Call me Wade.”
A Few Days Later.
Chicago, Illinois.
Sister Margaret’s School for Orphaned Children used to be a divine place. In the 1950s, it was a place where unadulterated children who had lost their parents received education, learned how to thrive, and thanked God for giving them the strength to move on. The school’s life was not a long one, however. In the late ’50s, the building was infested with rats, and the entire school was forced to leave. Since then, the school has been burned, condemned, demolished, rebuilt, and burned again. However, Margaret’s found life once more. It became a hangout-slash-bar-slash-assignment center for mercenaries. A man simply named Patch bought the building and converted it to what it is today…
The Hellhouse.
Several mercs sat at the tables, idly drinking their beers, when the front doors burst open. Wade Winston Wilson waltzed into the large room in stride. He walked to the very back of the room, where Patch was, hanging out in his box office-esque space. Patch was a short man with bushy eyebrows and a white mustache that would make Dr. Eggman jealous. He gave the young merc a cold stare through the window.
“’Sup, Patch,” Wade said. “Another job well-done, if I do say so myself.”
Patch’s eyes narrowed into slits. “That’d be true, if ya even had da money.”
“C’mon. Give it some time. They’re a poor country. Sure, they might’ve lied to us, but…well, desperate times, right?”
Wade suddenly felt a large show cast over him. He turned around and saw the large figure behind him. He had long orange hair, gray skin, and an exceedingly bulky frame.
“Oh, hey, T-Ray. How’s the weather up there?” Wade asked.
“Kinda lonely, to be honest…Wade,” the brute replied.
“Wow. That’s not usually what you say when I ask you that question…” Wade said. “Usually it’s, ‘Piss off,’ or, ‘%^©# you.’ What’s got you in such a good mood?”
“Dunno…Wade. Guess it’s just one o’ those days,” said T-Ray. “By the way…piss off and %^©# you.”
“Boooys,” voiced Patch. “I don’t wan’ no fightin’, ya hear? Take it outside, or botha you’s not gonna get any jobs fer two whole moths, a’ight?”
Wade looked up at T-Ray with a large, taunting smile. “Yeah. Two whole months.”
A deep growl reverberated out of T-Ray’s throat. Then he said, “Fine. See ya around…Wade.” He walked to the side of the room, where the stairs to the basement were. He trod down them, disappearing into the darkness.
Wade looked around the room and spotted another young man sitting alone a table, sipping a beer. He ran up to him and plooped down right next to him.
“Y’know,” Wade said to him. “It’s against the law to drink alcohol at the age of eighteen.”
“Screw the law,” the young man said. He had spiked, jet black hair and wore round, thick-rimmed glasses. “It doesn’t care about us; why should we care about it?”
“You sound like you’re contemplating suicide.”
“. . . That’s because I am.”
The two looked at each other and held a stare. It wasn’t long before they busted out laughing.
“You and that sense of humor of yours, Weaz,” said Wade.
“I know, I know,” said Weasel. “I’m working on it.”
“Hey. Guess who just got seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the bank.”
“Three hundred and seventy-five thousand,” said Weasel.
“. . . Huh?”
“Three hundred and seventy-five thousand. Fifty-fifty, remember? You get half, the Hellhouse gets half.”
Wade cocked his head. “Really?”
“Yep. Always been that way.”
Wade pursed his lips together. “Dammit,” he said through clenched teeth.
Weasel took one final chug of his beer and turned to Wade. “That’s still a lotta money, y’know. You could use it to buy a house with that girl from Boston.”
“Nah, Vanessa and I are over.”
Weasel gave Wade a surprised look. “What? Why?”
Wade took a long time to answer. “It’s just… I just… It… It was going nowhere. Our jobs were just keeping us apart.”
“Uhhh-huh,” Weasel said. “Well… We’re still young. We got plenty o’ time.”
“Listen up!” Patch yelled. “Got a new job! Anyone up fer a rescue mission?”
“Rescue?” said one of the mercenaries. “Where?”
“Some place in New York called Ravencroft.”
“What’s the coin?” asked a different mercenary.
Patch took a look at the paper. Suddenly, the hairs of his mustache stood on end. “. . . Jesus Christ… Six million.”
Weasel bumped Wade’s arm with the back of his hand. “Ever done an escape job?”
Wade slowly turned his head toward Weasel, a sneer of danger and pride on his face. “Nope.”
Wade turned and waved at Patch. “We’ll take it!”
Patch let out a very, very long exhale. “Serious?”
“Ha. We are dead serious, hombre.”
Three Days Later.
New York City. Westchester.
“?Ooh wah ooh wah, cool, cool kitty… Tell us about the boy from New York City…?” sang Wade.
He and Weasel sat in a hotel room. Wade was sitting on the bed, of course, and Weasel was leaning against the wall.
“It took awhile,” said Weasel, “But I think I finally got this to work.” He pulled out of his pocket a gadget that almost looked like a TV remote.
Wade started at it like it was a gold coin. “Y-you mean… I c-can us the—”
“Yep. The Hologramo Disguiseo 4000. You can change the way you look without costumes, makeup, or dieting.”
Wade held out his hands like a poor boy. “Please… Please let me touch it.”
Weasel held it out for him to touch. He took his pointer finger and gently tapped the device, shuddering as his fingertip met it.
“You sure you can do this, Wade?”
“I know I can, Weaz. Why?”
“It’s just… Well… I kinda worry about ya.”
“Easy, Weasy. I’ll be fine. We’re talkin’ six million here. Well, three million…once the Hellhouse takes its share… Still, that’s a crapload of coin. Think about what we could do with all that.”
Weasel looked at Wade with uncertainty. “We?”
“Yeah. You and me. You’re practically my brother, Weaz. You think I’m not gonna share the care?”
“Well, it’s just… I just make the weapons. You do all the hard stuff.”
“Weaz, come on. If I didn’t have the weapons, do you think I’d still be able to get the job done?”
“Yes!”
“. . . Okay, probably. But you make the job a lot easier. And with this—” Wade held up the Hologramo Disguiseo 4000. “—this job is gonna go perfectly.”
Later…
Wade walked through the halls of Ravencroft disguised as a doctor. The Hologramo Disguiseo 4000 was working perfectly. The halls were filled with patients, each of them yelling, chanting, crying, or just sitting there. Wade wondered who would hire someone like him to bust one of these patients out. He found one of the nurses and asked where Mary Walker was being held. He explained that it was time for her routinely therapy session. She told him she was being held on the fifth floor, and Wade made his way up there without a hitch.
As soon as he stepped out the elevator, an inmate leapt at him. Wade grabbed his shirt by the shoulders and slammed him against the floor. He swiped his fist across the inmate’s face, knocking him out cold. Wade looked up and nearly pooped his pants at what he saw. The floor was lined with dead bodies, and at the end of the hallway stood a woman with red hair.
Wade turned off the Hologramo Disguiseo 4000, reverting back to his normal self. “Are you Mary Walker?” he asked.
“Mary Walker is dead,” the woman said. She looked up at Wade. The left side of her perfect face was painted in white. “There is only Typhoid.”
“Uhhhhh-huh,” said Wade. “Did… Did you kill all these people?”
“Maybe,” Typhoid said with a wicked grin.
Wade slowly pulled out his gun and pointed it at her. “Well, there goes my fat paycheck,” he muttered. He spoke up as he said, “Typhoid…Mary… I’m gonn have to ask you to get back in your cell.”
“Not going to happen, babe,” she said. “I’m in control now. Mary’s gone. There is nothing that can hold me back now.” She gave Wade a seductive yet chilling glare. “Everyone has a little crazy inside them. Show me yours, sssssweetie. I can see it in your eyes—the pain, the loss, the madness. Let it alllllll out. Don’t hold it in any longer. Fall into the warm embrace of lunacy.”
Wade fired at the floor in front of her feet. The sound of bullets popping out the gun reverberated through the hall. “Stop this, Mary! You need treatment!”
“No!” she shrieked.
Suddenly, an alarm went off. Wade cursed under his breath. It was probably the gun that had set it off. Typhoid Mary charged at him. Wade acted on instinct. He didn’t mean to, but he punted her right in the head. She fell backward, losing consciousness. Wade looked down at her horrified. Just then, the elevator opened. Wade did the only thing he could think of: he used the HD4K to disguise himself as one of the deceased patients. He lie down and played dead as people rushed into the room.
Hours Later.
Wade had never been in a body bag before. When he knew the time was right, he woke up and tore out of the thing. He was completely nude, and they had put him in a morgue. He was the only one in there. He stole some clothes out of a basket and set out.
A Few Days Later.
The Hellhouse.
“You killed her?!” Patch yowled like a cat.
Wade looked at the old man sincerely. “I…I didn’t mean to. She had gone bat$#¿% crazy, and she attacked me. I…I’m sorry, Patch. Honest.”
Patch looked unconvinced. “Get out.”
Wade gave him a puzzled look. “. . . What?”
“I said get out. Yer not welcome here anymore. So…get out.”
“Puh…Patch, I can make it up to you I swe—”
“Get…out,” Patched said through clenched teeth (or what was left of them).
“You heard the man…Wade,” said the voice of T-Ray.
Wade looked back at the gray-skinned brute, who was smiling from ear to ear. Right next to him was Weasel, who had a look of loss, defeat, and hopelessness.
“Fine,” Wade said. He marched to the front doors and kicked them open. He stormed out and began walking. He didn’t know where he was going—he just knew he was walking away, toward an uncertain future.