Deadpool

IF YOU’LL BE MY BODYGUARD

By Nik Wimer

The DeadHut
San Francisco, CA

The battle had been epic.

At least it had sounded that way to Blind Al.

When the young man had knocked on the door during “The Feud”, Al had been more than a little annoyed. She hated being interrupted during her shows, but Phillip–Call me Phil, ma’am–had been pleasant enough company, and they sat together and watched “The Feud” and “The Wheel” before retiring to the kitchen for tea and snacks while they waited for Wade.

Wade, being his typical impulsive self, had attacked Phillip the minute he saw him.

Oh, sure, he had rushed into the kitchen like a knight-in-shining-armor, but he had flung her to “safety” a little too hard and he wouldn’t listen to reason —big surprise there!—so Al did the only thing she could do; she went back into the living room to listen to the television. Only the sounds of two grown men crashing into her cabinets and destroying her kitchen furniture proved to be more than a little distracting and, once she heard them break the fourth wall, Al decided the best thing to do was to take herself upstairs to bed and sort things out in the morning.

She’d slept remarkably well–waking once because she thought she heard a chainsaw!—and when the new day dawned, she came downstairs expecting . . . well, Al really didn’t know what to expect. It was quiet – which was a good sign – and she couldn’t smell any smoke – another good sign — but beyond that, Al was in the dark. And standing in the hallway wondering about it wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

She sighed. “Only one way to find out,” she said out loud, then headed off to find out exactly what was left of her kitchen.

“You fought well.”

Deadpool eyed the man across the table from him warily. “You didn’t,” he said, “and that’s weird because I thought Captain America had trained everyone in the universe in hand-to-hand combat.”

“I never believed in that Captain America stuff,” Grayfield said around a spoonful of cereal.

“What? That he’s trained so many Marvels?” Deadpool added milk to his own bowl of cereal and listened as the crisped rice spoke.

“Well that, yeah. I mean, where would he find the time?” Grayfield shook his head. “But, no, I mean I just don’t believe that America’s secret weapon during World War Two was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, ‘super-soldier’. That’s a Nazi wet-dream right there.”

Deadpool chuckled. “Better not let Al hear you. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, her and Cap were a thing.”

“I can hear you, Wade!” Al stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. If Deadpool hadn’t known that she was blind behind her dark glasses, he would have sworn she was glaring at him. “I’m blind, not deaf, you know!”

“Sometimes I think we got the raw end of that deal.”

“As much as you talk,” Al shot back, “I think the same thing.”

“And you,” she said, turning her attention to Grayfield, “shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Steve was a good man, a great patriot, and a tender lover.”

Deadpool cringed. “Did not need to hear that.” He shook his head to clear it of thoughts of Al and Captain America tangled in a sweaty embrace. “Anyway, Al, there’s fresh coffee in the pot. And don’t worry, the kitchen is mostly the way you memorized it.”

“This kitchen better be exactly the way I left it, Wade, or so help me . . .” She trailed off as she walked away.

Grayfield watched her walk away. “Who is that anyway?” he asked when he thought she was out of earshot. “Your old lady?”

“Well, she is an old lady . . .”

“Wade!”

“Who is she then?” Grayfield asked again. “Your mother?”

“Yours!”

“If you really want to know,” Deadpool sighed. “The truth is, she came with the house. Like an apple tree in the backyard or some old, gaudy wallpaper that you can’t wait to tear down and toss out so you can get something more your style, something hip, something fresh, something young . . .”

Al returned, coffee cup in hand. She sat the mug on the table and banged her cane against the back of the chair Grayfield sat in. “You need to find yourself another seat.”

“Wade and I go way back,” she said, seating herself in the chair Grayfield exited. “We’re roommates. Or, more to the point, this is my house, and I let Wade live here. Isn’t that right, Wade?”

“Something like that,” Deadpool said through gritted teeth.

Al sipped from her glass. “So, what did I interrupt?”

“We were just talking about where we learned to fight.” Grayfiled, now leaning against what was left of the kitchen counter, turned to Deadpool. “So, did Captain America train you?”

Blind Al laughed long and hard. “Steve would never have trained this psycho. And does he even fight like he’s been trained?”

“Me? For the record, all this guy did was tackle me. Into the counters. Into the appliances. Into the walls . . .” A storm was brewing on Al’s face and Deadpool glimpsed the gathering thunderheads. “But that’s not answering the question,” Deadpool said, quickly changing directions. “I was taught to fight by a gruff-but-loveable Jewish trainer who had me crappin’ thunder by the time he was done.”

“You are just the worst kind of person, Wade,” Al said.

“What? What do you want from me? There’s nothing to tell. I learned to fight the hard way; by fighting every day to survive.”

“Is that why you had to attack poor Phillip the minute you saw him?”

“What did you expect?” Deadpool asked. “I come home and find a guy dressed like Charlie Sheen in The Wraith sitting in my kitchen – ”

“My kitchen!”

“ – and you want me to what? Share tea with him?”

“Did you ever think to ask why he was here?” Al took another sip from her cup. “Or was the plan to beat him senseless and then . . . actually, Wade, what was the plan here?”

“Come on, Al, have you ever known me not to have a plan?”

“Constantly,” she sighed, “but I’m foolishly holding out hope.”

“Um, would either of you like to know why I am here?” Grayfield asked sheepishly. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything and I did drive all the way from Chicago.”

“Yes!” Deadpool and Blind Al said at the same time.

Then the phone rang.

Tokyo, Japan

“Your shoes and your weapons.”

Startled, the assassin known only as Killshot looked up. Seated on a low stone bench in the middle of the immaculately landscaped courtyard, he’d been watching several Koi swim lazy circles in the pond and hadn’t heard the other man approach. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“Your shoes and your weapons,” the other man repeated. “Neither are permitted inside the guesthouse. You may leave them in the genkan—the anteroom. You will find slippers there that you may wear inside the house. Not as stylish as the Leo Zielinskys you have on, but they will suffice.”

Killshot raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know Zielinsky?”

“Higashi-san is a man with refined tastes who requires that his employees recognize quality when they see it. Now, please follow me.” He turned his back on the assassin and started down the gravel path towards the guesthouse.

Killshot grabbed his bow from beside the stone bench, slung the quiver full of arrows over his shoulder, and headed off toward the guesthouse himself. He caught the servant at the door.

“Leave your weapons and change your shoes,” the other man reminded him. “Higashi-san will be along shortly. In the meantime, you will find that the servants have set out food and drink. You may refresh yourself while you wait.”

The other man watched silently as Killshot placed the bow and the quiver against one wall of the anteroom. When Killshot removed his boots and slid his feet into the proffered slippers, he nodded, satisfied, and opened the door.

“If you find that you need anything else, there is an intercom that is connected to the main house. Your wait should not be long.” And with that, he turned and headed back across the courtyard towards the main house, leaving Killshot to find his own way inside.

The DeadHut
San Francisco

The phone continued to ring.

“I’ll get it,” Deadpool said, pushing himself away from the table. “You two get to know each other. Or, even better, don’t.”

He walked into the hallway shaking his head. Who still used a land-line? Al had to be one of the last people in San Francisco to have one. That it was a corded phone that was ringing made the situation all the more laughable.

Deadpool fumbled the receiver to his ear. “Hit pay-dirt with K-Dirt!”

“Radio contests, Wade? How tacky.”

“Weasel? What a pleasant . . . whatever.”

“Is everything OK, Wade? Why didn’t you answer the comm?”

“I don’t know. We probably just needed an excuse for that Ford Fairlane gag.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” Deadpool sighed dramatically. “Look, Weasel, it’s probably nothing. The comm might have gotten damaged. Had a bit of a dust-up here last night. I’ll look at it later.”

“What? Wade, what are you talking about? Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Right-as-rain, buddy, have no fear. Now, did you call for a reason, or just to hear the dulcimer tones of my voice?”

“I’m starting to worry here, Wade. Concussion, maybe?”

“Weasel!”

“Sorry.” Weasel nervously cleared his throat. “I called about that kid, Wade. Tell me he’s still alive.”

“Specifics, Weasel?”

“You know who I mean!” Weasel took a breath to calm himself. “That Shelley kid you had me research for you. I wondered why you were interested, so I looked into him some more and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Deadpool would want with a guy who writes Deadpool fan fiction. So, tell me he’s still alive, Wade.”

“For one thing, Weasel . . .’kid’? The guy was like forty.”

“He’s thirty-seve . . . what do you mean by ‘was’?”

“And, ‘B’, I don’t have to kill everyone I come in contact with, you know?”

“Are you trying to tell me he’s still alive?”

“Last I saw, he was.” Deadpool thought for a moment. “Though I’d bet his cholesterol is through the roof, so I’m not promising he’ll stay that way for long.”

“But you didn’t kill him, right Wade?”

“What do you think?”

“Right?”

“No, Weasel, I didn’t! Didn’t I just say that? Jeez, what is with you today? Why the soft heart all of the sudden?”

“You kill people. For money.” Weasel explained. “Most of the time, they even deserve it. All this guy did was write stories about you – poorly, I might add – and that’s no reason to kill someone.”

“At least not for free.”

“You’re impossible.”

“So they say.” Deadpool twisted the phone’s coiled green cord around his finger. Made of green Bakelite with a gold rotary dial, it sure looked like a telephone a blind woman would own. No wonder he’d never used it before. “Anyway, I need you to see what you can dig up on a ‘Phillip Grayfield’ for me.”

“Always got someone for good-old-reliable Weasel to investigate.”

“That’s the way this partnership works,” Deadpool explained. “You’re research, guns, tech, communications, etcetera.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m the one who gets shot at.”

“Point.”

Weasel hesitated. Something Deadpool had said gnawed at the back of his head like a hungry beaver loose in the forest of his mind. “Phil Grayfield?” Weasel asked. “How do you know him?”

“He’s sitting in my kitchen right now.”

“Al’s kitchen.”

“Et tu, Weasel?”

“It’s true, Wade. She did buy the house.” Changing the subject, Weasel pressed on. “So, he’s there right now? Young guy? Big? Kinda built like a linebacker?”

“I guess. You know him or something?”

“You mean you don’t?” Now Weasel sounded excited. “Not that I know him personally or anything, but everybody knows Phil Grayfield.”

“I don’t.”

“Come one, Wade. Phil Grayfield? All-American linebacker at Notre Dame? First overall pick in the NFL Draft the year he left college?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

Weasel’s excitement quickly turned to confusion. “You’re kidding!”

“Why would I care about American football? I’m Canadian, aren’t I?”

Are you?

There you are. About time you showed up; book’s half over.

I had things to do.

What kind of things could you have to do?

I have plenty to fill my day, thankyouverymuch. Anyway, are you Canadian?

I think so. You still have that guy’s number?

Which one?

Not the one who can’t draw feet, but the other guy. The little one.

Yeah, probably.

Give him a call; find out. I think I’m still Canadian, but you never know when a retcon is going to hit.

“Are you even listening to me?” Weasel’s voice jerked Deadpool out of his reverie.

“I fade in and out.”

Weasel sighed. “Why is he over there anyway, Wade?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to find a reason.”

“You haven’t even asked him, have you?”

Deadpool was silent so long, Weasel was afraid he had hung up. “Talk to me, Goose.”

“Weasel, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Wait, Wade,” Weasel began, but it was too late; this time Deadpool had hung up the phone.

Weasel shrugged. Wade was right, of course. Their partnership did have a clearly defined division of labor and, truth-be-told, if anyone had to be shot at, Wade was probably better equipped to handle it. Still, learning a little telephone etiquette probably wouldn’t kill Wade. It wouldn’t kill him to learn manners in general, but Weasel knew the odds of that happening anytime soon were very slim.

He sighed, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles. “Might as well get things started on my end,” Weasel said to the empty room. He fired up his laptop and set off to find out what he could about Phillip Grayfield.

Tokyo, Japan

Killshot looked up as the shoji slid open on its hidden tracks, allowing a neatly dressed Japanese man to enter the room. A servant trailing closely behind – not the same one who had lead Killshot to the guest house – closed the door and stood quietly off to one side.

“I am Higashi,” the man said. Crossing the room, he bowed slightly, then knelt at the low table opposite Killshot.

“The Agency must think highly of you,” Higashi said without further preamble. “You are the first operative they’ve chosen to send.”

“Incidentally,” Higashi began, contemplating the platter of meat sitting in the center of the table. Coming to a decision, he reached out with his chopsticks and grabbed two thick slices. “How did you find the meal? Panda wasn’t my first choice, but it’s becoming harder and harder to find snow leopard.”

Killshot gaped at his nearly-empty plate. Of the three slices of meat he had taken, only crumbs remained. “You fed me panda?”

“Decadent, I know.” Higashi gestured at Killshot’s empty plate with his chopsticks. “But you cannot deny it is delicious.”

“I thought your people revered them or something.”

“That is the Chinese,” Higashi explained. “Now, assuage my fears. Explain to me why the Agency has chosen to send you.”

“I can assure you, I am up to the challenge of killing Deadpool.”

“That remains to be seen.” Higashi lifted the lid from one of several small ceramic bowls arrayed around the table. “Since your defeat at the hands of the American hero Spiderman – ”

“Only because I was betrayed!”

“By the clothier, yes.” Higashi lifted another lid, sniffed in disdain at the contents. “If I may – ”

Killshot held up his hands to indicate that he could.

“Thank you.” Higashi loaded a generous helping of rice onto his plate. “Betrayals aside, the fact remains that you have avoided confrontations with other Marvels ever since.”

Killshot opened his mouth to speak, but Higashi raised an eyebrow and Killshot thought better of interrupting again.

“Granted, you have had successes.” Higashi ticked off the list on his fingers. “Algeria. Brunei. Syria. Yet you have not been in direct conflict with other super-humans since New York. Therefor, you can understand my trepidation.”

“Not by design,” Killshot said without meeting Higashi’s eyes. “Since the Agency arranged for my release, I’ve accepted the assignments they’ve given me. It’s as simple as that; I am not afraid of any superheroes.”

“Green arrow.”

“Excuse me?” Killshot asked, confused.

“Your weapons,” Higashi offered as explanation. “The arrows in your quiver are green. Shafts. Fletchings. Even the heads are tinted green. I am interested in knowing why.”

“Ah,” Killshot said, understanding dawning brightly in his eyes. “They’ve been dipped in a fast acting necrotoxin, a gift from some Korean friends. Fatal, once it enters the bloodstream. For some reason, it stains the arrows green.”

“Interesting.”

A look of concern flashed across Killshot’s face. “I hope none of your men touched the arrows. Contact with bare skin is enough to activate the toxin.”

“If they did, they did so at my behest.”

“I’ve heard it is quite painful – ” Killshot trailed off. Higashi was looking him up and down.

“Indeed.”

Higashi nodded, having reached a decision. “Very well.” He gestured for his servant and the man silently approached the table.

The servant handed Higashi a portable DVD player and he placed the slim, silver device on the table. “This is why I have put a price on Deadpool’s head.” Higashi touched the PLAY button and the screen came to life with the security footage of Deadpool’s assault on the Four Winds.

“Friends of yours?” Killshot asked, eyes glued to the small screen in front of him.

Higashi waved a hand dismissively. “More like business associates,” he said. “And Deadpool’s interference has necessitated a ‘corporate restructuring’.”

The video ended, and Killshot looked up from the screen. “What are Deadpool’s powers?”

“Though you couldn’t tell from the video,” Higashi said, “Deadpool is a skilled marksman and hand-to-hand combatant. In addition, he is also a qualified expert in all NATO and Warsaw Pact small arms. He has also exhibited the ability to teleport, though the consensus is that this is accomplished through technological means and is not an innate power.

“His main power, however, is a healing factor that affords almost instantaneous regeneration on a cellular level.”

“Anything energy-based?” Killshot had restarted the video and was again closely watching the screen. “Do any of his powers produce an energy signature when used?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I only ask because of this.” He turned the screen to face Higashi. An image of Deadpool crashing through the skylight – glass raining down around him, guns blazing – was frozen on the screen.

“Look here,” Killshot said, tracing a finger around the image of Deadpool onscreen. A faint halo of energy surrounded the Merc-With-A-Mouth as he dropped into the center of the room.

Killshot thumbed the video back to life. “And here,” he said, pausing the video once more. Now, Deapool was on the ground, firing indiscriminately as the Four Winds and their underlings dove for cover. The corona that surrounded him was slightly brighter, making it easy to pinpoint his progress as the room filled with smoke.

“Interesting,” Higashi said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“There are other instances . . .” Killshot began.

Higashi waved him off. “You must be eager to begin your assignment; please do not allow me to detain you any further.”

“Yes, of course,” Killshot stammered. He got to his feet and headed toward the door.

“If there is anything else I can help with . . .” Killshot began, but neither Higashi nor his servant looked up from the screen. He hesitated at the door, but as the silence stretched, it became apparent that the abrupt end to the conversation was his dismissal, so Killshot opened the door and let himself out.

[“I thought he’d never leave,”] Higashi remarked in Japanese as the door closed behind the departing assassin. He turned his attention back to the screen where the video had ended once more.

[“Why am I hearing about this for the first time?”] Higashi asked as the video restarted.

[“Apologizes, Higashi-san, but until now, only the raw feed was available; this is the first time the enhanced video has been seen.”]

Higashi watched the screen in silence for several moments before he spoke again. [“Send the video to be enhanced again, and, also, have it run through an infrared filter. I have an interesting theory I’d like to test.”]

Higashi never took his eyes from the screen as he re-started the video. [“Very interesting, indeed.”]

The DeadHut
San Francisco, CA

“So the other guy says: ‘Ghosts? I thought you said goats!‘ ”

“’Goats’!” Al’s laugh was sharp and loud. “Oh, Phil, you are just something else. ‘Goats.’ ”

Deadpool stood in the doorway, arms crossed, mimicking Al’s pose from earlier. “What did I miss?”

Al and Grayfield – who had moved the vacant chair to the opposite end of the table – both turned at the sound of Deadpool’s voice . . . and burst out laughing.

“Pleasepleaseplease . . .” Al was trying to catch her breath enough to talk between giggles. “Please let me tell him!”

Grayfield, fighting back chuckles of his own, waved her on.

“Phil’s here – ” She began, but quickly broke down into another fit of laughter.

“Al?”

Al took a deep breath to try and calm herself enough to speak. “He’s here – ” It didn’t work.

“Al.”

She tried again. “He’s here to – ” Once more, Al descended into giggles.

“Al!”

Deadpool’s exclamation sobered Al enough to talk. “I’m sorry, Wade,” she said. “It’s just that I found out why Phillip is here.”

Now Al smiled. She was the little girl on Christmas Morning who knew the biggest gift under the tree was for her and she was finally allowed to open it. “He’s here to be your bodyguard!”

“My bodyguard?”

Classic ’80s movie.

Isn’t that the one with Billy Crystal and that basketball player?

That’s My Giant. My Bodyguard is about the kid who hires the school outcast to protect him from Matt Dillon.

The kid that doesn’t like being touched? Where the nerdy guy robs the student store to pay the bodyguard??

That’s Three O’clock High.

How many movies did they make in the ’80s with the same plot?

All of them.

Come on. My Bodyguard? Adam Baldwin? Jennifer Beals? Joan Cusack?

Not ringing any bells.

This, coming from the guy who remembered The Wraith.

Now that was classic ’80s cinema.

“Wade!” Al’s voice cut off any reply. “You better not be fading in and out on me!”

“What? Nope, not me. Hanging on your every word.”

“Then what were we talking about?” Al asked.

“Gheorghe Muresan?”

She shook her head. “Just the worst kind of person.”

Hoping to stave off further argument, Grayfield spoke up. “We were just trying to figure out who would want you dead.”

Al scoffed. “That’s a pretty long list, and the line starts over here.”

Unwilling to let the conversation get away from him again, Grayfield pressed on. “Anyway, Wade. Can I call you Wade?”

“No.”

“Yes. Well. I really think we should try and figure out who wants you dead badly enough to put a five million dollar bounty on your head.”

In the doorway, Deadpool shook his head. Even though it happened so rarely, he still hated to agree with Al. “That is a pretty long list.” Deadpool shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it now. “No, I think the real question is who would hire you to try and protect me.”

Grayfield either chose to ignore the jibe or – more likely – misunderstood it. “Al and I talked about that. And all I know is that I got a phone call from some Oriental guy – ”

“Phillip! I told you once: rugs are Oriental; people are Asian.”

Grayfield looked ashamed. “Sorry, Al.”

“You’ll have to forgive her, she’s been on some kind of P.C. kick lately.”

“Wade, even though the concept is lost on your, there is nothing wrong with trying to be civil towards your fellow man. Lord knows this world could use a little more tolerance and civility.”

Deadpool walked into the kitchen and laid his hands on the table. “As much as I’d like to hear your plans for world peace, I think we’re getting away from the point here. And the point is to figure out what your new friend, Phil, is doing in my house!” Before Al could say anything, Deadpool corrected himself. “Fine, Al, your house.”

Deadpool turned his full attention to Grayfield who shrank back slightly from his glare. “So, please, Phil, without any further interruptions, tell us why you’re here!”

Grayfield cleared his throat. “Well, as I said, I got a phone call from this Asian gentleman.” He looked to Al for approval and, sensing the reason for his pause, she impatiently waved him on. “He asked if I still worked as a bodyguard and then offered me a job.”

“Before you ask,” Grayfield continued, “no, I didn’t recognize the voice, nor did I ask for a name, nor did he volunteer one. If a client wishes to remain anonymous, I respect their privacy. He had a job for me, so I didn’t think to ask a lot of questions.

“Once I received payment, I drove straight from Chicago,” Grayfield finished. “You pretty much know the rest, since you came home probably two hours after I got here.”

Deadpool was silent for so long that both Grayfield and Al started to fidget, neither one knowing what Deadpool was planning. Eventually, he turned to Grayfield and asked, “Alive or dead?”

“What?” Grayfield blinked, unsure of what he’d just heard.

“You don’t strike me as the mastermind-type,” Deadpool explained, “but this could all be a ruse to get close to me, gain my trust, so that you can collect any bounty that might be on my head. So I was wondering if your mysterious benefactor is paying you more than the price on my head.”

“Oh. No, what I was paid wasn’t a fraction of the price on your head. But bounty hunting is not my style.” He gave Deadpool a meaningful look. “Nor is backstabbing someone.”

Deadpool held his gaze a moment longer and then sighed, resigned to his fate. “Fine,” he said, “if you’re going to be my bodyguard – ”

♩ I can be your long lost pal. ♩

Took us long enough to get that joke in.

Anyway, you know what I just said wasn’t the actual lyric, right?

♩ I can call you Betty. ♩

I liked the first half of the book better.

“OK. Fine. For the sake of argument, you’re my bodyguard.” Deadpool shook his head to clear his thoughts of runaway Paul Simon lyrics. “So, tell me, how do you . . . um, plan to guard my body?”

Grayfield nodded, satisfied. “Someone wants you dead. We don’t know why – though I am sure there is no shortage of reasons. We don’t know who – though I am sure there is no shortage of candidates. We do know there is a price on your head and my job is to keep you alive. So, the first thing we’re going to do, is get you as far away from San Francisco as we can.”

At the table beside him, Blind Al applauded.

Once again, Grayfield held up a hand again to forestall Deadpool’s comments, but, surprisingly, the mercenary had nothing to say. “I have a friend,” Grayfield continued, “someone I trust completely, who has offered to let us wait things out at his safe-house in Tijuana.”

Donkey show!

You know that’s not real, right?

Donkey show!

It’s just a trick to rob naïve tourists.

Donkey.

Show.

I really need a vacation.

“So, I figure we lay low at the safe-house and plan our next move.” Grayfield had continued talking, oblivious to the fact that Deadpool wasn’t listening. “And before you say anything, I know that ‘laying low’ may not be your style, but I think it’s a smart move, at least until we can figure out who we’re up against.”

“Sure. OK. Sign me up. Whatever it takes to move this story along.” Deadpool sighed. “I could use a break. And it’s been a long time since I’ve been in Tijuana.”

Donkey show!

Outside El Paso, Texas

“Know what I miss the most?”

With a sigh, Hector Lennox folded the newspaper he’d been reading and sat it on the dashboard in front of him. “No,” he said, “but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Cheeseburgers.” Jerome Johnson replied, ignoring the jibe.

“Cheeseburgers?” Lennox asked. “All the things you could miss – like the sun in your face – and you’re thinking with your stomach? Unbelievable!”

“We can still go in the sunshine,” Johnson answered, sounding hurt. “It’s not like we’re vampires. And I didn’t mean just cheeseburgers,” he continued. “I guess I meant that I miss eating. I mean, I know we can still eat – even though we don’t need to – but it’s not the same; everything tastes like ash.”

Hector Lennox looked at his partner, surprised. Having met while enlisted in the Army, the two had become fast friends. It was a friendship that had lasted a lifetime – Going on two now, Lennox thought – but he had never known Johnson to put so much thought into what he said.

Following their stint in the Army, the pair underwent a strength augmentation process offered by the mysterious Power Broker. In order to pay for their treatment, Lennox and Johnson became attractions in the Power Broker’s Unlimited Class Wrestling Federation. It was not long after their UCWF debut that the pair were approached by John Walker, another former soldier who had undergone the Power Broker’s augmentation process.

Hector Lennox cringed mentally at the memory; it was a meeting he would come to regret.

For Walker, who had grown up in the shadow of his older brother, Mike – an Army pilot who had died fighting in Vietnam – learning of the Power Broker’s treatment was a godsend. He saw the augmentation process as a way to finally become the hero he always knew he could be, something that the peacetime Army couldn’t offer. Walker established a costumed identity for himself and, as the Super Patriot, campaigned to take over the mantle of Captain America. But things didn’t turn out exactly as he planned.

They didn’t work out too well for us either, Lennox thought.

At first, Lennox and Johnson – along with Lemar Hoskins, yet another former soldier who had undergone the Power Broker’s augmentation process – aided Walker in his plan to discredit Captain America. Dressing in variations of Captain America’s former partner Bucky’s costume, the three men would disrupt the Super Patriot’s appearances, even going so far as to attack Walker. I can’t imagine what Walker had hoped to accomplish, Lennox thought. It wasn’t like there was a contest. A flood of memories suddenly came rushing back.

Or maybe there was.

Somehow, the man who had been Captain America, the man who Lennox and his companions had harassed and outright attacked, no longer wore the costume. Whether he was fired, quit, or was killed, Lennox never learned, but the fact remained that, suddenly, Captain America was gone. But not as suddenly as Walker abandoned us after being chosen as Captain America’s replacement.

The bitterness of the thought shocked him. It had been years since Walker had left them behind, and Lennox was surprised to find that those emotions still ran so close to the surface. Walker claimed his superiors refused our security clearances,Lennox thought. But something about that never sat right with us. Which is probably why Jerry and I reacted the way we did.

How they reacted was rash and impulsive and, ultimately, led to their downfall. Attacking Walker at a press conference, Lennox and Johnson revealed him to be the new Captain America to the gathered reporters. Armed with this information, the terrorist organization known as The Watchdogs managed to kidnap and murder Walker’s parents. Enraged, Walker tracked down Lennox and Johnson, beat them severely, and left them to die when he caused the oil refinery where they battled to explode.

Only we didn’t die, Lennox thought. At least not then.

The explosion should have killed us, but, something that the Power Broker did made us . . . not immortal, not even really invulnerable, just very hard to kill. So instead, we ended up clinging to life in a hospital.

I can remember the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the whirs and clicks of the machines keeping us alive, but when the end came, there was nothing. They say we killed ourselves, but neither of us can remember doing it.

Suicide. You think you’d be able to remember your own suicide, but there’s nothing. No tunnel with a light at the end. No life-flashing-before-my-eyes. Nothing.

And then things got weird.

Because death was not the end for them.

At least there was a light that time, Lennox thought. First nothing, then a blinding flash of light and the next thing I know, I’m with Jerry and six other costumed geeks I’ve never seen before and then, out of nowhere, we’re being attacked by Walker and the Avengers! Which went badly for everyone involved. In fact, Walker even tricked Jerry and I into impaling each other on stalactites, but, once again, we didn’t die. When the battle was over, there was another flash of light and Jerry and I were back in Texas and things were back to normal.

Normal, aside from the small fact that we were now undead.

Again, Lennox cringed mentally. Is it telling that I remember more of Walker’s past than my own? Lennox wondered. And does it mean that, in time, I will forget myself completely?

He wasn’t really sure he wanted answers to either of those questions, so, instead, Lennox asked, “You know something, Jerry? I’m with you. I would kill for a slice of onion and anchovy from Sal’s.”

“Sure,” Johnson said, looking out the passenger side window, distracted. “There she is,” he said, pointing. Lennox looked up in time to see blonde hair and a white cowboy hat duck inside the car they had been watching. “Finally. What takes women so long in the bathroom anyway?”

“Wish I knew,” Lennox replied as he put the car into gear and pulled into traffic a safe distance behind. “Probably make a fortune off of that secret.”

Well, that was . . .

Informative?

I was thinking “lengthy”, but yours works too.

It’s called exposition. I was just trying to catch the readers up on characters they may not be familiar with.

Really? Wikipedia broken or something?

Wikipedia? That’s your answer? Don’t you think it’s lazy of me to expect my readers to do their own research when I could just as easily throw in a couple lines and get everyone up to speed?

A “couple lines”, huh?

OK, maybe it did get away from me a little, but what’s done is done.

And what are you doing here anyway? I told myself from the beginning I wasn’t going to insert myself into the story. I think that kind of metafiction is lazy storytelling.

At least you gave yourself a different font.

I thought it was clear –

You would.

– that when there’s a horizontal line, these interludes take place in your mind. The italics are your thoughts and the plain text belongs to the voice in your head, the one that they put in yellow font in the comic.

They still publish that thing?

I don’t know. I don’t read comics.

Clearly.

Can we get back to my question now? Why are you here?

Just wondering if we can start moving this story along.

Well you playing Daffy Duck to my Buggs Bunny isn’t really helping.

Ah, yes, Duck Amuck. Classic episode.

You know Duck Amuck?

I should; you’re writing me.

Good point. Well if you’re serious about moving things along, get ready. You’re in the next scene.

Thanks for the sour persimmons, cousin.

The DeadHut
San Francisco, CA

“Really?”

“What?” Grayfield asked, setting a hand protectively on the hood of the van currently resting in Deadpool’s driveway. “It’s reliable.”

“Really?”

“What?” Grayfield repeated. “It got me all the way from Chicago to San Fransisco. It’s a good car.”

“What it is,” Deapool barked, “is a bright red minivan with the words KITTY WAGON stenciled on the side!” Grayfield opened his mouth, but Deadpool angrily waved off whatever he was about to say. “I know, I know. Your Aunt Katherine has a mobile cat grooming business and – isn’t this hilarious – her nickname’s also ‘Kitty’!”

“And?”

“And!” Deadpool was livid. He forced himself to take several deep breaths to calm down enough to speak. “Don’t you think it might be a little conspicuous sneaking into Mexico in that thing!”

“Oh,” Grayfield shook his head. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Al had wandered onto the back porch and stood, coffee cup in hand, listening to the argument in her driveway. “If you boys aren’t going on your trip, I’m sure the contractors could use and extra set of hands to help fix my kitchen!”

Deadpool winced. “You think maybe while we’re gone, whoever put the bounty on my head might find out about this place and kill the old lady? You know, as a way to get to me?”

Al sipped from her coffee mug, then smiled sweetly. “Nice of you to worry about me, Wade, but it’s not necessary. You’re putting me up in Florida, at the Hotel Coral Essex, until you get back. So I should be safe from danger until big-strong-Wade is back to watch over me.”

Grayfield smiled. “So, Mexico, then?”

Deadpool sighed, resigned. “Mexico, then.”

 

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