Back to GatefoldIssue #1 by Drew Clark
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NOTE: This series takes place after the events of Marvel's Deadpool #23-25: "Dead Reckoning."
A long time ago there lived an ordinary man in an ordinary town somewhere in Suburbia, USA. A few weeks ago, that man died when a stray bullet punctured his heart during a hostage situation at his office. Wife an' kids are living on welfare now 'cuz she's never worked a spit in her life and can't start now. Bad story. End of story.
That's just how life is sometimes. Right when you think everything is going peachy-keen, it all goes to Hell. Life is like a long, torturous fairy tale that doesn't usually end until you're at your peak and hardly ever hits a "Happily Ever After." But see, I'm one of the lucky ones. For me, it never ends.
I'm Wade Wilson, otherwise known as the Merc-With-A-Mouth Deadpool. But not anymore. I gave that up after I figured out that I was the biggest gimp in the universe during that whole "cosmic smiley-face" deal a couple o' months ago. Bein' played as a monkey by a half-dozen corporate jerk-offs doesn't sit too well with the 'Poolster, so I split. Not that it really mattered. By the end of that shindig, I had saved the world from an alien lizard determined to give everyone their innermost desires and punched Captain America in the gullet. Not something I'm all that proud of, sure, but a guy has to get by somehow. It put food on the table for the young'uns.
Now it's in the past, though. No use crying over split peas... or however that goddamn saying goes. You could say I've lost touch with the world, but then I'd have to rip off your face and staple it to your tonsils. The hard way. I'm still the same old Wade Wilson I ever was, just without the crazy jumpsuit or the superhero schtick. They've been replaced by the good ol' shirtless Wade with an alcohol problem and no cares for anyone except himself.
... and her. How could I forget Siryn? That girl has always been there for me, even when I felt like such a waste of skin I couldn't stand myself. When I sprung her from that nuthouse Cable put her in, she stuck with me a helluva lot longer than I deserved. I think it's about time to pay Theresa Rourke a visit.
# # # # #
New York City. I love this town. So full of scum that I can almost lose myself in the splendor of it all. Ahhh... smell that wonderful smog. Almost makes you want to freeze your ass off in the Rocky Mountains someplace just because the air is clean. Y'see, I think I remember somethin' 'bout ol' Siryn movin' here a while back, but my memory's about as clear as Woody Harrelson's bedroom. Ways I figger, starting a ruckus in Times Square always works to bring out the local color. Take a few hostages, shoot up couple dozen offices, pop a cap in Matt Lauer's white-boy hiney... that should do the trick. Pajama-wearin' superfreaks -- Theresa included-- should come runnin' before you can say "NYPD Donut Break", and then I've got what I came for.
Then some guy runs past me while I'm walking down Fifth Avenue, screaming something about a bank robbery and albino bunny rabbits. I'm not too sure about that last part, but I turn around and can tell that he's gotta be high on something-- his pupils are as big as Britney Spears' bajungas, post-"growth spurt". He keeps on running down the sidewalk and I keep on walking the other way, gripping the uzi in my coat pocket.
"Reason number 273 why I love New York City: Always a distraction when you need one." I say to myself, looking over the heads of the people in front of me.
That's when I see the rest of them. About twenty more of those dilated-pupil freaks coming my way, each of them running like there's a sale at Bloomingdale's and Ricky Martin is operating the register. They're each screaming something different, and a few of 'em even stray from the pack only to get hit by the oncoming traffic. I laugh and listen to their comments, sidestepping into an alley and watching these nutcases run through the city. Somehow, their insanity makes me feel all tingly inside. It's either that or the eggroll I bought from the pothead outside Yankee Stadium. Those things always look worse coming out then they did going in...
"The Backstreet Boys had sex with my gorilla!" One of the men says, jumping onto a parked car and rolling off into the street. The taxi driver in the next lane didn't even see him; he was too busy spelling out his 15-letter, all-consonant name to a curious twentysomething chick in the back seat. It's not a pretty sight.
While I'm watching, I hear somebody trying to creep up behind me. Some poor slop probably thinks I'm an easy target, thinks he can pick my pocket and get away while I'm watching this impromptu parade.
"Hah-cha!" I yell, whipping around and catching the guy by surprise. He's wearing a trenchcoat too, with black boots and a scraggly black Def Leppard shirt underneath. Jumping backwards, he reaches behind his head and tightens a weird-looking bandana around his eyes. I laugh again-- this has got to be one of the funniest hobos I've ever seen. He isn't even deserving of a kick in the pants. I wait for him to say something silly like 'g-g-gimme your wallet' so I can feel good about putting a few extra holes through his head real quick-like.
Instead, he doesn't say anything. This guy just stands there, like he's staring at me through that funky bandana even though I know he's gotta be blind as a baseball-- hey, like I said, I'm no good with sayings. For a few seconds, we just stand there in that alleyway, listening to each other not saying anything until I reach into my pocket and pull out the uzi.
"See this, bud? I'll betcha don't. Take off that blindfold, partner. I gots somethin' ta show ya," I say, holding the gun in my right hand. He still doesn't budge, so I stretch out my hand to poke him with it.
"No thank you, sir," he says, grabbing the gun and ripping it away from me. By the time I realize the gun isn't in my hand anymore he's already thrown it behind him and it lands neatly in a trashcan about thirty feet away. Looking back, that was probably the worst thing he could've done. But hey, if this loser wanted it that badly, I guess the slow and painful way is the right road to take.
"So you wanna take it without seein' it, huh?" I ask him, landing a couple punches on his stomach. A normal guy would be spilling his Swill Rolls all over the pavement after taking that kind of punishment. But this bozo doesn't even fall down. Finally I stop hitting him and yank off the blindfold, hoping that'll make him acknowledge that I'm here.
That doesn't work too well either, because see, this guy has weird-lookin' eyes. Soon as I look at them, Michael Jackson eating spaghetti runs through my brain like a purple elephant on its way to the nearest Starbucks. Damned if I know why, but as soon as I stop thinking about that, I get this image of Richard Simmons doing jumping jacks. My brain can barely take all the excitement.
"You shouldn't have done that. Now you're crazy, too," the guy says, but I can't hardly hear him. It freaks me out, but I turn my head and then the wall starts to do jumping jacks too. For someone who's never done a lick of real exercise in all his life, I'm feeling very pumped right now. All this aerobic work going on.. it's almost too much.
Somehow I manage to mumble out a few words between the flashing images of Betty Ford climbing out of this guy's mouth. "Who're you?" I say the words, and then it's back to staring at the saliva-covered Mrs. Ford.
If he does anything in response, I can't tell. By this point I'm on my knees staring up at him, just hoping that he doesn't go get my uzi and end this fight before it even really started. His body starts shaking like a martini in a James Bond flick, and then I hear something out of the corner of my eye.
*CLICK*
And he standing behind me now, holding that uzi to my head. I should've known. I expected it, but I guess those weird swirling colors kept me too occupied to do anything.
"You want a name, Deadpool? I'm Madcap. Have a nice day."
Then he pulls the trigger, and I don't see any more swirling colors.
Is it the end? Will Deadpool be out of the picture before his new series reaches issue #2? Just who the hell is 'Madcap'? And the most important question of them all... exactly how much is that doggie in the window?! Catch next issue to find out!
A long time ago there lived an ordinary man in an ordinary town somewhere in Suburbia, USA. A few weeks ago, that man died when a stray bullet punctured his heart during a hostage situation at his office. Wife an' kids are living on welfare now 'cuz she's never worked a spit in her life and can't start now. Bad story. End of story.
That's just how life is sometimes. Right when you think everything is going peachy-keen, it all goes to Hell. Life is like a long, torturous fairy tale that doesn't usually end until you're at your peak and hardly ever hits a "Happily Ever After." But see, I'm one of the lucky ones. For me, it never ends.
I'm Wade Wilson, otherwise known as the Merc-With-A-Mouth Deadpool. But not anymore. I gave that up after I figured out that I was the biggest gimp in the universe during that whole "cosmic smiley-face" deal a couple o' months ago. Bein' played as a monkey by a half-dozen corporate jerk-offs doesn't sit too well with the 'Poolster, so I split. Not that it really mattered. By the end of that shindig, I had saved the world from an alien lizard determined to give everyone their innermost desires and punched Captain America in the gullet. Not something I'm all that proud of, sure, but a guy has to get by somehow. It put food on the table for the young'uns.
Now it's in the past, though. No use crying over split peas... or however that goddamn saying goes. You could say I've lost touch with the world, but then I'd have to rip off your face and staple it to your tonsils. The hard way. I'm still the same old Wade Wilson I ever was, just without the crazy jumpsuit or the superhero schtick. They've been replaced by the good ol' shirtless Wade with an alcohol problem and no cares for anyone except himself.
... and her. How could I forget Siryn? That girl has always been there for me, even when I felt like such a waste of skin I couldn't stand myself. When I sprung her from that nuthouse Cable put her in, she stuck with me a helluva lot longer than I deserved. I think it's about time to pay Theresa Rourke a visit.
# # # # #
New York City. I love this town. So full of scum that I can almost lose myself in the splendor of it all. Ahhh... smell that wonderful smog. Almost makes you want to freeze your ass off in the Rocky Mountains someplace just because the air is clean. Y'see, I think I remember somethin' 'bout ol' Siryn movin' here a while back, but my memory's about as clear as Woody Harrelson's bedroom. Ways I figger, starting a ruckus in Times Square always works to bring out the local color. Take a few hostages, shoot up couple dozen offices, pop a cap in Matt Lauer's white-boy hiney... that should do the trick. Pajama-wearin' superfreaks -- Theresa included-- should come runnin' before you can say "NYPD Donut Break", and then I've got what I came for.
Then some guy runs past me while I'm walking down Fifth Avenue, screaming something about a bank robbery and albino bunny rabbits. I'm not too sure about that last part, but I turn around and can tell that he's gotta be high on something-- his pupils are as big as Britney Spears' bajungas, post-"growth spurt". He keeps on running down the sidewalk and I keep on walking the other way, gripping the uzi in my coat pocket.
"Reason number 273 why I love New York City: Always a distraction when you need one." I say to myself, looking over the heads of the people in front of me.
That's when I see the rest of them. About twenty more of those dilated-pupil freaks coming my way, each of them running like there's a sale at Bloomingdale's and Ricky Martin is operating the register. They're each screaming something different, and a few of 'em even stray from the pack only to get hit by the oncoming traffic. I laugh and listen to their comments, sidestepping into an alley and watching these nutcases run through the city. Somehow, their insanity makes me feel all tingly inside. It's either that or the eggroll I bought from the pothead outside Yankee Stadium. Those things always look worse coming out then they did going in...
"The Backstreet Boys had sex with my gorilla!" One of the men says, jumping onto a parked car and rolling off into the street. The taxi driver in the next lane didn't even see him; he was too busy spelling out his 15-letter, all-consonant name to a curious twentysomething chick in the back seat. It's not a pretty sight.
While I'm watching, I hear somebody trying to creep up behind me. Some poor slop probably thinks I'm an easy target, thinks he can pick my pocket and get away while I'm watching this impromptu parade.
"Hah-cha!" I yell, whipping around and catching the guy by surprise. He's wearing a trenchcoat too, with black boots and a scraggly black Def Leppard shirt underneath. Jumping backwards, he reaches behind his head and tightens a weird-looking bandana around his eyes. I laugh again-- this has got to be one of the funniest hobos I've ever seen. He isn't even deserving of a kick in the pants. I wait for him to say something silly like 'g-g-gimme your wallet' so I can feel good about putting a few extra holes through his head real quick-like.
Instead, he doesn't say anything. This guy just stands there, like he's staring at me through that funky bandana even though I know he's gotta be blind as a baseball-- hey, like I said, I'm no good with sayings. For a few seconds, we just stand there in that alleyway, listening to each other not saying anything until I reach into my pocket and pull out the uzi.
"See this, bud? I'll betcha don't. Take off that blindfold, partner. I gots somethin' ta show ya," I say, holding the gun in my right hand. He still doesn't budge, so I stretch out my hand to poke him with it.
"No thank you, sir," he says, grabbing the gun and ripping it away from me. By the time I realize the gun isn't in my hand anymore he's already thrown it behind him and it lands neatly in a trashcan about thirty feet away. Looking back, that was probably the worst thing he could've done. But hey, if this loser wanted it that badly, I guess the slow and painful way is the right road to take.
"So you wanna take it without seein' it, huh?" I ask him, landing a couple punches on his stomach. A normal guy would be spilling his Swill Rolls all over the pavement after taking that kind of punishment. But this bozo doesn't even fall down. Finally I stop hitting him and yank off the blindfold, hoping that'll make him acknowledge that I'm here.
That doesn't work too well either, because see, this guy has weird-lookin' eyes. Soon as I look at them, Michael Jackson eating spaghetti runs through my brain like a purple elephant on its way to the nearest Starbucks. Damned if I know why, but as soon as I stop thinking about that, I get this image of Richard Simmons doing jumping jacks. My brain can barely take all the excitement.
"You shouldn't have done that. Now you're crazy, too," the guy says, but I can't hardly hear him. It freaks me out, but I turn my head and then the wall starts to do jumping jacks too. For someone who's never done a lick of real exercise in all his life, I'm feeling very pumped right now. All this aerobic work going on.. it's almost too much.
Somehow I manage to mumble out a few words between the flashing images of Betty Ford climbing out of this guy's mouth. "Who're you?" I say the words, and then it's back to staring at the saliva-covered Mrs. Ford.
If he does anything in response, I can't tell. By this point I'm on my knees staring up at him, just hoping that he doesn't go get my uzi and end this fight before it even really started. His body starts shaking like a martini in a James Bond flick, and then I hear something out of the corner of my eye.
*CLICK*
And he standing behind me now, holding that uzi to my head. I should've known. I expected it, but I guess those weird swirling colors kept me too occupied to do anything.
"You want a name, Deadpool? I'm Madcap. Have a nice day."
Then he pulls the trigger, and I don't see any more swirling colors.
Is it the end? Will Deadpool be out of the picture before his new series reaches issue #2? Just who the hell is 'Madcap'? And the most important question of them all... exactly how much is that doggie in the window?! Catch next issue to find out!