Back to GatefoldIssue #14 by Brad Horton
"Get Off This Wisconsin Death Trip!" |
Name's Deadpool, Wade Wilson...or the Merc-With-A-Mouth. Yeah, it's good to have a couple names. Keeps the feds off yer back. And it confuses the hell out of drunk Canadians (don't ask, or you'll lose a testicle!).
I get off the New York to Milwaukee 747 Flight at Mitchell International. I've got a trench coat to cover up my black and red duds and a thick scarf to cover my face. An old fedora covers my bald and mangled melon as well.
See, years ago, I volunteered for this experimental cancer cure...since I had cancer...but anyway, I ended up looking like an Irish guy who was baked (in the sun) a little too long who could heal any wound and regrow lost limbs. Some say I developed a "complex" after I killed a bunch of people when I couldn't accept the fact I looked like a raisin that Louie Anderson crapped on.
Well...okay, yeah. Wouldn't you?
*cough*
Anywho, I'm here in Milwaukee, Wisconsin strictly on business. And that business sure looks like...hey, where the fuck is my luggage?!?!
# # # # #
"...so then I blew that sumbitch up with some explosives," I say as I gnaw on a BBQ chicken wing.
The Hooters waitress kind of looks at me funny, not because of my freakish appearance, but because the fact she's never heard anything this outrageous. What are these Wisconsinites on? Guess they're all on edge after coming down from the Jeffery Dhamer craze. Jesus, wasn't that 10 years ago? Move on, pussies.
"Then, these two fucks from Canada run into me and are all 'Can you drive us to Canada?' And I'm all, 'Sure.' So then...heh...I drive - okay? And this trooper pulls me over. He's all, 'I had you clocked in going 500,000 blah blah,' you know? So then I'm like, 'What'du say, junior?' Hehe, so then, I'm driving with these two Canadians - and I'm stuck in goddamn Bumblefuck--"
The Hooters girl gets all freaked. "Uh...what's that, Joanne? Oop, gotta go." And she leaves.
I call out to her, "I plugged Sean Connery after I kicked his ass in Celebrity Jeopardy! Come back!" I down the rest of my Longneck beer. I call out to another waitress. She doesn't hear me, so I smack her ass as she passes by.
"Gah!" she yelps.
"I need a new bib," I say as I wipe the excess grease from my mouth.
She storms into the back, comes back and slams the bib on the table. She's pissed for some reason. "Here."
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"It's just...it's hard working here...I'm so emotionally drained from being nothing but eye candy to these horny, vulgar pigs. I mean, all they do is stare at my breasts like they were pieces of raw meat."
"Huh? I wasn't listening."
"Nevermind." She suddenly gasps, "Not to be rude, but what happened to your face?"
"Huh?"
"Your face."
"...what?"
"Why is your face so mangled?"
I seriously couldn't hear a word she was saying. Her chest honestly muffled the sound of her voice. Unbelievable.
"So, how much for BJ's around these parts?" I ask.
# # # # #
"FYYAAAAAHHHHHH--OOOOOFF!"
"And stay out!"
Ow...shot-putter Hooters girls? I don't believe it!
I get up and dust myself off. "I just asked a question, I wasn't forcing anything on you!"
Man, this city sucks; smells like yeast something fierce and I'm short twelve pairs of underwear. Bitch ass city.
Hey, cool - Pabst Theater! Wonder if they have beer there...
# # # # #
The Next Morning...
Okay, I've been in this damn taxi for like a half-hour, traveling on the express way. Interstate 43, I think it is. I've had my fun counting the number of cracks in the road. Holy crap, this place has a lot of trees. The driver didn't talk to me, mainly because I'm dressed in my gear. I didn't have to deal with any crap about my face looking weird since I had my mask on.
But anyway, you're all probably wondering why ol' Wade is in Wisconsin, of all places. No, it's not for the Ho-Chunk Casino...or the beer. Wait...yes on the beer. I have a potential employer who lives here. Says he'll pay me good money.
Good.
Money.
Those are too words I like to see next to each other. How could I pass this up? The taxi gets off on an exit ramp.
"Almost there," the driver says. He adjusts his rearview mirror to examine my red and black costume. "You going to a kid's party or somethin'?"
"I'm goin' to your mom's house, bitch. Now drive."
The driver sighs. He pulls up to the top of the exit, which is on a hill and turns right, then immediately left, turning into a small dead end road.
He jaw drops as I look at the houses. Some of them were kinda small and run-down. Then we pull up to the last one on the right. It didn't look that big, from the outside anyway.
"Hey, ain't you gonna pay?" the driver asks.
I stick an uzi up his nostril. "Hold on about ten minutes...your mom can pay."
He shivers, peeling around the culdasac (did I just use that word?) and zooming the hell outta there. I scratch my head as I put the uzi back in my duffle bag of supplies. I was in Suburban Wisconsin. This was some freaky shit. Forget battling the Molecule Man for my identity, this was worse.
I see a red car parked in its special spot on the driveway that seemed to wrap itself around the house on the front side. Holy crap, this place has two garages, too. This bastard has to be rich.
I go to the front of the house, ringing the doorbell. At first, nothing happens. I'm shaking my nibblets off in this winter air. Then the door opens. A lady with a shocked look on her face opens the outer door.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
"Uhm...I think I might have the wrong house."
"Mom, go away," a deep voice commands. A scrawny teenager approaches the door, motioning for me to come in.
"Is this one of your friends?" the mom asks.
"Mom, jus
I get off the New York to Milwaukee 747 Flight at Mitchell International. I've got a trench coat to cover up my black and red duds and a thick scarf to cover my face. An old fedora covers my bald and mangled melon as well.
See, years ago, I volunteered for this experimental cancer cure...since I had cancer...but anyway, I ended up looking like an Irish guy who was baked (in the sun) a little too long who could heal any wound and regrow lost limbs. Some say I developed a "complex" after I killed a bunch of people when I couldn't accept the fact I looked like a raisin that Louie Anderson crapped on.
Well...okay, yeah. Wouldn't you?
*cough*
Anywho, I'm here in Milwaukee, Wisconsin strictly on business. And that business sure looks like...hey, where the fuck is my luggage?!?!
# # # # #
"...so then I blew that sumbitch up with some explosives," I say as I gnaw on a BBQ chicken wing.
The Hooters waitress kind of looks at me funny, not because of my freakish appearance, but because the fact she's never heard anything this outrageous. What are these Wisconsinites on? Guess they're all on edge after coming down from the Jeffery Dhamer craze. Jesus, wasn't that 10 years ago? Move on, pussies.
"Then, these two fucks from Canada run into me and are all 'Can you drive us to Canada?' And I'm all, 'Sure.' So then...heh...I drive - okay? And this trooper pulls me over. He's all, 'I had you clocked in going 500,000 blah blah,' you know? So then I'm like, 'What'du say, junior?' Hehe, so then, I'm driving with these two Canadians - and I'm stuck in goddamn Bumblefuck--"
The Hooters girl gets all freaked. "Uh...what's that, Joanne? Oop, gotta go." And she leaves.
I call out to her, "I plugged Sean Connery after I kicked his ass in Celebrity Jeopardy! Come back!" I down the rest of my Longneck beer. I call out to another waitress. She doesn't hear me, so I smack her ass as she passes by.
"Gah!" she yelps.
"I need a new bib," I say as I wipe the excess grease from my mouth.
She storms into the back, comes back and slams the bib on the table. She's pissed for some reason. "Here."
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"It's just...it's hard working here...I'm so emotionally drained from being nothing but eye candy to these horny, vulgar pigs. I mean, all they do is stare at my breasts like they were pieces of raw meat."
"Huh? I wasn't listening."
"Nevermind." She suddenly gasps, "Not to be rude, but what happened to your face?"
"Huh?"
"Your face."
"...what?"
"Why is your face so mangled?"
I seriously couldn't hear a word she was saying. Her chest honestly muffled the sound of her voice. Unbelievable.
"So, how much for BJ's around these parts?" I ask.
# # # # #
"FYYAAAAAHHHHHH--OOOOOFF!"
"And stay out!"
Ow...shot-putter Hooters girls? I don't believe it!
I get up and dust myself off. "I just asked a question, I wasn't forcing anything on you!"
Man, this city sucks; smells like yeast something fierce and I'm short twelve pairs of underwear. Bitch ass city.
Hey, cool - Pabst Theater! Wonder if they have beer there...
# # # # #
The Next Morning...
Okay, I've been in this damn taxi for like a half-hour, traveling on the express way. Interstate 43, I think it is. I've had my fun counting the number of cracks in the road. Holy crap, this place has a lot of trees. The driver didn't talk to me, mainly because I'm dressed in my gear. I didn't have to deal with any crap about my face looking weird since I had my mask on.
But anyway, you're all probably wondering why ol' Wade is in Wisconsin, of all places. No, it's not for the Ho-Chunk Casino...or the beer. Wait...yes on the beer. I have a potential employer who lives here. Says he'll pay me good money.
Good.
Money.
Those are too words I like to see next to each other. How could I pass this up? The taxi gets off on an exit ramp.
"Almost there," the driver says. He adjusts his rearview mirror to examine my red and black costume. "You going to a kid's party or somethin'?"
"I'm goin' to your mom's house, bitch. Now drive."
The driver sighs. He pulls up to the top of the exit, which is on a hill and turns right, then immediately left, turning into a small dead end road.
He jaw drops as I look at the houses. Some of them were kinda small and run-down. Then we pull up to the last one on the right. It didn't look that big, from the outside anyway.
"Hey, ain't you gonna pay?" the driver asks.
I stick an uzi up his nostril. "Hold on about ten minutes...your mom can pay."
He shivers, peeling around the culdasac (did I just use that word?) and zooming the hell outta there. I scratch my head as I put the uzi back in my duffle bag of supplies. I was in Suburban Wisconsin. This was some freaky shit. Forget battling the Molecule Man for my identity, this was worse.
I see a red car parked in its special spot on the driveway that seemed to wrap itself around the house on the front side. Holy crap, this place has two garages, too. This bastard has to be rich.
I go to the front of the house, ringing the doorbell. At first, nothing happens. I'm shaking my nibblets off in this winter air. Then the door opens. A lady with a shocked look on her face opens the outer door.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
"Uhm...I think I might have the wrong house."
"Mom, go away," a deep voice commands. A scrawny teenager approaches the door, motioning for me to come in.
"Is this one of your friends?" the mom asks.
"Mom, jus