DISCLAIMERS: Marvel owns the characters, I don't. That sums it up.
 

     The day started like most. I had not had any sleep for the past two days and my eyes didn't get to greet the sunlight, thankfully. Instead, they greeted a 2.2 ton British bomb that rested in the tunnels of Genosha. The whole operation had been slowed down for two reasons. One, corrosion had built up on the detonator throughout the years. Then secondly, I am plain rotten with computers.

     In April 1944, six weeks before the Allied invasion of France, the Nazi propagandist Will Joyce -- better known as Lord Haw Haw -- made a chilling radio broadcast directed at Britain. According to Joyce, Germany knew the Allies were at work on large concrete structures in south of England. Germany also knew those structures were to be towed across the English Channel during the coming invasion and sunk off the coast of France. Joyce, the nasty sod, declared, "Well, we are going to help you boys. When you come to get them under way, we're going to sink them for you." Alarm klaxons sounded inside British Intelligence and the Allied high command. The concrete structures referred to by Joyce were actually components of a giant artificial harbor complex bound for Normandy, code-named Operation Mulberry, they might very well know the most important secret of the war -- the time and place of the Allied invasion of France.

     Several anxious days later those fears were put to rest, when US Intelligence intercepted a coded message from Japan's ambassador to Berlin, Lieutenant General Hiroshi Baron Oshima, to his superiors in Tokyo. However, a day before that, British Intelligence had lost a boat off the coast of Genosha that was in sight to attack. This was an actually bloody lucky maneuver, had it not happened, the whole course of the war might have changed hands.

     In 1998, the bomb was found in the abandoned sewer tunnels of Genosha. How it got there, ah, that's a story for another time. The mission was kept classified 'Open.' This just happens to mean the opposite to the highest extent. I was informed of the job that needed doing and I got onboard due to my expertise of Genosha. The crew I was suited up with was not your preeminent by a long shot. Most of their staff were Yanks; US branded, loudmouthed, smartasses. Once we get our way through the chaos, guess who got picked to actually run the defusing of the bomb? Yours truly.

     They strapped me up to an ancient buffalo hide harness, which they just happened to have along with their paraphernalia, and slowly lowered me down into the passageway. Honestly, the only thing keeping me sane at that point was my pack of Marlboros -- I only had four cigarettes to start with on the mission. I was down to one by then. Finally, I got the bomb defused. Our mission commander welcomed the work done so admirably with a flood of paperwork to fill out. If it had not been to the actuality that the man had been the only one with real interest to the task and not arrogant like the others, I am sure I would have just thrown the paperwork aside then left.

     Genosha only has one airport and it's smack down in the middle of Hammer Bay, their war torn capital. For a city so revolutionized by war, it still amazes me how the people act. To some degree, they do not even notice the repulsion projected around them. It's as if they have heaved a wooden door down before them and only look to the world through the vantage point in the center. I looked past the peasants, towards the clock that hangs in the station, and it was only noon. It would be a good four hour flight to London and I would make it back in time for evening drinks at The Crown.

     My seat, with Wisdom fortune, was next to a beluga whale, and behind me sat a spoiled brat which needed to be beaten with a lead pipe, and who just could not get enough out of kicking my chair. I thought I would give the kid a chance and just complain to the stewardess. I mean the flight attendant. Oh yes, they have such vital responsibilities on that tin can in the atmosphere, that they must have a label with it.

     The dingy broad finally came toward my seat and I told her the kid's actions. She smiled at the little daemon and gave him a piece of candy. That's right, give the kid more sugar. Then she left as fast as she had came. While that shut the kid up for a whole seven minutes, I still had that mammoth creature with little teeth yapping her piehole on her mobile phone (which she kept referring to as her 'cellphone'). A little facet of information -- the disadvantage of people is that you have to deal with them.

     After all of that, I found myself sitting at The Crown in a few hours. In the world of government intelligence, there are very few neutral zones. Even fewer are places one can sit down and relax amongst normally classified "foes." The Crown slipped into the gray area of both of those. It's practically a church in Intel circles. This pub is also one of the only places one can actually encounter me in these days of confusion. I gave the normal nod towards Scott, the bartender at the joint, and then went off to get smashed with my normal rounds of whiskey. Cheers, it had been a job well done. Even the bank account in Switzerland showed that.

     At about a quarter to nine, it was around the time that I normally visited my loft in this magnificent scum-abundant metropolis I call home. I took Brixton to Stockwell and I was making my way there quite contentedly. My mind slightly faded to my younger days, the Pete Wisdom of merely one year ago even showed a huge differentiation. A chance of genuine happiness stared in my face then. A bird broke what was left of my heart, and I packed my bags.

     It was a coward's way out and I know that now. I never claimed to be a judicious man. I once asked someone what they thought about me. I learned one thing then; that I wouldn't ask that same question again. My mind then slipped away to the Pete Wisdom of the 80s, and then the 70s. As I reached the end of Stockwell, my mind was forcefully brought back to June 24, 1999, whether I liked it or not.

     "London Bridge is falling down.. FALLING DOWN.. FALLING DOWN, MY FAIR LADY!"

     I noticed then that I wasn't dealing with a sane person as the figure had yelled those words out. Slowly I turned to look at the git who was screaming and a smirk ended up on my face. I had recognized the character within moments; he was one of the believers in the spandex act, assassin for hire, healing factor to the extreme Wade Wilson. Wilson is known to most of the world as Deadpool. The figure had already drawn what appeared to be a pulse rifle and I quickly slid my hand behind me. That is one useful thing about this old torn trench coat, you can keep those holsters well hidden. By the time Deadpool spoke next, my 9 mm caliber was already in hand.

     "I decided to drop by for a cup o'tea, old boy, I hope you don't mind!"

     "And what do you want, Wilson?"

     "Oooh, this is a formal occasion? Here I am without my coat and tie! I am here with just this weapon of mass destruction. You know what I want, Petey-boy, your head on a stick... although a stick is a bit cliche... maybe a big Q-tip... or I could just rip your arm out and then have your own hand hanging your head down by the hair. So artistic!"

     As the git rambled on about nothing, I placed the 9 mm caliber at my side. I narrowed my eyes to a squint, focusing my sight on the armor lining his body condom suit, and noted that no armor laced his neck. An incredibly loathsome grin replaced that former smirk on my face.

     "Who hired you, toerag?"

     "Why, my dear Englishman, who do you think? Not a lot of your former associates enjoyed you ending the whole Black Air thing! One of them was bound to hire the merc with a mouth. I am the best, y'know. Sure, those others say they are. But who are they? Huh? Just a bunch of critics who always go with angles with their killing. No fun, I say!"

     By this time, I was tired of listening to him go on talking. It had been a very long day and the liquor didn't make my tolerance grow any. If he wasn't going to kill me with that gun, which was bigger than he was, his mouth would. I quickly ran towards him, to contradict the move of the majority, and brought the 9 mm caliber forward. I released four shots precisely at his chest before he could get the first shot out from his pulse rifle. His sodding shot snagged the tail end of my trench coat. I ignored it for the time being, willing to hold a grudge later. As he pulled his rifle to get another shot towards me, I fired what was left in the clip at his side as I passed the git around in a circle.

     The next few actions were only seconds, but they seemed so much longer.

     "Let's make sure that we shut that mouth up for good, toerag," were the only words that escaped my lips as I slipped myself behind him. The 9 mm caliber was dropped to the street from my hand, as both of my hands quickly lighted up at the flux of generating hotknives. I swiftly rammed one hotknife into Deadpool's neck. There was the sound of ripping gristle, like a drumstick being torn enthusiastically from a freshly roasted chicken. Deadpool threw his head back and appeared to try his hand at screaming. Nothing came out but a hideous whistling sound.

     The pulse rifle had fallen from his fingertips and had hit the pavement. His eyes had to have widened under that mask as the second hotknife finished off the task by shredding his head off from his body. His head thumped onto the pavement, beside that weapon of his. I walked across the street, then turned towards the lifeless body of Deadpool. I watched from that dark alley as Wilson's body did its last shaking of nerves and died out completely.

     I turned around to make my way back down the course to my loft. My footsteps were smooth as they kept up with the darkness of the night. My hand went to my trench coat pocket to fish out my Marlboros and pulled the pack out. I glanced down into the package and muttered slightly. It was empty.

     God, I hate Mondays.