Summary:Wade Wilson reflects upon his life, at least what he can remember. Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
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- March 4th, 2010 - jumped off a building. really hurt. no dice.
- March 6th, 2010 - stood in front of an MTA train. NEVER DO THIS.
- March 7th, 2010 - not fully healed yet, had Weasel score me an 8-ball of cocaine. Snorted the whole fucking thing in three gigantic Hollywoods. Pretty sure my heart exploded. No dice.
- March 8th, 2010 - brain feels funny now.
- March 9th, 2010 - so, the blow didn't work, so I tried heroin. For the first time. Yaaaay! Holy shit that stuff is fucking amazing, by the way, and I TOTALLY get why people do it. Pretty sure I shot up enough to knock the balls off an Asgardian. No dice.
- March 10th, 2010 - really considering trying the whole 'shotgun to the head' thing. Kind of a Kurt Cobain kind of deal. Too soon? Yeah, too soon.
- March 11th, 2010 - got a plane ticket. gonna go down to Mexico and fuck with some drug lords.
- March 20th, 2010 - pretty sure the entire mexican drug cartel hates me now.
- March 31st, 2010 - fuck it, we're doing the shotgun to the face routine. If you find this journal, please tell Ryan Reynolds that I bet he's got a HUGE cock, and tell my player that his cock is NOT as huge as he thinks it is, but at least it makes his girlfriend happy. God, I love cocaine. So much.
Wade Wilson slammed the journal shut for a moment and reached for another cigarette. He didn't need to thumb through the rest of its pages, for it's all just more of the same. Random shit, babbling about stuff that doesn't always make sense, and a record of every time he's tried to kill himself. And yet here he sits, still alive, smoking cigarettes because maybe they will - oh wait, no. Stage four cancer. Can't really raise the bar from that. Might as well smoke another one.
Next to his little night stand, there are two boxes. One of them contains the webshooters that Spider-Man had built for Gwen, an upgraded model that he hadn't been able to give to the woman himself, because apparently the two are fighting. He can't help but feel bad about that; after all, he's not a total asshole, and worries that maybe this is all his fault. Eyes shift to the other box, which contain Gwen's very first webshooters, the ones she had given to him. With a long sigh, he presses the cigarette-wielding hand to his temple, closing his eyes.
"Fuck."
A fresh piece of paper is ripped out of the journal, and he grabs a pen to begin writing.
Dear Gwenners,
The small box inside of this box has something from Spidey-Pants. I guess you two aren't on speaking terms right now, so, I told him I'd get them to you. Don't worry, it's not a love letter, and it's not his foreskin or anything super weird, I already looked. But, I think you should open it. As for the webshooters… I don't deserve them. I really, really appreciate the gift, and I've had sooooo much fun with them, but I'm not a hero. Never have been one, never will be one. This is the kind of thing someone like you should have. You know, a backup pair, in case Thor becomes Dark Thor and starts killing off real heroes or something. God, it sounds like a terrible comic book movie storyline, but you know, these things happen. Bad storylines.
Did I ever tell you that I ramble when I write, too? The truth is… Gwen, this life isn't fair. To either of us. I'm not aging, I'm not getting any older or any weaker. My bones will be this strong for the rest of my life. I'm going to watch the people I care about get old, get sick, die of bullshit things like Parkinsons or whatever. And they're gonna look at me, the same stupid ugly face and stupid, terrible jokes, and they're gonna be jealous. I've found the proverbial fountain of youth, and like Arwen, I'll probably live forever, watching the people I care about die. I'm not ready for that. I don't know if I ever will be.
You're a beautiful person, and you've got the soul I wish I'd always had. But I'm not good for you, Spider-Gwen, and I'm not talking about… you know, what I do, or the way I do it. Hell, we could get married, raise a bunch of super-babies, I could retire from this business and go work at a Starbucks or something, but some day it would all change. You'd be, like, 80 years old, with early onset dementia and arthritis and saggy tits which is AWESOME, but I'd be… the same old me. Wade Wilson. Same age, same health, same super-penis. You'll become jealous. You'll wish you had what I have. You'll come to spite me, as well you should. I can't do that to you. I can't do that to anyone.
Setting the pencil down, Wade looks at the letter he's written with a deep sigh. His eyes shift to the cigarette's cherry that's come dangerous close to falling off, so he ashes it and takes another drag before looking back at the letter. He stares at it for a very, very long time, before shaking his head.
"Fuck!"
Grabbing the letter, he balls it up and throws it into the wastebin, then starts over.
Dear Gwenners,
Spidey-Pants wanted me to give these back. It's okay… I never told anyone this, but I can shoot webs out of my ass, I just don't ever do it because it makes a fart sound and smells funny. Also I just can't bring myself to put a hole in my suit.
Yours,
Deadpool
The letter is folded up and placed into a box. He then leaves it by the front door, and writes a message to Gwen's phone with the address of his little flophouse, studio apartment above Sister Margaret's. Wade is about to hit the 'send' button, when he sighs and shakes his head. The phone is closed with the message unsent, and he pushes up to head for the door. "Nope. I'm gonna get ridiculously drunk before I send this."
Bar's downstairs.
Unfortunately, Wade has no idea what's waiting for him…