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Money, money, money. How did that Pink Floyd song go again?
[Monayyyy it’s a gas]
{ Grab that cash with both hands and make a stashhh}
That was it. What Wade really needed to do now was grab that cash and make a motherfuckin’ stash.
Sure, he was ‘loaded’. Or at least, used to be. These days, he’d been blowing through his savings instead of actually making any money.
Wade may have had a teeny little tiny change of heart about the whole mercenary thing. Yes, he always tried to kill bad guys, but he always got into trouble for it. It was fucked up.
He figured if he could just do one last huge job that paid a shit ton of money, he could go the rest of his days without killing. Maybe put some money into some offshore accounts, invest in the railroad, or whatever it was that people with a lot of money did.
Then, maybe, he could do some good or whatever. Live in his crummy apartment and fight crime, spending most of his money on bullets and chimichangas.
Seemed like quite a life. He was getting old now, 32 (gasp) and maybe he wanted to settle down. Do something different.
Of course he still loved killing. The violence, the action, the adrenaline: it was all intoxicating.
But maybe he’d Eat Pray Love it or something. Travel to India and find his life’s calling. Or at least go to Little India (the restaurant a block away), order some butter chicken, and pretend like he’d suddenly got it all sorted out.
All of this soul searching and future planning was the exact reason he finally started answering his phone.
People who needed people killed knew how to reach him. He was pretty famous, okay.
[Infamous. I think you meant infamous.]
Infamous still has the word ‘famous’ in it, y’all.
Regardless, he still had quite the reputation as a mercenary. Bad, and good. His clients fucking loved him, but...others didn’t like him so much.
The Avengers, for instance, hated his guts. All a big misunderstanding, really. The majority of Wade’s kills were bad dudes. The ones that weren’t...well...they paid the bills. Ethics are hard anyways.
But anyways, he was trying to get out of this business, and he needed to take one last job that paid a shit ton.
This was easier than Wade thought, for as soon as he had got back from his nightly Taco Bell run, plopped his ass on the couch and turned on Golden Girls, he got just the call he wanted.
Unknown number, not surprising.
“This is Deadpool, correct?”
The voice was heavily distorted, and Wade took that as ‘these guys mean business’ which was perfect.
“Why yes it is, may I ask why I have the pleasure of receiving this call?”
“I have a job for you.”
“Oh well do go on.”
“It’s a big one.”
“Now don’t you go getting a girl’s hopes up. How big we talking about?”
“Three million dollars.”
Well, holy shit.
This was the golden ticket.
[We could buy an island with that kind of money]
{Imagine how many hookers we could hire with that kind of money}
Wade was going to be a millionaire.
“Who’s the target?”
“Peter Parker.”
“What’s the reason he’s worth so much?”
Wade always had to ask this question, ethics and all. Good business practice.
“Let’s just say he’s hurt a lot of people. He lives in New York, 23, should be easy to find.”
Well, that was good enough for Wade.
“Consider it done. I do require a bit of an advance, though.”
“No problem. You’ll find 100,000 wired to your account in the morning.”
Wow, these guys really did mean business. Cha-ching.
The caller hung up abruptly, and Wade settled back into his couch.
This day had just gotten even better. Now he just had to find this Peter Parker.