Yonkers Raceway,
Yonkers,
New York
Tony slapped the side of the ancient television he’d salvaged from one of the storage closets nearby, the picture of the news caster coming back into focus. She’d been talking about how another one of the Boston Irish lot had been found executed last week. As per the usual, the media was throwing speculations left and right, some even suggesting that the Punisher, who’d been confirmed dead months ago, was somehow responsible. Tony just shook his head, chuckling. He was just happy another of those Paddy teste di cazzo was dead. One-Arm would be pleased with the dwindling competition from Boston. Maybe even pleased enough to take Tony off door bouncer duty.
Tony had been caught fooling around with one of the new girls on the casino floor while on duty and had been punished for it, cousin of Ronnie “One-Arm” Trucchio or not. So he’d been stuck on the rear door of the warehouse of the Raceway. The Ozone Park Boys had recently expanded to Yonkers and had come to an “agreement” with one of the 5 brothers that ran the place. So here he was, stuck at the far end of the warehouse behind the casino and bored stiff. If he just had one of those sexy little puttana with him….
A sharp rapping at the rear steel door jerked Tony out of his fantasies. He grabbed the Spectre on top of the TV as he rose to his feet. He stomped over to the door and snapped back the eyehole slider. Outside it was pitch black and a faulty overhead bulb flickered over the figure standing near the door. Tony could make out a cap and a square shape at the person’s chest. A cracked, squeaky voice spoke as soon as Tony’s eyes appeared in the peeper, “Pizza.”
Tony shook his head. The bastradi further in must have ordered it without even asking him. What, did they expect him to pay? Well he would and he’d eat the whole thing himself. He laid the submachine gun on the box next to the door and pulled out his wallet to pay the kid, opening the door. When the door was opened fully, the figure stepped into the light and Tony’s face dropped. It was Chips, the roof lookout. A pizzeria cap had been jammed on his head and the pizza box at his chest fell way. Showing it was held up with some kind of sword. Tony swore loudly and reached back for his gun, only to have Chip’s fat, dead body thrown at him and cause him to fall on his back, his head bouncing off the stone floor. His vision blurred for a moment and as he opened his eyes, the las thing he saw was the end muzzle of a gun.
“And that folks is why you should always tip your delivery boy.”
Deadpool stepped over the dead bodies, his black boot heel dipping into the growing pool of blood. He strained his ears as he unscrewed the silencer on his ACP. No sounds of shouting, running or guns going off (yet). So far, he was still in the clear. He’d worn his ever-so stylish “more-black-than-red” jumpsuit. As insane as he was, he was still somewhat tactical in his approach. Somewhat.
*Was that really worth killing a real pizza boy just to make that joke?*
“Are you kidding? Look at them laugh out there! Well onto business…”
Wade jogged forward, making his way down the corridor. He heard voices and laughter nearing him. He thought he must have been getting close as he rounded the corner into the main storage area, only to come face to face with about 9 or so men, all either smoking or playing cards. They turned at Deadpool’s entrance and they merely stared at each other for a few moments.
*I’m pretty sure we saw this in a movie once.*
Deadpool managed to dive behind the nearby crates as the bullets streamed to where he’d been standing. The men screamed at each other, some in English and some in Italian to get in a defensive position. The odd burst of bullets hit the crates that sheltered the Merc. Once the hail had stopped, Wade popped his head out and inquired,
“Excuse me, would one of you be kind enough to point me to Ronnie One-Arm?”
The reply was another narrowly dodged barrage of fire. The bullets whizzed overhead as Wade pulled out his ACPs and sighed.
“Guess that’s a no then.”
The Merc dropped out to the left of the crates, popping off 5 shots, each one finding its mark. The men collapsed as Deadpool scooted back into his cover. He’d managed to discern the other 4 goon’s positions, but he couldn’t pick them off from here and he really didn’t want to get shot today. So time for Plan B.
“You know, I’ve had this song stuck in my head for weeks. You guys ever have that?”
The mobsters just looked at each other, puzzled at this strange announcement. One of the more quick-witted piped up.
“Stick yer head ou’ then and I’ll see abou’ dislodging it!”
Deadpool ignored the roar of laughter as he reached to his belt.
“Yeah, had this one stuck there for weeks, just over and over again. This really old one by the Trammps. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
He snapped off one of the cylinders clipped to his belt, popped the cap of it, twisted the top 3 times and depressed the button.
“What was it called again? Oh yeah, Disco Inferno!”
Wade tossed the device over his head, where it arced and bounced once on the ground between the men and its return arc, a gas violently hissed out. A split second later, the device sparked and ignited the gas. The fire drenched the surrounding men, the screams of pain echoing throughout the building as it engulfed them.
“Burn baby, burn….”
Once the screams had diminished to groans of pain, Wade stepped out, surveying the carnage. Some had succumb to sheer pain and died. The unlucky 2 that hadn’t perished had collapsed in a fetal position, their skin and clothes melted together and naked bits of skin red raw. Wade unconsciously rubbed his mask as he reached for his katana.
“Never say I’m not a mercifully guy.”
He drove the blade straight through their spines, killed them instantly. The playing cards on the nearby table burned brightly as Deadpool stepped further into the building.
Ronnie stood at the window, a glass of cognac in his left hand. His right was useless due to a childhood accident. He raised the glass and sipped the cognac, the shouts, screams and gunfire echoing from behind the door. He continued to gaze out into the night as the door burst open, bouncing off the wall behind it, splinters flying in all directions.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Wade stepped into the fancy office that Ronnie had sequestered from the owners. Bookshelves, elegant mahogany desks, lush carpet. It would be a shame if Wade had to ruin it all. Ronnie didn’t even turn to acknowledge him.
“Fancy pad here, Ron. It’s gonna be a shame to get bloodstains in the carpet.”
“You punk kids. Barely cold in the ground and already you’re trying to usurp Castle’s spot. At least, he was a challenge, a respectable opponent. He was a man with a mission. You’re probably nothing but a thrill seeking rich kid.”
“Castle? You mean the Punisher? Hahaha! Oh Ron, I’m not trying to replace him. I’m not doing this for the honour and glory and truth and justice and blah, blah. I’m doing this simply because I was paid to. No hard feelings?”
Ronnie smirked to himself, “Then this makes this a lot easier.” He dropped his glass of $100 cognac, pulled out his .44, turned and popped off a shot with experienced speed. Wade had not expected the old man to be so quick. The bullet rocketed through his chest harder than anything he’d ever felt, punching a hole right through his heart. Deadpool looked down at the gaping wound.
“That was unexpected.”
He collapsed forward, slamming into the carpet. Ronnie tossed the cannon onto the desk and made his way over to the makeshift bar. He poured a fresh glass and sighed.
“What a waste of good cognac.”
He then felt a sharp blade slide across his neck. A small sliver of blood dripped down his neck as the raspy voice of Deadpool growled in his ear.
“Also such a waste of a good bullet.”
“This isn't possible. Your heart…”
“You assumed I have one? I’m not Punisher. I’m much, much worse. I’m Deadpool. I’m the Man Who Cannot Die. You on the other hand….”
The screams from the office echoed for hours. It was clear Deadpool was enjoying himself.
Deadpool picked up the receiver of the payphone and dialed the number he’d been given. The number changed every job. Security reasons or some other bullshit. The other end was picked up almost immediately. The same distorted voice answered.
“Is it done?”
“Would I be calling if it wasn't?” Deadpool retorted.
“Excellent. You’re surpassing our expectations every time No. 11”
Wade groaned. He hated that code-name.
“Yeah, yeah, well when am I going to get a REAL job? Something where my ‘talents’ actually matter.”
“11, don’t forget, we give you this work, commission free to pay for whatever you desire. All we ask is that you continue to work for us when we ask. Such as now. We do have a new job….or rather a series of them. It’s a big one, so you’ll need some new equipment to acquire the rest. The sub-targets will be delivered to the usual spot, along with the final target.”
*I've a bad feeling about this…*
“Who’s the main target?”
Deadpool could almost hear the smile at the end of the phone, “Have you ever heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?”
