DISCLAIMER: I do not own Logan or Frank, and I make no money from this fan fiction.
Wolverine/Punisher: Young Blood
by
Rhonnel Ferry
I'm the best there is at what I do. And what I do most of the time is drink in bars. Hell, with a mutant healing factor like mine, that significantly reduces the effects of alcohol, how could I not be the best at it? Of course, that also means I have to spend more just to get that beer buzz. That's why I don't go to any of the classy joints. Problem with the cheap watering holes is, you never know who might just suddenly decide to drop in.
The entire gin mill goes quiet when the tall man in the long, black coat walks in. I don't need to look up to see who it is. I recognize the scent. It's the stench of death. And he's got it all over him.
His name is Frank Castle, the ruthless vigilante called The Punisher. He has nearly as much blood on his hands as I do. Which is an impressive feat, considering I've been around much, much longer. He's the kind of man I never want to become.
"Logan," he greets me, then takes the next stool. "Club soda," he tells the bartender.
"Jesus, Frank!" I exclaim. "You go into a bar like this, you order a real drink. Or I'm gonna pretend that I don't know you."
He ignores the remark, and takes a sip of his fizzy drink.
"Well, you don't drink, so you obviously came lookin' for me," I say.
"You a detective now?"
"I'm right, aren't I?"
He takes another sip. "Yes."
"Then my answer is no."
"You don't know the question yet."
"The answer's still no."
"Why?"
"Cause I'm not like you, Frank! I don't go around looking for trouble! Trouble just has a knack of finding me."
"Then it just found you. A week ago, the body of a teenage boy was found in a ditch in the ghetto. There were signs of torture all over him. Burn marks."
"How come I've never heard of this?"
"Because he's a mutant. If he was some rich, white kid, the news and the cops would be all over this-"
"Oh, you're going with the mutant angle. Since he's a mutant like me, I should give a rat's ass-"
"Well, shouldn't you?"
"It's easier for you, Frank. You don't have nightmares of the people you've killed-"
"You don't think I have nightmares? I have nightmares every night of the people I couldn't protect-!"
"Don't talk to me about your family, Frank. I have lost several families in my long lifetime. It's no excuse to be what you've become-"
"You know what?! To hell with you!"
Frank bolts up, and his stool falls down on its side. People give us room. They're expecting a fight.
"Guys, I'm gonna have to ask you to take this outside," the bartender warns us.
"Don't worry about it," Frank sullenly tells him. "I was just leaving."
He puts money on the counter, turns and starts to walk away. But before leaving he says to me, "Ray Dantes."
"What about 'em?" I ask.
"That's the boy's name."
Then he exits the bar.
#
I feel bad about the things I said to Frank. Maybe it was the drink that made me say them. Next day, I'm at the ghetto, knocking on the door to the dead boy's house. A tall, slightly overweight Filipino opens the wooden door, but leaves the hinged screen door locked.
"Yes?" he asks.
"My name's Logan. Are you Ray Dantes's father?"
"Yes. I am Bill Dantes. You don't look like you're with the police."
"I'm not. But I think I can help."
He sadly shakes his head, then begins to close the door. "It's too late to help my son, mister."
"Wait!" I say, then I show him the claws in my right fist. Three roughly 7 inch blades, coated in Adamantium steel, protruding between my knuckles. "Your son and I have something in common."
He takes a fearful step back. I retract the claws back into my forearm. After a second, he decides to let me in.
#
"We've never had a mutant in our family before," Mary Dantes, Ray's mother, tells me as she hands me a glass of iced tea in their living room. "Same for my husband, Bill. It scared us to death at first, Ray's powers. But in time, we came to see it as a gift from God."
I smile. "What could he do, by the way?"
"He could turn Coca Cola into Pepsi, and Sprite into 7 Up."
…
"Well,...OK then. Could I see his room?"
#
It's a typical working-class teenage boy's room. A single bed, a small table. You're not going to find the latest PlayStation in here. The room doesn't matter. One of my mutant powers is an extremely heightened sense of smell. So it's the scent I'm really after here. His scent. That scent is going to lead me to his killer.
#
Frank was right. The cops didn't put any effort or manpower on this case! I go to where Ray was last seen, ask some people a few questions. And guess what? There were witnesses! I'm told that on his way home from school with a couple of friends, a bunch o' guys piled out of a white van, and snatched the poor kid right off the streets! They tried to get his friends, too, but they got away.
Sure, nobody saw the license plate. But with the proper resources, like a badge, a police sketch artist, and maybe even just an ounce of motivation, this crime would be solved easy!
Makes me wonder why Frank needed my help at all.
My next stop is the ditch where Ray's body was found. Then I'll be able to match the scents there from the scents at the scene of the kidnapping. One of the scents from both locations would be the killer's.
#
Afterwards, I hop on my motorcycle, and drive away from the ditch to get back into town. Time to reward all that legwork with a drink. In the empty road, I realize I'm being followed. I see a white van in my side mirror. Could just be a coincidence, so I make room, and signal them to pass.
The van accelerates. It rams my 1963 Harley-Davidson from behind! I get thrown into the air! The whole scenery is spinning before my eyes, right before I painfully crash back down, and roll over and over on my side.
I lie down motionless for a few seconds, while my body begins to heal. The van stops. I hear footsteps on the pavement heading towards me. I get up to one knee.
"That's him!" I hear one of them say. "That's the guy been askin' around."
"He a cop?" another one asks.
"He look like a cop to you?"
"Hell, no."
"Good. Then we can kill his ass."
I look up. Four guys, two girls. They're wearing baseball caps, bandannas, oversized shirts and pants. Oh, and bling. Lots and lots of bling.
Their leader, a skinny kid confidently walking ahead of everyone, is curiously unarmed. His crew, on the other hand, is armed to the teeth with Mini Uzis, sawed-off shotguns, revolvers, and baseball bats.
"You a cop?" the leader asks me, while one of his buddies covers me with a shotgun.
"Nope," I answer. "You killed the kid that was found here?"
"Why you wanna know?"
"So when I rip your guts out, I'll know I'm doing it to the right person."
He just smirks. I recognize his scent. He was at the scene where Ray was taken and where Ray's body was found. I can also smell Ray's scent on him. And more importantly, Ray's blood.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask. "Because he's a mutant?"
"Man, I AM a mutant," he boasts. He raises his right hand, and it starts to glow like a hot fire iron. Guess that explains the burn marks. "They call me Hot Shot!"
"They named you after an old Charlie Sheen movie?"
"Who?"
"Nothing."
"Man, why y'all gotta make it about race? It's not always about race. Some people kill for fun," he laughs. "But I guess you wouldn't know anything about that."
"Oh, I'm definitely going to have fun killing you."
"You wont get the chance."
He extends his hand towards me. I can feel the intense heat emanating from it.
Then I hear a loud gunshot from far away, and Hotshot is violently thrown into the ground! His buddies are momentarily paralyzed by shock and confusion. But not me. Gunshots don't faze me anymore.
I unleash the claws from both fists! First, I slice off the hand that has a shotgun to my head! The guy's not even done screaming when I stab him in the foot! Then as he buckles over, I hit him with an Adamantium laced uppercut to the chin! The blades go all the way through to his brain!
One of the girls sees this, and comes at me with a baseball bat! I spring forward, shattering the wooden club with one set of claws, and piercing her heart with the other set!
Her friends recover, and start shooting at me! I use the dead girl's body as a shield. Pretty effective shield, too. She's not really a skinny chick.
Suddenly, my not so mysterious ally claims another victim with a bullet to the skull!
"What the hell is going on?!" one of the last two remaining survivors starts screaming.
They panic, and start firing wildly at different directions. I drop the dead girl, and quickly seize the sawed-off shotgun from the severed hand on the ground.
At this close range, I manage to blow both of my enemies away with just one shot!
Now that all the shooting's over, I become aware of a soft moaning. Apparently, Hotshot had survived his bullet wound. Good. I'm not done with him.
"G-get away from me!" he stutters, bleeding badly, desperately dragging his ass backwards across the pavement.
He raises a glowing hot hand in defense. I toss away the shotgun, then slice four of his fingers off. I miss the thumb. He starts to scream, but I stifle it when I lock the fingers of my left hand around his throat. Tears run down his eyes.
I menacingly whisper to him, "Not so fun on the other end, is it?"
I plunge the claws on my right fist into his gut. He coughs blood into my face. I stab him again. Then again. And again...
And the best part is, I know I wont be having any nightmares from gutting this piece of shit.
#
Walking my busted Harley back into town, I come across the mystery sniper. He's leaning against a 1969 Pontiac GTO parked on the side of the road, and he's got an M110 designated marksman rifle in his hands, like he's showing it off.
"Frank," I greet him.
"Logan," he greets me back.
"You knew I was gonna take this case when you left the bar, didn't you? You knew I would never be able to leave it alone."
"Yes."
"You could have found these guys on your own with a little legwork. You didn't need me."
"Yes."
"You just used me as bait to draw them out in the open!"
"Yes."
"You're an asshole, you know that?!"
He thinks a second. "Yes."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't knock your block off!"
"Because you were right. You're not like me."
I knock his block off.
"Turns out we're not that different," I tell him.
He doesn't fall down. That's disappointing. He just wipes some blood off the side of his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I don't have a healing factor," he explains. "If I was the one they ran over with the van, I wouldn't be able to just walk away from it like you did."
"Not good enough!"
He hesitates, then admits, "Alright, you got me. This is a new semi-automatic sniper rifle." He proudly holds up the weapon for me to inspect. "Got it from Fury last time I did him a favor, and I've really been aching to use it again."
I give the weapon a look.
"OK, that I get," I confess. "She's a beauty."
"Isn't she? Boys and their toys, huh?"
"Women hate us for that."
"Jesus! Tell me about it."
#
Later, I go to a pay phone and call the Dantes residence.
"Hello?" Mary answers.
"Mrs. Dantes, it's Logan."
"Oh, hello again. Is everything alright? Did you have more questions?"
"No, I just wanted to tell you that... Well, that problem I told your husband I could help with?"
"Yes?" she asks nervously.
"Well, it's been solved. It's a small town, and it was messy work, so I'm sure you'll hear news of it either tonight or tomorrow morning."
She doesn't respond.
"Mrs. Dantes?"
"Did you make them suffer?" she asks, her voice cracking.
"Very much."
I hear her weeping on the other end of the phone line. "God bless you, Mr. Logan," she says. "Thank you so much."
I smile, then put down the receiver. Afterwards, I adjust my cowboy hat, stuff my cold hands in my jacket pockets, and head for the nearest, cheap watering hole.
THE END