Chapter 1: The Job
—
Let's begin at the beginning, shall we?
Just kidding. That would be too easy. Flashbacks are nice and complicated, and they make an author's life so much easier.
The story of Wade and Dina Wilson is a long one.
But you don't care about them, do you? You came for one of two reasons: to hear why the #%$ Harry Potter carried a tomahawk, or to escape you homework.
To escape your homework, continue reading.
To find out why the #$% Potter carried a tomahawk, do the same.
For real this time, let's begin. Not at the beginning, like any sane person would like, but in the middle. Our story middles in 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, the UK, Terra, Sol-2187, the Milky Way, the Universe. A universe, anyway. Let's listen in.
—
Privet drive was quiet at night. Its residents were right proud of it, too. No alien invasions here, thank you very much. No government officials, no terrorists, no freaks, no criminals, no burglars. No neighborhood watch, either. No dogs roamed the quiet black streets. No stray cats sang a ghastly chorus atop a fence. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, ever, on Private Drive.
If you like that, stop now. You've been warned.
When a lone pedestrian turned a corner and crossed into the lane, no one stopped him to ask where he was going. No one unglued their eyes from their TV set and called the police. No one saw the bulges under his black hoodie and the holsters on his hips. Only fate saw, and only fate reacted. Fate sucker-punched himself in the stomach and did a somersault.
Deadpool strolled past 1 Privet drive, a troubled soul. Troubled for two reasons.
First, good burritos were hard to find in Surrey. Really hard, man. The last job had been in Mexico. The salsa was to die for. Now the one and only Deadpool was stuck in England, without a taco in sight. Can't get a #$% good job in this kind of economy.
Second, his employer. Apparently, the guy who handed him the money and the intel was a friend of a friend of some nut in Azkaban. Very confidence-inspiring. Couldn't even get the dude's name.
Aw, #$% it, dinero es dinero.
Deadpool walked past 4 Privet Drive, lost in thought. Suddenly, he stopped, spun on his heel, and walked directly toward the front door.
—
Harry awoke to a loud crash. He groaned. Dudley must have fallen down the stairs. Again. Harry's corpulent cousin had a fetish for his mother's chocolate brownies, such that the pig-boy often snuck downstairs in the night to gorge himself. Not that he needed to sneak; Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never denied their Duddiekins.
Next would come Dudley's scream of agony from the landing below the staircase. Petunia would rush downstairs, as always, and comfort her darling. Pig-boy would probably get a giant slab of chocolate pastry to himself and the blame for the entire incident would somehow fall, once again, on Harry.
The scream came, but not from the landing. Dudley was in the kitchen already. Suddenly, Harry was fully awake. He sat up slowly in his cupboard and clutched his frayed blanket to his chest. Something was very, very wrong. Dudley couldn't possibly be at the door and in the kitchen at once. A stranger was in the house.
—
Petunia Dursley woke to the sound of Dudley's scream. Frantic, she leapt out of bed, pulling her pink silk bathrobe on over her starched white nightgown. Petunia Dursley hurried down the stairs and stopped in her tracks. She had all of three seconds to mourn her freshly-painted front door.
—
Harry heard the noise the gun made. He knew what silenced weapons sounded like; Aunt Petunia liked to watch crime dramas on TV while he washed up after the evening meals. Next came the thunk on the staircase, right above Harry's knees. It was a light noise. Aunt Petunia, then.
Harry started hyperventilating. He couldn't think. All he could do was shiver in the dark and stay quiet. He was good at that.
—
Vernon Dursley heard the noise downstairs. Now, Vernon Dursley was an interesting man. A bully? Certainly. A miser? Undoubtably. Ugly? Irreversibly. But stupid? Stupid he was not. So Vernon Dursley grabbed his shotgun and crept out of his room and toward the staircase.
—
Harry heard the same noise again, followed by a series of thunks from the top to the bottom of the staircase. The entire staircase shook with the weight of the body. Harry bit his lip so hard he nearly drew blood. He tried to move farther back against the wall, but leaned against a nail. He hissed in pain, then froze.
—
Deadpool was bored. So far, the job had been all too easy. He'd kicked in the door and seen first a pig in the kitchen, mouth covered in chocolate. The pig (or maybe boy) fainted straight away. Whatever. He wasn't the target. Wade heard a stirring upstairs and wasted no time. He slid over the countertop and went for that chocolate. Deadpool always, always stopped for chocolate.
Just as Mr. Pool was beginning his first brownie bar, he saw the primary target scurrying downstairs. Scurrying was the right word for it. She moved like an overeager squirrel, if that squirrel hadn't eaten in a month. One shot was all it took. Petunia Dursley was dead.
Really, all Deadpool wanted was to finish his brownie, but before he could continue, a walrus with a shotgun appeared upstairs.
"Shotgun," Deadpool muttered. "This whole gig would be easier if they'd just outlaw the #$% things." The mercenary fired his silenced pistol. "Freak with handgun beats walrus with shotgun." Easy enough.
The house was silent. Deadpool took a moment to contemplate his hate for shotguns. Not that they could kill him, but the cleanup could be so messy and he really hated digging pellets out.
That's when he heard the whimper. The red-clad man-for-hire swung around, gun ready, towards the unconscious pig (boy?) on the kitchen floor. Still fast asleep. Deadpool sighed. Must be another #$% kid in the house.
"Kids," Deadpool groaned. "Why is there always a kid? Now I have to find the thing and knock it out. If this one holds up a rainbow unicorn in my face I'll quit the #$% job."
The mercenary slid over the countertop again, hopped over the bodies by the door, and ran up the narrow stairway to check the bedrooms.
—
Harry heard the thuds above his cupboard room and guessed that the man was upstairs. Now might be his only chance to escape. Hands shaking, he crouched by the door, took a deep breath, and then he pushed hard.
It was locked.
—
Deadpool was reading the pig's copy of the Batman Begins comic adaptation when he heard the noise downstairs. He stuck his new favorite comic book into his backpack, ran out of the cluttered bedroom, and leapt over the banister and onto the first floor. He holstered his pistol and loaded a tranq dart into the blowgun. Finally, he unlocked the broom cupboard and fired the dart at the first thing that moved. It yelped once and then fell silent. Cramming the rarely-used blowgun into his backpack, the mercenary crouched by the kid and turned him over so he wouldn't suffocate in his blanket.
That's when Deadpool saw the kid's face.
"Aw, #$%."