Chapter 24: Weasel

Winter was certainly storming through New York. Not snow necessarily, but the bitter chill that made every man's bones creak when moved. Everyone was bundled as temperatures dropped, everyone become a black puffball of parkas and hats.

Except Weasel, who decked out in what most considered an autumn jacket with a red hat, an ugly scarf and worn sneakers. He didn't care for the odd, befuddled looks he received from strangers as he walked passed on his way to work. He hardly gave a damn what they thought.

He arrived to work, entering through the employee's door. The bar was dark and dank and smelled of stale whiskey. That's not surprising considering there was a brawl near closing. A lot of drinks went flying. Glass shards scattered everywhere.

It was unfortunate that he had double-shift. Patch called in sick. The flu or cold. Some kind of bullshit.

Weasel threw off his coat and hat and scarf into the cupboard, and started to take inventory. Needed to know how much he got left of everything before opening the bar. He should have done it last night, but the big fight made him want to go straight home.

As he checked each bottle, he heard the door open. There were no other employees. Just him. And he didn't unlock the front door.

Weasel set his notebook down as he heard the heavy set of footsteps close in on him. He swallowed, unnerved, but he should have expected this intrusion.

"Most people knock," he said, over shoulder. He turned and pressed his back against the countertops as he faced off against four individuals.

He recognized two from before. Tall, blonde hair with an American, apple-pie face stood with his plain attire of jeans, grey shirt and a brown leather coat. Next to him was the familiar African-American. Just as tall, but lankier than blondie. He had his arms crossed, eyes judging Weasel. Beside him was a shorter, younger woman with scarlet red hair and round eyes that bore a type of lost innocence, pain and anger. They roved over his face, almost seeing something within him that made Weasel shudder in nervousness. Up in front though, leading the charge was a short man, graying hair and wore a hefty black coat. His hands dug into his pockets, rummaging before he pulled out a badge.

"We're not most people," the short guy replied as he showed his badge for Weasel to read. Special Agent Everett Ross.

Typical.

Weasel leaned back, chin up as his eyes darted from one face to the next. Captain America. Falcon. Scarlet Witch and the little CIA agent. "And what does a group of super-charged heroes need from a guy like me?"

"Cooperation would be a good start," Agent Ross answered, pulling out a stool to sit down. He drew up a plastic, zip-lock bag and laid it on the bar. "Does this look familiar to you?"

Weasel shifted his gaze down. It was an evidence bag and inside the bag appeared to be like a hand-drawn comic book. Oh, fucking Jesus Christ... He recognized those caricature drawings.

"Yeah, looks familiar," he admitted, "but I've never seen it."

The agent's eyebrows bunched together in perplexity. "What?"

He was going to have to spell it out to them. "The drawings are familiar, but the book itself is not. Do you understand—"

"No need to be antagonistic," piped the Falcon. "It's a question. Just answer it."

Jesus Christ! Every single time, he found himself roped up into Wade's adventures. Even when he specifically told Wade to keep him out. Like, every single time Wade showed up at his doorstep, he told Wade, "I don't want to get involved." And every time, the bad guys chasing after Wade come to him, searching for answers.

Weasel sighed, loudly. "Look-I know you know who drew this," he pointed at the comic. "You're just looking for confirmation and yes... Deadpool drew it."

Agent Ross coiled, surprised by Weasel's immediate confession. "Oh... so, you can confirm that these drawings are from Deadpool?"

"No, but I can say they look like they were done by Deadpool."

The agent looked exhausted. Bags under his eyes, forehead embedded with deep trenches that stretched across, and a shadow around his mouth expressed his need to refuse any shit given to him. He scowled at Weasel. "Give me a straight answer," the agent demanded, pounding a hand on the evidence. "Did Deadpool draw this or not?"

All Weasel could do was shrug. "Possibly. That's the best I can give you," he responded. "Deadpool doesn't actually update me with his plans. Although..." Something was tickling in the back of his mind, "…he did say something about a special gift to a baby in your custody."

The great American hero frowned. "Peter isn't jailed," he protested. "Nor a baby."

Weasel shrugged again. He didn't care about the kid. Not as much as Wade did at least. "Yeah, sure, of course not," he grumbled and he turned back to go over inventory. "Look—get to the real point you're here, okay? I got a business to run in a couple of hours and I can't keep hosting this Q&A session."

He heard a soft grumble of annoyance, but it lasted only for a few seconds. "What can you tell us about this comic?" questioned the agent.

Weasel sighed, shoulders falling back as he turned to face them once more. "Nothing," he said, aghast. "You'll have to ask Deadpool the meaning behind it all. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he explained it well enough with his drawings."

"Are we to believe that Deadpool killed the man who shot Tony?" Agent Ross inquired. "Just because he drew it?"

"Sure," Weasel answered. There was no doubt that Deadpool killed the assassin. "If he drew it, it happened."

"What about the blood?" Captain America overtook the line of questioning. "It's all over a single page. Do you happen to know whose blood that is?"

Weasel paused, arching a ridiculous brow high up on his forehead. He shouldn't be surprised that Wade went a bit drastic with his drawings. "What happened in the story?" he asked, his curiosity begging to be satisfied. He had an idea whom the blood belonged to, but needed the confirmation.

Agent Ross reached back down his stool, pulling out a stack of sheets. One by one, he revealed each paper to him. They were copies of the comic book's pages, all blown up to see all the colorful drawings Wade took the time to design in order to retell his glorious ride. Weasel gave a few seconds glances to each copy. Yep. Weasel got a perfect picture of what Deadpool did after their little talk last week.

Weasel spied one particularly page. He snatched it up, studying the characters before he grumbled. "Jesus Christ," he huffed. "Why does he draw me like a fucking girl? It's not that hard to draw curls on a man. Fucking asshole. He did that on purpose."

"So you admit that's you then?" the Falcon said.

"Do you see another curly-hair bastard running this bar?" Weasel remarked, flippant, as he flicked through the rest of the photographs that each displayed a single picture of the comic book. "All right, so what's the thing about blood?"

The red-haired girl waved her fingers. Two pages moved away from Weasel, red mist cradling the pages in front of Weasel's face. Weasel would have shit in his pants at the sight of Scarlet Witch's powers, but being around Deadpool had made his bladder stronger than ever.

"The white man," Scarlet Witch said with a funny accent as she moved the photographs in front of him, "he stood in an apartment. Next page," She switched to the next drawing that was drenched in red, "it's all blood."

Weasel examined the grotesque page. "So, the guy went ka-boom, huh?" he observed the two drawings. "Deadpool doesn't normally do bombs, but sometimes, he does it for the thrill and to ensure no mistakes are made."

The Avengers shared a look with one another. Agent Ross leaned over the bar. "Are you saying that... that Deadpool blew up the guy?"

Weasel grabbed the floating copies. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying," he said, passing the copies back to the agent. "You must be the smart one in the group."

Agent Ross glowered, not appreciative of his sarcasm. The agent slid one of the copies of the comic back into view. Weasel saw that dumb, caricature drawing of himself. "Since you claim this is you," he said, pointing to the curly-hair mascot in the drawing, "do you know who these two are?"

He pointed to a drawing of a white figure with red eyes and a green figure with a big-ass trench coat. Weasel stared for a minute before he raised his eyes from the paper to the faces. "You fucking kidding me?" he said. "Have I seen a white dude or a green dude? What is this? Fucking Teletubbies?"

"Well, you do run a shady bar," Agent Ross pointed up to the Deadpool list above them. "I could arrest you and condemn this place on that alone. So... humor us? Have you seen these men?"

Weasel sighed and snatched the picture from the agent's hand. He peered at it a bit closer, staring into those red eyes. He knows of only one man who shared similar characteristics of the white figure. Only one.

"Yeah...I know him," he dropped the picture back on the bar. He jabbed a finger hard on the white face. "That's Tombstone. He's a hired hit-man. One of the best."

Agent Ross scribbled notes. "Tombstone?" he rolled the name around in thought. "Do you happen to know his real name? Or will we do another round of 'guess who'?"

"Lonnie Lincoln," Weasel promptly answered. "Doesn't come here often, but he shows up once in a while."

Captain America pushed the picture back to Weasel, his finger above the green character. "And this person? Who's the green man?"

Weasel remembered exactly who that man was. "He's the Grade A douche," he remarked. "Fuckin' reminded me of your friend Stark."

"Can we have a name?" Captain America pressed, face hardening in urgency. "Who is the green man?"

"The Grade A douche would be the one and only Norman Osborn."

The Avengers team froze, petrified by his answer. Almost as if time stilled around them. Agent Ross scrambled his phone out, tapping away before he turned the screen to Weasel. "This guy?" he said, serious. "Is this who you saw? The green guy?"

Weasel raised his glasses up his forehead as he got a closer look. "Yep," he popped the 'p' as he slid his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. "That's the same douche who was here a week ago."

His acknowledgment stiffened the Avengers' faces. A looming dread that shadowed half of their faces as they accepted his visual confirmation. They were temporarily incapacitated, dealing with the new reality in their scrambled minds. All except Captain America, who dropped his hands on the bar and stared directly into Weasel's eyes with the full intensity of a man on a mission. No more jokes. No more patience. It was life and death. A game Weasel hated to play.

Captain America shot off his round of questioning. "Did he hire Tombstone?" he grilled. "Did you overhear them talking about assassinating anyone? Was there any—"

Weasel held up his hand to stop the interrogation. "Slow down, Apple Pie. Not all of us are super-powered," he grumbled, taking a breather. "Right—this Osborn douche was Tombstone's client. They made a deal and went their separate ways."

"What deal?"

"Something about a once in a lifetime opportunity or something another," Weasel mumbled, not remembering the details that well. He was too far away to hear word-for-word of the conversation.

The Avengers' faces all fell. They became chalk white, staring right through him while they came to terms with the revelation.

"And?" Agent Ross asked, wanting more information because what Weasel provided wasn't good enough for them. It never was.

"That's it," Weasel insisted. "The asshole left and Tombstone stayed for another drink before leaving."

"You didn't hear anything else?" Captain America probed. "Nothing at all?"

"Of course I did."

And the Avengers were thrown into another loop. "You did?" the Falcon gaped at Weasel, befuddled by the whiplashing, almost contradicting statements, "... are you going to tell us or you just gonna leave us hanging?"

Weasel put up a defense. "I didn't hear it from the source. It's all second-hand," he rambled with a dismissive gesture. That didn't sway the Avengers. They were too interested to disregard the rumors. They wanted to know more. So, Weasel obliged to their whims. "Rumor was that someone called in for the Taskmaster."

"Taskmaster?" Falcon repeated, dubious at the name. "What's with all these nicknames? Can't you give us a legal name?"

"I would if I knew it," Weasel snipped. "No one knows his real name. Just that he's called Taskmaster and he's a notorious merc. Trains other mercs as well. He's badass."

"Sounds like you love the guy."

"You can respect a person's talent," Weasel returned with a clipped tone. "Doesn't mean you have to like them."

Captain America looked over at the young woman. Scarlet Witch stared at him. Her focus was almost hypnotizing as she fluttered her fingers in the air again. A red light flashed before Weasel's eyes and he saw an array of visions overcoming him. Everything was moving backwards, like his life was rewinding before him. His stomach churned and his vision started to go blurry. He nearly passed out when it all became clear again.

He slouched back into the liquor cabinets as he regained his posture while the Avengers all looked to the girl for a response.

Scarlet Witch brought her hands down. "He's telling the truth," she reported. "It's all he knows."

"What the fuck?" Weasel moaned, hand on his forehead to nudge the last remnants of the ache banging against his skull. "Did you just mind raped me?"

"Easy pal," Captain America said. "There's no need to be vulgar."

"And there's no need to violate a person's mind!" Weasel shot back, feeling a bit woozy. "Shit… is my nose bleeding? I think my brain is melting."

"You're fine," Falcon grumbled, showing no pity for him. "Stop being a whuss."

"Stop being a jackass."

Falcon rolled his eyes, not even deeming it worthy for another comeback as Captain America whispered with Agent Ross. After a brief discussion, Agent Ross gathered up the photographs into a stack.

"Are you willing to repeat what you told me in front of a judge?" Agent Ross asked him. "About this Tombstone fellow and Mr. Osborn? Your testimony would be valuable in the case."

Weasel picked his head up again, dropping his hands away from his head. "No."

"No?"

"Yeah, no," Weasel affirmed his answer. He had no interest in diving further into the situation.

Agent Ross stared, dumbfounded. "You won't testify?"

"Do you not understand the word 'no'?" Weasel grew frustrated with the talk. "You need me to say it in another way? How about… fuck no. Or hell no! Or maybe you might understand—"

Captain America cut him off. "We get it," he said. "What we want to know is why? You would be helping putting bad people away. Stop them from abusing power and picking on the innocents."

"Do I look like a fuckin' cop? Or a soldier?" Weasel pointed to his tousle of curls, unwashed jeans and shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. "I want no part of this. I'm a bartender. That's it."

"We could subpoena you," Agent Ross suggested, but it sounded more of a threat to Weasel than a mere suggestion. "Make you testify in front of a judge."

"I could also tragically die," Weasel remarked. If he became a high-profile snitch, every single patron of this establishment would come after him. And having Deadpool and/or Avengers side with him, won't keep him alive from their wrath. "So, I'm going to stick with my previous answer."

His verdict disappointed the Avengers. They hoped to claim him as an eye witness, but that was never going to happen. He gave them the details, it was now their turn to figure out a way to prove it. Weasel did his civic duty. Now, he had bartending duties to handle.

Agent Ross resigned, wiping a hand down his face. "What about a camera?" he asked, checking the ceilings for any surveillance. "Do you have a security camera or something we could use as physical evidence?"

Weasel shook his head. "Uh, no. The only security we have are the patrons that come to the bar… oh, and a shotgun underneath the bar," he answered. "Anyway, having a security camera gets our customers nervous. They don't like being monitored."

"No surprise there," remarked Falcon. "So—there is nothing to help us other than your word and a comic book. And, honestly, your word is shit if you refuse to testify, so all we really have is this comic book."

Weasel half-shrugged. "Better find another way to get other evidence," he mockingly suggested. "Look—I can't help you more than what I just told you. Okay? I have a reputation to uphold and a job to do. I can't give you anything else. You have to find this shit out on your own."

Captain America's gaze flickered to him. His composure a reminiscent of a soldier, looking back at a disrespecting hoodlum. "We get it. Honestly, this is a dangerous line of work we are in," he said, not condescending. It sounded earnest, "but… this isn't about reputations or a job. It's about lives.

"One life was nearly taken and another life is still in danger. A child's life, no less," Captain America continued his speech. "And if you truly don't want your hands to get dirtied, then maybe you should rethink your lifestyle. Because, from where I see it, your hands will never be clean."

No wonder he was called fucking Captain America. A walking-talking-living moral code. Guilt trip anyone into doing what he deemed was the right thing to do. Shit. Weasel wondered how many times his teammates wanted to sucker-punch him in his pearly white teeth.

Because, he really wanted to. "Yeah… I'm still going to have to say no," Weasel said. "Thanks for laying on the guilt and everything, but not going to change my mind. I'm a coward. I think I told you that last time too. I know my place in all this and it's right here. Behind this very bar."

Captain America frowned, disappointed. But he conceded to his whims. "Very well," he said. "We will be on our way."

"What?" Agent Ross blasted. "We don't have anything—"

"And neither does he," Captain America said. "He's not willing to go on record, so nothing here will help us. Better find evidence somewhere else."

The other two Avengers followed the Captain's lead. They got off their stools and walked behind him, not even glancing back at Weasel. Agent Ross huffed his frustration before stuffing the papers back in his bag and running after them.

They nearly reached the door when Weasel remembered something. "Wait!"

They all stopped. Captain America looked back to him, hopeful. "Don't get your hopes up," Weasel rebuked. "I'm not having a change of heart here. This isn't a fucking Disney film."

He moved down the bar where a safe was hidden behind rows of booze. "I have something."

The Avengers slowly returned to the bar while Weasel squatted down to twirl the lock's combination. The safe unlocked and he grabbed the duffel bag stuffed inside the safe.

"I was told to give this to you," Weasel tossed the bag onto the bar and slid it over to the heroes. None of them went to grab it, leaving it untouched on the bar.

The All-American hero eyed it, cautiously. "What is it?"

"How the hell should I know?" Weasel said. "I didn't go snooping through it. Deadpool brought it over and said that when you guys come over for a visit, to pass it along to you."

"Deadpool?" Captain America repeated for clarification.

Weasel nodded.

That got their faces all screwed up. They awkwardly glanced at the duffel, uncertain to even be near it. Slowly, Captain America reached over and took the handles in his hands, lifting the bag off the bar.

"Please tell me it's not body parts," the Falcon prayed as he tilted away from the bag. "I don't want to see severed limbs."

Captain America shook his head. "Too light to be that," he said and he looked back to Weasel. "Did Deadpool say anything else?"

Weasel had to think. "Oh, yeah, he did," he remembered. "Said to tell you guys to hurry up already. He's tired of waiting for you to catch up."

"Did he really say that?" Agent Ross queried, disgruntled.

"No," came Weasel's sharp reply. "I just did the G-rated version because there's a girl in the room."

The scarlet-haired girl dropped her head to the side, her fingers twirling as red light glowed from her tips.

Weasel backtracked. "I mean, because there's a, um, woman. Lady! I mean, there's a lady present and I don't want to… um…"

Captain America touched the Scarlet Witch's shoulder. The red light was gone. "Thank you, Weasel," he said. "If Deadpool ever wants to talk… face to face. He knows he can come to us."

Weasel snorted. "Yeah… he doesn't really do team-ups. Kind of likes doing his own thing."

"I'm sure," Captain America agreed. "But if he ever changes his mind and wants to share intel, let him know we are willing to listen."

Weasel shrugged, but jerked a nod to show he would pass on the message. The Avengers left, much to Weasel's relief. He needed to figure out a way to keep them off the premises. Maybe list a meet-point so that his customers won't get the idea that he's blabbering to the Avengers of all their criminal activities.

Weasel returned to his duties, finishing inventory and pouring himself a double shot. He needed it after that interrogation.

"So you do drink of the job?"

Weasel spat out his tequila. "Shit! Wade!"

Wade Wilson, dressed in running attire with his hood up to cover his ugly, burned head sat in a booth, lounging with his feet propped up on the table.

He was picking at his teeth, trying to scrape off any last traces of food. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" he said, turning his head in another direction, staring off at nothing. "Kids—drinking alcohol on the job is not a good coping mechanism. Better to drink it with a woman you want to fuck, followed by a shot of morphine. That will numb the pain physically and emotionally. Fun tip from your fellow life counselor, Deadpool!"

Weasel flipped his hair back from his face, ignoring Wade's side dialogue. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough, pal," Wade answered, voice low in a theatrical manner. "Long enough."

"So, like, two minutes?"

Wade cocked his head. "Yeah, about two minutes," he said, sliding his feet off to the floor and jumping out of his seat. "Saw that the Avengers made a quick visit. Did you give them my present?"

"Yeah, after they nearly drilled me into pieces," Weasel said as Wade joined him at the bar. "That one bitch read my mind. Can you believe it? Felt totally violated. And Apple-Pie face hero tried to guilt me into testifying."

"You told them you were a coward right?"

"Twice!" Weasel held up two fingers in a dramatic flair. "I thought I was clear on that, but nope." He poured another shot of tequila for himself. "But, I told them all I knew and passed along your bag."

"And I thank you."

"What was in it?" asked Weasel. "Not body parts right? I don't want to be complicit in this."

Wade flicked something off his finger. "Oh, nothing like that. Just boring stuff. Documents and plans. Notes that Tombstone made. Observations and etc. Things that might help them catch up to me." Wade's face suddenly went sharp. "What? I'm being a good Samaritan!"

Weasel pretended he didn't hear the last comments as he drained down a shot. He released a breath of relief as the cool liquor washed his throat. "Oh boy. That's the good stuff," he murmured, smacking his lips. "So, um, gotta tell me. Did you really do everything that you drew in that comic?"

Wade's eyes lit up like starlight in the darkness of his hoodie. "They showed off my comic!" he exclaimed, giddy in delight. "Tell me, did I nail the character details? I thought I did a good job."

"Well, you certainly got Tombstone down," Weasel commented, "but what the fuck man? Why did you draw me like a girl?"

"How else do you draw someone with curly hair?" Wade countered. "Anyway—did they say how Baby Boy reacted to it?"

Weasel brought out another shot glass. "I don't think your 'Baby Boy' ever saw it," he said, pouring the tequila.

Wade's mouth fell open. "Gasp! How dare they!" he half-shouted, grabbing the shot glass and drinking its full contents in one gulp. "I specifically labeled the envelope for P. Parker. Spidey-Boy. Isn't that illegal? Opening another person's mail."

"Well, I think the blood may give them probable cause," Weasel reasoned. "Anyway, did you really blow up Tombstone?"

Wade innocently shrugged, his finger tracing a circle on the bar. "Maybe…"

"Wade."

"Okay, yeah, I blew him up," Wade confessed, smacking his hand on the table. "He deserved it."

"Because he shot Stark?" Weasel was confused. He knew very well Wade Wilson didn't give a damn about Tony Stark. Nor would he go out of his way to assassinate another individual for it.

Wade violently shook his head that Weasel almost though it would snap off. "I don't give a pound of flesh about Stark," he said. "I disposed of Lady Lonnie because of what he was going to do next."

"What was he going to do next?" Not that Weasel cared much. After all, Tombstone was dead.

Wade's face contorted into a devil's anus. Hell cracking over the burns as a single though burned within him. He grip on the shot glass made a creak and a fracture line crawled up the glass.

His dark eyes stared deep at Weasel, nearly making him want to run. Deadpool leaned in. "Once Stark was dead, Tombie planned to pull off another massacre," he revealed in a steady growl. "Shoot up Stark's funeral and during the chaos, kidnap Baby Boy. Smuggle him out of the country to some far away location."

"Like Tahiti?"

"Like what—Tahiti?" Deadpool shot his head up with a ridiculous expression. "What the fuck? No! Not Tahiti! Somewhere in desolate obviously. What? Why would he take the baby to paradise? God—I mean… did I not say it right? Was my tone too cheery when I was telling you of his plans? I mean… fucking Tahiti? What? Was he planning a honeymoon trip with the kid? Jesus Christ, Weasel. Fucking Tahiti?"

"It's a far away place!" Weasel tried to argue, but it fell flat with Wade.

"No—it's not. Not the far away place I was referring to," Wade scolded, incredulous over Weasel's response. "Jesus—really?"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, babe," Deadpool said, tone becoming less agitated. "Just be smarter. Jesus."

Weasel apologetically offered another round of shots. "So… Tombstone was going to use Stark's funeral to kidnap the kid?" he reviewed the plan aloud. "And do what exactly? Just drop him off at your desolate, far away place?"

Wade snapped a gun finger at Weasel. "Bingo!" he said. "Osborn wanted him to be taken to some old facility of Oscorp. Shut down a long time ago, but that was where he was to be taken."

Weasel nodded along and took another shot. "Shit man," he said after a moment. "What's so goddamn special about this kid? Other than, you know, that he has magical powers or some shit."

"When you meet him, you'll understand," Wade dreamily answered. "He's simply the best. Like… even when you want to strangle him, you love him. I mean, he's like my counterpart. Like a bromate! Yes! A bromate."

Weasel wrangled a brow. "I thought I was your bro?"

"And you are," Wade assured him, reaching his hand out to him. "But, Peter is my bromate. And if this dipshit wants to kidnap him because he has some delusional sense of ownership, then he's going to feel my guns up his ass." Wade turned his head to the side. "And I don't mean that figuratively."

Weasel looked in Wade's direction and saw no one. "Still hearing the voices?"

Wade snapped his attention back to him. "What? Why?" he bumbled, but then lowered his voice. "Do you hear them too?"

"No!" Weasel exasperated. "You're just acting a bit funny." He took the shot glasses and put them in the sink behind to be washed for later. "I'm guessing you're going to assassinate this Osborn fellow then?"

Wade nodded. "Oh, yeah. He's on the top of my list," he said. "Him and Ross."

"The agent that came in here?"

"No, his distant relative."

He meant Thaddeus Ross. "Oh. Got it," Weasel said, wiping down the bar. Although it was kind of pointless. It would get filthy in the first five minutes of opening. "Didn't you already confront him?"

"Yeah, but I had Baby Boy to consider and care for," Wade explained. "I honestly didn't think Ross was going to make it, but he got rescued and everything. It's not something I'm happy about. Let's change the subject."

Weasel shrugged, indifferently. "Well, the Avengers wanted me to pass on something to you."

Wade shot up like a little boy about to receive a real treat. "What?"

"They said if you ever want to talk, you can come to them."

And Wade deflated just like that. "Argh. Boring! I won't talk to them," he said before a sly smile came to his face, "unless…"

"I don't think your Baby Boy would be in attendance," Weasel crushed Wade's unspoken hope. He knew Wade would want to talk to Peter rather than the others. "Also, I doubt they would even agree to it. They all seem high-strung over him."

Wade dropped his chin in his palm. "I know. It's depressing," he said. "I can't even watch him from afar like I used to do."

"That is… best you keep that to yourself," Weasel said. "You know… laws and felonies. That sort of thing."

"Ugh… yeah, I know. Vanessa keeps telling me the same thing," Wade groaned, pouting like a petulant child. "She knows how badly I want to adopt the little Spidey-Boy, but she said we can't abduct him and raise him as our own. Laws and felonies."

"She's a smart woman."

"Isn't she?" Wade fell into another dream-like stupor. "Speaking of which, I need to go."

Wade reached over and grabbed a bottle from behind the bar. "Want to surprise Vanessa with dinner," he said. "And then I need to start planning out my assassination on Osborn."

"Why can't you buy your own alcohol?" Weasel moped as he Wade snatched up one of the more expensive bottles. "Do you have to steal it from here?"

"Where else can I get free alcohol?" Wade argued, spreading his arms out. "You see? No where else."

Weasel rolled his eyes. "Fine—but you owe me one."

"I'll give your dick a good suck on Friday, babe!"

Weasel threw up his middle finger. "Good luck with the Osborn assassination," he shouted to Wade's back as the mercenary skipped out of the bar.

Wade's hands formed a tentative heart shape before he left the bar. Weasel was officially alone with simply his thoughts and all the alcohol he wanted.

Thank god! Weasel dropped on the seat behind the bar as he popped open a tin of peanuts and a Corona.

God—he needed to call in a personal day.