Chapter 4

While Wade Wilson was outwardly taking the events in stride, he was also outwardly wearing a bag over his head, which was not even the most ridiculous article of clothing on his personage. Wade Wilson's inner dialogue was another matter entirely and was even more scattered than his attire. To put the phrase "inner dialogue" in layman's terms, it is to hold an internal conversation with one's self. Wade Wilson was more than comfortable having this sort of conversation out loud with others present on other occasions, but considering the amount of crude language currently circulating within the confines of his mind, he thought better than to verbalize his thoughts and continued to keep the dialogue internal. As he poured the children their sodas and excused himself to start sorting out a bedding situation, his inner voices went back and forth nonsensically until things started to make all too much sense. While I am not a psychic by any means, I will do my best to relate a summary of what he may have been thinking, sans crude language for the sake of decency.

As he walked back to his room and shut the door to start cleaning up the bedroom, leaving the orphans to their soda and thoughts, he probably thought a string of scattered, panicked thoughts similar to this:

"They're actually really sad looking," "No ***, they're orphans, ***, you'd be gloomy looking too if you didn't have parents," "wait, I'm technically an orphan,""A lot of people I know are orphans," "That's like, half of a tragic superhero backstory," "The other half could be living with an assassin as your guardian," "***, that sounds like the backstory to a comic book villain," "Some banker just drops off the kids and doesn't even know that they'll become supervillains," "wait," "No *** way," "That job at the bank," "are you *** serious," "It was written in green crayon," "With no address or anything," "How the ***-"

At this point, he hit his shin which healed right after bruising, but the constant pain of not seeing where he was going through the one eyehole in the bag was just annoying enough to change his attire. He briefly glanced at his suit, which had been hidden to the best of his ability in a panicked situation, which is not very well and right in the open, before thinking better of it and hiding it in a much better spot. He could not wear an assassin's mask around the children. Something about it was beyond the realm of decency, which even he was aware of the boundaries thereof. He had to find another head covering. The new mission most likely focused his thoughts a bit.

As he scuttled around the room, picking up laundry, trash, and various weapons, all the while keeping in mind that he did not want to mentally or emotionally scar the three Baudelaire children sitting in the other room and that he should make a plan, he was most likely thinking:

"So, like, should I try baby proofing things," "I think the little one is a baby," "Pretty sure swords aren't baby-proof," -He did accidentally stab himself with a katana and I believe here in the chain of thought is the most reasonable pause- "What about the bigger ones," "they're at least 10," "Maybe," "Wait, the guy with the hat will probably be here tomorrow," "Or maybe even later tonight once he sees how stupid this is," "All I have to do is keep them for one *** night," "I shouldn't have to baby proof my apartment for kids that are leaving-"

Here is where he found a new covering, a scarf, halfway hidden underneath the bed, and where his actions will take precedence over what he may or may not be thinking. He proceeded to wrap it around his face, leaving enough room for his eyes. To aid your imagination, think of the iteration of H.G. Well's "The Invisible Man" in which he wears bandages around his face, but instead of imagining bandages around his face, imagine a scarf with little skulls and crossbones, and instead of imagining someone invisible, imagine someone very visible who looks like Wade Wilson. That picture should be rather clear now.

The room had a clear path from where he was standing, and nothing incriminating was visible in front of him. He went ahead and changed the sheets for the first time in what was most likely a disturbingly long time. He managed to cram what was in the closet even further into the closet before he remembered The Chair. It stared at him from his limited peripherals and the daunting figure that it made against the backdrop of the isolated corner of his bedroom made him want to scream. He had somehow forgotten about The Chair, the most dangerous situation in the room.

Perhaps you are already familiar with the concept of The Chair. The Chair could be any form of furniture or flat surface, though a single, outcast, isolated, or mismatched chair set off to the side seems to be the constant manifestation of the idea. The Chair is where everything that does not have a place goes that is too big for The Drawer, which serves a very similar purpose, albeit for small objects that can fit into a drawer. The Chair is a catch-all for: dirty clothes, clean clothes, clothes that do not fit, clothes that never did fit, clothes that never will fit, old shoes, mismatched socks, small stuffed animals, large stuffed animals, books, magazines, graphic novels, scarves, knick-knacks that do not deserve shelf space, old records, things that should be donated, things that were donated, and, in Wade Wilson's case, a multitude of weapons that would surely shoot, stab, or otherwise mutilate the one who ever decided to dismantle the precarious pile.

As Wade Wilson struggled with the very concept of The Chair, the three Baudelaire orphans drank their soda in the dinette, sitting atop similar chairs that looked like but would never encapsulate the fear and loathing Wade Wilson felt for The Chair. Violet helped Sunny sip her drink, then turned to her brother. "Maybe he isn't so bad," she said, referring to one Mr. Wade Wilson. "Maybe he's awful," Klaus responded, setting his full cup down on the table. Sunny burbled something that can be roughly translated as "Maybe he's just crazy."

Truth be told, the Baudelaires did not know what to think of their new guardian. While they hoped desperately that a mistake had been made and that it would be corrected shortly, they also realistically understood that Mr. Poe would not notice it and that another member of Mortuary Money Management had never picked up the slack left by the representative of the Baudelaires since they had become orphans. And, while there were occasional screams coming from the room now that they all silently accepted as screams of agony and rage, the only things the three children could fault Wade Wilson for were lying to Mr. Poe about knowing their parents and being a tad eccentric.

They sipped their soda quietly until their guardian returned. He was wearing a scarf around his face instead of the paper bag and he had changed his outfit as well. What the children did not know was that the bathrobe, bunny slippers, and all other articles of clothing he had been wearing were casualties to The Chair and now resided where he had hastily tossed them and everything else that had been residing upon that particular piece of furniture. He was a little out of breath and visibly shaken.

"Alright kids, you get the bed tonight, hope you don't mind sharing it. Got fresh sheets. Don't, I repeat, do NOT go under, reach under, or even think about what is under the bed." The Baudelaires, accustomed to sharing a bed and not thinking about things from their past guardians, simply nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson," said Violet. "Okay, no to that, don't ever do that again," said the assassin good naturedly, heading into the kitchen to pour himself some soda and some form of alcohol to accompany it. "I'm not Mr. Wilson, I'll never be Mr. Wilson. That was the name of my fourth grade math teacher," he stated on his way back to the dinette, "and I hated math."

"Then, thank you, Mr. Wade," Violet amended, glancing at the man to gauge his reaction. He had lifted the bottom half of the scarf and was drinking whatever he had concocted in the kitchen, so she assumed that this was a satisfactory name for their new guardian. She bounced Sunny on her knee absentmindedly, waiting for him to finish his drink and tell them what was going to happen next. In one fluid and practiced motion, he put down his empty cup and pulled his scarf back down to hide his face.

"So, the scarf thing doesn't bother you kids, right?" he asked a bit belatedly, gesturing broadly to the fabric covering his head. The siblings looked at each other and then shrugged in unison. "It's odd, but we are used to odd things and it isn't the most odd thing we've seen," said Violet. "Okay, good to hear. Guess you guys have seen some sh- STUFF. Stuff." Wade Wilson glanced awkwardly at his wrist, which did not have a watch on it. "It's a little early for dinner, but I bet you kids are hungry after being in the car all day, and I'm beat after wrestling that room into shape. I was thinking about pizza, you know, so we don't have to leave the apartment. That sound good to you guys?" Sunny nodded enthusiastically. Wade Wilson smiled, shifting the fabric of the scarf ever so slightly in the process. "She likes the pizza crust," Klaus explained; "Sometimes it's really tough to bite through, and she appreciates a challenge." The explanation made him laugh, "No way, what? What kid likes the crust of the pizza?"

They chatted a bit after he placed the order, Klaus about how Violet was a technical genius, Violet about how Klaus was incredibly intelligent, and the both of them about how Sunny could bite through anything.

And that, dear reader, was when a terrible, terrible thing happened.

Wade Wilson started to like the Baudelaires.