Who: Wade Wilson and OPEN What: Mid-week drinking. When: Wednesday night into Thursday morning. Where: Some dive bar in NYC. Rating: T for language and general Wade-ness.
There were a lot more nights off these days than there used to be, which was surprising all things considered. But it seemed the forces of evil were slithering out of their respective hidey-holes and banding together to grace the world with their psychotic master plans. That and no one wanted to piss off someone who could Hulk-smash them into their next life. It wasn't like Wade was bitter about being left out, or that he thought he would be any good at all at that super-hero thing, just that... you know... he was.
Not that he deserved the chance, they were right about that much at least.
And so, with no assignments and no prospects of getting one any time soon, he found himself at some dark little dive where he didn't have to fork out seven dollars for a beer, and set to work trying to disprove what the scientists said about his metabolism (or at the very least see how his kidneys were holding up these days). It was better than sitting at home in his underwear watching cartoons. If he was lucky, someone might even start some shit about his teeshirt and he'd get to throw a few punches to top off the night.