"Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: 
I wavered through the streets, among 
Objects: 
Nothing mattered or had a name: 
The world was made of air, which waited." 

-Pablo Neruda

The mid-autumn weather had taken its hold in New York. Wind whistled and nipped at the cracking leaves to scatter them everywhere down the street, and the drizzly rain left every block permanently damp and smelling of wet concrete and distinctly rotting garbage. Eau du NYC.

Sister Margaret's was a nice refuge from the chill in the air, and today that's where a certain merc-with-a-mouth had been, because he wanted Weasel's filthiest and most expensive drink—and he had money to collect.

Wade cheerily hummed along to an Ariana Grande song as he made his way through the busy crowd of yelling mercenaries and up to the bar. The stuffy location was radiating in heat from the amount of bodies pressed together in it, and the smell was dreadful, something of mold, gunpowder, bodily fluids, and leather.

"Oh, Weasel!" Wade called out, finally making his way to the front and sitting at a stool. He slapped the table. "I would like your finest Anus Burner."

Weasel gave him an unimpressed look. "Modest as ever."

He began to assemble the drink behind the counter. "You haven't been around here in a while. Thought you finally got sick of this place, moved on and got a yipper dog."

"Aw, but I've got you for that." Wade grinned. The grin fell into something faux-serious, and he slid over a golden card. "But I did come here for my paycheck. Otherwise I won't be able to pay my cable bill, and you know how I like my Golden Girls reruns. I am in love with those ladies. Do you think I'd have a chance with Bea Arthur? Be honest."

Weasel rolled his eyes. He slid the card through the reader and then reached under the counter. He returned his hand to smack a thick envelope in front of Wade, then his drink– a neon red concoction with a lime bathing threateningly on the ice. "I don't think she dates anybody with a face quite as rotting-corpse as yours is. Here's your money, douchebag."

"You're a peach." Wade snuck the envelope into his pocket. He downed the entire shot and made an outrageous face. "MotherFUCKER. That's gonna hurt later. Pass the kitty the cream."

"Was the hit even interesting?" Weasel asked, handing him a bottle of whipped cream and then cringing when Wade put the nozzle on his tongue. "Seems like you get a bunch of low-grade shit now that you finished taking down the motherfucker who fucked your face. Dawn? Method?"

"Francis," Wade corrected, his expression going sour. "And sometimes, Weasel, I like to have fun. Don't be a party-pooper. This last hit was absolutely thrilling, and it didn't require any soap-named-ass-bitch to make it that way. Plus, that guy was like, so 2016. Get ahead of the times, oldy."

"What was it again?"

"Wealthy milf who wanted me to scare off her abusive ex-husband," Wade said cheerily. "It was a joy."

Weasel squinted at him. "Was she hot?"

"Aw, Weas. You know how that maid dress flatters my form. I can be whatever you want me to be."

"Gross." Weasel pushed his glasses up. "Whatever. I've got a way more interesting hit for you. This guy, super anonymous, says he's got a job for the best merc in here. So obviously, I gave it to Dave."

Wade stared blankly. "Gee, thank you, Weasel. Always love to have your enthusing support and encouragement in my career. My best friend, light of my life, fire of my loins."

"But Dave didn't want it," Weasel continued, ignoring him completely. "Because he didn't think the guy wasn't willing to pay enough for what it was asking him to do."

"Why the hell would I want it then?" Wade asked, picking at his nails. "You think I'm some desperate broke bitch? I'm made for diamonds, motherfucker."

"I thought—" Weasel leaned closer to him, his voice lowering. "I thought you'd want it because it sounds like a hit on Spider-Man. Seems to be up to your gig. You know, working with superheroes and stuff."

Wade's browline raised with interest. He pulled back. "Go on?"

"I can give you the guy's number," Weasel shrugged. "From what I know, it's more of an investigation-type hit. 'See if he's sketchy, and if you find anything, take him out' sort of deal. You better not kill Spider-Man. I don't care how much it pays."

"Huh." Wade looked down at his drink. "Yeah, give me the number. Certainly sounds interesting. Never would've pegged Spidey as the type to get a hit on him. What am I looking for, corporate greed? Doesn't he work for that charity place?"

"I dunno." Weasel reached under the counter for something else, and then placed a card in front of him. "I heard a rumour that the guy tried to hire Taskmaster but didn't have the money."

"Taskmaster?" Wade's eyes widened. "Holy shit! Yeah, I'd settle for me too. That motherfucker is expensive. Good thing I don't need cool tech to do my job, right?"

"Just—" Weasel shook his head. "Go do your job. And start visiting more, or I'll make everybody fight over your name on the dead pool again."

"That's copyright infringement," Wade shot back, getting out of his seat. "And another old joke. Get well soon."

He slid the paper off the table and saluted to Weasel before he left.

"Alright, mysterious employer." Wade looked down at the card, carefully inspecting the number. "Let's find out what you're all about, huh?"