Paws Read online

  DEADPOOL: PAWS. Published by MARVEL WORLDWIDE, INC., a subsidiary of MARVEL ENTERTAINMENT, LLC. OFFICE OF PUBLICATION: 135 West 50th Street, New York, NY 10020.

  Copyright © 2015 MARVEL

  EISBN# 978-1-302-48948-9

  © 2016 Marvel Characters, Inc. All rights reserved. All characters featured in this issue and the distinctive names and likenesses thereof, and all related indicia are trademarks of Marvel Characters, Inc. No similarity between any of the names, characters, persons, and/or institutions in this magazine with those of any living or dead person or institution is intended, and any such similarity which may exist is purely coincidental. WWW.MARVEL.COM

  FRONT COVER ART BY

  Arthur Suydam & Nelson Ribeiro

  BACK COVER ART BY

  Declan Shalvey & Jordie Bellaire

  DEADPOOL CREATED BY FABIAN NICIEZA & ROB LIEFELD

  Stuart Moore, Editor

  Interior Design by Amanda Scurti

  Front Cover Design by Nelson Ribeiro

  Jacket and Casing Design by Joe Frontirre

  Senior Editor, Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist

  Assistant Editor: Sarah Brunstad

  Manager Digital Comics: Tim Smith 3

  SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel

  Editor In Chief: Axel Alonso

  Chief Creative Officer: Joe Quesada

  Publisher: Dan Buckley

  Executive Producer: Alan Fine

  Dedicated to the Deadpool in all of us, because if I don’t, he might get angry.

  CONTENTS

  BOOK 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  BOOK 2

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  BOOK 3

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK 1

  WHAT PRICE

  THAT DOGGIE

  IN THE WINDOW?

  CHAPTER 1

  SO HERE I am falling off a tall building and...wait.

  WHERE THE #$%@ ARE THE PICTURES?

  Now I have to deal with this? What is this, anyway—a really, really long caption? Come on! Comics are supposed to be totally in-your-face, in-the-moment, like TV, or…like TV! Get with the program. A picture’s worth a thousand turds. Like, if I just say red, it’s not as good as seeing red, is it? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the chitty-chitty-chit-chat— they call me the Merc with a Mouth for a reason—but enough’s enough. Like William Burroughs said, “Language is a virus from outer space.”

  Okay, yeah, he was a morphine addict, and there’s no such thing as a naked free lunch, but still.

  I know some of you out there already have smart-ass questions, like, if pictures are so hot, what about backstory? Exposition? How do you do that stuff? Okay, maybe you do need a curt sentence or two, but any writer worth his salt tosses that into the dialogue, like:

  None of that Meanwhile, back at the ranch crap. If you see a full-page splash of a bank vault, you don’t assume the action’s taking place in a convenience store, right?

  So what’s with all the verbiage?

  Oh, wait. I get it. Book. It’s a book. They really still make these things? Damn.

  Okay, I got this. Just a little thrown. As I said, I likes me the talk.

  I know you do.

  By the by, meet my inner dialogue. If this was a comic, you’d be seeing that in a special-purpose yellow caption. As it is, we’re going with that boldface thing, apparently.

  Works for me.

  Let’s get this party started.

  And italics for Inner Voice #2. Great. Just shut up for now and let me get on with the story already.

  The sleek steel and glass of a Manhattan skyscraper warp into a haze as I careen along its chic frontage. Not being one of those flying types, or even a swinger like Spider-Man, I’m, well… plummeting. I’m flipping and flopping like a fish out of water. More specifically, a fish out of water that’s been tossed out a window. I look for something in this big bad blur I can grab onto, anything to at least slow my fall, but there’s nada. No flagpoles, no ledges, no gargoyles—just smooth sailing, first pavement on the right and straight on until mourning.

  Things may look bad, but I’ve fallen lots. I’ve fallen down buildings; I’ve fallen into mine shafts, criminal lairs, alien motherships, candy factories, women’s bedrooms—you name it. I’ve fallen asleep, fallen in love, fallen in debt, fallen to pieces—but I’ve never, ever, fallen to my death. I have fallen to other people’s deaths, but that usually involves better aim.

  Here’s the kicker, though: I’m not alone. I’m carrying the cutest Dalmatian puppy you ever did see. I just snatched this wee fellow from the fancy-pants penthouse way, way back up there. Things didn’t go quite as planned, and boy is he going wee now.

  I see what you did there.

  Oh, aren’t you clever.

  His name’s Kip, judging from the gold tag on his diamond-studded collar. But at this rate, it’s going to be Spot when we hit concrete. Under other circumstances, like if he’d eaten a bunch of Cub Scouts and planned to go back for seconds, that might not bother me. Not that I don’t enjoy killing, but Kip here hasn’t done anything to deserve a premature demise.

  So you like the little guy?

  No way! He’s cute, but cuteness is for lesser beings. I’m the hardened-heart type, keeping the warm fuzzies at bay. That means no man/dog bonding. But…he is so sweet with the rushing air currents pushing his vibrating eyelids wide open like that!

  Ahem. That said, I am thinking—purely as a matter of principle, mind you—about how to keep him alive. I did see an online video last week about a puppy that survived a nineteen-story drop.

  Sure you didn’t imagine it?

  Maybe, but it sounded good, especially the part about terminal velocity, how the upward push of wind resistance matches gravity’s downward pull, blah-blah-blah. A small mammal like Kip here reaches terminal velocity much sooner than a big guy like me.

  Which means…holding onto him should slow me down, right?

  Wrong.

  Since I’m still picking up speed, I’ll give you that one. Kip’s stuck with my terminal velocity. I can’t have that, so I look into his wide, dark, terrified eyes.

  “Time you were on your own, little fellow!” I chuck him upward. “Fly free, Kip! Fly free!”

  Now that he’s on his own, he’ll be fine for sure, just like the dog in the video. Or was it a cat? I seem to remember a cat. And it was playing piano. Cat, dog, parakeet…what’s the difference, really?

  I continue to obey the laws of physics. Cumulus clouds spin above me like cream whipping in a blender. Mmm. Whipped cream. I’d grab a little nosh after I land, but the updraft carrying that oh-so-special city stench is ruining my appetite. The ground must be getting pretty close. I should probably look down, just to judge my distance to the pavement, maybe try to slow myself by bouncing against the wall or something.

  Pavement, oh, pavement? Where are you?

  There you are!

  SPLAT!

  I mentioned the healing thing, right? You know how when Wolverine, that bad-attitude guy from the X-Men,
gets shot or cut, the wound heals all by itself? I’m like that, only…more so. Unless I’m dunked in acid, or completely disintegrated, I grow back. Okay, yeah, most of the super crowd returns from the dead so often they should build a shuttle, but they at least have the potential to bite the big one. When one of them comes back, it takes a bunch of convoluted logic— or at most, a reboot.

  Me, I’m effectively immortal. No matter how badly I get hurt, everything eventually grows back, cancer and all. Did I mention I have cancer? It’s what made me sign up for the Weapon X experiment in the first place. Weapon X was run by the Canadian government, btw. Figured it might be a cure. Instead, the experiment made my cancer cells regenerate, too, leaving me with a body full of lesions and a head full of dreams.

  Or was the word they used delusions?

  Anyway, missing limb? A few hours, and it grows back. Flattened skull? Maybe a day or two. Sure, the brain being one of your more crucial organs, I sometimes wake up a little more confused than usual, speaking French, thinking I’m with the Bolshoi Ballet or whatnot, but bottom line? Despite what they say about death and taxes, I can’t die, and I don’t pay taxes.

  Doesn’t sound too bad, I guess, until it’s your bones that are broken, your insides spilling out like an overturned Olive Garden garbage can. The problem is, I still feel every wound, every time. I could go on and on about the throbbing, stabbing agony that’s coursing through my each and every neuron at this very moment, but I’m saving that for my next book, You Think That Hurts? For now, I’ll close on the subject by quoting Ronald Reagan—who, shortly after taking a bullet, was heard to quip, “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  It does beat the alternative, meaning death. Take the two guys I landed on. You haven’t even met them, and they’re already no longer with us. Most people think I’m heartless (and gross, smelly, etc.), but I feel pretty bad about the hot-dog vendor. The stockbroker? Not so much, though I am impressed with his Patek Philippe wristwatch. It’s still working even after I landed on it. Hey, he’s not using it, and I’ve got just enough intact fingers to…

  WHAM!

  Kip lands in the pulpy center of my cracked chest, making a sound like a wet whoopee cushion. He’s all startled, like, “What was that?” Otherwise, he’s no worse for wear. The little guy yips and scampers off. Good for him. Sucks for me.

  Nabbing that mongrel is the whole reason I’m here in the first place. Now I have to wait in agony until my body heals, then figure out how to find a puppy in the streets of Manhattan.

  Is that a song? A puppy in the streets of Manhattan?

  Nah. You’re probably thinking about The Muppets Take Manhattan.

  By the way, this whole scene? Perfect example of the advantages comics have over prose. It would’ve been much easier with pictures. Two vertical panels and some motion lines, maybe a quick reaction shot from the hot-dog vendor and the stockbroker as they wonder why they’re suddenly in shade, and we’re done. Half a page, tops. And the slam when I hit? Much more visceral.

  Oh, where will all those fools with their “book learning” be in our new post-literate world? Bwah-hah-hah!

  Meanwhile, back at the story…

  Yeah, yeah. Don’t push me.

  Before I can cry, “Here, Fido!” I find myself blessed with a visit from above. From the penthouse, not Heaven. Geez. The newcomer lands in front of me, not with an egregious splat or thud, but with the soothing, gentle rush of mech-armor jets. Why, it’s none other than the wacky bodyguard who tossed me out of the penthouse in the first place! Never dawned on him I’d be fast enough to snatch up Kip as I went. Should’ve seen the look on his face.

  I don’t know if this guy’s actually big and mean, or if it’s just that high-tech suit he’s wearing, but he nails his entrance. The snazzy final blast from his boot-jets whooshes along the sidewalk, sending the cart’s still-steaming foot-longs rolling into the street. But that cool vrt-vrt noise he makes when he moves spoils it. Totally trademarked by Stark Industries. You can’t just order armor like that from Amazon, so I figure he’s sporting a Chinese black-market knockoff that his boss bought on eBay. Damn Internet. Doesn’t anyone just carry automatic weapons anymore?

  Iron Joe vrts a little closer. The suit does that thing where a missile launcher emerges from his forearm. Don’t ask me how it’s supposed to work. Unless the suit’s made of something like Vibranium, which can absorb vibrations, the recoil on that thing should yank his whole arm off in the other direction.

  But he doesn’t fire yet. His helmet clicks back, showing me a broken-nosed face with a few miles on it. I can see it in his steely eyes: This man’s street-smart, and he may even have been around the block once or twice. He’s no hotshot wannabe out to prove himself. Probably has some combat experience that earned him the penthouse gig. I almost respect him.

  Until he opens his mouth.

  “Don’t know how you survived the fall, and I don’t care. Hand over the dog, or I’ll decimate you!”

  I laugh. “You’re gonna destroy a tenth of me?”

  His head twists in a how-dare-you way. “What’d you say to me?”

  “Decimate, tin man, means to destroy a tenth of something. Don’t believe me? That suit must have Internet. Google it. I’ll wait.”

  “Freaking grammar Nazi.” He raises the forearm bearing what I’m guessing is a smoothbore 37mm cannon. “I mean I’m gonna blow you up, okay?”

  “Okay, but it’s not a grammar issue, it’s about semantics, as in…”

  He nudges me with the barrel—which, given my current state, hurts. “Where’s the mutt?”

  When he notices I’m lying on a gore pile too big to belong to only me, his face gets all sad. “You didn’t…land on him, did you?”

  I’d no idea I could actually feel my pancreas until he pushes that barrel under me like it’s a shovel and uses it to lift me for a peek.

  “Agh! Cold! Really cold! He’s not under there! He ran off! He ran off!”

  Relieved, the guard vrts his head up and presses a button on his forearm.

  From his armor, a sultry synthetic female voice I wish I could hook up with announces, “Dog whistle activated.”

  The parts of my neck that usually let it move are shattered, so I can’t change my point of view, but I hear puppy nails scrabbling along the cement behind me.

  Vrt-man gets a smug smile, like he knew all along everything’d turn out fine.

  “Kip, you little pain! There you are! C’mere, you flea-bitten dirtbag!”

  His words are gruff, but there’s a fondness in his voice that tells me he really cares about the hairy thing. Gives me a pang. Could be the pancreas again, but part of me wants to hallucinate a boy-and-his-dog montage with me as the boy—complete with stick, ball, and potty training. Now is not the time.

  The bodyguard’s not going to want to hear it, but there’s something I really should tell him.

  “Buddy?”

  “Shut up.” The scrabbling pup-nails get louder. “Here, boy!”

  “What’s your name, pal? Look at me down here. I’m good as dead. Might as well tell me that much.”

  He rolls his eyes, but finding the dog’s got him feeling warm, so he gives in. “Bernardo.”

  Behind me, I hear quick, adorable puppy breaths and a lolling puppy tongue slapping the puppy sides of a puppy snout.

  “Bernardo, mi amigo, por favor, listen very carefully. I know Kip’s cute, I know it’s your job to protect him, but you do not want to pick up that dog.”

  Before I can go into detail, I get a view of puppy junk and butt as Kip sails over my face and into Bernardo’s waiting metal-composite arms.

  “Here you are, you little meat sack!”

  “Sure, it looks like a puppy, but trust me, it’s really…”

  The dog licks his face. Bernardo laughs, probably remembering a happy day from his childhood that never really happened.

  “Hey, settle down, you!” Then the Dalmatian licks get a little harder. “No, really. Settle down! Kip!”
<
br />   “Put him down, B. Trust me.”

  “I’ll put you down.”

  The tongue moves faster. The dry, sandpaper feel gets coarser. It doesn’t hurt enough to stop a rough guy like Bernie, but I can see from his eyes that he’s starting to wonder what’s going on. Rather than deal with the strangeness, he turns the anger my way.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway? What kind of freak breaks in past a million-dollar security system just to swipe a kid’s…”

  And then the cute little tongue tears away its first chunk of Bernardo’s skin, exposing the tendon and muscle beneath. Surprised—wouldn’t you be?—B screams. Instinct makes him want to touch the wound to see how bad it is, but he can’t because he’s holding Kip in both hands. Teeny Kip, who’s now gnawing a gory cheek in his mouth like it’s a chew toy.

  The welling pain racing his shock, Bernardo gets all nasty. All bets off, he holds up Kip like a football and uses his armor’s augmented strength to chuck the mutt as fast and as far as he can. But the furry ball hits the sidewalk just right. Kip rolls, black and white, black and white, like a riddle, for half a block. As he goes, though, he also grows—and grows and grows, until his body’s snowballing size mucks with the momentum and stops him short.

  Then his body…how do I describe this? Well, it unfurls, sort of like a plant opening up its leaves or a bird unfolding its wings, but more accurately like a mutant monster that’s growing, changing color and shape, expanding in seconds to a height of, oh, I dunno. It’s not like I’ve got a ruler handy, so let’s call it…forty feet?

  Yeah, I’d say forty feet. Give or take.

  And then the puppy-no-more cries out, its voice booming like something else that booms. Like, maybe what they used to call a boombox. Sure, a boombox, but much boomier. You know, like thunder. Yeah, like really loud rolling thunder:

  “I am GOOM! Thing from the Planet X!”

  Cheek-less Bernardo’s eyes go wide. I’m disappointed. I thought the man had street smarts, but he loses a little flesh and suddenly he’s some lame desk jockey who’s never seen a giant monster before. He’s easy prey, too busy staring to realize he should be running.