Deadpool is the property of Marvel Comics.

If there's one place that I hate workin', it's Russia. Stakeouts are terrible because you can't get decent food, toilet paper is nowhere to be found, and the TV just plain sucks. Sometimes being a merc has got to be one of the most boring jobs in existence. Then you get to these moments when you remember why you're doin' it in the first place.

I'm perched up on a second-floor window of the Kremlin, my rifle sitting on my lap. Below me, the principle, one of the Politburo's members is leaving for the day, accompanied by his two bodyguards. Apparently, somebody doesn't like how he is trying to bring back the Communist system, and they have the dough to hire me. The guards are pretty good for hired thugs. The first, a tall and skinny guy, is the point man, up ahead a few yards, always looking for a threat. The other, short and stocky, stays close to the principle, ready to knock him down in case of an assassination attempt. Standard two-man guard formation. Too bad for them, I plan on getting paid.

"Welcome to Jeopardy, ladies and gentlemen, I'm your host, Alex Trebek," I yell out. Guards' heads whirl around, looking for the threat. I leap off the window sill towards Skinny.

"Jeopardy round. The force of nature that attracts bodies, and is the cause of death of a Russian bodyguard." I drive my feet into Skinny's head. There is an audible crack as his head whips around, snapping his neck. "What is gravity? Correct!"

I'm already spinning, tracking Shorty with the rifle. "Double Jeopardy time. A high-powered energy weapon that is the cause of yet another Russian bodyguard." Shorty's diving for the principle, trying to knock him down. I snap a shot off that vaporizes most of his head. Dead before he hits the ground. "What is the plasma rifle? Correct, again!"

The principle is lying on the ground, trembling, as I approach him. His hands and feet with heavy-duty cuffs. The rifle blast was pretty loud, I figure I've got about two minutes before the Russian police are on the scene.

I grab a paintbrush from one of the pouches in my belt. Damn political jobs. Always want to make some big statement. I dip the brush in the pool of blood that has been forming around Shorty's body. In big letters, I write "COMMUNISTS" in both Russian and English (yet another one of my jobs that'll probably make CNN) on the wall. I refused to do it when I was contracted, because of my political beliefs (which are none, and plan to stay that way for a long time), but they offered another three million dollars American, just for writing it in their blood on the wall.

I yank the principle up by the cuffs and drag him over to the wall, directly under the freshly painted sign. I push him down to his knees. He grovels at my feet, babbling about his children, and all of the things that he can give me. Nothing I haven't heard before. Hey, a job's a job.

"Final Jeopardy time," I tell him in Russian. "The best merc on the planet, who coincidentally, takes you out." I lift the rifle, and put him down with one shot, point-blank. They pay for an execution-style hit, that's what they get. "Who is Deadpool? Correct. You win."

My beeper goes off. I hit the button to 'port back to New York. Nothing happens. Dammit. I hate it when my batteries die. Take off at a quick pace on foot, leaving the scene behind, as I hear sirens in the distance.

I whip out my cel-phone, and dial up Patch. "What's up?" I ask him.

"Where the hell are you?" he demands.

"Batteries died again, dammit." I curse.

"Well, I've got a new job for you, and you alone." This peaks my interest immediately. Patch usually gives the job to anybody. "Who is the target?" I ask.

"I ain't tellin' ya, cuz ya didn't show up, but I will give you a clue. He's your favorite mutant with claws and a healing factor to match your own," he says.

Logan!