The name’s Logan.

Short of a name many others know better, Wolverine, that’s about all I can give ya. I'm a 5'3 mutant, and just incase you've been livin’ under a rock in the great plains of Alaska (been there, done that), a mutant pretty much is the same as a human, only with a few genetic and supposed ‘evolutionary’ differences thrown into the mix. It ain't the best answer, but eh… what do ya expect from an old man like me?

Well, since yer probably wondering about yours truly and my differences from other humans... I can heal damn fast and, short of bein’ the most ornery and stubborn person many folks have crossed paths with, that power o’ mine’s probably why I'm still alive and kickin’ today. Along with that, I've got the whole package as far as enhanced senses goes. Sight, hearin’, smell… Through the fucking God forsaken experiments done by my own damn government, my skeleton was coated in an unbreakable metal called ‘Adamantium,’ and more particularly a set of three razor sharp retractable claws on the back o’ each hand.

I’ve been using these “gifts” of mine, as some would call ’em, to take care of business for as far back as I could remember. Whether that business has been in the hero game, protecting mutants from people who hate and.... hell, most of ya have probably heard all that crap before. It’s either that gig or the kinda business you deal with alone -- the messy kinda business ya don‘t want anyone to be apart of.

In fact, I got a bit o’ some messy business to deal with right now…

With a heavy chink! sound and a warbled announcement, I knew I had arrived at my stop. Shouldering my pack of clothes, if ya count a yellow and blue set of tights as clothes, I stepped off the train into the empty train station. I ain’t got a clue how Slim got me to agree to wear that bullshit again. Takin’ my bag and “uniform,” I continued into the station and… Wait a frickin’ minute! What in the flaming hell... this joint ain’t ever ’sposed to be this damn empty! Not even past witch’s hour...

Hell, here we go...

Heading out toward the exit, my boots clicking loudly on the tiled mosaic floor as I make my way, I could smell the gun oil, sweat and aftershave in the air and hear the all but stilled breathing hearts surrounding me… But I couldn’t see the bastards. I knew one thing, though. There were a lot of them and they were here for me...

Flatterin’, ain’t it?

Screw this shit... They went though all this trouble, so I may as well just let ‘em spring their little trap. As I began my first walk up the stairs, I heard the clicks of rifles - carbine maybe, or M-16s - but that ain’t to important since the trap was sprung.

“Put your hands up, gene-trash!” said an amplified voice behind me. “You’re coming with us!”

They appeared all around me, decked out in gasmasks, goggles and more hi-tech gadgetry than most frickin’ Special Ops teams. All that sorta junk was mounted to some handy dandy stealth suits, that I’m guessin’ made ‘em feel pretty damn confident of themselves.

Well, it’d be pretty rude o’ me to not give them the kind a action they all got dressed up for and if ya know the old Canuckle head at all, I’m nothing’ but a gentleman.

“What’s this about, soldier boy?” I said without turnin‘ to face the guy who spoke. “I been caught jay walking, or is being too short and as damned handsome as me a crime?”

“Radiato Silverburg requires your unique services freak,” the stooge captain said with a note o’… what? Anger? Jealously? “Come quietly and you won’t get hurt!”

Hell, if I didn’t know better, this cowboy wants to throw down. Got that attitude like he just wants t’ know why his boss is so interested in a scrappy son of a bitch like me.

“ And if I ain’t in the mood to see yer boss, Silverburg?” I replied, keeping the growl low under my breath, but just clearly enough to show through. “What then, bub?”

“Then we’ll be taking you down hard -- bringing you into the boss full of holes and minus a few pints a blood!” he said in that fuckin’ overconfident tone that’s startin’ to become a trademark with this kid.

Dropping my pack to the stairs, I turned slowly and stared down at the leadsman of these tin soldiers. Raising my hand up, I gave him the elegant gesture of a middle finger, followed by a come an’ get it motion.

“Then we best get this started,” I said as three razor sharp blades popped out of my hand with an air cutting SNIKT, shredding flesh and muscle as they did. No worries ‘bout that, as th’ flesh and muscle healed around the blades just like that. They reacted pretty much as I expected, guns prepped and itchy trigger fingers just begging to be scratched.

Now, I know I ain’t too bright with these sorta things, and hey - it’s a pretty damn right stupid idea when it comes down to it, but I needed the element of surprise for what I was ’bout to do next, so they got the first shot.

“Put ol’ yeller down!” yelled officer head-up-his-ass. All around me guns blazed to life and riddled my body with a hell of a lot of bullets, tracer and live alike.

Okay, so first shot was a bit off... Hell, first fifty shots would be more on the damn spot. My favorite old hat was knocked off as I crumpled to the stairs once the firing squad ended. I crumpled to the stairs as the firing squad came to a halt. My body was already healing itself, spitting out hot lead indiscriminately, and knitting all the bullet holes closed. Of course, officer shit brick was the kind to make sure his opponent was down for the count. He nominated unlucky schmoe number one to check on my body.

As he approached, I kept my hands under my body and awaited my chance to take a few chunks out of him. Heh, an’ this is where the fun starts boys and girls.

With a jab of his gun into my side, schmoe boy considered my body, kneeling just a bit closer. Flipping myself over, I slashed back and up through his chest armor. I felt my claws tearing through bone and guts from his crotch into his chest. Like a knife through hot butter, my claws slid free and I kicked the dead man back toward his pals.

Jumpin’ to my feet after a moment, with both sets of claws unsheathed, I gave a quick look ‘round before figurin’ my best course a action. Sometimes’ discrete works wonders. I leapt into the crowd of soldiers, my claws leading the charge and puncturing deep into a chest or two. Blood splashed out around me and I cut down to free my blades.

The good old hi-tech wearing boys panic and start shooting into the crowd, wantin‘ anything to spare their lives if even at the expense of their own. I feel the bullets punch into my back, but it ain’t nothing I haven't felt before. I ignore them, letting’ that familiar red haze come over my eyes. I see them all as slabs of beef, planning my cuts and figuring out where I want to leave some scars as I rend and tear with a bit of an animalistic rage.

Bodies fall, men scream, and blood coats the floor.

Turning fast, I charged the few men who stood on the stairs, plunging all three blades deep into the abdomen of the lead man. I fling him back and slash across the throat of the second before following through with a third slash through the side and spine o’ the last.

Shit... It may sound cross, but I hope none o‘ this shit got on my pack. Standing up right, my claws sliding back into my forearms, I looked over my handy work. Yeah… I am the best there is at what I do, and hell if what I do ain't pretty.

Listening carefully, I finally found captain rear view. Didn't think I killed him, did ya? Hah, of course not... The bastard has to deliver a message for me. Kneeling by him, I picked him up by the collar and stared through those useless broken goggles.

" Awright, bub… I've got some bad news and a bit a good news,” I started, givin’ him a bit of a pat on the shoulder. “Yer pretty messed up... Ain't going to win any beauty contests from her on out, I'll tell ya, but here's the good news for ya… You ain't gonna die and I'll be goin’ to see your boss. ‘Course ya will be telling him I'm coming, so it ain't gonna be that big o’ a surprise, right?"

Leavin’ the man to get his ass up and get to dragging that sorry carcass o’ his home, I returned to my pack and hat. Picking up my good ol' cowboy hat, I placed it back on my head and hoisted up my pack. Heading up the stairs a second time before stopping further up, I took a look at the blood on my hands, and hell, I won't get far looking like I slaughtered a pig with my frickin’ hands.

So I head back down the stairs and move into the nearest bathroom. I head inside and deal with the clean up. Takes a bit longer then I would’ve liked, but best to lean toward the cautious side a things. Finally, I finished up and headed back out to the stairs, and this time I made it out of the station.

I figured it was ‘bout time t’ find me a good burger joint. New York’s a big place, after all. Gotta be at least one in this city.

Ah, nothin’ like a good scrap to get the blood flowing and the hunger going…

I've lived in and visited this city often enough in my life... and I do mean a frickin’ long life and there is only one place in the city worth a damn when it comes to the mighty burger. That place is Mickey's down on 4th and 9th street. They make the meanest burger around, no question ‘bout it. The monster they make is about twenty ounces o’ Kobe beef, soaked in beer with a pad o’ herbal butter in the damned center. Meats tender as all get out and each bite is pretty fuckin’ exquisite, if I say so myself.

Then they pile it high with fresh an’ crisp lettuce, deep fried onions, decently thick tomato slices and hell...near a frickin’ pack of bacon. The classy entrée that it is tossed on a toasted sour dough bun with cheese as an option. All this is damn great fer your average fella, but for everyone’s favorite ol’ Canucklehead with my enhanced senses... It’s damn near heavenly.

You throw in a brew or two, an’ I'd be liable to call it the food o’ Gods… and yeah, I do know a few of those, now that’cha mention it.

Now, Mickey's is one o’ the only places I eat when I come to what I like to call the Big, Half Rotted Apple. So as I'm pretty damn sure you get by now, I took off for Mickey's. I had a long night a head of me and needed to pack in the energy. Can't take out a black mailing scum bag on an empty stomach, ya know?

After about thirty or so minutes, I stepped into the small hole in the wall o’ a diner, and took a look around. Place was old, worn and smelled of grease, fried food of a few types, and a couple o’ other things I ain't to keen on discussin‘. Ah well. The burgers served here wouldn't be the same without the atmosphere... That's half of what makes the place great. Not so many others would agree, and eh… screw ’em, I say.

I head over past the tables and toward the bar, taking a seat and motioning to the waitress. She's a pretty young thing, must be her first week or close to that... She's nervous and has a kid, as far as I can tell... I can smell it on her. There’s a mix o’ baby powder and some kinda perfume to her scent.

Dropping my bag by my stool, I did my best to put a friendly smile on this ugly old mug.

"Is there anything I can get you, sir?" she asked, wide eyed and not the least bit worried. This old Canucklehead ain't the friendliest looking bloke you'd ever be meetin’, but New York’s full o’ people like that.

"Well darlin‘, I'll be having one o’ Mickey's trademark burgers, on the rare side with cheddar cheese, and I'll be takin’ a glass a Jack Daniels with that." I said, keeping my tone amiable. "Tell that old, fat bastard that Logan's come a callin‘, while yer at it."

"Of course, sir… right away…" she said without a word against me calling Mickey an old fat bastard, or even a single question about who the hell I am fer that matter. She was definitely new, and as a side note, was named Zelah. Big name tags help even me to figure out a name or two... I ain't a flamin’ psychic, after all (though like Gods, I know a couple o‘ psychics, too).

She headed into the kitchen at a leisurely enough pace and left me to stew over my general bad appearance and demeanor. Ain't saying I ain't handsome enough but I am covered with the stink a death after all. I don't have to wait long, though. A fat, bald, and one greasy dude in a worn ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron comes o’ waddling’ out the doorway Zelah went through. He was Russian - from the old country - with some deep seeded connections if a man could have any. Think a hole in the wall joint like this wouldn't survive in this part o’ town without a bit of help?

"Logan my old, old friend!” Mikhail Jagonof pretty much barked throughout the diner, a bit too dramatically for my tastes. “It has been many-a-year since last these old ailing eyes a mine looked upon you! How have you been?!"

"I'm alive, Mickey…“ I said with a sluggish grin. “You can take that as either good or bad, but I ain't here to talk about me. I need yer help to locate some bums here in town in need of a bit o’ correction. Already have one on my list and need a few more to make a decent night of it."

"Ah! Of course, Logan my friend!” Mickey responded with that thick ol’ accent of his. “You need old Mickey's help? Of course you do my friend!!! Mickey will help in this!"

Before I started explaining the situation to ol’ Mickey, my drink arrived. Zelah smiled uneasily as she as she set a glass down and began to pour the J.D. It took all of a second to fill the shot glass and Zelah was about ready to scamper away. She closed off the bottle and nodded to Mickey before looking back to me.

“Your burger should be ready soon, sir,” she said before asking, “Is there anything else I can get you?” Before I could answer, Mickey decides what else I could possibly need.

“Oh, Zelah! Please leave the bottle,” Mickey said with a lilt in his voice. “This man is an esteemed and honored guest in my place of business. He deserves only the highest quality of service... Do get to his food right away, please!”

Right a way was right, girl practically ran right back into the damn kitchen. I’m starting to think its not just me she’s nervous about. Something’s goin’ on with that girl. At home, maybe. Possibly here... I ain’t got the time for this now though, so I get into explaining the basics a the situation to Mickey. How this all began with a friend a mine who did one wrong thing in his whole damn life and is now being blackmailed for it by a scum bag. He ain’t a rich man and has he got one hell of a big family, so he can’t pay up the tributes.

Now I got involved because he’s an old pal from my days when I was goin’ by the name o’ Patch. It ain’t just that, though. The children are young and his wife’s a good woman - they don’t deserve nothing’ like this. So I started to follow the trail to this Silverburg punk and found him neck deep in some bad shit. Pretty much a few miles a bad road, from what I could tell. Slavery, murder, blackmail, and all that stuff you expect the lowest street scum to be up to. Locatin’ him was easy, I explain, as I took his operations down one piece at a time until I get a pretty good look at where all th’ paths led.

“I’ll be needin’ info on his associates and how he’s been coverin’ his ass these days,” I finished up. “Hell, a location a Radiato’s house would do nicely.”

“That‘s much to ask, Logan…” Mickey said lowly. “Silverburg’s power has grown immensely recently, my friend. He’s been busy killing his fellow business comrades and hoarding his ex-business rival’s profits for himself,” he continued. Mickey suddenly balled up a fist and shook it, whispering below his breath. “You were smart to come to come to old Mickey!!!”

“Yeah, yeah... I thought so, too,” I said. “But how about you get on with it, bub?”

“Of course... Of course,” Mickey said, nodding and pausing for a moment to collect himself before he continued, “I know very little of his operations these days, but I do know just enough for what you need. Radiato Silverburg has elevated his position in the power ranking to third or perhaps higher on the chain. With his massing hoard of murderous spoils he has hired some extraordinary help. His highest paid I am told is a man. He’s named Bloody Tooth. Very strong and very lethal, for sure.”

“Ain’t heard a him…“ I said with a shrug. “What else ya got?”

Now Mikhail began to rattle on and on about what Silverburg’s been up to in the last few months, from what he knows. How Mickey knew all this... Well, not all of it rings true I’ll tell ya that, but at least half sounds good enough to me. For me at this point, half will do for the night.

He explains repeatedly that Radiato had killed all the other big bosses short a the top two or three. Hell, I don’t give a damn if he kills ‘em all, ain’t going to save his miserable drug selling, slave trading life. He’ll be gettin a piece a the old Canuckle head whether he’s King ’ The Scum Bag Pile or not. Mickey excused himself for a moment to add his final touches to my burger and I waved him off. After a short wait my burger finally arrived. More or less ignoring Mickey who had returned with it I set to savoring a masterpiece.

As I told ya before, this flamin’ burger is all I eat when I’m out here in the Big City that I’ve pretty much forgotten how to sleep by now. Well, the pizza ain't half bad either, I'll admit. Just the same, though. Blessed thing this healing factor o’ mine can be at it at times like this. Normal man could eat this massive heart attack on a tray once in his damn life… While me? I can eat ‘em everyday and follow ‘em up with a big old fat cigar and a few packs a Canadian brew. Between every few big bites a burger I pounded down shot a Jack Daniels. Even after all these years it still burns a bit, but when yer expectin‘ it, it just starts to enhance the whole experience.

Now for a bit I sat and enjoyed my burger, doing my best to loosen up a bit and relax. After all, ya can't set out on a good hunt without being loosened up and ready fer just about anything. In my line o’ work, it pays to expect the unexpected... Hell, it pays to even expect the impossible sometimes.

After about fifteen minutes or so I waved Mickey over and pulled out a small wad a dough. This ol’ Canadian never shirks on the bill, or the tip fer that matter, after all.

"I best get goin’ Mick, but before I do…“ I started to say, slidin’ the money forward. “Anything going down tonight with this bum?"

"Logan, Logan, Logan... you wound me, my friend!“ Mickey teased heartily. “You never need to pay in my place, especially since last December. Now then... Yes, there is something shipping in for Radiato... something big, that‘s got people talking..." Mickey said quietly. "It’s at the docks where the Foursome Fantastic were once living."

I get up off my ass and hoist up my pack. Leaving the money on the counter, I reach out and grasp an old friend’s hand and shake it firmly.

"You been a big help, Mickey. Gave me a good start. Once all this is taken care of I'll be back for another burger or two." I said, offering a short wave to the troubled waitress who I planned to check in on again. Something's wrong with that girl, I wonder, and as I exit the diner that's all that's in my head. I was always a sucker for the dames but for now I ain't got the time to waste.

Outside, the cool air is a welcoming change. Hell, it’s hot near a kitchen. I push everything unneeded for the nights activities to the back o’ my head and get on my way.

Getting to the docks would take some doin’ if I wanted to scout around before the shipment arrived. Every time I get myself involved in this kind a business I tend to overlook the battlefield... just ain't my style to map make and get too deep into the preparations. Now, running is out of the question, I'm fast but not that damn fast and I ain't got the time to find myself the right bus stop. That leaves only one form o’ transportation and it ain’t one of my favorites. Riding a taxi cab.

Most people livin’ in this city tend to favor cabs, but I'm thinking’ it all comes down to how well yer senses work. Makes the little drive a bit more interesting and a heck of a lot more uncomfortable. Just the same, I take a stance on the side walk and get to waitin’ for a cab to wave down. I'm there for a damned lot longer than I would o’ liked. Never a cab around when ya need one in this frickin’ city. Why the hell is that? Got to be a few thousand a these cabs in the city and there ain't ever one when yer in a god damn hurry!

Ah hell... Like I said, I was there for quite a while before my canary yellow ride arrived. I got in quick, not taking any chances with the cab. I ain't losing the damn car now.

"Take me down to the docks, bub," I said once I was in with my pack.

"Right a way daddy-o," said the driver, a dreadlock wearing fella in shades. He kicked the cab into drive and headed off toward the docks, the meter clickin’ away loudly "Odd time to be heading to the docks, though. At this time, there ain't much there to look at. You gotta be involved in some illegal-ass mofo business to be going there.”

The cab driver chuckled a bit time himself, only makin‘ me more annoyed. He continued, “But I ain't one to ask, no sir. I shouldn’t be askin’, but hey… I am a curious man, as my mama tells me,“ he said almost proudly. “You look like a tough guy, but not too local if you ask me. You in town on business?"

Of all the flamin’ luck... all the damn cabs I could have picked, I had to take the one with the most frickin’ blunt and talkative driver. After a few minutes o’ listening to the dude in the front jabber on without pause, I focused on a few other things.

Sniffing the air absently I caught the scent of old, dried in blood, sweat, and a bit of the old stench o’ death. Things have gone down in this cab, deadly business in some cases I’m thinki n‘. No one bothered to put much of an effort to clean it up, it seems. I take a look around slowly to see what other secrets this old rides hiding. Hell, I ain't got much else to do during the ride to the docks.

Seats’re old, worn, and stained in places. There’s a bit of torn upholstery and at least five or six bullet holes in the seats back, sewn. Definitely a few raw deals took place here. A needle broken in the floor tells me the main reason fer most a the deaths. Back of the driver’s seat gives ya a clue of who was doing the dying - the past drivers. Hell, there's been about four prior to good old Johnny Bluujay.

Being a cab driver ain't the safest a jobs to be getting’ involved with these days. Seems like the local scum believe that the back of a cab is the best place to be conductin’ the messy kinda business.

I mull over the business of death for the majority a the ride. If you ain't too bright and ain't been payin’ attention, I know a bit about that kinda business. For as far back as I can remember, I've been living a life o’ violence in one shape or form, and been trying to deal with that fer about the same amount o’ time. I was made into a killin’ machine and I've been fighting what they put in me since the day I was found runnin’ around the frickin’ woods a Canada.

But hey, enough o’ that crap.

I quit the reminiscing and focus back on the here and now. Almost at my destination and I can smell the water as we get closer. It’s game time. Bluujay up front hasn't shut his trap once, even without me frickin’ answering him once. Hell, doesn't matter much now as I looked out the window toward the dock.

“This is a good enough spot, bub,” I said as I grabbed my pack. “Pull over and quit the damn meter.”

“You sure about that buddy? I can drive ya straight up to the dock itself,” Bluujay said as he finally stopped rambling on and on and noticed I had finally said something. “It ain’t any trouble and hey, it is raining after all.”

Looks like the driver wanted to squeeze me dry for all I was worth. It was rainin’, but only a drizzle. What the hell does that mean to me, anyway? Forget that shit, I don’t want to announce my frickin’ arrival just yet.

“Just stop the god damn car and we’ll be good,” I responded, glaring at the over hip asshole.

Bluujay flinched upfront, sitting up straighter, and pulled over to the side. We were only a short distance from the docks entrance now and that was just fine with me. I took out a wad a dough and looked to Johnny.

“How much do I owe ya?” I said.

“About twenty-five bucks, man,” he said, sounding a little less funk and a bit more Christian rock.

I got out of the cab after a minute of countin’ and tossed the money through the passengers window. Without looking’ back, I walked toward the entrance of the docks, the rain pelting down harder on me. I fixed up the collar on my jacket an’ straghtened out the brim of my old cowboy hat as the weather took a rougher turn. If I’m lucky, the rain will force out a few rats out into the open. Going into a light jog, I headed through the entrance and looked over the Fantastic Four’s former home.

It was game time.