Come, child of God, lay your burden down....

[terry_cassidy]

God our Father, you sent Saint Patrick to preach your glory to the people of Ireland. By the help of his prayers, may all Christians proclaim your love to all men. Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.

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[wadewilson]

"God our Father... uh... by the help of his prayers, may all Christians proclaim your love to all men. Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever."

He wishes C.F. would stop eating curry. He's not sure how the hell he's supposed to be able to make a drunken retreat to the men's room to mope in one of the stalls when The Fatman keeps coming back here to get rid of what's left of Jake. C.F. always gets hyper-religious when he's having one of these emotionally scarring toilet experiences, but Wade's just too drunk and too comfortably draped over the toilet, leaning against the wall to try to find another spot.

The stall wall rattles at C.F. tries to move around. "Jesus Goatcheesin' Christ on a Pogo Ball, C.F.!" A long-used refrain, give or take a noun or two.

"This is hell, because I've sinned," he blurts, grunting in pain. It's times like these when he starts to care about these things.

"Don't talk to me about sinning, man." Wade responds, tapping his beer bottle idly against the marble wall. "You don't even take jobs within 10 miles of a zoo cuz you're worried about penguins."

"They're cute!"

"I KNOW! Don't start about that stupid cartoon movie, man - they ain't made a good cartoon movie since South Park. Best thing ever, man... pff. Pisses me off."

"Shut up!" The voice is not encouraging.

Wade slumps against the wall. Thunking his head against it. "Pisses. Me. Off. I mean, here I am, Honcho Supreme of this jerk joint, save for when the albino whine-o gets it in his head that he needs to get all up in mah grill, and the restless chumps with no direction start choosin' up sides again. I got the skillz, I'm the baddest motherscratcher this side of the Pecos... where's the Pecos? Fuggit. I'm here, usin' my man-made badassery to full effect, like a good little mercboy... but why do I constantly feel like a fuckup? Why am I thinkin' about changing teams again?"

"THIS IS SERIOUS, WADE!"

"Not as serious as my crisis of conscience, Fatty Barfbuckle! Listen to me! I TRIED the hero gig, and it left me a broken-down chump for my trouble... I freakin' kicked Captain America in the canastas..."

"GET OUT NOW!" His voice is sharper now, and his attention is sharply focused on Not Wade.

"Verily! Struck him right in the knick-knacks. He was TOTALLY mind-controlled, but STILL. You don't kick Cap in the babymakers and call yourself Hero Boy."

"I'm straining myself so much, this is getting physically violent, Wade!"

"I got so damn angry, C.F.... s'all so... so fuggin' pointless..." He downs another full bottle, then chucks it over the stall wall to clunk it on the big man's head. Then two-finger grabbing another from the case he's brought in here with him. "But I keep havin'... all these... pure thoughts."

A silence, after the yelp of pain from the bottle. "You don't have a crush on Cap, do you?"

"NO!" He kicks the stall wall, and the motion from the other side of it is nauseating. C.F.'s motion in general is nauseating. "No... it's the girl. Her sideburn-totin' pa-paw ain't too fond of me."

*snort*

"Okay, he HATES me. And so does her uncle, who, incidentally, is NOT Bob. Go figure. Take a number, you're our millionth customer." He sighs, thunking his head against the wall. "It'sh.... it'sh all complimicated, y'know? She's so... fuggin' IMPORTANT, but so damn annoying with her goody-goody 'Me Talk X-Men One Day' schtick... but when I'm around her... 's the only time I've ever felt like I was worth a shit, y'know? I mean, even with 'Nessa, I never felt like I was any better than I was - she never wanted me to be. She was glad to have a guy that could rub her pimp's face into his own intestines if push came to junk shot. Yeah, we had the picket fence dream... but can you see me in a Hefner robe and a pipe schnookin' it out to get the morning paper? No... no, but this girl... sh'like... troubles my spirit or some bullshit... when I used to be happy as a peach bustin' people's noses for cashish. Heh... that almost rhymed." A sigh, and a look at the ceiling. "Ain't even talked ta her in months..."

[wadewilson]

A gurgle, then... some sound best left unidentified. "Does she even CARE about you?"

"Yes?" Entirely uncertain. "In her warped way, I guess. I mean, she thought my stalking her was comforting... although I guess... no, I can't... man, that's all wrong, isn't it?"

"What's all wrong?"

"Everything... 'specially takin' advantage of how bein' raised by Black Tom Cassidy and Juggernaut would give a drunk teenager some pretty messed up notions of love-a-dove and what's comforting... y'know?"

"You think that's the only reason she cares about you?"

A whisper. "Probably." Then with more voice. "I don't know, I can't figure her out. I mean, one time, she's crying at me about the shape of my soul, makin' promises to help me out of crazyland... but then the first time I'm GOIN' to crazyland and I need to take her up on it, she brushes me off because I tossed around her overstuffed mook pal who fuggin' STARTED it..." Not to mention flipping out on her and nearly attacking her for brushing me off. "... then... next time I talk to her, this is stupid, but I thought she was givin' me the high'n'mighty silent treatment, so I told her the hell off... turns out she lost her voice or somethin' - don't know why the hell she was answerin' the PHONE if she couldn't TALK... but then she came to my funeral... hey. I croaked at LEAST three times, how come I only had one funeral?" A kick to the stall. "Youse guys are droppin' the ball on my proper respects!" Another deep swig of beer. "Anyway... last time I talked to her... was right before I died the last time... don't remember too much, since I was whacked out on the fruity Black Swan's presto brain-no sauce, but I think... I think we cleared some stuff... I dunno, man... she don't make any sense. I don't know what the hell I feel about 'er. Probably shouldn't feel nothin'. Me 'n' X-Geeks don't mix."

There's another explosion of sound and fury from the next stall. When it dies down, C.F. is muttering holyisms again. "Pray with me, Wade."

"Fat chance," he responds... then laughs dumbly. "Haaaaaaa haaa see, you're fat and I said fat chance. FAT lotta good prayin's done ya so far tonight. Never have, never will."

His pain is audible over the stall. "Maybe you're right... hey... ugghhh.... how, uh... how'd that thing go at the X-Men house?"

"Pffff. Lotta pride, lotta anger." He waves his beer around as if C.F. could see his gesturing. As if his gesture meant anything. "Brought 'em some cure, fixed one kid... but those X-Jerks, man... they dun drunk the Kool-Aid. They're FREAKED about a cure, man. Invalidates their whole happy crappy, y'know? Not that I know what the hell ta think about it. I mean... damn. Girl's got a mutant throat. Brotha's gotta wonder what that could do..."

More unpleasance. "O God, strengthen me in my gullet!"

"Christ on a chili dog, that's it. Good GOD, you've overloaded my healing factor, C.F." He straightens himself up in the stall as best he can for how drunk he is, then staggering out toward the restroom door.

"God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins... oh... OW... hey! Wade! WADE!"

"WHAT?!"

"Remind me not to eat the curry next time, okay?"

"Yes, C.F. I'll shoot five penguins for every time you eat that shit."

[wadewilson]

The brown glass of the beer have warmed to the touch as he stumbles out the back door of the Hellhouse. He leans over the railing of the beat-up back patio area that used to be the picnic place for wayward Catholic girls when they behaved, back when this place used to be Sister Margaret's school. The thought hits him that if she was a Midwestern girl, this is the kinda place she would've been sent to by ol' Tommy Boy, and he feels like shit all over again. His unsteady head sways a bit as he looks up in the general direction of the moon. Mad at the world now, and wagging his fist at the sky, spilling beer on his head with every shake.

Hey. You! You! You listen to me! You don't even EXIST, but I'm gonna yell at you anyway, because I'm gonna have to burn off these clothes and my top layer of skin just to get the stench of fat guy expulsion off of me. I prayed to your ass once in fourth grade to get Gretchen Bayarski to be my valentine, and she depantsed me and kicked me in the jimmy, then stuffed me under the merry-go-round. Pretty solid ANSWER there, chief. Don't ever help me anymore. I don't know what's worse - the idea that you don't exist, which at least makes twisted sense, or the thought that you DO. If you DO, and THIS is the glorious world YOU made and YOU keep around... THAT'D scare me like nothin' else.