Wilderness
by Philip Hunn 



I don't know when it started. The feeling of being so alone that it seemed like 
my brain would burst, the feeling that if I didn't get out and share myself with 
the other people, I would go insane. I guess my pa had something to do with it, 
his boot in my ass and his pliers on my paws day in and day out, ready to rip 
out my claws and then my teeth without so much as a "Sorry, son, but, damn, this 
is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, boy." He made me feel like a freak, 
separate from the rest, locked in the basement like a rabid dog. No matter how 
much I pleaded with him, he wouldn't listen. Just kept right on throwin' them 
rabbits down into my cell (well, what else am I gonna call it?) for me to kill, 
no matter how long I begged with him to let me out. "Oh, please, pa, don't leave 
me down here!" I'd say. Sure, I was a weak little cuss, but he still shoulda 
listened. But did he? Hell, no. Of course he didn't. 
Bastard. 
It got to be so bad, I just wanted to be close to humanity again, in whatever 
way I could. Then, when I was a little older, the need for the glow began to hit 
me. I felt the need for humanity increase, only this time I did not want to be 
one with it; I wanted to hunt it. Kill it. My blood burned for release, for 
carnage and death, and my teeth and my claws, having grown back again and again, 
became the only weapons I would ever need. My life depended on them. I told my 
pa's dead body that before I spat on his body and left the cabin in the 
wilderness, my ma dead beside him, her skull split with an axe when she had 
gotten in the way of my daddy's swing. He was going to cut my hands off. I swear 
to God he was, I could see it in his eyes. He was going to cut his own son's 
hands off, the son of a bitch. Well, I decided then and there that I wasn't 
going to be like my pa. I was going to be better. He was stupid. Got himself 
killed. I wasn't going to make the same mistake, I decided. 
I also decided that I liked being who I was. As I licked the blood of my family 
off my claws, I thought that I would take what I had been given, and use it to 
help myself. Hell, who needed anybody else when I had this much power? I could 
cut through bone with a swipe of my hand. I could bite through meat without even 
chewin' hard. I guess that's what led me to the Secret Service and Department H. 
They're always on the lookout for people who don't give a damn about what 
they're doin' and can do it well. S'pose they hit the jackpot when they hired 
ol' Vic. I don't have a bad memory about any of those guys. Can't trust 'em much 
anyway. Well, 'cept for the ones with the runt. L'il Logan. My little buddy. You 
wouldn't believe it to look at us now, but back then, him and me, we were like 
peas in a pod, along with that Kraut punk North and the Indian, what was his 
name.... Wraith, that's it. Drunk as Irishmen* all week long and twice that at 
night. He and I got through more women in a week than most guys do in a 
lifetime. Guess it was just my rugged charm that drew them to us. I refuse to 
believe that anybody ever found that sawn-off punk attractive. Still have a hard 
time buying that he's most likely got a litter of pups in every port by every 
woman that ever laid eyes on him. Why they had hamburger when they could just as 
easily have had prime fillet steak is beyond me. That blue-skinned bitch 
Mystique certainly knew what good it would do her when she used me as a dupe in 
the chilliest years of the Cold War. She gave me a son I never knew about until 
years later - a frail human punk who wanted me dead. Join the fuckin' queue, I 
thought at the timeÉ I had all the time in the world. Anyway, gettin' back to 
the runt. I had my worst falling out with him when I killed that double agent 
bitch during the Cold War and that whole Omega Red thing. Funny how I was just 
doing my job and Logan took offence. She was dead weight, I was freeing us up 
and giving us a fighting chance at survival. The bitch didn't have the sand to 
keep up with us anyway - so I offed her. Quick, clean, no problems. North didn't 
care. But Logan, he went fuckin' ballistic. I reckon he might have very well 
clawed my guts out on the spot, had he known he'd got those pigstickers of his 
inside his arms from the get-go. 
Heh. 
I know how painful those things are. Got one right through the centre of my 
brain once. Don't remember much about what happened afterwards. I swear I'll cut 
it out of Logan one of these days. 
But you don't wanna hear that, do ya? My old friend Logan was pressganged into 
the Weapon X program, run by some bald old coot who had a power fetish. I always 
wondered why Logan would escape one cue-ball control freak just to go work for 
another. He killed dozens of people when he broke free, so I hear. Must have 
been a pretty, pretty sight. Wish I could have been there, fighting beside him. 
Then I could have ripped his throat out when we were all done - if it hadn't 
been for his fuckin' stupidity, I probably woulda got myself a nice set of 
tin-plated bones too, like I did much later thanks to that face-painted clown, 
Apocalypse. Logan and me, we were probably the only ones who could survive the 
adamantium feed because of our healin' factors. Although I'd like to see that 
freak Deadpool handle it. His punk-ass bargain-basement healin' factor couldn't 
take it, I'd bet. He'd probably explode. That'd be a pretty, pretty sight, I 
tell you - might be nice to get him to shut the fuck up for once. Jimmy Hudson 
and his sweet little frail, Heather, found him in the snow and took him in for 
the new Alpha Flight programme - something to do with wanting a Canuck version 
of the Avengers. What a crock of shit. Everyone knows that Canada has nothing 
worth stealing, unless that armoured asshole Victor Von Doom has a plan to 
dominate the world by using miles and miles of tundra. Mac was just another 
control freak that took advantage of Logan. Funny - I always thought of Logan as 
the type who wouldn't ever be dominated by anyone when we were working side by 
side. Now he's become everyone and his wife's bitch. Me, I ain't going down that 
path. I can promise you that. Victor Creed ain't nobody's slave. 
Enough about the runt. I'm gettin' sick of sayin' his name. Anyway, when I left 
the department, I went freelance for a while. Got myself a wild outfit and 
tangled with some spandex clown, called himself Iron Fist. Turns out this Fist 
guy was really some punk corporate kid called Danny Rand. This Rand kid ran a 
business with his buddy, some ex-con called Luke Cage, went by the name of Power 
Man. "Heroes For Hire", or something. I had some of the worst defeats of my life 
handed to me by those two little bitches. Rand's woman put me outta commission 
for a while too. Guess my healing factor kinda took the day off then. I shoulda 
just strangled them all with their own intestines, but what the hell, I had a 
few laughs, so I think I'll let them live. For now. Heh. Heroes For Hire. What a 
joke. Everyone knows the only good freelancer is a bad freelancer. Look at that 
Whiplash freak. I never got no complaints, that's for damn sure. Probably 
because the punks were too scared to try. I'd've chewed 'em a new navel if 
they'd even looked at me the wrong way. Back in those days, I'm surprised I 
didn't do it more often. I needed the glow so badly I could almost taste it. I 
needed it like a junkie needs his next fix, but back then, I didn't know what it 
was that I wanted, or how to get it without killing. I wouldn't know either - 
not for years. 
For a time, I was just blundering from fight to fight. I fought that 
wall-crawling freak Spider-Man, and his frail, the Black Cat I think she called 
herself, she kicked my ass six ways from Sunday - hey, I had a serious hangover 
that day, all right? Overloaded my healing factor so much that I got a hangover 
for the first time in thirty years. Musta drunk ten gallons of Jack Daniels and 
six barrels of beer. I walked home with a frail on each arm and I showed them 
the time of their lives. They didn't need no sawn-off hamburger, they got their 
fillet steak from the master. Pity I had to kill them in the morning, but it 
made the roar in my brain go away, for a while at least. Their blood tasted 
sweet, like their skin had. I lay in bed, the room filled with their scent, and 
the scent of their blood, and I smoked one of my best cigars as the sheets got 
redder and redder. It made all my pain go away. 
I scragged a couple of the bellboys too, just because I felt like it. It sure as 
hell made the memory of that red and blue idiot's fists in my face a little less 
painful. Good thing I had my healing factor back up to speed or he woulda taken 
my head off. Sure, he pulled his punches a little - what, you think a soldier 
can't feel that? Try it sometime, and see if you can't - but without my healing 
factor I woulda been laid up for weeks with lumps and bruises and whatever the 
hell else that masked punk inflicts on people who piss him off. I tell ya, I 
pity Doc Ock sometimes. 
Still, time was, I had better things to do that think about Logan. I did my merc 
jobs, and I killed who I got paid to kill, and whoever else I wanted (which was 
a lot of people. The glow really took a hold of me at this point, I guess). 
Then, sure as eggs is eggs, the runt got in my face again. I heard he'd gone to 
do old Charley X's dirty work, after he'd tried to put the ginsu treatment on 
the Hulk. I mean, we're talking a thousand pounds of green muscle against a punk 
who ain't even up to my shoulder. It's no wonder he got his ass handed to him 
and he had to go jobbing to that old cripple along with the weather witch, that 
Russkie idiot, the Kraut demon, and the Indian. I'll tell you right here, I 
laughed my ass off when I heard that that Thunderbird clown had got himself 
blowed up real good. That's what you get for being a good guy, an' a stupid 
punk-ass good guy at that. I bet the runt got himself real choked up over that 
one - all snarls and growls and "Woe is me"s. I should bring it up sometime, see 
how he reacts. Whatever his reaction, I'm sure it'll make me laugh. But then 
again, I find Adam Sandler funny, so what do I know. 'Course, that prick'd be 
funnier hanging in bloody shreds offa my claws, but I'll take what I can get. 
In that frame of mind, I took the job the Cajun offered me, to kill some 
worthless mutants down in the New York sewer system. It was a simple 
assassination job, I thought, until I saw how many of them there were. It was 
going to be a slaughter. All the betterÉ I guess it really kicked off when I saw 
that pretty boy Angel pinned to the wall by Harpoon. The Eskimo knew what he was 
doing, and he did it real well. I could smell the pretty boy's blood from quite 
a way away. It smelt pure, sweet - just like an angel's ought to smell, I 
thought. That X-punk Marrow's mama was there too, among the victims. I gutted 
her right in front of that bony bitch's little kiddy face, and I saw the Cajun 
scoop her up and carry her out of there like a goddamn guardian angel. Like he 
had any moral high ground over the rest of us. I'll tell you what, though, that 
bony kid had the guts to stand up to me. She wasn't afraid. She was going to 
stand her ground and protect her mama's dead body until her blood was all over 
the walls of the tunnels. I can see why Cannonball likes her. Why the bones turn 
him on. He thinks he can hide it from me, the way his loins heat up whenever 
she's in the room, but he broadcasts it like a goddamn aerial. I bet the runt 
has a fun time trying to block it out. I bet Cannonball'd have a better time of 
it with her than with that stupid Meltdown bitch. She thought she could be my 
best buddy, give me a bowl of fuckin' milk every goddamn day like I'm some sort 
of puddy tat. I changed her fuckin' mind soon enough. She was my plaything, not 
the other way around. 
That concept also applied to Birdy. Pretty little Birdy, with legs up to her 
armpits and then some. Sweet little titties, too. I guess I shoulda tried it on 
with her more than I did. Maybe if I'd kept it up she woulda put out for me 
instead of giving me a headache and gettin' a black eye or a few broken ribs for 
her troubles. Tell you the truth, I didn't really care if she lived or died, as 
long as I got the glow from somewhere. I guess I just figured that if she got 
too broken up I'd find another telepath someplace else, so they could take care 
of me like Birdy had. She found me my jobs, and she took away my pain. IÉ needed 
her, like I'd never needed anyone before. And Victor Creed, he hates having to 
rely on other people, which is why I treated her like a doormat. Funny. For 
about three months after she got a knife through the heart courtesy of my own 
darlin' baby boy Graydon, I begged them X-bitches to give me the glow before I 
found out that I'd been cured of it. I begged them like I was that pathetic 
junkie again, always needin' one last fix. I look back at myself then and I just 
wanna puke. Was I really like that? Did I really let them chain me up in their 
little "Danger Room" (God, even the name makes me wanna heave), just so they 
could try and "cure" me of the killing rage. They just couldn't get it into 
their fuckin' heads that I wasn't going to play ball. That I like bein' who I 
am. All that fussin' and tryin' to get me to jump through their little hoops 
like a fuckin' dog. "Roll over, Victor! Sit! Play dead! Good boy, Victor, have a 
chew toy and a doggy biscuit!" Fuck you, Charles Xavier. Fuck you. I ain't one 
of your prissy little X-Men, and I never would have been, either. It was the 
happiest moment of my life when that Asian-British bitch shoved that psychic 
knife, or whatever she calls it, into my brain, and it did nothing at all. I was 
free. I loved hacking through that soft, flat stomach of her, carving my way 
into the bloody guts beneath. The feel of the flesh slicing under my claws was 
almost too much for me to bear. It all came rushing back to me, as if I was a 
wino chugging down a beer for the first time in ten years - that same high that 
I used to get when I was fighting against whoever cared to step in my way, 
whether it was the runt, Iron Fist, Spider-Man, or whoever. The point is, I felt 
free. It got even better when I was on the run. I clawed that retard Caliban 
into bloody shreds. I bet he won't forget ol' Vic in a hurry. Pity Apocalypse 
saw fit to give him a job as a Horseman. I never knew warlords could be so 
fuckin' dumb. Then there was that rich asshole Archangel. I broke his wings 
where nobody else had been able to before - not with their bare hands, anyway; 
Stryfe and his guns don't count. Well, they don't 'less you want your entrails 
in a puddle on the floor. Even when those X-punks found me, I had the last 
laugh. I spat on the bald man's dream and they had to live with it. Me, I 
couldn't care less. So I lost the battle - so what? I still won the war. 
Afterwards, the government bagged me up and they took me to serve in X-Factor. 
What a laugh that was. I had to work alongside that bitch Mystique again. I felt 
like rippin' her jugular out every time I saw that two-timing whore, 'cept I 
couldn't because of that stupid restraining collar they put on me. Pity - I'da 
loved to have crushed that copycat Wildchild's brains into the dirt while I was 
cuttin' that bitch a new asshole. Where does that little prick think he can get 
off, copyin' my schtick? Used to be, me and the runt were the only two people 
who were vicious enough to be treated like animals. Now we got groupies, of all 
things. Ain't that a sad indication o' the times? Bet that kid listens to all 
kinds of devil music, too. Why they can't be content with a bit o' Huey Lewis, I 
dunno. I'd call Captain America to ask him to sort the kid out, but I don't 
think he'd take too kindly to a three-hundred-pound plus Canuck killer asking 
him to educate some wispy little turd on the value of good music. Flag Man 
probably listens to Glenn Miller, come to think of it, so askin' him to talk 
about good music is most likely a waste of my precious time. Heh. I sound 
older'n dirt, don't I? Never mind, it doesn't matter. I don't care what you 
think. You're all just meat to me anyways, so it's just a matter of time before 
you end up on the points of my claws. 
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I was just waxin' lyrical about that little punk 
Wildchild, and X-Factor in general. I'm glad that operation went down the 
crapper - serves 'em right for thinkin' they could use Victor Creed any better 
than ol' Charley X thought he could. I shoulda joined Havok when he jumped ship 
and hooked up with that Dark Beast guy. For once I'd met a Summers who actually 
had a bit of backbone. Pity he's dead now. Pity they're both dead. I bet 
Sinister's chewin' his pasty-white knuckles and wonderin' what to do now that 
his two prize pets are pushin' up the daisies. I still can't believe that Essex 
pulled that power drain on all us muties. I felt like crap for days because of 
him - I had to heal naturally. I'd been trashing a government official's house 
after I'd gutted the guy, tearing up some sensitive files that my client didn't 
want released, when suddenly my healin' factor dies on me. I mean, I got this 
fuckin' bullet wound in my side and I lose my healin' factor! Thanks a fuckin' 
bunch, Sinister. After all I've done for you - even give you new clones o' me, 
so the story goes, at least accordin' to those who saw Sinister most recently - 
and you treat me like I'm nothin' but a means to an end. Well I'll tell you 
somethin', old man. Victor Creed don't like bein' messed around with. You want 
to play with fire, you better be prepared to get burned. I'm the fire, old man, 
and you're the wood. It's only a matter of time. 

Only a matter of time.
You're dead.
I'm alive. 
That's all that matters.
Give me the glow.
Give me the glow.




*I don't mean anything by this. It just struck me as something that somebody as 
thoughtless and crude and violent as Vic might say. Don't flame me - please? 
Well, you can if you dislike the story, but not for any other reason, okay? :) 
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