Unload.
Empty the chamber.
Dismantle.
Clean with solvent.
Re-load.
Examine.
This was the daily routine for Deadpool—cleaning his guns. He laid out every single one on his folding-table, working from one end down to the other. He found it not only useful for his career as a merc—it’s always good to have nice, clean, well-working artillery—but it was also calming. He knew his way through each pistol, rifle, and hand-gun. He could assemble them blind-folded if needed.
He hoped he’d never have to do that, though.
Some were just guns, weapons he used to make kills and acquire money, but others had memories attached to them, like little sticky notes that never really get thrown out.
Like the jet-black pistol Wade had cleaned a few minutes ago—he had used that to blast off the head of a nasty pimp. Or the rusty rifle, which he had used to knock-out a policeman with the butt end. There was also the old, silver handgun that he had yet to swipe down with solvent—that had been his first gun. His father had given it to him, probably to try and “toughen him up.” He had made his first kill with a bullet from that gun.
The only reason he doesn’t throw it away, is because he’s convinced it’s lucky.
