I don’t care. This is dumb anyway. Charlie’s band of happy mutant minions made a mess of things and I’m a prisoner in his mansion, again! He gave me this paper to write on and he gave me this piece of charcoal to write with. It ain’t no pencil though. He knows better than to give me anything sharp. Why am I writing this? Nobody’s going to read it. He seems to think that locking me up in a room without sedating me and without chaining me up is something he should be rewarded for. I’m still in a locked room. I’m still a prisoner to that stuck up no good step-brother of mine. OK, so I’m writing for me. Writing my own rehabilitation. He was holding me captive. In this house. Knocked out cold, chained to a slab, and any time I woke up… another dose of that elephant tranquilizer. But I broke out, didn’t I? I got out. That’s when I met Brock Rumlow, aka Crossbones. He turned me on to the Factor Three. We met with them. Three guys, always in hoods, always in the shadows. And ...
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