The chair was plush and the office view sumptuous, but Logan was miserable. It takes a hell of a lot to make him hungover and that's exactly what he'd had last night, a., Aa hell of a lot. You haven't had a headache until your throbbing brain is locked inside a metal-lined skull. Between gray matter and adamantium, guess which one loses every time.

The office was orderly and precise in a way calculated to aggravate the a haungover. A polished chrome and glass desk, glinting aggressively. Neatly sharpened pencils pointing up in an onyx tumbler. One of those daily tear-off calendars, the kind that anal-retentives like. August 99, 1973.

The man seated behind the desk was attempting to stare him down. Logan was amused. His bloodshot eyes didn't move but the corner of his lip crinkled. Nobody stares him down. The man behind the desk didn't return the smile. I bet he looks like Santa Claus when he's not angry, Logan thought. Santa Claus with aviator glasses and a walrus moustache.

"Logan," he sighed, "We've got a problem."

The man reached across the desk and opened a manila folder. Its creamy exterior looked bizarrely organic against the rest of the office.

Logan didn't have to ask what was in the folder. He already knew. Everyone in the room knew. All the junior executives, standing in a nervous semi-circle behind him, knew. He didn't have to look to smell the battery-acid odor of adrenaline in the air, sense the slightly audible flutter of their elevated heartbeats. They were all terrified. Definitely of him, but probably of their boss, too.

The man behind the desk took his time. He indulgently turned one sheet of paper over after another, as if examining the Magna Carta with archival gloves. A pudgy man-boy stood next to him, at attention but twitching his lip in a funny, nervous palsy. He looks familiar, thought Logan, and then realized it was that kid, the one who got him the gig in the first place. He thought he was just some office boy but apparently he's got more pull here than he had imagined.

The man closed the folder and dropped it on the desk with dramatic finality.

"First off," he said, angry eyes boring into Logan, "You look like shit."

This was true. Logan could smell himself more than anyone else in the room, and that was never a good sign. His denim jacket radiated a rank beer and smoke and gutter aroma. He hadn't showered in days. Some of the company's goons had pulled him out of a Riker's Island drunk tankcell not an hour before. There was a crusty smear of something organic across the front of his filthy t-shirt. He remembered a likely origin and smirked. That made his head hurt.

The man behind the desk was unamused. "Secondly," he snapped, "I have this police report. And –" he waved his hands in the air, momentarily unable to articulate the enormity of his displeasure. "I don't like it. Not one bit. Not. One. Bit." He opened the folder. "Public drunkenness. Public urination. Disorderly conduct. Assault on an officer.Public urination." He set the folder down on the desk again and enunciated the last charges with visible, choked discomfort. "Soliciting. Public lewdness." The last word was a whisper. "Crimes against natureDeviate sexual intercourse."

“Jeesus, we get alla freaks in here.” Logan heard the whisper from across the room. He saw the game now. These people tolerated the parade of freaks at the office because that’s how they made their bread and butter. Back home they weren't any more likely to invite a mutant home for dinner, not anymore than they would -

"A fairy?" The boss man was incredulous. "That's what they tell me?" He picks up a police report. "Public indecencylewdness? Crime against natureDeviate sexual intercourse? Jesus, I don't even want to think what that could be." He leaned forward, eyes hard. "Does that sound like a hero, Logan? Does that sound like the kind of face we want to put in our books? Our wholesome, family-friendly books? “See this?” He stabbed at a cover with a pointed finger. “This? That’s the Comics Code. A code of ethics. We got kids to think about. How is that going to look when little Johnny comes home from the newsstand and says ‘"Gee, mom, I sure like this swell comic’" and then the parent reads in the paper about the wild time you had on Christopher Street last night?" He leaned back in his plush office chair. "I'm not prejudiced, Logan. Whatever you do, you're a consenting adult, all that. This is New York. But this is serious!" He pounded the table with his fist. "You've got to see it from our point of view!"

"Well, actually," the nervous man jumped in, "I – I think this character is – I mean, that is, I think the public is ready for a character that's not – well -"

"Christopher, when I want your opinion I'll ask for it."

"Yessir, but I just think that –"

"Christopher –" the man cut him off. "Did you know about this?"

"W-well, yes, but I thought that our readers are ready for a hero that's –"

"Christopher." The man laid a paternalistic hand on his shoulder. "You've got to think of our readers. These books don't sell in Greenwich Village. They sell in Peoria and Little Rock and Fargo. We're writing for them. We're casting –" he cast a withering glance at Logan – "for them." He leaned in close to the boy. "Do you like your job?"

"Yessir. Very much, I do like my job."

The man smiled. "Good." He patted his shoulder and swiveled back to face Logan.

"We paid your finebail. We've got connections with the Mayor's office, I've got people wrangling now to get your case dropped. This is costing me money, Logan. Money and time. I've had to pay off Jameson already to keep your name out of the Bugle. To say nothing of the Post and Times. And they're not so easily bought, believe me."

He leaned back, a pleased smile on his face. Logan stared at him, crusty eyes slitty with apathy and fatigue. The smile evaporated.

"You got anything to say?"

Logan's voice cracked with just-woke-up disuse. "Nope."

The man leaned forward. "I just spent the company's money to keep your little secret out of the papers," he hissed. "And you've got nothing to say to me?"

Logan decided he really didn't like this little man. He also decided the only thing keeping him from disemboweling him right there, all over his chrome desk and manila folder and sharp little pencils, was that his healing factor hadn't caught up to last night's alcohol intake. Yet.

Your little secret. The prick. Logan had no secrets. Right around the same time he realized he was a born killer, he realized every other rule was just as meaningless. What did he care that when there's no women around, a guy's mouth feels just as fresh and wet around your cock? And who gives a shit if beer money can be got from offering it up to the right person? Once you've had your fists tangled knuckle-deep in a once-living human's steaming guts, having qualms about shoving that same fist up someone's ready and willing ass seems just as arbitrary as using the salad fork for the fish course.

“Look,” the old man leaned over the table. “You want to stay anonymous? Look outside.” Logan craned his neck to see a line of costumed wannabes, tiny as ants on the sidewalk below. Their sagging homemade costumes hugged their pathetic, pouchy bellies. Their handmade chest emblems were probably sewn on their misshapen wool knit leotards by some weak-chinned girlfriend back home. They'd try to cajole the security guard into letting them in, but it'd never work. Some industrious souls might hop a cab over to the DC building, to try their luck once more before taking a dejected subway ride back home.

“Logan, you’ve got a chance to be a star." The man interrupted his reverie. "I can tell. Only three people walked in here I can say that about. Steve Rogers. Peter Parker. And you.” He leaned back, making a sanctimonious little chapel with his fingertips. “We got a lot of people behind you, Logan. Don’t throw that away."

"Who said I wanted to be a star?" Logan growled.

"What else have you got, Logan?" The man was shouting now. "Turning tricks in Times Square? Living from one Bowery flophouse to the next? Smelling like –" he wrinkled his nose –" like a Staten Island garbage bargethe Fresh Kils landfill? How long can you keep this up? How long you want to live this life? I'm offering you adventure! Excitement! Thrills! The kind of life those poor slobs, - excuse my language, they are our readers - those poor slobs out there on the sidewalk dream about! Logan –" his eyes were almost misty now -"Logan, I'm offering you a chance to be a Super. Hero. All you have to do is stop sucking cock!This doesn’t seem to fit with your description previously. How hard can that be?"

Logan didn't say anything.

The man rocked back in his plush chair. "We’ll get you started on a Hulk. It’s a one shot. You'll make an appearance, you say your name – it's a start. A good one" he added, stabbing his finger into the air to make the point. "Romita's already got a costume picked out. You're gonna love it."

The phone rang. The man snapped it up. "Yeah. OK, right. Be right down." He slammed the phone down. "Danvers got herself knocked up again. This girl is ratifying Roe vee Wade all by herself. Logan!" He extended a friendly hand. Logan stared at him, but the man didn't seem to care. "We'll see you on Monday." He smiled. "Have a good weekend. Stay out of trouble."

If he touches me, I'll kill him, thought Logan. But the man had already left, his entourage trailing behind. Logan was left alone.

The pudgy man stumbled nervously towards him. "Uh, Mr. Logan, I – I just want you to know . . ." He stammered, then caught himself. "I really want you to think about what Mr. Lee is offering. I know it doesn't sound like it right now, but really, it's – it's the opportunity of a lifetime. And – and I just want you to know I'm behind you. Your secret is safe with me. If you do decide to take this job – and I really hope you do – I want you to know we – we can work something out about what stays in the books and what we'll just ignore." He blushed, but went on. "After all, it's not what you do – it's what makes it into the funny papers, right?" He gave a nervous, choked laugh. "So – so just think about it." He blinked at the floor, then darted out the door.

The room was empty. Logan's head was finally clearing. He took a deep breath. The jackhammer fog inside his head was lifting but he could use a cold drink for his cottonmouth. He stepped into the hall and pressed the button for the elevator.

The doors pinged open and Logan stepped in. There was another guy in the elevator. Dark hair, a foot shorter than Logan. Some high school bookworm, but Logan noticed the unusual solidity of his forearms. Probably on the swim team, he thought. The camera hanging around his neck rose and fell slightly with his breath.

The kid smiled. Dimples carved into his cheeks. "Second job," he grinned sheepishly, motioning to the camera. There were little vaccination-scar divots on the soft insides of his wrists.

"Hmmm." Logan smirked.

They rode down in silence. Logan could feel eyes on the back of his neck. He flicked a glance. Sure enough, the kid tucked his head down, smiled at him again with a bashful, you caught me grin. Blue eyes. Nice.

"So . . ." Logan said, "What's your name, kid?"

"Peter." Then – "You ever fuck a guy my age?"

Incredible Hulk #181 was a big success.