The smell hit him first. It was a hot night and the theater had been cooking. All the effluvia and aromas of 20 years' worth of lowlife and mayhem crushed into the once-burgundy carpet now simmered in the August heat like roadkill stew in a crock pot. Logan got the full whiff when he stepped in the theater's door. The heavy salty smell of popcorn coasting on the rancid, rich bloom of fake butter. The spoiled vanilla-honeysuckle tang of cola syrup spilled on carpet and left to evaporate into a sticky, overripe stain. The ammonia smell of piss, uniform to human noses but colored with a spectrum of hormones and beverages and bacterial flora to Logan's keen nostrils. The cumin-brine scent of overheated, unshowered bodies. A sticky rank lacquer of decay clung to every surface. Logan smelled blood spilled, liquid testimonies of lobby knifings and muggings and blows to the face. Atomic particles of murder kicked up by every scuff his cowboy boots made on the trampled, forlorn carpet. And floating low, clinging to the stained walls and scuffed floors and decaying mahogany trim, threaded through every molecule of air like the marbling in a steak, was the low, humid, sweaty musk smell of men fucking. Something about that combination, that sex and death smell, got Logan juiced up. He shivered as his balls tightened.

It was early in the evening. Logan could tell because the owner hadn't yet put on his good Qiana shirt. The big greaseball was standing behind the concession stand in his coffee-stained undershirt, yelling into the phone over the machine gun fire of fiercely popping popcorn. Little flecks of spittle formed on his chapped and rubbery lips and clung to his spider legs moustache. A bored Puerto Rican girl with spindly silver hoop earrings kneaded a huge wad of bubble gum between her jaws and listlessly separated a stack of fliers into two piles.

"Listen, you little prick, either I see the residuals on the Damiano pic or the take's coming out of your ass. Oh, you like that, huh? Oh yeah? Well, I want to see you tell him that to his face!" The owner saw Logan out of the corner of his eye and waved him in. Logan almost made it past the theater threshold before the owner leaned over the counter, covering the mouthpiece with a meaty palm.

"Tonight. I get a piece of tonight." he hissed at Logan before turning back to his telephone argument. Logan grabbed his wrist. The owner's head snapped away from the phone in surprise.

Logan got nose-to-nose with the owner. "You get a piece of nothing," he snarled.

The owner looked at Logan's wrist wrapped tight around the doughy flesh of his wrist. "Then don't come in," he said. "I got plenty of guys in there already. They'll work and you won't. They'll cover their admission. You got three bucks?"

It burned Logan to know he didn't even have the twenty cents to cover a small box of Jujubes.

The owner yanked his hand away. "I didn't think so." He started back to the phone but did a quick return of Logan's icy glare. "Nice." he said, twirling a fat finger around his head. "You look like you got devil horns. That's good. The Jersey boys will like that."

"Go fuck yourself." Logan muttered.

"There's no money in that," he called out to Logan's departing back.

The dark inside the theater was deep and solid and Logan relaxed in its velvet embrace. His pupils relaxed in near audible relief at the swallowing darkness and he did a quick scan of the room. The owner was right. It was too early for the theater to be full, but the other hustlers had homesteaded their seats in anticipation. They turned their faces expectantly at the sign of someone coming in but immediately slunk down in their seats when they saw who it was. They knew Logan was here for the same reason they were. No money to be made of off him.

Logan recognized faces immediately. There was Harry, that sniveling little wraith with the kinky red persian-lamb-coat hair. The kid kept twitching in his seat and running his finger under his nose. Even in the theater's low light Logan could see the purple tracks dotting his pasty arms. That kid's going to snap someday, he thought to himself, and slunk down in a seat where he could keep an eye on him.

The screen was filled with some Swedish trash extravaganza. He knew the drill. Some go-go music, a couple diagrams of the pelvis, and here we go. Looks like he'd come in at just the right time. Some tired bitch with smudged eyeliner and dog-colored hair was splayed out like a starfish in some Stockholm motel. Pretty soon her cunt would get attacked by any number of stinking Euro-cocks as a even-keeled narrator would spin some pseudoscientific profundity. Logan was bored. You see enough of these "educational" films and the line between hard core porn and open heart surgery gets blurred pretty fast.

Logan tilted his seat back and narrowed his eyes to slits. Just resting, he told himself. But he felt a deep sadness well up in him. Something about that kid he had just left at that house in Queens . . . his clean, soft flesh, and his showered, scrubbed, fabric softener smell and a dick that tasted like milk and honey. OK, the kid's spooge did congeal into a throat-blocking, glue-tasting mouthful of webbing that nearly choked him, but so what? Jumping out the kid's window and escaping into the night like a high schooler sneaking out gave him a surge of, I dunno . . . I guess that was happiness. Hard to tell when you haven't felt it in a while. Victor Creed would be laughing himself into an aneurysm right about know if he knew that all it took was some comfort and kindness and a plate of warm cookies to tame the mighty Wolverine. The theater with its tattered ceiling and crusty seats looked uglier than it had ever looked before. He shook his head and wished he was drunker, right now, by any degree.

A chair in the aisle creaked and Logan bolted awake. He must have dropped off. How long? He flicked his eyes at the screen. Some Afro chick with thumbtack tits was firing a gun at a retreating pimp. Jesus, he was dead tired. How long could he keep this up? Get drunk, get fucked, pass out, wake up. Repeat as necessary. Even with his healing factor this lifestyle was making a dent in his well-being. He felt like he'd aged a decade in the past . . . well, decade. Which was too much for a guy like him.

He gave a quick flick around the room. No one had got the drop on him while he was passed out. Good. Some drunk had sat down in Logan's row. That was what had made the creaking noise. He could smell the alcohol radiating from every one of the guy's pores, even from a whole row away. Logan eyed him coolly from out of the corner of one eye.

The guy was dizzy drunk. He settled himself in the seat with the exaggerated care of someone ashamed to be so hammered, someone afraid to be caught by mom. Logan caught him exhaling - probably settling the whirlies in his stomach. He still hadn't taken his sunglasses off. Probably forgot he still had them on.

Logan pegged the type right away. One of those straight guys who calls in sick first. Then goes to a bar. Then gets a little drunk. Then gets a little too drunk. Then gets one more drink to convince himself he was just coming here to watch the flicks. Logan cracked his knuckles and thrashed his tongue around his jaw. He could almost taste the money.

He got up, sliding down several seats, settling in the seat next to the drunk with panther-like grace. The drunk looked up at him, terror flitting quick across his face. Jesus, much younger than he’d thought. Probably not even 25 yet. Jaw like a man, full kissable lips trembling like a little boy’s. Logan couldn't see his eyes behind his red-tinted sunglasses. Hair cut short and respectable. Under the beer Logan could smell the soft musky scent of a body that's postponed a shower a few extra hours.

Logan didn't say anything. He stared at the kid with canny, measuring eyes. The kid swallowed hard, then turned his attention back to the movie. Logan saw the kid's hand gripping the armrest, wrist pressed against the metal. He could hear his racing pulse gently jarring the metal claws housed in his forearms, sending fluttering high frequency pings into the air.

"Hi there." Logan said.

The kid looked at him, then swallowed hard and stared down at his belt buckle. "Hi," he said, practically swallowing the tiny word in a nervous, shaky exhale. Logan felt the high frequency pings break into a sprint.

The kid wasn't making eye contact. He was staring straight ahead, feigning interest in the bullshit on-screen. Logan sized the situation up. This kid was drunk, but not enough. He was going to want to be sweet-talked and cajoled into doing whatever he wanted to do in the first place. Probably didn't want any more than "you show me yours, I'll show you mine", but it would take 15 minutes of bullshit just to get there. It was too early in the night to bother. Logan got up.

"Wait." A hand closed around Logan's wrist. Logan suppressed the momentary instinct to pull free. The hand was warm, and, for such a pretty boy, fairly calloused, the hands of a mechanic or day laborer, strong and with a steady grip. Bigger than Logan would have guessed. I know what that means, he smirked to himself. He slid back down in his seat.

The kid was all talk now. "I want . . ." he gulped, and then took in a shaky breath. "I - I don't want to touch you."

"Fine" Logan said.

"Maybe I can . . . watch you," he whispered, and ducked his head. "And then you can watch me."

Sometimes Logan wished there was somewhere he could place bets on tricks. Logan smirked to himself and reached down to his belt buckle. His cock gave a little Pavlovian jump with the sound of the western buckle unclicking. Some guys it took a little to get worked up over, but this kid was going to be easy. He was good looking, he was young, and he was a pushover. The kind you could slap around a little, whether he asked for it or not. The thought of violence gave Logan a jolt of pleasure. He could already feel the heat in his groin, the strain of tumescent flesh against denim. The tinny grind of the tracks of his zipper was barely heard by human ears against the explosive soundtrack. Same for the kid's barely audible gasp. So take a look, kid, Logan thought to himself. You like what you see?

He did. Logan could tell by the unconscious parting of his lips as his sunglass-clad eyes darted over to where Logan's cock sprouted from the slit of his fly. How the kid's thumb unconsciously stroked the seam of his own zipper. Logan licked his first three fingers and dragged them up the underside of his uncut cock. A sweet sticky haze flooded his brain. Mouth on cock was fine, ass on cock was even better . . . but what he really loved, what gave him the most pleasure, was eyes on cock. Dragging it out into the air, feeling cool air currents on hot blood-engorged flesh, knowing that someone was watching his hands stroke the tingling flesh, got him harder than anything.

The kid's eyes didn't move from Logan's crotch. As if in a trance, his hands floated down to his own zipper, slowly opening his fly, dipping big hands in under the waistband of his clean white underwear. Logan got a whiff of laundry soap and musk as the kid drew out his already hard cock. The kid was shy, but eyes attuned to night vision could see what he hid in the shadow made by the seat in front. He was hung, no doubt about that.

But he wasn't sharing. The kid leaned over against the seat in front, jerked a few times and collapsed. Snapping back to reality he quickly wiped his hand against his jeans and bolted from his seat toward the door, zipping up so quick Logan thought he was going to circumcise himself all over again.

Logan quick buttoned his own fly and stormed out after him. He flew out the door quickly enough to see the kid ducking into the bathroom. Logan followed, taking big booted strides across the carpet, banging the door open with a boom.

The kid was standing over the sink, scrubbing his hands under water hot enough to steam the cracked mirror in front. Logan stood behind him.

"You owe me money." he growled.

"I don't owe you anything." The kid didn't even look up. He was wringing his hands raw under the scalding water. "You didn't do anything."

"You owe me money," Logan repeated more deliberately, taking a step closer to the kid's back. The kid stopped washing and waited. Logan didn't even see it coming. The kid reared back and plowed into him in a football tackle that caught him right under the ribs and knocked the air out of his lungs. The kid was strong and fast but not fast enough. Logan snagged him by the collar before he could make it to the door. He yanked him around and stared into that choirboy face shielded by ruby sunglasses. Logan hesitated a moment.

Then he punched. God, that felt good. He felt the kid's babyface jaw collapse under his adamantium knuckles. How you like that, kid? he thought. He punched again. That's for stiffing me. And again. The kid dropped to his knees. That's for leaving me hard. He punched again, driving the kid's face to the floor. The kid coughed and spat a red splatter onto the dirty tile. The adrenalined blood sang through Logan's body, as if every muscle snapped to attention. He dragged his fingers through the kid's silky hair and grabbed a handful of scalp, pulling the kid's bloodied face closer to his belt. With the other hand he undid his buckle -

PZOW -

There was a sudden atom bomb burst of red light and Logan felt like an elephant just kneed him in the solar plexus. He rocketed across the room, hitting the bathroom wall with such force the crumbling tile smashed into dust and airborne ceramic shards. The kid was getting up from his knees, replacing the sunglasses over his eyes. Logan scrambled to his feet when the kid squinted and

PZOW -

again the blinding red light and Logan's head snapped back so fast the force would have decapitated a normal man. He thudded to the ground, eyes blinded and head throbbing with indescribable searing pain.

The kid would have made it to the door if that hadn't hurt so damn much. There's just something about being pissed off that puts diesel in Logan's tank. Head throbbing, he sprung up off the ground and grabbed the kid. Logan was furious now. He spun the kid around to face the urinals. Grabbing his hair, he smashed his face into the wall. The glasses went flying as the kid yelped and struggled, trying to save himself. Logan hissed into his ear.

"You like that?" he hissed.

Grabbing him from behind by the collar, he dragged the kid into a stall. The toilet was filthy. Logan didn't care. He pushed the kid's face up against the stained porcelain. Drips of blood slid down the wet inside of the bowl and exploded into underwater flowers. That wet iron smell got Logan hard. Almost as hard as the kid's sniveling.

"You shut up." he growled. SNIKT he unsheathed his claws and pressed the blade tips up against the tender flesh of the kid's neck, right behind the ear. Pinpricks of blood glistened against the blade. "You owe me," he said.

He yanked down the kid's pants, right beneath his ass. Somebody eats their Wheaties, thought Logan. The kid was young and healthy, his ass perfect and tight, butterfly-shaped with deep hollows along his hips. He looked so perfect, so pathetic and exposed, the tan rough skin underneath his balls quivering in the cold air.

Logan unzipped quickly and drove his cock up against the kid's asshole. The kid flinched and Logan jabbed his claws up against his soft neck once more, just to let him know he meant business. "Don't try anything," he growled. The way the kid's neck went slack and clammy under his hands let Logan know he was listening. The rough pucker of his asshole, the warm crack of his trembling ass felt good against Logan's cock. This prick has made me work harder for less payback than anyone has in months, thought Logan. And I'm going to make him suffer.

Without a courtesy spit, he pressed the tip of his cock against the kid's ass. The kid wasn't giving an inch - as soon as he felt the pressure he clenched up and squirmed. Logan grabbed his hair and gave his head a quick smash against the toilet bowl. He could feel the suppressed whimper tremble in the kid's lungs, feel his defeated buttocks unclench while his hands stayed tight against the floor.

This was the moment Logan lived for. It was the same in a fight - he loved that smell that invaded the air, the scent of pure fear rising from his opponent's skin, that acrid tang that a body only gives off when it knows it is moments from death. He breathed deep and pushed hard. The kid yelped when Logan's cock cleaved the kid's virgin asshole - hot, sweet, that deep drag, those clenching spasms, the choked cries echoing off filthy porcelain. He liked it when they fought. Every struggle, every futile grasp at freedom jounced tightly against his thrusting cock. That in, out, in, out, like a saw blade cleaving flesh, the tight wet dark sweet space, the feel of that perfect ass and the sight of his cock making the peekaboo desecration. Slowly he slid his claws back under his skin. The slithering rip of pain that accompanied their sheathing went over the hot coruscations on his cock like salty on sweet.

He grabbed the kid's tight shoulders, his fingers digging into the terror-clenched muscles, and, leaning forward dug into him with his cock. "Don't move," he gasped. The kid was beaten, totally defeated. When Logan slid his hands away from his shoulders, down his torso to grab onto the hard bones at the top of his hips, he didn't even try to squirm. Logan clenched the kid's muscled hips and pounded him fast. One, two, three strokes and it was over, the sunburst explosion of endorphins in his brain bursting as he flooded the kid's ass with hot cum.

Logan caught his breath, savoring the last straggler spasms against the kid's abused insides. He swallowed hard, pulled out, and stood up. The kid didn't even move. Logan looked down - the kid's blood and shit was streaked across the hem of his white t-shirt. He tucked the soiled edge into his jeans. The thrill of the trophy against his skin sent a charge through him again. He zipped up, gave the kid one more vicious kick in the ribs, and strode out.

The owner was standing behind the counter as Logan opened the door. "You fucker!" he yelled. "What the hell is going on in there? I oughta - UYGHHHHH!!" Logan's claws swiftly snaked in and out of the owner's soft belly. He dropped to his knees, stunned, awareness spreading over his face as blood from his wounds bloomed in spreading inkblots over his dirty cotton undershirt. He toppled forward, stunned, onto the filthy carpet.

"That's the last time I work here," Logan snarled, and meant it. He stepped soundlessly over him, out the door and into the Times Square night.