DISCLAIMER: I do not own Logan or any other Marvel character, and I make no profit from this fan fiction.


Fifty years ago, all the super villains banded together to rid the world of superheroes.

They missed one.

Old Man Logan:

The Last Superhero


Rhonnel Ferry

I've been through the desert on a horse with no name.

It's not just the lyrics to a song that's been repeatedly playing in my head for hours. It's reality. Except we're not through the desert yet. And if we don't get any water soon, I'm gonna be on a DEAD horse with no name.

Welcome to the Wastelands. Nothing here but miles and miles of more nothing. Every once and a while, you come across an ancient relic, like a stop sign...with bullet holes on it. A reminder of a better time that we took for granted, and too often complained about.

"I'm sorry, girl," I tell the weary horse, gently patting its neck. "Looks like this is the end of the road. For you and me both, actually. Unfortunately for you, I'm the only one of the two of us with a mutant healing factor. Which basically means after I die of thirst, my body will fix itself, and I get to die of thirst all over again. Hmm... Maybe you're not the unfortunate one. But most of all, I'm sorry that we've known each other for months, and I never even bothered to give you a name."

She's a tough one, though, this old nameless horse. She just snorts, and dutifully drags her hooves forward. Eventually the dust clears enough for me to make out a town entry sign: WELCOME TO REAVER-VILLE. TITS OR GET THE FUCK OUT!

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," I exclaim, excitedly patting the horse's neck. "We made it, girl! We fucking made it!"

She whinnies in response, and we ride into town.


It's quiet. The buildings are old and rickety. And the streets are dusty and empty. It's like this everywhere. You wont be finding any kids playing outside these days. Not in the Wastelands. I find a trough, and let my horse have a much needed drink. Hope the water's not irradiated.

I tether her to a hitching post, then go look for a bar. My kind of thirst requires something a lot stronger than water.

I follow the faint sound of piano music to a roadhouse. Sign above the swinging doors says: Weiser's Saloon.

"Bub, you are a sight for sore eyes!" I yell to the bartender, as soon as I enter the establishment.

I ignore the cold and curious stares from the patrons, and head straight for a stool in front of the counter.

"Beer!" I order. "Cold! All of it!"

But to my dismay, instead of serving me my drink, he nervously looks over my shoulder to a group of men seated at a nearby, wooden, round table.

"You must not know how to read!" one of them announces, getting on his feet. He's a tall, skinny guy. Good looking, I guess, if you're into those old boy bands. "The sign outside says TITS OR GET THE FUCK OUT! This town has already exceeded its maximum masculine capacity! We only welcome women! Preferably of the hot variety."

"Hey, Justin," his friend chuckles. "He's so old he probably already has tits."

The group bursts into laughter.

"I rode into town on a mare," I explain, my back still to them. "She got teats. You show her a good time, maybe she'll let you suck on 'em."

And then they become quiet. I love that momentary shock all bullies get when someone stands up to them. They're not used to it. They usually make some stupid, desperate comeback afterwards.

"Oh, yeah!" the joker yells at me. "Well,... maybe you should... s-suck on... m-my... t... d... dick!"

See what I mean?

"Shut up, Jack," Justin snaps at him.

The tall guy signals his boy band, and they all start crossing the room towards me.

"N-no need for trouble, Justin!" the bartender, I'm guessing Weiser, stammers, his trembling hand raised. "The stranger was just leaving! W-weren't you, stranger?"

"But I haven't had my drink!" I protest, frowning at him.

"Look," he whispers to me. "I'm doing you a favor here."

"You wanna do me a favor, pour me a goddamn drink!"

I hear heavy treads speeding behind me. I look up just in time to see Jack's reflection in the bar mirror. He's about to clonk me in the back of the head, but I beat him to it, and elbow him in the face!

Yea, an elbow to the face hurts. Hurts ten times as much when the guy doing it has indestructible metal bones! Jack's nose sinks into his face, and he collapses in a heap.

I swing around in my seat, and shove both boots hard into the chest of the next guy! He falls back on his friends, and they all fall over each other!

Except for Justin. He manages to get out of the way. Then, from a holster inside his coat, he draws an automatic revolver!

That's when I pop the claws. Three near seven inch long steel blades on each fist! I snarl and bound at him! He pulls the trigger. I swing the claws.

His forearm is lopped off near the elbow! The limb crashes to the ground, still clutching the firearm, making sputtering and whirring noises.

It's mechanical. They're cyborgs. Worse, actually. They're Reavers.

Justin screams as sparks, oil, and blood erupt from his gaping wound! I stab him in the chest, right through the heart, to end his misery.

See? I can be merciful when I want to.

I look up and the rest of the boy band have scurried away. Jack isn't where I left him, so either he regained consciousness, which I doubt, or his buddies dragged his sorry ass out with them. I don't care. Part of me thinks I should chase them, but all I really want is that drink, now.

"Beer, wasn't it?" Weiser asks me, placing a beer mug on the counter.

"Better make that a bottle of whiskey, Beau," a woman tells him. "We're taking it upstairs."

She sits next to me, and suggestively touches my forearm. She is absolutely stunning! Dark hair, luscious lips, and big, beautiful gray eyes. A tad too skinny, but everyone's too skinny these days. They don't call it the Wastelands for nothing. I must have been really exhausted not to have noticed her on my way in.

"So what do you say, cowboy?" she asks me.

"Gonna be honest with you, Darlin'," I admit to her. "Not as good as I once was."

She callously tips her pretty little head at Justin's corpse.

"Bet you're still better than that piece of shit bleeding on the floor over there."


The bath was nearly as good as the whiskey. I've been without both in days. Woulda' taken my time, if I didn't have a hot filly waiting for me in the next room. And I've been without a woman even longer.

She's shed her dress, and is wearing nothing but a black, sexy, cowgirl corset. I didn't bother putting anything on after the bath.

"You're hurt," she says, frowning, gently touching near a bullet wound on the right side of my gut.

"Don't worry about it," I assure her. "I'm a fast healer."

"If you say so. Wouldn't want you to croak halfway through."

"There are worse ways to die."

I take hold of her supple waist, pull her towards me, and ravenously press her lips against mine.


Her name is Agnella Bianchi. She hadn't even been born fifty years ago when the super villains took over. She has no idea what a superhero is. Life in the Wastelands has been all she's ever known. It's all she'll ever know. Unless, by some miracle, I somehow manage to change things.

"Last night is on the house," she says, lying naked next to me on the bed. "For ridding the world of that bastard, Justin Lake."

"What did he do to you?" I ask.

"He gave me this."

She brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, and reveals a long, ugly scar running down the side of her face, that I hadn't noticed last night. It made me wince. Made me wanna kill Justin all over again. But much slower and with far more pain.

Suddenly, someone starts banging on the door with his fist.

"Agnella!" a man's voice booms from the other side. "The stranger still in there with you?!"

"Oh, what're you going to do, Dennis?!" Agnella angrily shouts back. "Get rid of the first man with the balls to stand up to those assholes?!"

"Who's that? Boyfriend?" I whisper to her.

"Worse. It's the sheriff."


The sheriff had a couple of deputies with him armed with 12 gauge shotguns. I didn't give them any trouble, and let them take me to the station house. But I didn't let them slap cuffs on me, or put me in a holding cell.

"You really him?" Sheriff Dennis Meyer asks me from behind his desk. "You the Wolverine?"

"I don't really go by that name anymore," I admit. "Just Logan's fine."

"Shit, he's the most wanted man in the Wastelands!" the young Deputy Connery exclaims. "They say he killed President Red Skull! Do you know what they're willing to pay for his capture?!"

"You're welcome to try, son."

The color drains from his face. He swallows, then stutters, "W-Well, I didn't mean... Was just thinking out loud is all..."

"I'm gonna have to ask you to leave town," Meyer firmly tells me.

"Can't do that," I respond. "Not until I've killed Quaid."

"Quaid?!" he repeats. "Jason Quaid, the landowner of Reaver-ville?!"

"It's why I came here. It's why I let his boy, Jack, get away. So that the punk would lead me right to his boss!"

"You tracked Jack last night?"

"Well,...no," I admit sheepishly. "Agnella gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. I confess it may have been...bad strategy on my part."

"Christ, then they're gonna be comin' here for you! This whole town's gonna be ripped apart in one of those super battles from when I was a kid!"

"Yea, I suggest you take the townsfolk someplace safe. Like a storm cellar. Or a bank vault, or somethin'."

"What exactly do you hope to accomplish?!" he hollers, on his feet now, leaning forward on his desk. "Start some kind of a revolution?!"

"Do I look like Katniss Everdeen to you? Hell, no. I got no leadership skills for that."

"What then?! Just murder all the super villains on the planet one by one?!"

"Basically, yea..."

"How?! You couldn't get rid of them fifty years ago when there were hundreds of superheroes!"

"I don't know how!" I yell back, bolting up. "But I've tried it their way! My boy and I ran ourselves ragged paying their rent! And the bastards killed my family anyway! I was told they murdered them out of boredom. And you know what? I bet that shit is happening here, too. Yea, you follow their rules, you pay their rent, you let 'em walk all over you,...and people still die. Girls like Agnella still get cut up. And do you know why? You know why?! Because evil doesn't need a reason! Bad guys do bad things because it's their nature!"


Quaid and his posse arrive on horseback around noon. Was hoping he'd come at nightfall when it's dark. Not a lot o' places to hide in the desert in the day. I find cover in an alley, under the shadow of an old church.

Quaid is taller, lankier, and way older than the late Justin Lake. He's got long gray hair, and what appears to be some kind of breathing apparatus covering his nose and mouth. Hell, at my age, I'd probably need one, too, if it weren't for the mutant healing factor.

At their leader's signal, they all dismount. I see Jack, his nose heavily taped up, frantically rush up to his boss's side. They start whispering to each other. I have a heightened sense of hearing, and in the old days, I would be able to listen in on them as easily as if they were whispering directly into my ear. Now, I can't hear squat.

Then my mind starts to wander, like with most old people, about why it had to be me? Why did I have to be the one that survived? Lots of other, better superheroes more capable of fixing the mess this country is in.

Rogers. Shoulda' been him. Captain America would have no problem inspiring the masses to rise up against these super villain tyrants. Me? I just kill things.

"Wolverine!" Quaid calls out, his voice mildly muffled by his face mask. "Show yourself, you cowardly cur! Or innocent people start dyin' in your place!"

Typical, honorless super villain tactic. His boys start kickin' down doors, looking for frightened folks to drag out into the street. They wont find any. Sheriff Meyer had followed my suggestion of taking the people somewhere safe.

I stay in the shadows, and move from cover to cover until I get behind one of the small houses, and quietly enter through the back door. Getting in is easy. Just use one of my claws to silently slash the shackle off a padlock.

The Reavers are being less stealthy. They're kicking doors open, knocking down furniture, screaming expletives.

Kids these days.

"Where the fuck is everybody at?!" one of them yells, swinging his lever-action repeating rifle from side to side. "You little bitches know better than to hide from us! When I find you, I'm gonna fuck you all up...!"

I could say something superheroish before killing him...like, 'Jesus, the language!' or 'Your mama feed you with that mouth?' But I'm not Spider-man. So instead I just sneak up behind him, slit his throat, and let him bleed to death on the floor.

"Bobby, you find anyone?" his buddy asks, then finds me standing over his friend's carcass. "Oh, shit-!"

He raises his lever-action shotgun at me. Too slow. My first swing rips his scattergun into pieces! My second swing does the same to his ribcage. I get sprayed by his blood.

"He's in the house!" I hear somebody yell from outside.

And then the very next second, bullets are flying inside from everywhere. I dive behind a brick wall, and crawl on my belly underneath a window. It's deafening. Splinters of wood, and shards of glass fall all over me.

Believe it or not, I actually prefer it this way. Do I want a simple, quiet, and peaceful life? Sure, I do. But the berserker in me is built for chaos. It yearns for violence, craves for war.

"Did we get 'em?" somebody asks.

"Check it out," somebody answers.

"Fuck you. You check it out."

With a snarl, I leap out the shattered window, and settle the argument for them by sinking fistful of claws into both their faces!

I retract the claws, look up, and see Quaid standing about twenty paces away. It's like an old West pistol duel. Except I don't have a pistol.

"That's him, boss! That's him!" Jack whimpers, fearfully pointing at me.

"Yea, I kinda' guessed that," his boss grumbles irritably. Then he turns to me, and yells, "You know, I have to thank you, Wolverine! For giving me the honor...of driving the final nail...on the superhero coffin!"

"Take a good look at me, Quaid," I growl. "Traded my mask for an old hat, and my yellow spandex for this worn out coat. THERE ARE NO MORE SUPERHEROES. And when I'm done...there wont be any super villains either."


It's the metallic sound my claws make when I extend them. Another snarl and I'm rushing forward like a mad animal.

Quaid draws two revolvers and fires! I shield my face with the claws, and keep going! A bullet to the leg slows me down a little, but it doesn't matter. He's already within reach of my blades.

I'm just about to strike, when from inside his coat, two metallic limbs suddenly reveal themselves! The fucker has four hands! And each of them is holding a gun! The two extra pistols shoot me in the midriff! My momentum is stopped, and I crash on my back, gasping for air.

Quaid stands over me, and levels a revolver at my face.

"Gimme a second," he says. "I'm tryin' to think of a really wicked super villain line before I pull the trigger."

"Take your time," I rasp.

Then he's violently knocked back by a bullet to the shoulder.

"What the fuck-?" he begins, as he watches the blood flow from the wound.

"Over there!" Jack yells, pointing upward, right before another bullet hits him in the heart, and kills him.

I look, and see Sheriff Meyer and his deputies on the rooftops, shooting down at the Reavers with their bolt action hunting rifles! They have the high ground and the element of surprise. But the Reavers have the numbers, and they have all those cyborg enhancements.

"Tear them apart!" Quaid commands as he begins firing back.

I haven't completely recovered. Healing factor 'aint what it used to be. Every breath I take is a painful god-awful struggle! But if I don't get off my ass now, the Sheriff and his boys are gonna get cut to ribbons!

I force myself up, and stab Quaid in his right kneecap! He howls in pain! I slice off one of his mechanical arms! His pistol-whips me across the face. I fall back down. He's about to shoot me, when I shove my boot hard into his knee injury! He howls in pain again! I grab the severed mechanical arm on the ground, and whack him in the face with it! He topples down. I get back up, and swing that limb down on his head...again and again!

I am literally beating him to death with his own severed arm!

Finally his body stops twitching. His head is completely pulverized. Didn't notice how quiet it's become. Must've gotten caught in the moment. The few surviving Reavers have apparently run for the hills. I have no idea when exactly they scampered, and how much time had passed since they left. I have lost all sense of time.


I head up to the roof. Connery didn't make it. Bullet to the throat. Poor kid. The other deputies seem OK, more or less. But Meyer got hurt pretty bad with a couple of slugs to the right side of his chest. They're applying pressure on the wound when I get there.

"You alright?" I ask him.

"You kidding me?" he grunts. "I haven't felt this good in fifty years."


Meyer couldn't see me off. He's still recovering in their small clinic. Agnella and I say our goodbyes, and I'm just about to head off, when I hear someone call after me.

"Mr. Logan!" Weiser shouts, and hands me a bottle of Whiskey. "Something for the road."

"Aw, this is perfect. Thanks," I say, then stuff the bottle into the saddlebag.

"So...what happens now? I mean, what do we do?"

"Damned if I know. Guess you rebuild. Make somethin' of this place. You don't need me for that. Hell, I'm not even good at that."

"But...but what if the Reavers come back after you've gone?"

"I strongly doubt they would. But if they do, Meyer and his deputies will handle it. I'm the most wanted man in the country. Trust me, you don't want me staying here."

"Guess not."

I tip my hat to 'em, get on my horse with no name, and ride through the desert.