[M] A Gloomy Town

[Deadpool]

With a twist of the knob and shove forward, the door to Plush Inn creaked open. After a few short steps inside, the mercenary swatted a hand back and swung the door closed; another creak tore through the quiet square lobby as he did so.

Plush Inn was nothing extravagant. It was quite the opposite, actually. What the hell is so plush about this place? Deadpool wondered as his eyes gradually shifted around the lobby, though it was a question that would have been better suited for the man that suggested the inn.

The walls were just as naked—no decorations or anything—as the ones on the outside of the building, and under the dwindling flames from the lone chandelier suspended above the center of the ceiling, the burgundy rug that covered the floor looked as it was once a cherry red.

The one thing that could have been considered plush was the redwood desk near the back of the lobby, to the left of a stairwell of wooden steps that ascended upward.

A woman old enough to have relations but not old enough to show wrinkles stood behind the desk, with her big blue eyes fixated on the mercenary as she grabbed a stack of bound paperwork She was plush too. Her brown her flowed down to a plush, milky skinned rack, which was made plusher by the black Victorian style blouse she wore.

“Greetings, welcome to Plush Inn” she said with her best ‘I don’t want to be here, but while I am, I might as well act happy’ voice; it was soft, but lacked the exuberance to be convincing.

Deadpool glanced down at the gingerbread in his hand and stuffed the pastry into a rear pocket, quickly returning his sights to the inside of the lobby. “Hey,” he finally replied as he began making his way towards the desk.

“Looking for a room?” the woman inquired, keeping an eye on the mercenary as she drew her attention to the paperwork in her hands. She peeled through it some. “One of two beds?”

“Yeah,” Deadpool responded as his eyes wandered down to the delicacies under her clavicle, concentrating on the blue vain ran down one of her pale skinned bosoms to the collar of her blouse.

“Excuse me, I’m up here.” The receptionist tried to keep her voice as polite as possible, but some exasperation did seep through.

The mercenary pulled his eyes from the woman’s cleavage and back to her face. ”Yeah, one bedroom,” he said. ”I’ll only take up half the bed though, just incase I get a nighttime visitor.” He tried to give off his best ‘I wanna fuck you face’, but nothing noticeable showed through his mask.

“Oooookaaay,”With a furrowed brow, she shoved a hand into a drawer on her side of the desk, pulling out a key after a few jiggles of the arm. “Fourth floor, second door on the right.” She placed the key onto the desk and then brought her attention back to the bound paperwork. “Enjoy your stay.”

Maybe a certain narrator can hook a certain mercenary up with a certain hotel receptionist, at a certain italicized inn, in the near future?


Deadpool took the key from the desk and turned to make his way up the wooden stairwell, without saying another word to the woman. The gingerbread in his ass’s pocket flapped as he went.

I guess not. Loser.


And lol . . . ass’s pocket.

It had been a while since Deadpool had to walk up so many damn steps. In his world—dimension, for that matter—there were such things as elevators and escalators; stairwells were reserved for emergencies (even then some idiots still opted for the elevator, knowing that it could seize at any moment). Even worse, each stepped creaked as he placed his weight upon them, reminding him of those annoying Resident Evil staircase cut-scenes as he phased in and out of darkness up the steps.

Fourth floor, finally. As soon as he walked up the last step, he took a sharp turn into the floor’s only hallway. He looked down the hall to see doors lining up both sides, kept illuminated by the retreating light of two tall candle posts at the end.

Second door to the right, the very much fuckable woman at the redwood desk had said.

The mercenary walked by the first door to his right, but then stopped to face the second door. He looked at the key in his hand for a moment, and then the doorknob; then put the key into the knob’s slot and twisted. As soon as he entered the room, he pulled the key out, shut the door, and then found the iron latch that locked it and clamped the door shut.

Though the small room was dark, a window adjacent to a paired desk and chair in the far corner let enough orange, oil lamp light from outside shine through its sullied quarter panes. After moments of blackness in the stairwell, Deadpool welcomed even dim, second-hand lighting.

With one motion, the mercenary snatched the gingerbread out of his rear pocket and underhand chucked him onto the bed—a flimsy mattress on a wooden bedpost (which Deadpool assumed, along with the chair and desk, completed some type of shitty medieval bedroom set)—on the other side of the room. Gingy’s body flopped against the stiff bed, not even bouncing the slightest off of its beige covers.

Damn, that thing is stiffer than a corpse; it should do for one night though. the mercenary thought as he made his way over to the window.

He placed the heels of his palms on the window stool as he found a clear—the clearest—window pane to peer though. The layout of the town was simple enough—a spider web of cobblestone streets that spread out of the town center—as all of the main roads led to one large clock tower, but an unsettling realization hit the mercenary as he surveyed the town: not a soul was out roaming around outside. Even the bleakest of towns had criminals lurking in the darkness of alleyways, or homeless people propped up against things with their cups in hand; not this town. Here, oil lamps ruled the night, dotting each intersection with their orange hues.

This place is straight out of the Dark Ages, or some shit. Deadpool was never really that good with history.

He took a glance back Gingy, only to see that the gingerbread was still laying on the bed in an unconscious state. Little guy had been out ever since they came out the other side of the portal (a few hours, maybe?).

Then the mercenary remembered the device he had taken from the pastry—the smartphone thingy. He quickly retrieved it, pressing the PWR button on the side. The screen flickered once and then, with a bright light, cut on. ‘omniMobile’ slid across the screen in bold blue letters as it centered itself, then instantly vanished with a highboop ring.