[M] A Gloomy Town

[Deadpool]

It took the mercenary majority of the night to crack Gingy’s phone (a few recollections of Weasel’s brilliance was all he was equipped with). Through the lens of his dimension, the device was primitive—not even touchscreen; but complex, with a stable of firewalls in place. Deadpool had jail-broken a few iPhones in his life—even a couple Androids—but jail-breaking was a cakewalk compared to this. This, he figured, would have made the President’s phone look like a gumball dispenser; sticker buttons included, with surround-sound bleepidy boops, as you pressed them.

If I can ever get back to Marvel, I’m taking this thing with me, he thought. Have Weasel make me like a hundred of em, and sell them to minors.

”Kids, ever wanted a phone you’re parents couldn’t track or break into?” he could picture himself asking, and a whole crowd of kids replying—yes! yes!—with giddy joy. Gone, are the days of daddy finding pictures of ‘Across the Street’ Johnny’s cock in your deleted files! Gone are the days of having to clear your browser history after masturbation!

As he breached the final walls of security, the phone flickered into an array of colors. They splashed over Deadpool’s mask, and his eyes became as large as golf balls. Then the screen went black, but instantly came back in splitting bars of luminance. All the information he was searching for—and some he wasn’t—flushed out.

And everything became clear.

It was all a game, a game created by a mysterious figure—the figure that had greeted Deadpool in the white realm. His name was Omni. Or that was the name portrayed to the masses, with the true man orchestrating everything behind the scenes. There always is, Deadpool thought.

His thumbs delicately worked the phone’s keyboard to flip through the pages of information (he wondered how a thumbless gingerbread did it). “I’ll play your game, Gre—“ He caught himself “—[i]Omni. You bitch, you.”

Nice little reference to the text under my avatar, by the way.

* * *

The thick clouds that rolled over the Pale Moors tried to contain the rise of morning, but failed. An outline of the sun rose in the sky and seeped light through the clouds, which bathed the land in a pale, blue hue.

Gingy’s eyes fluttered open, then clasped shut. Light that beamed through the windowpanes washed over his visage. He threw a hand up to repel it. “Where—“ the gingerbread sat up and wiped his fingerless hands over his face “—where am I?”

He could recall evading the storm troopers, and recall stopping to catch his breath, in front of a gate. Which gate? Think, he told himself. Gray stone and moss, it was the Pale Moors. Then he remembered the red and black cladded fucktard.

“Good morning sleepy head!” a voice pierced. It was raspy and confident. “There was a plush breakfast this morning in the basement. You missed it. I had gotten you a cookie—had to beat up an old lady for it—but, ya’know, then figured that might be cannibalism, so I did my good deed for the day and gave it back to the her. I hope she isn’t dead, though.” The voice paused. “I’m sure if she was, Baron would have elaborated.”

The voice spoke nonsense. It was the type of shit that would have you conclude someone was off his or her rocker. Gingy hung his head and let his hands fall into his lap. He took a glance up; across the room, seemingly glowing as Gingy peered through the light in his face, was the fucktard. He leaned against a desk, with both front legs of his chair kicked out. The Lollipop Staff jutted out from of his side.

Great, Gingy, Gingy thought, and hung his head again, you finally got caught. “Fuck you gonna do with me now?” Gingy asked. He stared at his wrists and could already envision shackles clanking around them.

The two front legs of the chair slammed against the floor. “This sounds serious,” the man said and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What do you mean? Did you think I wanted to molest you or something?”

I’m Deadpool, by the way. I’m tired of Baron referring to me as the ’fucktard’ when he writes from your perspective. I HAVE A NAME!!!” He jolted a trembling fist up to his face.

Without a brow to furrow, Gingy looked up with one eye widened. This Deadpool must have known what Gingy meant, but instead insisted on blabbering about bullshit, and more off-rocker talk. Gingy put it into better terms: “Why you kidnap me?” He followed it with, “You takin’ me back to Coruscant?”

Deadpool shook his head. “Nah. I’m not a big fan of Star Wars.”

Gingy assumed that Star Wars was Deadpool’s way of referring to Corsucant. If what the fucktard said was true, then he must have been a mercenary. “So why kidnap me then?” If the man was a mercenary hungering for ransom, the Kingdom was not the store that stocked it. Gingy’s missions were top secret; even if they weren’t, Camelot would never drain resources to save him. No, not for a non-human.

“I didn’t kidnap you, per se,” the mercenary replied as he got up from his chair and walked over to the bed. “I saved your life from those Star Wars dudes—storm troopers—and I wanted my thank you.” He went to sit, but saw a suspicious, whitish clear stain. He navigated his rear around the stain and took a seat at the end of the bed. “Then you spit in my eye.” He looked over his shoulder at Gingy with a wide smile, wrinkling the bottom of his mask. “So I did what any sensible American would do—chase you down to beat the fuck outta you.”

“Right.” Gingy nodded slowly.

He did not trust Deadpool. The fucktard was either trying to be funny, or was insane. The Omniverse was a strange place, with even stranger people; most were not trustworthy.

“I have to admit,” Deadpool said, “I was planning on interrogating you—break your legs into crumbs, or maybe pick your icing features off—until I checked your phone.”

My Phone?! Gingy thought. He could only watch with half dollar-sized eyes as Deadpool reached down to his thigh, and pulled a phone from one of many compartments.

“This thing saved you from a lot of creative pain,” Deadpool raised the phone up over his shoulder, and snickered. [color=red“Let’s just say you would have been left with a blank look on your face.”[/color]

Gingy’s phone contained all of his mission briefings; if they were ever to be exposed, shit would hit the fan. Big time. He was sure most of the briefings were safe. Except for the current mission. The current mission was still displayed in an open app.

Gingy wanted to ask how much Deadpool discovered, but had to be careful with his words—saying too much could compromise the mission in its own right. He found a way he could pick Deadpool’s brain without jeopardizing his mission: “Why’d you take my phone, you slimey fuck?” It was vague, but with any luck—something Gingy had none of so far—Deadpool would blurt out what he learned.

“I think my last piece of dialogue kinda alluded to me having questions, and almost causing you delightful pain to extract the answers,” Deadpool replied matter-of-factly. “Then you’re phone answered all the questions I had.”

“What questions?” Gingy inquired. If Deadpool was going to spill the beans it was now.

“About the Omniverse as a whole; nothing about you, specifically.” Deadpool’s emerald eyes drifted to the bed. He got up, careful not to place his hand on the stain, and walked over to the window. “I learned that you have a serious hentai collection, though,” he said as he leaned against the window stool and peered out into the streets. The beam of light that climbed over the bed, at Gingy, faded over his shoulder. “Something is wrong with this town. The people here, they have no hope. Not even the natural hope that comes with a new day.” It was said with grim seriousness.

As embarrassing as it was, if all Deadpool found was hentai, it was a relief. Gingy wiped his hand above his icing eyes, with a phew. But he still needed his phone back. “Yeah, this place is fucked,” he replied and stood up on the bed to walk to the far end of it. “That’s why I need my phone so I can get outta here.”

Gingy had no intentions of staying in the Pale Moors long; through his travels, he had heard enough about the verse. The place was overrun with all types of monstrosities. Most Primes that returned from Pale Moors were never the same (One Camelot captive, that had come from the 'Moors, tried to swallow his own tongue).

“You’re not getting it back.” It was said as seriously as his last remarks. “I’m taking this as my thanks for saving your cute lil, delicious ass from whatever those storm troopers’ intentions were.”

* * *