[M] A Gloomy Town

[Deadpool]

Deadpool slid the phone back into its compartment and returned his attention to the streets. He could see an ox with two-pronged horns bobbing its head, as it clomped down the cobbles, towing a wooden wagon. Fresh corpses piled up overflowed the sides; limbs dangled as the wheels of the wagon vibrated along the cobbles.

A man hobbled behind it, with his head tilted to the ground. In his right hand, he held a shovel over his shoulder. What remained of his armor—a shoulder piece and single armguard—had been battered to the point where it no longer glimmered. Holes gaped his chainmail near his right thigh, and a stain of crimson outlined it.

A few people passed the man and wagon, but none of them took a second glance. Death and destruction were things that the citizens of Darkshire had become all too accustomed to, the mercenary wagered. Ever since he arrived, he could sense the feeling of despair that loomed over. It was like an unyielding, dark cloud of misfortune. But Behind Deadpool’s mask, his lips trembled into a slight smile. He knew that wherever a cloud of misfortune was, there was adventure. To him, adventure meant Omnilium.

There’s a lot of Omnilium just waiting to be grabbed in this verse. A gloomy town like this has more issues than Helen Kel—

Abruptly, a stroke of pain hit the back of Deadpool’s head, and sent his face into the top-right panel of glass. ”Pshshlklkblah! the glass goes, as my head goes through said glass!!” the mercenary cackled.

Deadpool went to pull his head out of the window. He took his hands and pressed them against the walls around it, but as he went to remove his head from the pane, he was struck again, behind the knee. His hands slid down the wall as his knee buckled, and his neck hit the bottom of the pane. Jagged remains of glass that lined the bottom of the pane sank into his flesh like teeth, and ushered out a reservoir of blood.

Gingy jumped up onto Deadpool’s shoulder and pushed his staff against the mercenary’s cheek; more blood spewed out as his neck slid across teeth of glass. “My phone. Now.” He pressed harder.

”W-wha fllet-vor ish thaph?” A spill of blood gargled up from Deadpool’s mouth. ”Shmals lyk bernaner strawlburrrry.”


As he spoke, a look of both perplexity and disgust plastered onto Gingy’s face. “The fu—“ He softened the grip on his staff.

With a violent jerk, Deadpool freed his head from the windowpane. A torrent of blood sprayed across the rest of the window as his head whipped out, and back around to locate at the gingerbread. Gingy had been sent airborne. His staff flew out of his hand and spiraled down to the ground.

The mercenary reared a fist, and rocketed into the pastry’s face. He aimed for the dick he had drawn earlier, and connected, sending Gingy to the far corner of the room. He bounced off the wall, and then kissed the floor with a thud!

”Lil’ Pillsbury, Fuckboy.” Deadpool said. It was with more jaw than mouth—a crooked smiley grinned ear-to-ear. Pieces of flesh dangled from his jaw, with blood pulling down to the tips and dripping onto the floor.

With a sound similar to stirring macaroni n’ cheese, the veins in Deadpool’s neck gradually repaired themselves, reconnecting like twisted wiring. His neck throbbed as muscle tissue regenerated to fill the voids left in his laceration. The new tissue was as stiff as a fresh leather jacket. And as the final layer of skin overlapped his neck, he cracked it, and grimaced.