07-31-2016, 02:09 PM
The trio continued to run, wrapping corners and cutting through alleys as they pushed deeper into the city. Deadpool's boots bounced off of the concrete pavement, clapping in junction with those of his partners. The heels of his feet throbbed with pain. A mile—that's what Hiro said? With flesheating lunatics barreling out of every crevice of the metropolis, it felt like five miles.
The mercenary looked over his shoulder; peering through the hazy fog, he caught the gleam of red eyes. The flesheaters ran on all fours, galloping towards them as if they were one of those idiotic collections of friends that participated in the Running Of The Bulls.
“Aight Karl,” Hiro said, pacing his speech with his breathing pattern, “I can't get us any further; where's the bunker?”
“We're looking for a large office building, ladies—the type with hundreds of windows!” Karl exclaimed.
Near the end of an alley, he halted in his tracks to club a charging flesheater across the head with his machete. The creature wobbled on stubborn legs, forcing Karl to strike it again before succumbing to the side of the curb. Its brains looked like mangled lasagna.
“We make a left on the next street,” he said.
They bent the corner—Powertwink Blvd, the mercenary believed he saw on a street sign—and continued. The block they turned onto was rowed with adjoining homes, which towered three stories high; a few of the them had mom n' pop shops set up on the bottom floors.
They passed the block, making a right onto the next one. There they stopped.
Deadpool's eyes bulged as he stared ahead. A legion of flesheaters barricaded the road. Their eyes gazed back like a pack of starved hounds, displaying their teeth as they growled in a frightening harmony. He glanced over at his partners to see if they shared the same feelings of shock and anxiety, and they did.
“Any other routes, Karl?!” Hiro asked, gritting his teeth.
The executive turned to see the creatures behind them still nearing, strangling the intersection. “Looks like we're trapped!”
The mercenary surveyed the area for a means of escape; when he found it, a plan began to formulate in his head. ”Do you think they like Michael Jackson?” he inquired.
“We really don't have time for your babbling right now, Wade,” Karl replied. He had positioned himself to face their rear, machete clasped in both hands like a batter over home-plate.
”For real!” the mercenary retorted. He pointed a finger towards the ground. ”There's our way out right there, we just gotta buy some time.”
Karl and Hiro both glanced at what Deadpool's finger indicated—a cast iron manhole cover.
“Either of you fine boys have the strength at this current time to pry that thing out?” the executive scoffed. “While simultaneously defending yourself from cannibal-lunatic-zombies?”
”Just focus on getting in the manhole,” Deadpool answered; for once, a serious tone fell upon his voice.
The mercenary had a genuine plan, derived from a music video he watched in 1982 (back when mullets and jerry curls were the most popular hairdos, and women 'powdered' their faces regularly). He remembered the video fondly—the choreography, the lyrics, it was all permanently engraved into his memory. The King of Pop—in colors similar to the mercenary's, oddly enough—manipulated a horde of zombies; just through the power of song and dance, the undead were compelled to join him. There was the looming fact that Michael Jackson did so while also as a zombie, but technicalities were for pessimists.
Deadpool smiled beneath his mask, and flashed a wink at the executive. ”I'm gonna give these guys a thriller.” He sheathed his katana.
Karl nodded without hesitation. “If you want to risk your life trying to mimic Michael Jackson then be my guest.”
”Yo Hiro, here.” Deadpool took the backpack from his shoulder and tossed it over to the bronze hacker.
Hiro gave him a quizzical look, furrowing a brow over the top of his visor. “Why the hell you giving this to me?”
”It's got my buddy Sas in there,” he answered. ”I'll get it back from you when we rendezvous—I like that word, because it makes me feel sofisticatered.”
Hiro responded with a nod, and then joined Karl, who had already hunkered over the manhole and started the laborious work of lodging the lid free.
Deadpool extracted those memories of himself copying the Thriller dance moves. He began to implement them, switching to his side with an arm extended; nodding his head a couple times, he thrusted his pelvis forward as he began to gradually two-step forward. Those famous artificial bass and clap sounds circulated in his mind—duhdun-dun duhdun . . . clap!; duhdun-dun . . . clap!
The flesheaters encircled the trio, but did not yet attack. Instead, they stood around with mixed expressions of perplexity and curiosity smeared over their visages, returning some resemblance of humanity to them. Their growls turned into raspy hums.
The mercenary glided a foot forward, flaring his hands with flamboyant wrist flicks; he did it twice, then switched sides to repeat it. Damn he was rusty, and it didn't help that he was naturally a terrible dance, due to being white. Perhaps this was a scene better made for Hiro.
But it appeared to be working. One of the flesheaters, at the head of the horde facing Deadpool, bobbed its head stupefyingly. The two to his flanks joined him. Then the entire crowd began to participate. It was as if they were programmed to know the routine—the creatures replicated the next part of the dance, shifting laterally and stroking their hips upward before dipping their postures in a dramatic fashion.
In unison, Deadpool and the flesheaters threw out a trailing hand; wrapping the other around their crotches, they steadily thrusted their pelvises from the tips of their toes; they did it thrice. The mercenary went to jump and clamp—the start to the best part—, but the creatures beat him to it, landing into a horizontal slide, and shimmying their heads while holding their knees.
The flesheaters were ruining the best part of the choreography, by being more fluent in their moves than he was. Deadpool quit dancing and silently ridiculed the creatures, folding his arms across his chest.
”Hey, you gotta slow down!” Deadpool squawked at the crowd.
Anger festered his spirit, resigning him to an unpleasant spectator. He watched with flinching eyes. No back-up dancer would've ever boldly defied the great King of Pop in such a way, disrupting the rhythm of the choreography. And if one did, he was sure MJ molly-whopped him or her with his immaculate white glove until the fool gained some damn sense.
But the flesheaters paid him no mind, and kept on with the routine. They performed the climax of the dance, turning sideways and swinging their arms like a pendulum across their bodies, in clawing motions.
Deadpool had enough; in a fit of rage, he unsheathed his katana, decapitating the closest flesheater. ”How dare you continue without Michael Jackson!” he roared. ”SHARONA!” Another creature fell to the ground, beheaded.
The rest of the flesheaters stopped dancing. Their beady red eyes bulleted towards the mercenary, shooting looks of bile towards him. The growls from earlier reemerged, but more fierce.
Deadpool froze. Fucking temper—always getting the better of you, Wade, he told himself; for once, he acknowledged how insurmountable his odds of survival were.
The mercenary did not fear death—not before coming to the Omniverse, and not now. In fact, he loved death, literally (even had an intimate relationship with Death, once). The trouble distilling within him came from the uncertainty about if he would ever get his Sasuke doll back. He cared about the little darn thing like the pet that you often haphazardly neglect.
Deadpool glanced towards the manhole, and most of his worry subsided. Karl and Hiro had removed the lid, and escaped into the sewers, already long gone. The lid had fallen mostly back into place, but he noticed that a quarter of it was still exposed.
The mercenary eliminated the next forthcoming flesheater, and then retreated to the manhole. ”Shamble, shamble, as fast as you can,” he mocked; using his foot, he shoved the cover partially aside, and plunged into the manhole, ”you'll never catch me—I'm the mothafuckin gingerbread man!
Shout out to Gingy, by the way.”
Deadpool landed with a splop. Sewage splashed around him, soaking his legs in piss and liquid shit. Darkness suffocated the tunnel, but it was no worse than the visibility above ground. The only—obvious—inconvenience arose from the putrid odor of waste and fecal matter, drowning him from the calf down. It smelled like a crate of spoiled milk intermingled with a bushel of bad trout. But hell, he was alive, and the smell of that masked the scents of the sewer like lavender Febreze.
He thought about how Karl reacted to the smell and chuckled.
The mercenary looked over his shoulder; peering through the hazy fog, he caught the gleam of red eyes. The flesheaters ran on all fours, galloping towards them as if they were one of those idiotic collections of friends that participated in the Running Of The Bulls.
“Aight Karl,” Hiro said, pacing his speech with his breathing pattern, “I can't get us any further; where's the bunker?”
“We're looking for a large office building, ladies—the type with hundreds of windows!” Karl exclaimed.
Near the end of an alley, he halted in his tracks to club a charging flesheater across the head with his machete. The creature wobbled on stubborn legs, forcing Karl to strike it again before succumbing to the side of the curb. Its brains looked like mangled lasagna.
“We make a left on the next street,” he said.
They bent the corner—Powertwink Blvd, the mercenary believed he saw on a street sign—and continued. The block they turned onto was rowed with adjoining homes, which towered three stories high; a few of the them had mom n' pop shops set up on the bottom floors.
They passed the block, making a right onto the next one. There they stopped.
Deadpool's eyes bulged as he stared ahead. A legion of flesheaters barricaded the road. Their eyes gazed back like a pack of starved hounds, displaying their teeth as they growled in a frightening harmony. He glanced over at his partners to see if they shared the same feelings of shock and anxiety, and they did.
“Any other routes, Karl?!” Hiro asked, gritting his teeth.
The executive turned to see the creatures behind them still nearing, strangling the intersection. “Looks like we're trapped!”
The mercenary surveyed the area for a means of escape; when he found it, a plan began to formulate in his head. ”Do you think they like Michael Jackson?” he inquired.
“We really don't have time for your babbling right now, Wade,” Karl replied. He had positioned himself to face their rear, machete clasped in both hands like a batter over home-plate.
”For real!” the mercenary retorted. He pointed a finger towards the ground. ”There's our way out right there, we just gotta buy some time.”
Karl and Hiro both glanced at what Deadpool's finger indicated—a cast iron manhole cover.
“Either of you fine boys have the strength at this current time to pry that thing out?” the executive scoffed. “While simultaneously defending yourself from cannibal-lunatic-zombies?”
”Just focus on getting in the manhole,” Deadpool answered; for once, a serious tone fell upon his voice.
The mercenary had a genuine plan, derived from a music video he watched in 1982 (back when mullets and jerry curls were the most popular hairdos, and women 'powdered' their faces regularly). He remembered the video fondly—the choreography, the lyrics, it was all permanently engraved into his memory. The King of Pop—in colors similar to the mercenary's, oddly enough—manipulated a horde of zombies; just through the power of song and dance, the undead were compelled to join him. There was the looming fact that Michael Jackson did so while also as a zombie, but technicalities were for pessimists.
Deadpool smiled beneath his mask, and flashed a wink at the executive. ”I'm gonna give these guys a thriller.” He sheathed his katana.
Karl nodded without hesitation. “If you want to risk your life trying to mimic Michael Jackson then be my guest.”
”Yo Hiro, here.” Deadpool took the backpack from his shoulder and tossed it over to the bronze hacker.
Hiro gave him a quizzical look, furrowing a brow over the top of his visor. “Why the hell you giving this to me?”
”It's got my buddy Sas in there,” he answered. ”I'll get it back from you when we rendezvous—I like that word, because it makes me feel sofisticatered.”
Hiro responded with a nod, and then joined Karl, who had already hunkered over the manhole and started the laborious work of lodging the lid free.
Deadpool extracted those memories of himself copying the Thriller dance moves. He began to implement them, switching to his side with an arm extended; nodding his head a couple times, he thrusted his pelvis forward as he began to gradually two-step forward. Those famous artificial bass and clap sounds circulated in his mind—duhdun-dun duhdun . . . clap!; duhdun-dun . . . clap!
The flesheaters encircled the trio, but did not yet attack. Instead, they stood around with mixed expressions of perplexity and curiosity smeared over their visages, returning some resemblance of humanity to them. Their growls turned into raspy hums.
The mercenary glided a foot forward, flaring his hands with flamboyant wrist flicks; he did it twice, then switched sides to repeat it. Damn he was rusty, and it didn't help that he was naturally a terrible dance, due to being white. Perhaps this was a scene better made for Hiro.
But it appeared to be working. One of the flesheaters, at the head of the horde facing Deadpool, bobbed its head stupefyingly. The two to his flanks joined him. Then the entire crowd began to participate. It was as if they were programmed to know the routine—the creatures replicated the next part of the dance, shifting laterally and stroking their hips upward before dipping their postures in a dramatic fashion.
In unison, Deadpool and the flesheaters threw out a trailing hand; wrapping the other around their crotches, they steadily thrusted their pelvises from the tips of their toes; they did it thrice. The mercenary went to jump and clamp—the start to the best part—, but the creatures beat him to it, landing into a horizontal slide, and shimmying their heads while holding their knees.
The flesheaters were ruining the best part of the choreography, by being more fluent in their moves than he was. Deadpool quit dancing and silently ridiculed the creatures, folding his arms across his chest.
”Hey, you gotta slow down!” Deadpool squawked at the crowd.
Anger festered his spirit, resigning him to an unpleasant spectator. He watched with flinching eyes. No back-up dancer would've ever boldly defied the great King of Pop in such a way, disrupting the rhythm of the choreography. And if one did, he was sure MJ molly-whopped him or her with his immaculate white glove until the fool gained some damn sense.
But the flesheaters paid him no mind, and kept on with the routine. They performed the climax of the dance, turning sideways and swinging their arms like a pendulum across their bodies, in clawing motions.
Deadpool had enough; in a fit of rage, he unsheathed his katana, decapitating the closest flesheater. ”How dare you continue without Michael Jackson!” he roared. ”SHARONA!” Another creature fell to the ground, beheaded.
The rest of the flesheaters stopped dancing. Their beady red eyes bulleted towards the mercenary, shooting looks of bile towards him. The growls from earlier reemerged, but more fierce.
Deadpool froze. Fucking temper—always getting the better of you, Wade, he told himself; for once, he acknowledged how insurmountable his odds of survival were.
The mercenary did not fear death—not before coming to the Omniverse, and not now. In fact, he loved death, literally (even had an intimate relationship with Death, once). The trouble distilling within him came from the uncertainty about if he would ever get his Sasuke doll back. He cared about the little darn thing like the pet that you often haphazardly neglect.
Deadpool glanced towards the manhole, and most of his worry subsided. Karl and Hiro had removed the lid, and escaped into the sewers, already long gone. The lid had fallen mostly back into place, but he noticed that a quarter of it was still exposed.
The mercenary eliminated the next forthcoming flesheater, and then retreated to the manhole. ”Shamble, shamble, as fast as you can,” he mocked; using his foot, he shoved the cover partially aside, and plunged into the manhole, ”you'll never catch me—I'm the mothafuckin gingerbread man!
Shout out to Gingy, by the way.”
Deadpool landed with a splop. Sewage splashed around him, soaking his legs in piss and liquid shit. Darkness suffocated the tunnel, but it was no worse than the visibility above ground. The only—obvious—inconvenience arose from the putrid odor of waste and fecal matter, drowning him from the calf down. It smelled like a crate of spoiled milk intermingled with a bushel of bad trout. But hell, he was alive, and the smell of that masked the scents of the sewer like lavender Febreze.
He thought about how Karl reacted to the smell and chuckled.
Quote:Word Count: 1563
[float=right]
![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q218/Aerogfx/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png)
Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
[/float]![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://s137.photobucket.com/user/Aerogfx/media/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png.html)