[M] A Gloomy Town

[Deadpool]

With all the damn italic text being displayed to the masses, I figured it was only appropriate to change the title of the thread. Too bad it only lasts one post, but oh well.


The two spent the rest of the morning exchanging whatever information knew about the Pale Moors. For most of the conversation, Gingy remained reserved; thought he did dish out some second-hand knowledge, and it correlated with the information Deadpool acquired.

Lol . . . he’s referring to the forums, that’s why it’s italicized.

The Pale Moors was overwhelmed with monstrosities—zombies, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, fuck-knows (creatures that had not true resemblance to anything else)—which held true dominion over the verse. Darkshire was the last beacon of hope for the Moors, but even that was bleak. With each story the gingerbread recited, Deadpool’s eyes became wider and wider like a child’s would, while staring at a continuum of toy commercials.

When the mercenary finally took the time to speak, Gingy mostly just rolled his eyes. To the gingerbread, almost everything the mercenary said was hogwash. He referred to different events happening in the Moors as threads and posts. After a while of trying to act cordial, the pastry agreed with everything the mercenary said; maybe then he would shut up.

Ouch.

”Anyway, you ready to leave out?”

Gingy nodded, then said, “Yeah. Where we going?”

”I got somewhere in mind. It isn’t dangerous, either. Scaredy-cat. . . Cookie, scared-cookie.” The mercenary made his way to the door, unlatching the iron-cast lock and twisting the doorknob. ”Come one,” he said as he held the door open.

Gingy walked out the room with Deadpool closing the door shut and following behind. They made it down the stairwell and to the lobby.

“That will be three silver coins, sir,” a voice said from behind the redwood desk. It was deep, yet with high pitches.

The smooth-skinned woman from the night before had been replaced with an adolescent boy, who stood in, what must have been, the finest outfit he could coax his father into lending him—shiny buttons on a nicely textured vest, and creased slacks (something Deadpool considered an anomaly in a town like Darkshire, based on the peasants he encountered).

”Sure,” Deadpool replied, and dug into a belt pocket The mercenary had used his Omnilium to craft a compartment’s-worth of money for Darkshire. He withdrew some coins and stacked them into the desk; if were the woman from the night before, the stack would have been larger—as large as her boobs were.

The boy reached out and cupped the tacks, sliding them across the desk and into a half-open drawer near his abdomen. As the last coin rattled in the drawer, the boy glanced over at Gingy. “You . . .two shared a bed?” he stuttered in disgust. His bottom lip trembled above a bed of blemishes.

Deadpool simply turned around and continued out of the Plush Inn. ”No homo, dude.” he snickered, opening the front door.

The door to the inn screamed open as rust shavings drizzled down. Then Gingy and Deadpool left.