[M] A Gloomy Town

[Deadpool]

Deadpool peered, sending the eyeholes of his mask branching into crow’s feet. Night had captured the day—and it was no later than 3pm—, casting its purple hue over the land. The peasants the mercenary saw from out the window earlier were long gone, with only a trail of blood droplets from the wagon remaining on the cobblestone; all that was left roaming outside was the howling whisk of wind.

“So, where’re we going?” Gingy asked, again. He folded his arms across his decorated chest and looked at the mercenary. “Or is it some type of surprise? I’m not a huge fan of surprises.”

We’re going to a place I read about,” Deadpool answered as he travelled down the short case of steps and into the intersection; Gingy followed. ”It’s called THE Pub. I don’t know why the THE is underlined, or in CAPs, for that matter, but I got a feeling we might learn something there.”

He hoped the chink’s taste in women was good; the bartender was the sole reason why he wanted to visit THE Pub. Plush Inn’s receptionist gave hope to Deadpool that there were some attractive women in the Moors. Somewhere, behind a foundation of sweat and dirt, an attractive woman could exist. Like a diamond in the rough, he supposed.

That chink better be right.

“Huh?” Gingy stared with curious eyes. “Chink?”

Deadpool forgot that the gingerbread could see him talking to himself.

I’ll do this one in my mind: Baron, you know damn well I’m not talking to myself, you grease-ball, half-breed—half Puerto Rican mutt, half Whitey—bastard!!! He mercenary growled, and his hands coiled into tights fists.

“You okay?”

”Yeah, let’s just go.”

The odd couple traveled north up the intersection, veering left at the end of the block, passing a row of dilapidated wooden and stone homes. Gingy complained about some sore leg bullshit; before Deadpool could debate, the pastry took mount on his shoulder. They continued a few more blocks until coming to a stop near another intersection.

“THE Pub,” Gingy muttered, peering at the sign swaying above the door. The light from the intersection washed and rewashed over its surface, as it phased in and out of visibility. The words were deeply carved into the wood; under it was an etching of a flagon filled with a brew, and a proclamation: Best Waterin’ Hole in the Moors!

I guess you couldn’t think of a better way to describe that, huh? Had to take Alex’s interpretation, lol. And yes, I will continue to italicize my dialogue to you, as long as you’re making it seem like I’m fucking crazy for doing it.

”Yup,” Deadpool replied. He glanced over at Gingy, and behind his mask, furrowed a brow. ”You’re over twenty-one, right? Last thing I need is an overnighter at some Dungeon and Dragons jail.”

“Stop the crazy talk. The dragons aren’t in this verse”


”Now you’re starting to sound like me.” Deadpool opened the door to THE Pub and walked in, with still Gingy still mounted. ”You ever hear the joke about the cookie and the mercenary walking into a bar?”

“Shut up, and let’s get this over with.”

”Ya’know, I don’t remember you being such an ass in those movies.”

“Quit your pointless bantering.”