05-25-2015, 01:10 PM
Aw, someone doesn’t think the Merc wit a Mouth is a good guy. I am definitely a good guy. I mean, sure I’ve killed a lot of innocent people during my lifetime, and have done some very questionable deeds too, but I refute the notion that those past regressions should deter others from thinking I’m a good guy! Not to mention, I’ve been nothing less than a Ned Flanders since being snatched from Marvel!
The double-doors reopened, and as the mercenary stepped out of the elevator, white light from fluorescent tubes above washed over him. A few people walked by—fellow contestants—and one of the females even stopped to steal a gaze at the mercenary, but he was too occupied with analyzing his surroundings.
The female that thought I didn’t look like a good guy!!!
The main corridor of the barracks branched off into four narrower halls, which housed the rooms that Dante’s Abyss provided to the entrants. A plate with red numbers was mounted at the beginning of every hall, indicating which room numbers the individual halls held; it reminded the mercenary of past rendezvous at hotels, with prostitutes.
Deadpool walked down the corridor, glancing to both sides as he passed every intercepting hallway. 1 – 12, the left half of the first hall was labeled in red ink; 2 – 24, labeled the right half. The next intercepting hallway split from a dead-end. On the wall, two signs were mounted: LEFT 25 – 37, RIGHT 38 – 50; they read, in bold red.
He followed the sign on the left and turned into the hallway, but as he passed through the first pair of adjacent doors—25 and 26—he could feel another episode of vertigo arising within, trying to take hold of his body. The sensation felt much stronger than ever before, and overwhelmed him with surprising promptness. He tried to fight it, but his best effort in doing so lost, miserably. His world teetered, and the ceiling came collapsing down in waves that splashed over his mask. He felt the radiance from the fluorescent lights warm the surface of his outfit, moistening his skin with sweat.
His room was only a few steps away, at the very next pair of adjacent doors (it was moments like this where Deadpool wished Stan Lee gave him Mister Fantastic’s genes; a few other reasons too—for the ladies). Leaning his forearm against the right side of the wall, the mercenary staggered his way towards his room; every step he took brought another tide of ailments crashing with it, which arrived in the form of cold flashes and shivers.
But the knob to his room was so close, jutting out the edge of the wall, only a few feet away!
Says the guy who isn’t dying . . .
He reached his free, trembling right hand for the knob, drawing closer to it with every weak step. It was there, right there, so close he could almost picture himself lying in bed already (he just needed to get off of his feet, he kept convincing himself); but as he neared, the doorknob violently shifted in place, and then multiplied like splitting cells—one became two, became four, became eight—until all he saw was a kaleidoscope pattern of colors that undulated in his mind.
This isn’t good, he thought. He swiped a few times for the knob, but as his state deteriorated further, there was no longer a knob to reach for.
That was when he collapsed. ”Dowwn gooes Frazier,” he quipped in the midst of his peril; it was his last cry of Fourth Wallism before his head bounced off of the blue tiled floor, knocking him unconscious.
The double-doors reopened, and as the mercenary stepped out of the elevator, white light from fluorescent tubes above washed over him. A few people walked by—fellow contestants—and one of the females even stopped to steal a gaze at the mercenary, but he was too occupied with analyzing his surroundings.
The female that thought I didn’t look like a good guy!!!
The main corridor of the barracks branched off into four narrower halls, which housed the rooms that Dante’s Abyss provided to the entrants. A plate with red numbers was mounted at the beginning of every hall, indicating which room numbers the individual halls held; it reminded the mercenary of past rendezvous at hotels, with prostitutes.
Deadpool walked down the corridor, glancing to both sides as he passed every intercepting hallway. 1 – 12, the left half of the first hall was labeled in red ink; 2 – 24, labeled the right half. The next intercepting hallway split from a dead-end. On the wall, two signs were mounted: LEFT 25 – 37, RIGHT 38 – 50; they read, in bold red.
He followed the sign on the left and turned into the hallway, but as he passed through the first pair of adjacent doors—25 and 26—he could feel another episode of vertigo arising within, trying to take hold of his body. The sensation felt much stronger than ever before, and overwhelmed him with surprising promptness. He tried to fight it, but his best effort in doing so lost, miserably. His world teetered, and the ceiling came collapsing down in waves that splashed over his mask. He felt the radiance from the fluorescent lights warm the surface of his outfit, moistening his skin with sweat.
His room was only a few steps away, at the very next pair of adjacent doors (it was moments like this where Deadpool wished Stan Lee gave him Mister Fantastic’s genes; a few other reasons too—for the ladies). Leaning his forearm against the right side of the wall, the mercenary staggered his way towards his room; every step he took brought another tide of ailments crashing with it, which arrived in the form of cold flashes and shivers.
But the knob to his room was so close, jutting out the edge of the wall, only a few feet away!
Says the guy who isn’t dying . . .
He reached his free, trembling right hand for the knob, drawing closer to it with every weak step. It was there, right there, so close he could almost picture himself lying in bed already (he just needed to get off of his feet, he kept convincing himself); but as he neared, the doorknob violently shifted in place, and then multiplied like splitting cells—one became two, became four, became eight—until all he saw was a kaleidoscope pattern of colors that undulated in his mind.
This isn’t good, he thought. He swiped a few times for the knob, but as his state deteriorated further, there was no longer a knob to reach for.
That was when he collapsed. ”Dowwn gooes Frazier,” he quipped in the midst of his peril; it was his last cry of Fourth Wallism before his head bounced off of the blue tiled floor, knocking him unconscious.
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![[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)