Day Two

[Deadpool]

”All for you, me dear,” the mercenary cooed as he brushed the Furby’s faux-fur with his forearm; the blood from his wound painted the toy in a deep crimson. ”All for you.”

Did he miss his team—Warpool? Sure. Did he care enough to pout over it?

Deadpool took his index and poked the toy in the tummy. It blinked, and then opened its beak-mouth: “I love you,” it replied, pointing its ears, then flattening them.

The toy’s words answered the question: no.

Even the mercenary’s mangled mask could not disguise the wide grin that stretched from ear to ear. ”Oh, I love you too, Furbypool. All you need is some black stuff around your eyes and you’d like just like me!”

The last twenty-four hours had been the most hectic on the island—met a Wartortle, persuaded a King into coughing up a weapon, even had Vincent’s writer replace his water with piss—but his inner fourth wall knew things would only get stranger (by now if you weren’t aware Karl Jak was a maniac, you were foolish). And if the strange toy in his hand was any indication of his forthcoming luck then he would welcome all the weird fuckery brought his way.

The mercenary took one last deep gaze into the Furby’s eyes, blew it a kiss, and then stuffed it half-into a belt pocket. It was time to move. Like he told Vincent, stay somewhere too long and become the scraps for another survivor; Deadpool would not be scraps for no woman or man (so much so that the double-negative was necessary).

He grabbed the handle to his new shovel lodged into the dirt and lifted off of the tree he sat against. For a moment, his fatigue nauseated him, but with a deep inhale and exhale he managed to quell it . . . for now. It was uncertain how long Karl’s collar could delay the decay (another clever rhyme he conjured on the fly), but the mercenary was not going to complain . . . whenever the powers ceased. Shit, they got him this far, and that was thanks enough.



Oh, Baron, we all know you’re the one that comes up with the clever sayings. Hell, you come up with everything. I’m just a pawn in the grand scheme of literature role-playing.



As he made his way through the shrubbery, plowing it aside with his shovel, the sun began to cross over to the west part of the island, dipping under the peak of the mountain—Day 3 was nearing. From his last count, he still had two MRE meals available, one bottle of pure water (thanks Mark/Vincent, you dick), and the things he scavenged in the Diner. It was enough to get him through Day 3, but with his growing fatigue, not much longer after that. He was going to need more protein.

Sneekt, sneekt!

The mercenary’s eyes darted to the right. ”Did I hear an onomatopoeia closely resembling Wolverine’s patented one?! He doubted a srhub like the one he stared at could house a man of Wolverine’s stature, but he did hear something.

The bush quivered, making a sound eerily similar to pompoms, and not long after, a rat scurried out from between two of the bush’s slender trunks. It’s eyes were big, black, and bold, carrying the vermin equivalent to scared-shitless. With another whimpering sneekt, sneekt!, the creature headed towards the closes tree, but as it rested its first little hand on the base of it, it paused and curved its neck back to glance at the mercenary.

”Hi little guy,” Deadpool greeted. He waved a palm at the rat.

“Sneekt, sneekt!” the rat replied in a jubilant high-pitched tone. It removed its hand from the tree and headed towards the mercenary, almost in a gallop.

”Oh shit!” Deadpoole exclaimed. The rat drew closer; Deadpool had to act fast! He picked up his leg and as the vermin got within personal space, and slammed his boot down on the disgusting creature’s neck and back. The rat squished under his sole with a yelp and crunch!



You saw that, dude—the fucking thing was headed right for me. I had no choice, man. Rabies is a helluva disease dude, and especially without my Healing Factor. Noooooo bueno.

Also, on the bright side, I got dinner now!



He reached down and picked scraped the rat from the ground; blood leaked from its mouth as the mercenary gripped it in his hand. Food problem solved.

“I QUIT!” squeaky voice roared through the forest, sending Deadpool’s eyes drifting left. The voice was familiar—one he heard from countless hours of Saturday morning Disney Channel watching.
Someone was near. Very near.

”A racist, possibly?” He slung the shovel over his shoulder and trailed off from his path, into the depths of the forest.
Maneuvering under a few low-hanging branches and through a grove of all hemp plants, he made his way closer to the voice. No more words were emitted to guide him, but the mercenary did not need anymore; he passed through the last bunch of tangled hemp and surveyed the ebony mouse like a lioness would prey, from behind the closest tree.



I guess we’re leaving out the part where I picked a branch? To the reader: I grabbed like a handful of bud before exiting heaven.



It was Mickey Mouse—the Disney goldenboy. Except he was all alone, and grieving, in the middle of a stomped-down path. The mouse grasped the collar around his neck and began to pull away it away from his small neck.



Mickey has no neck. Google image it. Anyway, I think this is where his post leads into mine.



”Fuck,” the mercenary said, stepping out from behind the tree, ”I didn’t know a Mickey post could be so depressing.”

The mouse whipped his head around and sent a bewildered glare towards Deadpool. As if out of instinct, his metallic gauntlet self-equipped, and he snatched the broadsword from next to him and effortlessly swung it around is if it were a ribbon wand. “Who the heck are you?!” His voice carried a ferocity not approved by Disney.

Deadpool simply smirked. ”I’m the guy that’s going to bend your morals to the limit,” he snickered, holding up the crushed rat in his hand. ”I come to you with a peace offering—food for the night!”

The mouse’s eyes shot open as he gawked towards the deceased rat. “M-Minnie . . .”

”So . . . we setting up camp?”

The mouse pounced; the edge of his sword nearly swept across the mercenary’s nose, but with a strafe and duck, it failed to shed blood. Deadpool went to lever his shovel into Mickey’s skull—miss. The damn mouse was too fast. He summersaulted in the knick of time and threw his gauntleted hand in the mercenary’s direction.

Fuck me.

Psssssssseeeeeeerrrrruuuuuu!!!!!! the weapon cried as a beam streamed out from its circular core. It sped towards Deadpool, but as the words revealed themselves in his head, he took the shovel and cocked it back. Leg up, hips rotate—that’s a homerun, folks—his momentum guided his form, and he whipped the shovel across his body, smacking the beam out of the forest, out of the park, and into next week.

Mickey snarled. “You’re just a every-day thug!” The core of his gauntlet glowed a blue-hued white.

”Now, now, Mickey . . .” The mercenary knew what to do; he reached for into his bulging belt pocket. ”I’m think your jumping to conclusions now.” In a haste, he pulled the—now crimson—Furby out and held it forward.

The light from Mickey’s gauntlet dimmed down till it vanished completely. “What is that?” he inquired. His aggressive demeanor diluted as he viewed the children’s toy, with a pleasant curiosity.

Deadpool smiled. He uncurled his index from around the toy and pressed in its center—like before, it batted its eyes, perked its ears, and then flattened them. “I love you.”