06-02-2015, 07:13 PM
Aw, man, Alex, this is the pairing you’ve been waiting for. Me, the fabulous Deadpool, and Mickey-fucking-Mouse. This type of shit could only happen in the Omniverse. Ain’t that some cool shit?
Um, excuse me. D’you mind? This is my post.
Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry. Forgot, occasional hilarious interjections only.
Mickey blinked at the furry little creature in the mercenary’s hand. What in tarnation was that? And how, exactly, did the man expect this little thing’s promise of affection to dissuade him from his current attack? He shook his head, lunging forward again with the Master Sword. Deadpool leapt out of the way, dropping the Furby when he did so.
“Shit, shit, shit, catch it!” the masked man shouted, and instinctively, Mickey dove for the little toy, swiping it up in one of his gloved hands just before he hit the ground.
“Why?” the mouse pressed, “what happens if it hits the ground?” He looked back up to his adversary with a scowl.
“Oh, nothing,” Deadpool shrugged, “I just didn’t want the little guy to get hurt.” Mickey let out a guttural growl, throwing the Furby at Deadpool, who adeptly caught it and stuffed it back into his belt pocket. “Alright, guess you’re hatin’ on the Furby love. That’s fine, I get that. Brand wars and such. But listen, I don’t want to hurt Mickey-fucking-Mouse, okay?”
The mouse picked himself up off the ground, charging up his repulsor gauntlet. “You should’ve thought of that before you killed Minnie.” Deadpool, confused for one of the few times in recent memory, looked down at the rat.
“That gross thing?”
“Aghhhhhhh!”
Mickey shot a blast from the repulsor glove, which Deadpool just barely limbo’d underneath, and then spun around with the Master Sword (like that move Link has in Smash Bros.). Once again, he barely missed the superhero, and his scowl grew deeper. He had been so close to escaping this game. This poor son of a gun probably had no idea that he had showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time—Mickey was an angry mouse. A very, very angry mouse, and he relished in the idea of taking it out on Deadpool.
Deadpool swung his shovel at the King, but the mouse back-flipped out of the way just in the nick of time. “Nice moves, Mickster,” the merc-with-a-mouth nodded, leaning the shovel on his shoulder, “My name’s Deadpool by the way, since you don’t technically know that IC yet.”
“I don’t care what your name is,” Mickey said, and his adversary suddenly realized that this was not the Mickey Mouse of his Saturday Morning Cartoons. This Mickey Mouse had been through some shit troubled times. (Ugh, why you gotta censor me, Jacob?)
For once in his life, Deadpool didn’t bite back with a quip. No, this fight had gone on quite long enough. The mercenary ran at Mickey, sliding on the ground in an attempt to take the mouse off of his feet. The little guy, however, moved too fast for him, leaping up into the air and planting one of his yellow shoes smack dab into Deadpool’s face as the mercenary skidded underneath him. The costumed man let out a groan, and Mickey back-flipped onto his chest, leaning down and placing the Master Sword at his throat. “Got ya, pal,” Mickey grimaced.
“Oh, shit, I’m about to get murder-killed by Mickey Mouse,” the merc blabbed, sounding much too enthusiastic for the King’s taste. “Do it! Do it, please, I can tell my grandkids when they’re watching Steamboat Willie!”
Mickey faltered. The man spoke the truth—for a split second, he intended to slide the blade across his opponent’s throat and watch as blood spilled forth and one more contestant left this game. The realization hit him like a truck, and he stumbled backwards off of Deadpool’s prone body, dropping the Master Sword. “Oh my gosh,” he breathed heavily, “…oh my gosh.”
The adrenaline that had been pumping through him began to slow its pace. “I… I’m sorry,” he apologized, though he didn’t altogether know why.
“Nah, dude, it’s cool,” Deadpool waved a hand, “Besides, I accidentally killed your little rat friend, and I’m sorry about that, too.”
Karl Jak’s voice pierced the ears of the competitors to announce those that had fallen in the last six hours. Mickey’s stomach sank when he heard the name of his blue-spandex-clad former ally. The Pepsiman might have been utterly useless, but he’d had a good soul. He hadn’t deserved to be a pawn in this megalomaniac’s game.
Two members of team MESH down. If this murder game had its way, soon enough all of them would be dead and gone—himself, Erza, Harry, Samus, Pazo the Caterpie.
But for right now, Mickey Mouse remained alive and well. And for right now, he planned on staying that way. He would stay that way up until the very end, when he could look Karl Jak in the face and make him pay for what he had done to his friends.
Um, excuse me. D’you mind? This is my post.
Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry. Forgot, occasional hilarious interjections only.
Mickey blinked at the furry little creature in the mercenary’s hand. What in tarnation was that? And how, exactly, did the man expect this little thing’s promise of affection to dissuade him from his current attack? He shook his head, lunging forward again with the Master Sword. Deadpool leapt out of the way, dropping the Furby when he did so.
“Shit, shit, shit, catch it!” the masked man shouted, and instinctively, Mickey dove for the little toy, swiping it up in one of his gloved hands just before he hit the ground.
“Why?” the mouse pressed, “what happens if it hits the ground?” He looked back up to his adversary with a scowl.
“Oh, nothing,” Deadpool shrugged, “I just didn’t want the little guy to get hurt.” Mickey let out a guttural growl, throwing the Furby at Deadpool, who adeptly caught it and stuffed it back into his belt pocket. “Alright, guess you’re hatin’ on the Furby love. That’s fine, I get that. Brand wars and such. But listen, I don’t want to hurt Mickey-fucking-Mouse, okay?”
The mouse picked himself up off the ground, charging up his repulsor gauntlet. “You should’ve thought of that before you killed Minnie.” Deadpool, confused for one of the few times in recent memory, looked down at the rat.
“That gross thing?”
“Aghhhhhhh!”
Mickey shot a blast from the repulsor glove, which Deadpool just barely limbo’d underneath, and then spun around with the Master Sword (like that move Link has in Smash Bros.). Once again, he barely missed the superhero, and his scowl grew deeper. He had been so close to escaping this game. This poor son of a gun probably had no idea that he had showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time—Mickey was an angry mouse. A very, very angry mouse, and he relished in the idea of taking it out on Deadpool.
Deadpool swung his shovel at the King, but the mouse back-flipped out of the way just in the nick of time. “Nice moves, Mickster,” the merc-with-a-mouth nodded, leaning the shovel on his shoulder, “My name’s Deadpool by the way, since you don’t technically know that IC yet.”
“I don’t care what your name is,” Mickey said, and his adversary suddenly realized that this was not the Mickey Mouse of his Saturday Morning Cartoons. This Mickey Mouse had been through some shit troubled times. (Ugh, why you gotta censor me, Jacob?)
For once in his life, Deadpool didn’t bite back with a quip. No, this fight had gone on quite long enough. The mercenary ran at Mickey, sliding on the ground in an attempt to take the mouse off of his feet. The little guy, however, moved too fast for him, leaping up into the air and planting one of his yellow shoes smack dab into Deadpool’s face as the mercenary skidded underneath him. The costumed man let out a groan, and Mickey back-flipped onto his chest, leaning down and placing the Master Sword at his throat. “Got ya, pal,” Mickey grimaced.
“Oh, shit, I’m about to get murder-killed by Mickey Mouse,” the merc blabbed, sounding much too enthusiastic for the King’s taste. “Do it! Do it, please, I can tell my grandkids when they’re watching Steamboat Willie!”
Mickey faltered. The man spoke the truth—for a split second, he intended to slide the blade across his opponent’s throat and watch as blood spilled forth and one more contestant left this game. The realization hit him like a truck, and he stumbled backwards off of Deadpool’s prone body, dropping the Master Sword. “Oh my gosh,” he breathed heavily, “…oh my gosh.”
The adrenaline that had been pumping through him began to slow its pace. “I… I’m sorry,” he apologized, though he didn’t altogether know why.
“Nah, dude, it’s cool,” Deadpool waved a hand, “Besides, I accidentally killed your little rat friend, and I’m sorry about that, too.”
Karl Jak’s voice pierced the ears of the competitors to announce those that had fallen in the last six hours. Mickey’s stomach sank when he heard the name of his blue-spandex-clad former ally. The Pepsiman might have been utterly useless, but he’d had a good soul. He hadn’t deserved to be a pawn in this megalomaniac’s game.
Two members of team MESH down. If this murder game had its way, soon enough all of them would be dead and gone—himself, Erza, Harry, Samus, Pazo the Caterpie.
But for right now, Mickey Mouse remained alive and well. And for right now, he planned on staying that way. He would stay that way up until the very end, when he could look Karl Jak in the face and make him pay for what he had done to his friends.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)