Day Three

[Deadpool]

The oddest fucking couple, on Karl’s island of mutilation, spent the remainder of the evening sorting out their differences. The mouse stayed cautious and introverted, but spoke enough for them to arrive at a mutual understanding; they would pair. The two Primes could not be more distant in terms of personality—and beliefs—but for the time being, they needed one another.

The mercenary sensed the despair within Mickey, and though the mouse tried his best to keep it from exuding, nothing escaped Deadpool’s all-knowing mind. Hell, if not for his arrival, the goldenboy of Disney would have committed suicide. Mickey needed a partner—any partner—just to maintain his sanity, and keep him motivated to continue.

Deadpool needed a partner he could hitch his ride on. With his diminishing energy and lackluster weaponry, he could only persist so much further; an extra body could make the distance bearable. Plus, the mercenary would be stupid to pass up an opportunity to break Mickey’s morals.

”So, we got a deal?” Deadpool asked, hunkering down as he faced the mouse. He half-stuffed Furbypool back into his pocket and extended a hand towards the mouse.

Mickey held reluctance, but after a moment to digest everything, he slowly wrapped his small, gloved hand around the mercenary’s and gave it a firm one-shake. “For now,” he muttered, “but you must to give Minnie a proper burial.”

”Our . . . meal?” Deadpoool looked over his shoulder, where the crushed rat laid. ”Sure, why not? I’ll do that now then.”

Mickey nodded, throwing the Master Sword over his shoulder and back into its sheath.

With a stretching groan, the mercenary put his hands on his knees and pushed himself back to a stance. He felt like an old man, but curtained his tiredness the best he could as he turned around and walked towards the rat’s corpse—Minnie’s corpse. She would have been a good meal—still could be a good meal—he thought as he gazed down at her crushed spine; her tongue slouched out from her closed mouth as she rested facedown on the damp ground (only thing missing was an “x” over each eye).

She’s still useful. Deadpool glanced back at Mickey; the mouse stared at his own feet, holding the same depressing visage. The mercenary slammed his shovel into the ground next to the rat, and excavated a pile of dirt. But instead of sliding the rat inside her grave, he balled her in his fist, and shoved her into a belt pocket—dinner was still on—before the mouse could pick his head up to notice.

”I’m done,” Deadpool called out. He pushed the pile of dirt back in place with his shovel and threw it on his shoulder. ”Minne the Rat is now resting in piece.” In my pocket, and soon my belly. He smirked.

Deadpool turned to see Mickey raise his head; a fragile smile twitched under his glossy nose, but that was all. The goldenboy was still far away from feeling like the jolly racist mouse Deadpool knew oh-so well. “Want you want to do for the night?” he asked and took a look up the purpling sky. “It’s getting late.”

”We move,” the mercenary replied, almost cutting the mouse off. He recalled the words he spoke to Vinent: ”Stay still and become scraps for a better survivor. You might be used to people calling you scraps—if Chinese food myths are true—but not me. I’m the guy who eats the scraps; the guy that snarls as blood drips between in the cracks his teeth, screaming ‘THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE!’”He unleashed his tongue and flicked it rapidly, even giving the air a couple of pelvic thrusts.

Mickey’s hairline furrowed (Poor Walt Disney ,never gave him any eyebrows) at the mercenary’s behavior. “I don’t know what is wrong with you,” he responded, “but we can keep moving. I don’t want to stay still too long anyway.” He located his bag—only a few feet away—and grabbed it by the strap, swinging it around his clavicle with one flick of his wrist. “Where to?”

Good question. Deadpool reached a hand over his torso and unzipped his green bag—zzzzzziippp!—to grab his map (with all the holes he punched into it to signify Deadzones, it now looked like a wrinkled piece of Swiss cheese) He brought it close to his face and narrowed his eyes. ”We go this way,” he said, and extended an index finger ahead. "It’s the most vague area close to us. The more vague, the less chance a reader has of getting a lock on our position.” After rolling the map up, he stuffed it back in his bag and zipped it closed. ”If we’re lucky, we’ll be two squares ahead by next phase.”

Most of his word puzzled his short comrade, but the mouse soon muffled the confusion down and looked at the mercenary; he was beginning to regain his determination to continue. “Right, let’s go then.”

The two Primes made their way onward, trusting their instincts, and following the beaten path provided.














Wow, you didn't let me talk to you that whole post . . . Loser.