Day Four

[Deadpool]

Deadpool always wondered how much power Thor’s Hammer really held. Stories constantly circulated throughout the Marvel Universe about the weapon. Most legends consisted of its potent lightning bolt crashing down upon its enemy from above. It could take out entire rainforests, some said, whole towns! Unfortunately for the mercenary, the legends of Thor’s Hammer were all true. When the woman raised the hammer over Deadpool’s back, flashes of lightning warped the sky, and then everything else went black.

The mercenary lay long half-conscious, curled into a fetal position so neither his charred back nor front touched the cold surface of the sloped forest. Evening was coming to an end, and night had begun to close its curtains on the day; the sun took a bow under the mountain, waving his hands of dying red light.

”A-at least I got my payback,” Deadpool muttered; receiving a smackdown from the Mjonir registered as a small fine for the removal of Mickey’s paw. His eyes flickered open, and as he glanced down to his trembling fist, he snickered. ”How about a h-high-five, buddy?” In his fist he loosely held the mouse’s four-digit palm, glove and all. With a groan, he freed his pinned arm and clapped the glove. We did it!

It felt good to get Mickey back. Damn good. It was like losing your virginity—you just wanna brag about it, and gloat, if you were lucky enough to lose it before the rest of your friends. This competition had shown the mercenary that even a goldenboy Disney character could succumb to the evils of survival, and commit the worst of sins—betrayal. Too bad he isn’t dead, Deadpool thought. Too bad I didn’t kill him . . . yet. He licked his lips and spread a grin.

He just had to survive a little longer—just another day. Omnillium was rare to come across in abundance, and he needed every fucking decimal worth. Only it could give him the powers he needed to quell his illnesses. Hell, if things went in his favor, maybe winning was still feasible.

The mercenary looked up at his shovel—it stood in front of him, lodged in the ground. From the edge of its handle, the strap to his duffle bag was tied; it dangled halfway down the shaft of the weapon. I’ma get up, he told his body. All he needed to do was curl his fingers around the shovel’s handle, and use it to pry himself off the ground. Simple.

He stuck Mickey’s palm into his belt pocket, wrist first, and then went to push off of the ground. ”FUCK!” he cried. The whisk of air from moving felt like a thousand bee stings across his body. He wanted to giving up—it was a beautiful day to remain on the ground and die (Deadpool was sure the wildlife of Karl’s island would love an already cooked meal)—but couldn’t. He got around, onto his knees, and grabbed the shovel with his slashed arm, gripping his fingers around its handle. Another cry pierced through the forest, but ultimately he rose to his feet.



I think it’s time to go full-DP, trusty sidekick! It is time to unleash pure ridiculous upon this competition!



Leaning over his shovel, the stench of his sizzled outfit fumed up to his face. It had survived a lot—a Namekian, a murderous mouse, pokes from a Hydra-ostrich, and one of the most powerful Marvel weapons ever made—but it was time to ditch it. With a wince, he reached behind his head and ripped his mask off, exposing the tumorous horror that hid under it. (Fuck you, and your comments about my face!). If Deadpool died, he would die the same way he was born—naked—if for nothing else, just to scare the shit out of his enemies (maybe believe he was a zombie, coming to eat they brainz). He unzipped his spandex-like outfit and slid his arms out of its sleeves. As he wiggled his hips, his pants fell below his ass. Mickey’s hand would make a nice jock pad, he thought. He removed it from his belt and stuffed it down his slingshot, underpants (appropriatly logoed on the back with a picture of his own mask). It bulged inside his underoos like a rockstar’s stuffed crotch.



Mickey is always willing to give a helping hand!



Zzzzzzziippp! He opened his duffle bag. All that remained was one pure Aquafina, his Drone, a single MRE, his (new) lightsaber, and the Pokèball. No Furbypool. He sighed. The toy creature was the closest thing he had to a friend the entire competition. Furbypool was the only person who understood him. Accepted him. He had to win Dante’s Abyss now, just for Furbypool. In his distorted mind, that made perfect sense.

”I’ll always love ya, little buddy,” he said; the toy’s automated voice spoke to him, replying in kind—I Love You. ”Maybe I’ll make you into a move or something after DA, and keep you for good!”

He pulled out his last bottle of water and guzzled it down. MRE? He considered eating it, but knew he would need role-play fodder for later. But his compass was something he could use, so he retrieved it and gave it a close gander. Interesting, he thought. He stashed it back into his bag and zipped it shut.


Now it was time to go . . . ensure Furbypool’s death not be in vain.

He knew it would hurt, but after a sharp ache in his shoulder, he ripped his shovel from the earth, and used it to guide his shuffling steps forward.