Day Four

[Deadpool]

Sucks that Alex had me steal Gil’s stuff, but a mercenary’s gotta get by somehow, amirite?







The mostly-naked mercenary panted as he ran down a two-way road, turning into a narrow street. The additional weight of an extra bag (courtesy of Gil)—and his slouching underwear, filled with Mickey’s hand—made his movement sluggish, almost staggering him on several occasions; the last of which forced him to sit his ass on the curb, just for a break. Following his mantra—keep moving—now seemed like an impossible task with his tired body. The end drew near, and he knew it. Reluctantly, he stayed put.

In his retreat, he had heard the sound of Karl’s voice (the routine phase announcement, which always declared how many Primes remained . . . interfering with Deadpool’s path to victory). Most of the host’s words were washed away, but one phrase stuck to the mercenary: Go to the Clinic. All other squares were Deadzones, as of noon. You did not need a GED to know what that meant—the finale.

One more day, the mercenary kept convincing himself. He rested his bags down on the pavement and wiped his hands over his lumpy visage. The unsteady feeling of budding fatigue now entrenched him—it gripped tighter around his energy, and stifled it. Death now stood on the front porch, with her heels close together as she knocked on his door. Soon, her patience would wither—just like his body—and she’d be forced to smash the door down to claim his life. One more day. His words were like nails, and with each repetition, he drove another one into the board barricading his home. With enough of them, he hoped to retrain her. It only had to last one more day, after all.

He opened up his green back and pulled out his last MRE—liver and onions, the label said. He scowled, for he hated the meal. It brought back memories of his abusive father (you better eat it!, followed by a forced spoon-full into his mouth). He wanted to resist, but required all the energy he could muster at this point—today liver and onions would just have to be The Breakfast of Champions.

He opened the package and removed his insta-meal. One more day, he preached. Gritting his teeth, he shoveled the soupy meat into his mouth. It was as disgusting as ever, but his mantra pushed him through the taste torture


Hey, let me out the fuckin bag!!

Oh shit, Baron’s talking to me?

No, you dumbass! It’s me, Deadpony!

Oh..



Deadpool looked over to his right, at his new—stolen—bag, and furrowed a brow as limbs poked and waved across its tan surface like an unborn in its mother’s belly. After one final gruesome bite of his MRE, he set it between his legs, scratched at his Mickey-charm, and unzipped the tan bag.

”Bout fuckin’ time! the stuffed animal exclaimed as her head jutted out from the zipper teeth. She looked over at Deadpool and furrowed a brow of her own. ”Female? You better tell your writer than I’m a male Deadpony!”

The mercenary chuckled, and clapped a hand on the stuffed animals back. ”You must be an inferior 4th Wall character,” he replied. ”Every 4th Wall breaker knows that, at a whim, Artistic Interprestion can wreck their life . . . and sexuality!”

”Well, you better tell him to change me back, or I’ll have Wyat—“

Before the stuffed animal said another word, Deadpool pushed her head back into the duffle bag. ”Yeah, no one cares,” he snickered, zipping it shut. The possibility of a DeadponyxDeadpool combination enticed the mercenary, but it occurred too late in the competition.

Summoning a burst of energy, Deadpool stood up. It was time to head to the Clinic, and finish his journey.