Egg for Breakfast

[Deadpool]

Deadpool did as the voice said.

The journey north felt more like a trek to the mercenary. He slogged through the vegetative entanglement—vines and tall grass mostly—with his katana substituting a machete; plant residue accumulated across the edge of his blade like mint jelly on a butter knife. Every quarter mile Deadpool stopped. He would clean his blade, reconfirm he was headed in the right direction (moss on trees pointed the way), and resume. It was a tedious process.

Fourty-five minutes had passed since the last time Triumpht’s voice entered Deadpool’s mind. A wide tree with leaves the same color as his outfit, the mercenary recalled the boy saying.

Like this one?

Deadpool’s katana beheaded a crop of tall grass. It swept up into the air before drifting down under his boots as he dipped under a sampling broken at an acute angle

There it was—the tree. Deadpool had to peer to see it, behind the collage of leaves and branches displayed by neighboring trees, but it was there. The tree was broad, but short, like a baby leg jutting out of the earth; in comparison, the branches were acupuncture needles, which failed to extend above the canopy, flared at the end with red leaves.

Triumpth didn’t respond.

You’re no fun. And the leaves aren’t the color of my outfit—my outfit is more of a crimson color, these are vibrant red.

He continued forward; twigs and leaves crunched as he went. He whipped his head to the west, and shot a glare in the direction. He thought he heard something. He swore he heard something (Deadpool’s mind had long ago decayed into insanity, but he wasn’t that crazy—not enough to hear things that didn’t exist).

”Speak for yourself, Baron-ole’-boy, because if you don’t exist then I’d say I’ve gone off the ledge,” the mercenary quipped.

He reached for his sword, and grasped it tightly as his eyes surveyed ahead.

Nothing.

The tree, mercenary, Triumpht called.