[4-8] The Yacht

[Deadpool]

The mercenary guzzled the soda down like a hamster on a nursery bottle, licking the inside of the can for the last drop. He raised an eye to look at his jolly partner sitting beside him. Good, isn't it?.

Guilmon took another sip of his pep-c. Faint trails of smoke rose from his nostrils, and he spectated it with amusement. ”Guilmon doesn't like how tastes, but likes how it feels in his chest,” he replied, giggling. Another torch of flame erupted from his mouth, almost singing Pepsiman's shoulder; it whiffed passed him, and rolled off the metal roof of the yacht, out into the open stern. ”Sorry!” Guilmon said. His face turned redder than the tone of his skin.

Deadpool smiled lightly. ”Yes, that feeling is acid reflux fucking your stomach hole. Savor it.”

“Pepsi takes no liability in the bodily reactions to our products,” Pepsiman interjected tonelessly.

The mercenary crushed the empty can in his hand, and casually tossed it overboard. ”So, whats the plan here?” His glance directed the question towards Karl. ”What other activities we got going on in this place—cuz I'm a fan of both Coke and Pepsi, if you know what I mean.”

Karl smirked. Combing his fingers through his slicked hair, he replied: “You can have whatever you want.” He walked passed Deadpool and headed for the stairs. “I'll go put some music on—I'm not big on modern stuff, but I have a nice 70's and 80's collection—then we can really start this party.” His expensive black shoes clapped against the steel ridges of the staircase.

Guilmon turned to Deadpool with glistening eyes of curiosity. ”What's music?”

Deadpool mentally pounded his forehead with the heel of his palm. Something that makes your ears feel good,” he replied; that was the simplest way he could put it.

The background slowly filled with tunes; the introduction—to whatever Karl elected to play—started with a methodical stroke of guitar strings; the sound of a flute crept into the melody (or clarinet—Deadpool wasn't a nerd in school), perfectly complimenting the guitar. The mercenary knew the song instantly: Stairway to Heaven.

”I always saw you as a Flock of Seagulls fan,” he shouted at Karl.

The executive came down the steps with leisure legs; his smirk spread larger, and cut wrinkles into his cheeks. “You prefer the Seagulls, Wade?”

The voice of Led Zeppelin's singer—a scrawny man with a mane of blonde hair—Robert Plant, went through the first verse of the song in. His voice was soft and pleasant like a woman's, but the lyrics were a jumble of heroin-induced nonsense.

Deadpool chuckled. ”Nah, Led Zep is fine.” He looked down at Guilmon. His partner bobbed his head to the rythmn. [b]”I think chin-Pokemon likes it too.”

“Good,” Karl replied. “I'm playing their Greatest Hits album.”

Pepsiman looked towards the executive and gave a nod; he received a glare of rejection, then returned his sights to their guests. “Would you like more Pepsi?” he asked as if wired to motherboard of prewritten dialogue.

In the background, Robert Plant worked through the end of the second verse—In the tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings; sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiving—and loudened his tone—[i]Ohh, it makes me wonder.

Deadpool felt a flustering in his stomach. It was a feeling of sudden worry, and burning suspicion. ”This isn't right,” he grumbled. ”The narration—it's building towards something.”

He surveyed Karl from across the room, narrowing his eyes as if looking through a dirty window. The executive appearance matched his wealth—black Ferragamo shoes, purple velour Tom Ford suit, complimented with a black handkerchief and bowtie—yet the attire seemed off. Karl Jak, billionaire (homosexual? At least bi-curious) older-male playboy, mismatching his shoes with his suit? Everything made by Ford Ford except for his shoes.

Pepsiman gave Karl another look, and this time he got an answer in the form of a nod; Deadpool watched their interaction closely. The giant advertisement balled his fists, turning his attention to the peeping 'Pool. His featureless visage sent a cold mug towards the mercenary and Guilmon.

Robert Plant neared the end of his singing, his voice raspy and powerful. And if you listen very hard, he sang, the tune will come to you at last.

Then all of it made sense; it cracked Deadpool over the head like a hammer. He put it together—the name of the yacht, the tackiness of Karl's outfit, the popping lyrics of the song—and realized everything was a facade. What the fuck, I guess I'll never get that Coke huh?

He turned to Guilmon. ”Get ready for some shit—the brown stuff that comes out from under your tail.” The reptilian ignored the mercenary's words, continuing to move his head to the song. Deadpool growled. ”Snap the fuck out of it!” he said, with a swift-coming backhand. He struck his partner across the butt of his nose with his open hand.

Guilmon flinched, popping out of his trance. He grabbed his nose with both paws with tears bulging from his eyes. ”Ow!”

The mercenary saw Pepsiman begin to walk towards them. He attempted to find the simplest words in his vocabulary to explain the situation to Guilmon, but forfeited. ”Sorry, but I gotta do this,” he said, showing a slip of sympathy for this partner.

Guilmon sent him a look of perplexity. ”Huh?”

Deadpool reared his leg back like a soccer player, and drove it into the ass of Guilmon. The reptile squealed as the boot sent him moving through the air. He crashed into Pepsiman, knocking him to the floor like a bowling pin. Their bodies sprawled in a heap of limbs, one tail included.

Karl now hurried to the opposite end of the room. He squatted over a chest mounted to the wall and floor, reaching into his jacket to retrieve what Deadpool saw to be a gold-colored key. Karl slid it into the hole (lol that's what she said), and turned clockwise. The chest popped open with a snap!

He was unsure if his partner could hear him, but he yelled out to him: "We have to fight!"

1126 words by site's count.
1410/2400 for this round