[4-8] The Yacht

[Deadpool]

Deadpool wished he could have saved Guilmon—just whip out a pokeball and return him to it—, but he wasn't a pokemon trainer. Instead, his glossing eyes watched as Guilmon's corpse drifted in the ocean like an empty raft. The poor fool didn't even live long enough to evolve . . . to whatever the fuck he was supposed to turn into (something similar to Barney seemed reasonable). With him, Deadpool's aspirations of becoming the next trainer RED sailed away as well. Now he would have to rely on Pokemon Go! to satisfy his hunger to be the very best, like not one ever was.

“Now, politely, get the fuck off of my boat,” Karl said. “Not unless you want to join your friend.”

The mercenary could feel his mask tighten as his visage carved creases into it; mild sorrow developed into selfish anger. ”Y-you killed Guilmon,” his voice stammered while he turned towards the pair. ”You bastards!”

Kar Jak noted his earlier mistake, and kept distant. A light scratch still marked his cheek where the punch landed. He leveled the handcannon with his line of sight, taking aim at Deadpool. Not a shell in the desert eagle  had been used recklessly; each round fired thus far landed with pinpoint accuracy, and the mercenary had little doubt the next shot would be just the same.

Pepsiman stood beside the executive. He carried no firearms, just two god-sculpted arms and the company logo on his chest. In the midst of Guilmon getting more bullets in him than a bullseye sheet, the mercenary managed to see the logo on Pepsiman's chest retract; when the pokemon took his last breath, it was the dark liquid which emerged from the logo that sent him overboard. It shot out like a broken fire hydrant, and left a sticky trail across the cabin. The mercenary doubted the substance would do much damage to him, but it could wreck his clothing, and he damn sure hadn't seen any dry cleaners posted up in the Danteverse anywhere (if there was one it would probably make a killing).

The odds were against Deadpool, but he had been given worse hands before, and with higher stakes. His eyes thoroughly analyzed the duo, evaluating his possible options. The size of the cabin—cozy, but the open-faced stern made it appear larger—stole some of the disadvantage from being outnumbered, since with limited space it would be difficult to flank him. Out of the two, Karl didn't looked like much of a hand-to-hand fighter (though he was wrong about Karl's firearm knowledge), so taking the executive out first was Deadpool's best bet. Pepsiman had a great fighting figure, but the mercenary presumed that a glob of waxified corn syrup served as his brain; without Karl's savviness, he would merely be a walking soda can.

While the mercenary plotted, Karl reached his free hand up to grab Pepsiman's shoulder. He pulled him close and whispered into his ear before allowing him to pull away. Pepsiman nodded, and gazed across at Deadpool. “It appears that you will be receiving a lifetime amount of Omniverse's favorite soda beverage!”

”It appears that you're running out of quippy one-liners,” the mercenary replied.

He unsheathed both of his katanas and began twirling them. The metals whiffled as they cut through the air, one directed towards Karl, the other at Pepsiman. Who would make the first move? That was the million dollar question. His eyes ping-ponged between the two of them until Pepsiman reared a fist back, and began to charge forward.

With a weave and a sidestep, Deadpool outmaneuvered the punch. He went to counter, spinning around and slashing his swords, but dismembered nothing. Pepsiman had used the momentum from his failed attack to intentionally fall to the deck. His hands wrapped his head.

”What a coward move,” Deadpool scathed. He raised his katanas. ”I knew there was a reason I liked RC Cola more—the carbonation just tastes tougher.”

Just as he started to bring his swords down, an observation stopped him—in Pepsiman's curled position, a lone thumb jutted up from one of the hands covering his crown. It was a trap. The mercenary turned to witness Karl pulling the trigger on his handcannon. This time he heard the gunshot—POW!. The bullet zipped over his head milliseconds after he ducked, ricocheting off the wall and puncturing through the floorboard between his feet, leaving a melon-sized cavity.

Karl's whole right side reverberated from the recoil of his desert eagle. The gun momentarily flailed into the air, taking the rest of his arm with it. And Deadpool saw his chance. He threw one of his katanas at the executive while he struggled to take aim again, forcing him to dive from his position. With the earlier plan of eliminating Karl first fucked all to hell, the merenary's only option was to keep that handcannon at bay.

Site Count: 856
Total for mini-boss: 1902/2400