[4-8] The Yacht

[Deadpool]

Along with the nifty hat, Deadpool kept the desert eagle; he jammed into one of his empty gun holsters before walking over to the bar. ”Never know, the storyteller person might give me bullets later on.”

Behind the counter, a tall cabinet with clean windows showcased a row of fresh liquor. He opened one of the panels and reached for the top shelf, expecting to pull something lavish down—the top self always had the good stuff. What he retrieved was a flask-shaped, glass pint of Karlmeleon brown rum; made in Del Dante Rio—1986. Apparently, Karl and Deadpool shared an appreciation for shamelessly branding themselves. ”Go figure.”

It probably tasted like a particular male bodily fluid, but Deadpool didn't grab the liquor to take a victory shot. He untwisted the cap—a difficult task with only three fingers, and half of a palm—and chucked it over his shoulder. ”This is going to hurt, but I want to masturbate tonight, and my right hand just doesn't know what my body likes.” Cringing away, the mercenary slowly poured the liquor over his mangled hand; a scolding sensation came immediately. ”Fuckin bitch nuts!” he yelled, and in a bawling fit, threw the bottle of Karlmeleon against the floor, shattering it into a caramel pool of jagged fragments. ”Thirty years of abstinence, broken.”

Deadpool noticed a drawer under the panels, and opened it. Neatly placed in the front corner, a wonderfully crafted cigar box laid with the seal unbroken; on the front, it read Karlton's in cursive. His fingers were already beginning to regenerate, so he lacerated the seal with a skeletal pinky. The aroma that exhaled as he lifted the top smelled like melted chocolate, provoking Deadpool to take a brief moment to fill his nostrils with the scent. Afterwards, he plucked a couple cigars from dozen or so piled up, along with a stainless steel Zippo lighter and cigar cutter, then shut the drawer.

Two of the cigars went straight to his utility belt, but Deadpool sent the third into the cutter. He turned around and leaned his elbows on the bar counter. ”Any last words, Louis?”the mercenary inquired, shoving part of the tobacco stick into the cutter. The cigar said nothing. ”Off with his head!” He pressed down on the cutter, and guillotined one end of the stogy; a crowd of rioting peasants rejoiced in his head—they held pitchforks and torches, pumping them into the air with unfiltered delight.

Striking a fire on the Zippo, Deadpool lit the cigar, giving it methodical rotations under the flame; once the cherry was perfect, he peeled his mask back to expose his mouth, and clamped the stogy between his lips. The inhale went down smoothly, tasting every bit like the melted chocolate fragrance of the box as it swirled in his lungs. With a sigh, he blew out a thick cloud of smoke, and marveled at its stubbornness to dissipate. ”Not bad,” he said, pulling the stogy from his lips to ash it.

He took another puff, and allowed his eyes to wander around the cabin. Blood and soda graffitied the room wall to wall. Most of it belonged to Deadpool and Pepsiman, but the long path running out to the stern was Karl's; it stopped at the guardrail, where it then wrapped around each of the bars in the form of handprints. The mercenary wondered if he was still alive, but doubted it—if the blade didn't kill him, surely the blood loss did, and if it didn't, the sea would have swallowed him.

His eyes stopped wandering once he saw a portion of the cabin unscathed—the door Karl used earlier, when he went to play music. ”Why, hello there.”

My Count: 621 / Site's Count: 655

1 SP used on regeneration (+2 HP . . . right?)