[4-8] The Yacht

[Deadpool]

Beyond the door, a short staircase elevated into a gaming area. Pinball games and arcade games lined either wall, with a regal billiards table centered in the middle of the room; by the looks of the its, Pepsiman and Karl were in the middle of a match, and the mercenary figured Karl was gaining the upper-hand—only two solid balls remained, including the eight ball. A modern version of a vinyl player sat on desk near the far-side of the room, next to another door; it played faint white noise as the needle grazed over the outer rings of the record.

”Another damn door, that's all I heard; that, plus Karl and Pepsiman playing with balls.”

The mercenary walked to the other end of the room and opened the door. It revealed another staircase, but this one wasn't as short, winding up two stories.

The next floor was dedicated to the bedroom. It had the appearance of the cabin, but more personal. A blue suede couch stretched the width of the right wall, while a large bed covered the left wall. The linen was beautiful, and far to delicate for someone of Deadpool's wealth. He didn't even know the name of the fabric, but it had to be damn good to hide lovestains he knew existed. The wall across from him held a bookshelf and a miniature bar.

As Deadpool reached the final level he felt the brisk ocean breeze sweep over him. The last story of the yacht was the flying bridge. Walking towards the steering wheel, he looked over the windshield and at the scenery. The sleek design of Karl's vessel cut through the current without any hiccups as it traversed through the fog. Barely visible behind the veil of dew, he could make out the zig-zag silhouette of treetops to the east.

He gazed mindlessly at the island, contemplating the competition—or lack of it. The rendition of this year's Dante's Abyss sharply contrasted last year's; while the prior event was predicated around hunting down other competitors, this adaptation had no purpose or directive. He spent the next couple of minutes reminiscing the fight on the yacht, and his encounter with the fake Karl—if not for the wardrobe slippage, the mercenary didn't know if he would have been able to detect any differences. Perhaps the all unknowns were intertwined—all part of the same string, like a ball of yarn. Regardless, the mercenary prided himself on being knowledgable of certain things, and being out of the loop disturbed him a good amount.

Deadpool needed answers. He brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings, surveying the flying bridge with keen eyes. Under the steering wheel, he saw a book mounted to the bottom of the dashboard. Hunching over, he ripped it away. Captain's Logs were the words on the front. A gold and white tassel used as a mark slumped over parts of the lettering. Three folded papers separated the soft cover from the first page of the book; as he began to open them he realized they were maps of islands—one of the original Dante's Abyss island, one of the current island, and one unknown map labeled Dante Del Rio.

Curiosity churned in the mercenary's head. He threw the maps over the dashboard, and read the first page of the log:


6/1/16

My first log—I'm so excited. I invited a crew of my favorite lads over to help me break the yacht in. I heard one of them loves to eat cake. Yum. Can't talk much, but will be jotting down more later.

The party was a success. Tony brought his cousin with him, and thankfully that cousin is just as blessed as him. We had a ball. I'm feeling too sore to write any more.


6/3/16

The last few days have been very uneventful. Pepsiman is here talking about how he wants more Pepsi advertisement this year. I haven't even told him that I don't plan on doing one this year. I thought inviting him over may lead to something, that maybe all the publicity taught him how to be more social, but I was wrong about both. Now I'm stuck here with (essentially) a 2-XL Robot.


Deadpool lightly chuckled. ”I remember those,” he said, turning the page.


6/4/16

I've stumbled upon omething very odd. An island that I don't remember creating. I'm going to check it out.

Oh, and I'm still stuck with Pepsiman. I thought maybe if I mixed some whiskey in with his soda he would loosen up. Nope.


6/5/16

We're arrive to the shore now. Will write when I return.


6/12/16

The island is mad; between the zombies, cannibals, and boobytrapped tunnels, I don't know how Pepsiman and I made it out alive. Just glad to be back on the boat. One of those sick fucks ruined my purple Tom Ford shoes. 


6/13/16

A fog has settled in, making our headlights completely useless. I feel uneasy vibes coming from the island. It's as if its zapping the energy from me.


6/15/16

Being stranded at see is very boring. Especially with robo Pepsi. He's not even 2-XL anymore—I coaxed him into letting me have my way, and to put it politely, he came up short.


6/16/16

NO NO NO. WHY THE FUCK IS MY PLANE FLYING ACROSS THE SKY?! MY GODDAMN PLANE.

I saw it this morning, soaring overhead. None of this makes sense. That is my private plane. How is someone using it? I swear, if Jerry is pulling one of his stunts again I'll have his ass ringed!


6/16/16

The plane was shot down. Not sure what did it, but it looked like a beam of light hit its belly, splitting it in two. Going to check it out tomorrow.


The rest of the pages were empty.

Instead of providing answers, the log sprung forth more questions—too many to mull over now. Deadpool refolded the maps, and placed them back in the book, closing it shut. It had been a long day, and the his body felt the toll of it (usually, this would be where his healing factor jumpstarted, rejuvenating him, but it had been assigned the task of mending his wounds). Perhaps after resting, the answers will just come him, like most things do; if not, he could always just stick to his plan of killing everything and everyone. He cuffed the book under his arm and returned to the floor below, and that nice bed.

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