08-01-2016, 09:05 PM
Deadpool waded the sewage as he traversed through the tunnel, swatting the air with blind hands to guide his feet forward. The farther he got from the manhole, the denser the darkness became; it got to the point where the mercenary felt as if someone taped his eyeholes shut.
”How does Stevie Wonder do it, man?”
About fifty yards in, the tunnel elbowed to the right. Deadpool crashed into the wall before noticing, dropping ass first into the waste. He partially caught his fall—if not for his hands, he would have taken a complete bath—yet still managed to get his entire crotch immersed; despite what he told everyone, his outfit was made out of a more leathery type material, and it absorbed the sewage like cotton. The mercenary wanted to make a snarky remark about his misfortune, but the discomfort of mystery liquids washing genitals stripped him of words.
Deadpool returned to his feet, and kicked at the sewage water as if it were to blame to his collision.
”Fuckin shit fuck stupid goddamn filth stew!” he rambled; though it wasn't the remark he had in mind, it relieved some of his irritation to vocalize the anger souring him.
After collecting himself, he navigated the turn and proceeded forward.
Over the next twenty or so yards, the mercenary ran into a series of pitfalls—portions of the tunnel's brick flooring that would sink once he stepped on it. He negotiated the obstacles with nimble feet, springing from the ground once he felt it crumble under his weight. Was it difficult to accomplish with submerged legs, and without his vision? Sure, but the surprise of having the floor collapse gave him the adrenaline to jump higher than Prince of Persia's nameless protagonist.
”ALALALALAHBALALALA!” he yelled, each time he avoided a pitfall. It was his best interpretation of an Arabian battlecry.
The mercenary wondered how Karl trudged the passageway with those dorky strap sandals on. He probably did so reluctantly, as he watched his the sewage stain the Chanel logo pattern across the bands of his sandals. Anything that involved Karl's displeasure brought a smile to Deadpool's face, and this time was no different.
The next couple dozen of yards went by uneventfully; he had grown slightly accustomed to walking without his vision, sensing the next turn before it arrived; the leg-high sludge gradually lessened to ankle-high sludge, improving his pace. His foot would occasionally stumble over an unknown mass, but it felt soft . . . like the flesh of a person.
”What would a sewage tunnel be without a few body parts just scattered along the way?” Deadpool asked, paused, then answered: ”Not any tunnel I'd want to travel.”
Ahead, the mercenary could see a creek of light seeping out from the bottom of what he presumed to be a large door. About damn time, he thought—light, finally. He walked towards it with rejuvenated energy, and knocked against the surface when he arrived.
”Honey, I'm home!” he shouted.
Deadpool had just enough visibility to see an arching handle sticking out near his midsection. He grabbed the handle and pulled. It took more strength than he intended, but the door swung open. Hiro must have left it unlocked for him; bless the black guy's heart. Deadpool locked the door behind himself. No guests were welcome.
The place he entered was merely a narrow hallway. A single florescent bulb mounted to the ceiling bathed it in a strong white; the contrast in scenery burned and dazzled the mercenary's eyes.
When his vision improved, he saw another door in front of him. The upper window had been shattered. Jagged shards of glass protruded from the door's metal frame, drenched in blood. A dismembered arm reached out from the interior, curling two stiff fingers around the outside handle—whomever it belonged to was trying to escape, not enter; whatever killed him was large enough to swallow the remainder of his body whole.
”Out the frying pan and into the fire, huh?” he said.
”How does Stevie Wonder do it, man?”
About fifty yards in, the tunnel elbowed to the right. Deadpool crashed into the wall before noticing, dropping ass first into the waste. He partially caught his fall—if not for his hands, he would have taken a complete bath—yet still managed to get his entire crotch immersed; despite what he told everyone, his outfit was made out of a more leathery type material, and it absorbed the sewage like cotton. The mercenary wanted to make a snarky remark about his misfortune, but the discomfort of mystery liquids washing genitals stripped him of words.
Deadpool returned to his feet, and kicked at the sewage water as if it were to blame to his collision.
”Fuckin shit fuck stupid goddamn filth stew!” he rambled; though it wasn't the remark he had in mind, it relieved some of his irritation to vocalize the anger souring him.
After collecting himself, he navigated the turn and proceeded forward.
Over the next twenty or so yards, the mercenary ran into a series of pitfalls—portions of the tunnel's brick flooring that would sink once he stepped on it. He negotiated the obstacles with nimble feet, springing from the ground once he felt it crumble under his weight. Was it difficult to accomplish with submerged legs, and without his vision? Sure, but the surprise of having the floor collapse gave him the adrenaline to jump higher than Prince of Persia's nameless protagonist.
”ALALALALAHBALALALA!” he yelled, each time he avoided a pitfall. It was his best interpretation of an Arabian battlecry.
The mercenary wondered how Karl trudged the passageway with those dorky strap sandals on. He probably did so reluctantly, as he watched his the sewage stain the Chanel logo pattern across the bands of his sandals. Anything that involved Karl's displeasure brought a smile to Deadpool's face, and this time was no different.
The next couple dozen of yards went by uneventfully; he had grown slightly accustomed to walking without his vision, sensing the next turn before it arrived; the leg-high sludge gradually lessened to ankle-high sludge, improving his pace. His foot would occasionally stumble over an unknown mass, but it felt soft . . . like the flesh of a person.
”What would a sewage tunnel be without a few body parts just scattered along the way?” Deadpool asked, paused, then answered: ”Not any tunnel I'd want to travel.”
Ahead, the mercenary could see a creek of light seeping out from the bottom of what he presumed to be a large door. About damn time, he thought—light, finally. He walked towards it with rejuvenated energy, and knocked against the surface when he arrived.
”Honey, I'm home!” he shouted.
Deadpool had just enough visibility to see an arching handle sticking out near his midsection. He grabbed the handle and pulled. It took more strength than he intended, but the door swung open. Hiro must have left it unlocked for him; bless the black guy's heart. Deadpool locked the door behind himself. No guests were welcome.
The place he entered was merely a narrow hallway. A single florescent bulb mounted to the ceiling bathed it in a strong white; the contrast in scenery burned and dazzled the mercenary's eyes.
When his vision improved, he saw another door in front of him. The upper window had been shattered. Jagged shards of glass protruded from the door's metal frame, drenched in blood. A dismembered arm reached out from the interior, curling two stiff fingers around the outside handle—whomever it belonged to was trying to escape, not enter; whatever killed him was large enough to swallow the remainder of his body whole.
”Out the frying pan and into the fire, huh?” he said.
Quote:Round Total: 2258
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![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q218/Aerogfx/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png)
Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
[/float]![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://s137.photobucket.com/user/Aerogfx/media/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png.html)