07-04-2017, 10:33 PM
Aware that he had lost the offensive, the white Black Panther (or maybe rip-off of Moon Knight? Let's Stick with Black Panther—he's much more astute than Moon Knight) retreated a few meters backwards to increase the space between them. He stood on the opposite side of Karl's Parkway, in front of a line of parked cats, preparing to take a defensive approach.
”Nice moves,” Deadpool replied, ”but you should go back to Wakanda for additional practice.”
The mercenary unholstered his right handgun and raised it towards anti-T'Challa; taking quick aim, he squeezed the gun's trigger thrice in succession—POW, POW, POW. A fusillade of twisting lead thundered as it tore through the air, leaving spat shell-casings rattling against the asphalt.
The Marvel wannabe failed to display Black Panther's agility while escaping the rounds, but did so with sharper technique—he rolled out of the way, using his cape as a means to absorb the friction of the pavement. The volley of bullets struck the maroon Nissan sedan behind him, shattering both side windows into a thousand pieces.
Deadpool scowled. ”Who the fuck still wears capes anyway, the caped-crusaders?”
Anti-T'Challa was on one knee, glancing over his shoulder at him. “I take it that you spend more of your off-time creating jokes than practicing your craft.”
Before the mercenary could readjust his sights, he snatched his previously thrown weapon from the ground, and hurled it at him. The oddly shaped boomerang whirled end-over-end right passed its target like a badly thrown first-pitch at a ballgame.
Deadpool watched it soar over his left shoulder. ”HA! he taunted. ”And your aim is worse than Xavier, and he's crippled.”
The white Black Panther merely pointed at Deadpool's other shoulder.
The boomerang had taken an elliptical orbit, U-turning back towards its target; just as the mercenary turned, it ricocheted off of his pistol, stealing the firearm from his grasp. Both weapons flew in different directions.
Anti-T'Challa seized the moment, and charged. His cape flared upward as he stretched a fist into Deadpool's stomach—an assortment of gurgles flushed out. Enticed, he drove deeper, until he felt the uneven surface of a spinal cord. When he retracted his punch, he did not hesitate; his idle fist whipped around, and treated the mercenary's face like an angry teenager treated a wall . . . by trying to put a whole in it.
Deadpool backpedaled with the staggering feet of a boxer who wasn't all there anymore. His face was fine, but the pain in his gut reminded him of those starving nights he had as a child. He went through the storefront of a fast-food joint, crashing into, and dispersing, a couple of chairs and square table before banging his cranium into the checkered floor.
”This guy must not be a fan of jokers,” he muttered, massaging as scalp. He could already sense the lump forming on his crown.
Standing in the broken pane of glass, the white Black Panther attempted to emit his threatening posture again. His shadow extended across the eating area, and created a silhouette on the far-end wall.
”Que shitty theme music, huh? Deadpool said, snickering.
“Que this,” Anti-T’Challa replied, retrieving a pistol from his utility-belt; sticking from the muzzle was a grappling hook.
”A fucking grappling hook?” His eyes widened. ”Well, shit. Call me Ishmael.”
A hollow clicking noise launched the four-pronged piece of metal. The cord attaching it to the gun slithered like a sperm tail until it bound the mercenary’s arm, latching onto one of its tines.
Deadpool grimaced; while the cord tried to reel him in, his forearm was set ablaze with pain. It felt like Juggernaut was trying to set a record for the world’s greatest Indian Burn.
He wanted to scream—oh, he wanted to shout every goddamn expletive that jumped to mind. Yet, he refused to give anti-T'Challa the satisfaction.
Swiftly, he unsheathed a katana with the arm he had free, and detached himself from the grappling hook. The remainder of the cord flailed like the neck of a beheaded snake until collapsing to the floor.
But before he could start unraveling the hook from his arm, Mr. Opportunist was ready to attack again. The white Black Panther closed the distance between them, and dipped down to deliver another gut-churning punch
Semi-colon, but the merc' with a mouth was ready this time.
Deadpool parried it with a sidestep, then swung his sword. The strike landed, but did not draw blood; instead, sparks geysered from anti-T'Challa's gauntlet as the blade clashed with its teeth.
Whoever this imposter was, his skill level was unquestionable.
I know not all that may be coming, the mercenary thought, but be it what it will, I will go to it laughing.
”Nice moves,” Deadpool replied, ”but you should go back to Wakanda for additional practice.”
The mercenary unholstered his right handgun and raised it towards anti-T'Challa; taking quick aim, he squeezed the gun's trigger thrice in succession—POW, POW, POW. A fusillade of twisting lead thundered as it tore through the air, leaving spat shell-casings rattling against the asphalt.
The Marvel wannabe failed to display Black Panther's agility while escaping the rounds, but did so with sharper technique—he rolled out of the way, using his cape as a means to absorb the friction of the pavement. The volley of bullets struck the maroon Nissan sedan behind him, shattering both side windows into a thousand pieces.
Deadpool scowled. ”Who the fuck still wears capes anyway, the caped-crusaders?”
Anti-T'Challa was on one knee, glancing over his shoulder at him. “I take it that you spend more of your off-time creating jokes than practicing your craft.”
Before the mercenary could readjust his sights, he snatched his previously thrown weapon from the ground, and hurled it at him. The oddly shaped boomerang whirled end-over-end right passed its target like a badly thrown first-pitch at a ballgame.
Deadpool watched it soar over his left shoulder. ”HA! he taunted. ”And your aim is worse than Xavier, and he's crippled.”
The white Black Panther merely pointed at Deadpool's other shoulder.
The boomerang had taken an elliptical orbit, U-turning back towards its target; just as the mercenary turned, it ricocheted off of his pistol, stealing the firearm from his grasp. Both weapons flew in different directions.
Anti-T'Challa seized the moment, and charged. His cape flared upward as he stretched a fist into Deadpool's stomach—an assortment of gurgles flushed out. Enticed, he drove deeper, until he felt the uneven surface of a spinal cord. When he retracted his punch, he did not hesitate; his idle fist whipped around, and treated the mercenary's face like an angry teenager treated a wall . . . by trying to put a whole in it.
Deadpool backpedaled with the staggering feet of a boxer who wasn't all there anymore. His face was fine, but the pain in his gut reminded him of those starving nights he had as a child. He went through the storefront of a fast-food joint, crashing into, and dispersing, a couple of chairs and square table before banging his cranium into the checkered floor.
”This guy must not be a fan of jokers,” he muttered, massaging as scalp. He could already sense the lump forming on his crown.
Standing in the broken pane of glass, the white Black Panther attempted to emit his threatening posture again. His shadow extended across the eating area, and created a silhouette on the far-end wall.
”Que shitty theme music, huh? Deadpool said, snickering.
“Que this,” Anti-T’Challa replied, retrieving a pistol from his utility-belt; sticking from the muzzle was a grappling hook.
”A fucking grappling hook?” His eyes widened. ”Well, shit. Call me Ishmael.”
A hollow clicking noise launched the four-pronged piece of metal. The cord attaching it to the gun slithered like a sperm tail until it bound the mercenary’s arm, latching onto one of its tines.
Deadpool grimaced; while the cord tried to reel him in, his forearm was set ablaze with pain. It felt like Juggernaut was trying to set a record for the world’s greatest Indian Burn.
He wanted to scream—oh, he wanted to shout every goddamn expletive that jumped to mind. Yet, he refused to give anti-T'Challa the satisfaction.
Swiftly, he unsheathed a katana with the arm he had free, and detached himself from the grappling hook. The remainder of the cord flailed like the neck of a beheaded snake until collapsing to the floor.
But before he could start unraveling the hook from his arm, Mr. Opportunist was ready to attack again. The white Black Panther closed the distance between them, and dipped down to deliver another gut-churning punch
Semi-colon, but the merc' with a mouth was ready this time.
Deadpool parried it with a sidestep, then swung his sword. The strike landed, but did not draw blood; instead, sparks geysered from anti-T'Challa's gauntlet as the blade clashed with its teeth.
Whoever this imposter was, his skill level was unquestionable.
I know not all that may be coming, the mercenary thought, but be it what it will, I will go to it laughing.
Quote:785 words by wordcounter(dot)net
Summary
Batman picked up one of his batarangs, and recycled it use.
DP has 1 pistol knocked from his hand--whereabouts: on the street somewhere.
Batman lands some punches.
Batman used his grappling hook to wrap around DP's arm, ripping some flesh, but the merc' cuts the cord with his katana.
DP tries to use a katana to slash Batman, but it's caught in his gauntlet.
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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)