[4-8] The Yacht

[Karl Jak]

Round 4

Deadpool
Guilmon

Deadpool came too a few moments after Guilmon had to witness the unpleasant demise of the human.  His vision returned, but all he could see was an orange-red mass in front of his face.
 
“Where the fuck?!”  The mercenary shouted as he started to flail a little bit.  Guilmon relaxed his grip enough for Deadpool to pull back and see who was holding on to him.  “You shouldn’t be in the ocean, not-Charmander.  This isn’t the place where you live.”
 
“We can work together and make it back,” Guilmon replied, seeming blissfully ignorant of the sass in his companion’s tone.
 
For his part, the mercenary glanced around before making the obvious comment.  “What shore?  There’s just fog and water.”
 
“Land must be somewhere,” the digital monster replied.  “Hey!  Look.  Land!”
 
Deadpool turned to see where the dinosaur was looking, and he quickly came to a different conclusion.  “That’s not land.  That’s a boat.”  Moment later, a massive, multi-story yacht parted through the fog.  As the naval vessel drew closer, Deadpool got a glimpse of the smiling figure waving to them from the rear of the ship.
 
“Hello, Wade,” Karl replied as he adjusted his captain’s hat and bent down for a floatation device.  “Couldn’t resist the urge for a swim?”  With a chuckle, the executive tossed the ring out to the pair of primes.  “Come on out of the rain.  I wouldn’t want either of you to grow ill.  My first mate has some crisp Pepsi for both of you.”

[Deadpool]

Choosing the shelter of a yacht (and a taste of luxury) over the mysteries and instability of a vast ocean was obvious decision. The yellow lifesaver thrown out cut through the fog with its brightness, splashing a few feet from the duo. Karl tethered it to the guardrail to keep it from washing away. It swayed back in forth with the motion of the current.

”Yay, a boat!” the reptilian cheered. ”Now Guilmon and Funnymon are safe!”

The mercenary briefly considered drowning the fool, using the reptilian as a booster, he could propel himself closer to the lifesaver, and also cross another competitor off his list; even if the anti-Charmender did live, it would wander the ocean until exhaustion settled in. If the mercenary did not owe his survival to the reptilian he would have done it. Instead, he reached over his new partner, swatting at the inflatable ring, but each time he tried a wave would pull it away again.

”Swim me a little closer, he said.

Guilmon flapped his paws and paddled within range for Deadpool to loop an arm around the ring, and yank it towards him. His thumbless paws managed to grab a hold of the lifesaver, pulling it under his armpits to keep his head above water.

”Maybe this pep-c they have can help with our injuries!” Guilmon said, always the optimist.

Deadpool ignored him. He raised a thumbs-up to Karl and watched as the executive called for a lackey to reel them in. He noticed the name of the ship while nearing the stern: Persuasive Dreams it read in cursive.

284 by site's count.
Wish I could add more, but it is what it is; we're on the boat.

[Guilmon]

As Guilmon ran towards the tree-line and killing the un-dead along the way, the ocean seemed like it was trying to take out the Primes as well. The waves were beginning to reach all the way up to the trees. The group of friends that Guilmon had gained was disappearing into the forest. Just as Guilmon reached the edge of the forest, he looked back to Funnymon to see if he was following or not. Sure enough, the red-and-black-clad man was just able to reach the forest before a giant wave crashed on top of them. With neither of the Primes knowing what hit them, they began to taste the salty tang of sea water.

Guilmon heard the other Prime mutter something – sounded like half a word, or so – before Deadpool was hit by a piece of the plane that had broken off. Without a word, the reptilian Digimon grabbed him and kept them both afloat. A short distance away, Guilmon saw another human desperately trying to keep his head above the waves with no avail. With his above-average eyesight, he could see something poke out of the ocean – heading straight for the lone Prime. A scream cut through the thunderous wind before the other Prime dipped under the waves for the last time – replaced instead by a jet of red.

Turning back to the island, Guilmon could tell that they were too far out. There was no way he could get the both of them back to the others. The two of them were alone, trapped in the middle of a storming, choppy ocean.

Within a couple minutes, the unconscious Prime came to. After a short conversation, the pair crossed paths with a huge boat. The captain was none other than the man who had sent out the summons to help locate his missing personnel – Karl Jak. When Karl tossed down a yellow donut, Guilmon exclaimed "Yay, a boat! Now Guilmon and Funnymon are safe!" The donut was just out of Funnymon's reach. Deadpool told Guilmon to swim a little closer, which was in Guilmon's mind anyway – the donut looked yummy.
 
As Deadpool looped his arm around the donut, Guilmon grabbed for it as well. When he felt it, he realized that it was not food. A bit bummed, he wondered out loud if whatever this "pep-c" they had would be tasty. Ignoring the hungry saurian – good idea? – Deadpool gave Karl a signal prompting whatever crew that was on board to pull them up.
 
"Alley-oop! Yay~" Guilmon's exclamation of joy as they were pulled up pulled a sigh from Deadpool's mouth. When they, too, were aboard the vessel, Guilmon noticed that the one that had pulled them up was a blue-and-silver man with no face. "Warudarumon? No, he's white... Metaldarumon, then!"
 
"Who the hell is? You know what, never mind." As the pair stand up, Deadpool looks at the soda-based Prime. "Well, well, well. If it isn't 'Mister Coke' himself... How've you been holding up since the last Dante's Abyss? You don't seem to be participating this time around. Think you're too good for the competition or somethin'?"
 
Despite Deadpool's instigations, Pepsiman remained calm. "I know you mean well, Wade. How 'bout some crisp, refreshing Pepsi?" Guilmon could not figure out how the metal man spoke without a mouth. Nor did he know where he pulled the can from. The can was dark blue with the word "Pepsi" stylized on the side. Underneath the brand was a circle. It was red and blue with a white squiggle fully separating the two halves.
 
"Metaldarumon... What's that in your hand?"
 
"This, my friend, is the best drink in all of the Omniverse! No drink has and ever will surpass... Pepsi! Take one swig and you will never want to drink anything else." Pepsiman hands a can to each of them and opens one of his own. Deadpool lifts up his mask just long enough to down his can.
 
Guilmon, on the other hand, had no idea how to open the can. Hell, he could barely hold it. "Ahhhh! Pull the tab on the top of the can to open it."  With Pepsiman's help, Guilmon manages to get the can open – by stabbing the top of the can with a claw.
 
Guilmon sniffs the can curiously. "Pepsi smells funny..." Following the example of the other Primes, Guilmon chugs the can... and belches a fireball. "Oopsy!" Guilmon giggles and belches another one. Amid a fit of giggles and fiery belches, Guilmon comments. "Guilmon doesn't like Pepsi. But Guilmon likes what it does to Guilmon."

761 words according to MSWord. 825 according to the site? I think it's counted the BBCodes...

[Deadpool]

The mercenary guzzled the soda down like a hamster on a nursery bottle, licking the inside of the can for the last drop. He raised an eye to look at his jolly partner sitting beside him. Good, isn't it?.

Guilmon took another sip of his pep-c. Faint trails of smoke rose from his nostrils, and he spectated it with amusement. ”Guilmon doesn't like how tastes, but likes how it feels in his chest,” he replied, giggling. Another torch of flame erupted from his mouth, almost singing Pepsiman's shoulder; it whiffed passed him, and rolled off the metal roof of the yacht, out into the open stern. ”Sorry!” Guilmon said. His face turned redder than the tone of his skin.

Deadpool smiled lightly. ”Yes, that feeling is acid reflux fucking your stomach hole. Savor it.”

“Pepsi takes no liability in the bodily reactions to our products,” Pepsiman interjected tonelessly.

The mercenary crushed the empty can in his hand, and casually tossed it overboard. ”So, whats the plan here?” His glance directed the question towards Karl. ”What other activities we got going on in this place—cuz I'm a fan of both Coke and Pepsi, if you know what I mean.”

Karl smirked. Combing his fingers through his slicked hair, he replied: “You can have whatever you want.” He walked passed Deadpool and headed for the stairs. “I'll go put some music on—I'm not big on modern stuff, but I have a nice 70's and 80's collection—then we can really start this party.” His expensive black shoes clapped against the steel ridges of the staircase.

Guilmon turned to Deadpool with glistening eyes of curiosity. ”What's music?”

Deadpool mentally pounded his forehead with the heel of his palm. Something that makes your ears feel good,” he replied; that was the simplest way he could put it.

The background slowly filled with tunes; the introduction—to whatever Karl elected to play—started with a methodical stroke of guitar strings; the sound of a flute crept into the melody (or clarinet—Deadpool wasn't a nerd in school), perfectly complimenting the guitar. The mercenary knew the song instantly: Stairway to Heaven.

”I always saw you as a Flock of Seagulls fan,” he shouted at Karl.

The executive came down the steps with leisure legs; his smirk spread larger, and cut wrinkles into his cheeks. “You prefer the Seagulls, Wade?”

The voice of Led Zeppelin's singer—a scrawny man with a mane of blonde hair—Robert Plant, went through the first verse of the song in. His voice was soft and pleasant like a woman's, but the lyrics were a jumble of heroin-induced nonsense.

Deadpool chuckled. ”Nah, Led Zep is fine.” He looked down at Guilmon. His partner bobbed his head to the rythmn. [b]”I think chin-Pokemon likes it too.”

“Good,” Karl replied. “I'm playing their Greatest Hits album.”

Pepsiman looked towards the executive and gave a nod; he received a glare of rejection, then returned his sights to their guests. “Would you like more Pepsi?” he asked as if wired to motherboard of prewritten dialogue.

In the background, Robert Plant worked through the end of the second verse—In the tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings; sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiving—and loudened his tone—[i]Ohh, it makes me wonder.

Deadpool felt a flustering in his stomach. It was a feeling of sudden worry, and burning suspicion. ”This isn't right,” he grumbled. ”The narration—it's building towards something.”

He surveyed Karl from across the room, narrowing his eyes as if looking through a dirty window. The executive appearance matched his wealth—black Ferragamo shoes, purple velour Tom Ford suit, complimented with a black handkerchief and bowtie—yet the attire seemed off. Karl Jak, billionaire (homosexual? At least bi-curious) older-male playboy, mismatching his shoes with his suit? Everything made by Ford Ford except for his shoes.

Pepsiman gave Karl another look, and this time he got an answer in the form of a nod; Deadpool watched their interaction closely. The giant advertisement balled his fists, turning his attention to the peeping 'Pool. His featureless visage sent a cold mug towards the mercenary and Guilmon.

Robert Plant neared the end of his singing, his voice raspy and powerful. And if you listen very hard, he sang, the tune will come to you at last.

Then all of it made sense; it cracked Deadpool over the head like a hammer. He put it together—the name of the yacht, the tackiness of Karl's outfit, the popping lyrics of the song—and realized everything was a facade. What the fuck, I guess I'll never get that Coke huh?

He turned to Guilmon. ”Get ready for some shit—the brown stuff that comes out from under your tail.” The reptilian ignored the mercenary's words, continuing to move his head to the song. Deadpool growled. ”Snap the fuck out of it!” he said, with a swift-coming backhand. He struck his partner across the butt of his nose with his open hand.

Guilmon flinched, popping out of his trance. He grabbed his nose with both paws with tears bulging from his eyes. ”Ow!”

The mercenary saw Pepsiman begin to walk towards them. He attempted to find the simplest words in his vocabulary to explain the situation to Guilmon, but forfeited. ”Sorry, but I gotta do this,” he said, showing a slip of sympathy for this partner.

Guilmon sent him a look of perplexity. ”Huh?”

Deadpool reared his leg back like a soccer player, and drove it into the ass of Guilmon. The reptile squealed as the boot sent him moving through the air. He crashed into Pepsiman, knocking him to the floor like a bowling pin. Their bodies sprawled in a heap of limbs, one tail included.

Karl now hurried to the opposite end of the room. He squatted over a chest mounted to the wall and floor, reaching into his jacket to retrieve what Deadpool saw to be a gold-colored key. Karl slid it into the hole (lol that's what she said), and turned clockwise. The chest popped open with a snap!

He was unsure if his partner could hear him, but he yelled out to him: "We have to fight!"

1126 words by site's count.
1410/2400 for this round

[Karl Jak]

End of Round 4

Karl Jak stood up and turned around.  In the executive producer’s hand was a glimmering, gold-plated Desert Eagle.  With a kiss, he pulled the trigger and sent a round crashing through Deadpool’s right shoulder, catching the merc by surprise and sending him thudding against the back wall of the cabin.

“Is that real enough for you, Wade?”

This is now a mini-boss encounter.  Either of you has the option to fight these two or retreat.  Fighting will yield a prize at the cost of, y’know, pain.

Deadpool has taken 2 points of damage.

[Deadpool]

Deadpool never heard the gunshot (in his line of business there used to be a saying—if a gun goes off and you don't hear it. . . well then, you're the lucky man). All he heard was the dull sound of his back slamming into the wall behind him; if not for the wall, it would have been the inner ringing sound of his head bouncing off the deck of the yacht. Now he resembled a man too drunk to stand, rather than the swaggering know-it-all who unreasonably took the aggressive. His knees trembled in a plea to unburden themselves from the weight of his tiring body as he pulled away from the wall and slouched forward, head buried under his clavicles.

Karl Jak sauntered forward. He was a person accustomed to the good life, but wielded the powerful firearm with a disturbing lack of effort—it took Deadpool years to properly one-hand shoot a desert eagle. The barrel of his desert eagle gleamed while he held it level at the mercenary. Luck had nothing to do with the placement of his shot; along with the playful kiss, Karl meant to send a message—don't take on a situation that your ass can't handle (something Karl probably learned firsthand, in some capacity or another).

Across the room, Deadpool's partner tussled with Pepsiman in a war of who would stand first; they jostled for positioning until the giant advertisement managed to wrap his arms around Guilmon's tail. The reptilian let out a whimpering sound as Pepsiman dismounted him. He tried everything he could—his claws were even dug into the wooden deck, carving trails into floor—but still found himself tossed aside like inconvenient luggage.

“We're going to do things my way now, Wade.” The smoothness in Karl's voice diminished into a dry and exasperated seriousness. Deadpool felt the cold steel of the handcannon pressing on the top of his head. “Pick your head up.”

”Who are you?” the mercenary drawled through his exhaustion. He groaned while collecting the strength for his words. ”The real Karl Jak matches his wardrobe—he's meticulous about it. The real Karl Jak would have been more flirtatious with me! I'm wearing goddamn spandex, so I know this print is knocking your socks off.”

The executive snickered. He slid the gun down Deadpool's temple and cheek, grazing it along his jawline before bringing it to his chin, using the end of the barrel to prop the mercenary's head up. When their eyes met Karl softened his visage; a smile curled under his thin mustache and wrinkles arched over his rising brows.

“The real Karl Jak is a trend setter; not a trend follower.” He surveyed Deadpool's physique. “And the real Karl Jak knows that under that tight spandex you wear is a body riddled with cancer, from your face to your 'spectacular' print.”

”Then who—”

“I'm the guy with the desert eagle, that's who I am.” Karl interrupted. “You fucked up a good thing, do you know that? We could have been drinking cocktails right now, as we headed towards the lighthouse.”

”What's at the lighthouse?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who claims to know all the answers,” Karl quipped. “How's everything over there?” he raised his voice for Pepsiman to hear, but never peeled his eyes from Deadpool.

“I believe our guest is parched, and is in need of more thirst quenching Pepsi,” his partner replied. He stood over Guilmon, watching as the reptile went from one knee to both feet.

Deadpool began to laugh; it sounded like car struggling to start. ”Know what neither you nor the real Karl have?” He stared into the pits of Karl's blue eyes and winked. ”A Pokemon.”

The executive furrowed a brow. He reciprocated the deep gaze with one of his own, attempting to read whatever delusional thoughts were juggling around in the mercenary's mind. “A Pokemon?” he

”Yup,” the mercenary replied. A confident smile creased his mask, and he glanced towards his partner. “Charmander there is gonna Flamethrower your ass once I command him to do so. All it takes is a couple directional clicks, and one A-button mash.”

Guilmon felt Funnymon's eyes beam towards him. They were burning, but not in the familiar way. No, the fire he saw was a blazed confidence. The words he spoke were, as always, pretty hard for the digimon to understand, but it was clear Funnymon no longer wanted to be funny.

Karl caught a chuckle before it ran up his throat. “You're really losing your mind Wade,” he remarked, turning his head to smile at Guilmon. “That's not a Poke—“

The mercenary's eyes began to rise with delight. He observed Karl's head turn from him as if through a series of frames, each only a fraction of a second long; and right when the executive's head went parallel to his shoulder, Deadpool saw his moment. He remembered Mr. Miyagi's teachings, how martial arts revolved around the basics. The legend had never taught him personally, but over a collection of movies Deadpool felt like he did. ”Wax on!” he shouted.

His left arm swiveled at the elbow, rotating around and striking the executive's wrist. The gun in his hand popped into the air; it twirled head over butt. In his mixture of anger and surprise, Karl responded could only respond with a grunt.

Wax off!”

This time he didn't steal a page from the master (it was just cool to say). A fist rocketed forward from his bullet-hole shoulder. The executive went to parry with a backpedal, but the maneuver failed; Deadpool's right cross pounded into his cheek, sending him into a punch-drunk stagger across the cabin.

”What're you waiting for?” the mercenary barked. Guilmon felt his eyes beam towards him once again. ”Get to fighting, or I'll kill you personally.”

Like Guilmon noticed before me, the site's word count doesn't resemble my personal word count. I just starting paying attention to it; by my personal count this post is 977 words, but the site says 1046.

[Karl Jak]

End of Round 5

Deadpool stared at Guilmon too long.  A well-manicured fist slammed into the mercenary’s masked face and sent him tumbling backwards.  As he stood up, he saw that Karl had managed to reclaim his gun.
 
A scowl barely had time to form behind Deadpool’s mask before there was a quick succession of gunshots.  A few yards away, Guilmon slumped against the side of the cabin, his body wrecked by three large holes.
 
“Stay hydrated!”  Pepsiman shouted as he sent the ragdoll corpse back out of the cabin and into the ocean with a burst of carbonated goodness.  Deadpool watched his companion land face-down in the water and start to drift away.
 
“I didn’t say use Faint!”  Deadpool shouted as the corpse started to drift into the ocean.
 

Guilmon is dead and will respawn in the Nexus in 3 days.
Deadpool, you have the option to make one more post or escape.

[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

[Karl Jak]

Face to Face

Deadpool vs Karl Jak & Pepsiman

With Karl removed, Deadpool turned and rushed at his carbonated adversary.  Katanas sliced through the air as the mercenary’s spandex-clad opponent reacted with a shocking degree of finesse—managing to evade the extremely surgical swipes, stabs, and thrusts.
 
”This is bullshit, you know.” Deadpool quipped as he missed his mark and winced as the katana’s screeched against the metal interior of the yacht.  “Weren’t you like, a level 0 NPC last time?”
 
“Your thirst has affected your mind, Mr. Pool!”
 
Before Deadpool could open his mouth, he was slapped across the chest and face by a wave of perfectly carbonated soda.  Plucked off the ground, the red costumed warrior flew back half dozen yards and crashed against the floor of the yacht’s cabin.  While he had a few choice words in his head, Deadpool had to throw himself hard to the right to avoid a fifty-caliber round punching through his skull.  With both katanas in check, the mercenary stepped back and took a split-second to note that the door behind him led to the small deck where he’d been pulled onto the craft.
 
Swinging his focus back to the action, Deadpool ducked under a blast of caramel-colored cola that struck the wall of the yacht with enough pressure to crack the faux wood and dent the metal behind it.  With a fleeting moment to react, the mercenary took half a step forward and flung the katana like a javelin.  There was a flash of red as the blade slashed through the mascot’s side and doubled him backwards over a bar table.
 
Before Deadpool had time to shout something celebratory and do a few hip thrusts, his extend hand erupted into a cloud of blood, fabric, and mangled hand-bits.
 
“Fuuuu—”
 
Karl Jak’s Desert Eagle crashed into the side of Deadpool’s face, and the mercenary dropped like a hundred pounds of potatoes in a spandex sack.
 
“It’s time to say adieu, Wade,” Karl’s smooth voice spoke was the executive rolled the mercenary onto his back and leveled the pistol with his face.  “Any final one-liners for the audience?”
 
“Y-yes,” Deadpool whispered.  “Tell them that all their dreams can come true.  After all, you’re successful despite your inability to count.”
 
With a shake of his head, Karl pulled the trigger.
 
Click.
 
”See, kids?  Stay awake in preschool.”  In one fluid motion, Deadpool swung his mangled, broken hand up into his adversary’s crotch, causing the man to double over in pain.  ”And the money shot!”  Scooping up his nearby katana, the mercenary thrust it through his opponent’s gut.
 
Gritting his teeth as blood started to seep through, Karl stumbled backwards as he dumped his gun and put his hands on the handle of the blade protruding from his stomach.  “This was… This was my favorite captain’s outfit!”
 
“Then here, I’ll give you some free dry cleaning,”  Stepping forward, Deadpool delivered a swift kick to the handle of the katana that sent Karl backwards through the unlocked door.  With a gurgling shout, the executive smacked into the faux wood deck, bounced like a bedazzled rock, and vanished into the ocean.
 
Smiling behind his mask, Deadpool turned around and saw that his other opponent was likewise gone.  There was a bloodstained katana and a few smears of ensanguined Pepsi that marred one of the portholes that was now swinging open on its hinges.  Crouching down, the mercenary picked up Karl’s discarded captain’s hat and set it upon his masked cranium.
 

End of Round 6

Karl and Pepsiman are gone.
 
Deadpool takes 6 points of damage – His hand is blown mostly apart and he has lost his Pokémon and one of his katanas.
Deadpool gains control of the Yacht
Karl’s golden DEagle is there for Deadpool, but it’s empty and there are no bullets onboard

[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?)

[Karl Jak]

End of Round 7

[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.

My count: 1103/ Site count: 1161

[Karl Jak]

End of Round 8