Post by Deleted on Apr 26, 2017 21:25:07 GMT
(Or: SHIT’S GONNA BLOW UP A LOT
IN THIS TITLE)
By A Cowardly Asshole
#69: F Is for “Gun”
Part 1
Act 1 - “The Merc with a Mouth”
Chicago, Illinois.
A suited man lumbered up the stairs of his apartment, the fatigue of a hard day’s work shackled to his ankles. His eyelids struggled to stay open, and his chubby bearded face sagged with exhaustion. This man gladly would’ve taken the elevator, but alas, ’twas broken. This stock character’s name was Elliot. He worked at a big, boisterous bank, where he basically told people their loan was denied. He honestly couldn’t help but feel sorry for those people; Elliot himself was going through significant financial difficulty.
But that would soon change. Elliot had done something. Something incredibly terrible, as well as illegal. The exact details of his acts were insignificant (for the sake of not making this introduction bloated and convoluted), but basically, he wired himself a “fairly big” amount of money. His sad, saggy face lifted a little as thoughts of massive islands, gargantuous houses, colossal piles of gold, and…other large things filled his head. He was finally able to move away. He was free. Yes, he’d committed a serious crime, but he’d always been an “ends justify the means”-kind of person.
Elliot finally came up to the door to his apartment. He pulled the key out of his pocket and jammed it in the lock, turning it sideways.
His face turned pale white as he opened there.
There, sitting on his torn couch, was a man—a legend— garbed in a suit of red and black. His name—
“D-d-duh…Deadpool,” Elliot stuttered. “No… Oh no…”
Deadpool had his mask halfway up, for he was eating a slice of pizza. “Um… *Ahem* Hang on just one sec, Ellie.” Deadpool took a bite. “Mmm… I’ve been here for, like, seven hours. Got a li’l hungry, so I opened the refrigerator, and I saw pizza, so I was like, ‘Ooh, pizza. I think I’ll have some o’that,’ so I pulled it out, heated it up, and, well…viola. Simple way of thinking, but I’m a simple guy; I sees pizza, I eats it.”
Elliot, who by this point had been quite overdeveloped, hadn’t made a sound. He stayed rooted to the spot, frozen in utter fear.
Deadpool finished his slice, pulling his mask over his mouth. He stood up from the couch and slowly stalked his way over to the man. “You know who I am, yes?”
Elliot nodded. “You kill people for…for money.”
“Bingo. Badass mercenary. Crimson comedian. Nominated for two Golden Glo— Wait. Did… Did you just say that I kill?”
Elliot nodded again.
“Whaaaaat? I do not kill people!”
Yes we do. We kill the shit outta people.
Shhh! Don’t say the K word…
“Shut up,” said Deadpool.
“I-I-I didn’t say anything!” Elliot said defensively.
“Not you,” said Deadpool, aggravation in his voice. He touched the side of his head with his signature pistol. “I’m talking to the voices in my head.”
Straight outta the Daniel Way run!
Damn straight.
“Anyway!” Deadpool exclaimed. “I do not kill people, Elliot. . . . I contractually terminate them. And I’m sure you can guess why I’m here.”
“Yuh… You’re… You’re gonna kill—”
The merc leered at him. “Elliot!”
“—contractually t-t-terminate me, for stealing m-money?”
“Yes,” Deadpool said softly, and starkly, putting his pistol in its holster. “I’m here to fulfill a contract.” He began reaching for his katanas, which were hanging from his back. “And I’m gonna fulfill it gloriously.”
Tears were streaming from Elliot’s face, but, he remained still. “I— I’m sorry! I just… I j-just w-w-wanted to move outta the city.” He put his face in his hands, and his sobs grew all the louder. “I’m tired of this place. I’m so l-lonely… I just wanna be happy…”
“Well, Elliot, I wanna marry Morena Baccarin, but the world seldom gives us what we want.” With a shinnng, the merc unsheathed his swords.
Elliot could feel the cold steel of Deadpool’s blades hovering over his head. “Oh God…”
“You’ve been very bad, Elliot. Very bad. Got any last words?”
“N-no. Just… I’m sorry. I’d do anything to take it back.”
The next few seconds were filled with nothing but silence. The tension was so thick, Deadpool’s katanas were more than capable of cutting it. Elliot squeezed eyes his shut and waited. And waited. And waited some more. But his death never came. He mustered the courage to look up at Deadpool, who towered over him. Under the mask was a big happy smile.
“Aren’t you gonna kill me?” Elliot asked.
“Nope. I think I’m done here, actually.”
“. . . Huh?”
Deadpool slid his katanas back into his holder-for-swords thingy. “Yeah. I think we’re good.”
“B-but…I thought you needed to fulfill your contract?”
“And I’m fulfilling it right now.” The mercenary put his arm over Elliot’s shoulders, like an old friend. “Why the hell would a bank—a fucking bank—hire someone like me to kill an employee for stealing cash? Nah, I’m not here to do that. However…”
Elliot gulped.
“…I found your porn mag collection and burned them all to a crisp.”
“YOU WHAT?!”
“Sorry. Had to be done. Now, Ellie, baby, for the real reason why I’m here… You’re gonna go to the cops and confess, all right? And if ya do try to skip town, I will find you, and I will shoot you…in the foot. Won’t kill ya, but it’ll hurt like a bitch. Sound good?”
“Y-yes,” Elliot said quickly. “Sounds great.”
“Awesome. Now get outta here, ya li’l scamp.”
Elliot ran out of his apartment in a mad dash, never to be seen in this title again.
Was it really necessary to lie to him about his mags? We should’ve just told him the truth and say that we’re stealing them.
Yeah… But that reaction, tho!
Deadpool snorted. “He looked like Tim Allen from Home Improvement. And besides, more porn is always good.”
Word!
Word.
Later…
The Main Offices of the Aforementioned Big, Boisterous Banking Company.
Riding an elevator was always awkward, especially for a super hero. Deadpool was standing in the center, his eyes eagerly locked on the sliding doors at the front. He was not alone, however. Three professionally dressed women were in there with him, all of them trying to avoid looking at the costumed freak. Two of them had their eyes glued to their phones, while the third one was looking up at the ceiling. Needless to say, Deadpool found these women to be attractive.
Say something! Introduce yourself! You can do it!
“I… I don’t know…” the merc whispered timidly.
Quit your pussyfooting and give them our greatest pickup line.
“H-hey,” Deadpool said. The women looked at him with fearful expressions. “Are… Do you three like chimichangas?”
None of them answered.
Here comes the zinger! Don’t fuck it up!
“I ask ’cause…’cause I wanna eat you guys out!”
No reaction. Just eyes filled with terror.
Aaand he fucked it up.
You blew it, man!
“S-sorry,” Deadpool said, both to the voices and the three traumatized women. He faced the doors again, twiddling his thumbs while he waited for his floor.
That was a very out-of-character moment for us. Where was our confidence? Usually we make the ladies swoon!
Not really. Most women—and just people in general—find us repulsive and disgusting.
Whaaat? But…we’re cool! We’re suave! We’re charming!
No, we smell like Doritos and semen.
Dinnng! “Top floor,” said the elevator’s robotic female voice. The women pushed past him without a second thought, heading to their respective areas of the office.
“Okay, catch you three later!” Deadpool called as he stepped out, headed for the President’s office.
The office itself was bustling with activity. It was like a stock exchange, only smaller. People were running every which way, numbers being shouted across the room. No one even noticed the cool-ass mercenary walking through. Deadpool waltzed to the President’s door and knocked once, then entered without waiting for an answer. The President opened his mouth, but stopped himself from saying anything. He sized Deadpool up, studying him. A smug, McDermott-like smirk crept onto his face. “You’re… You’re that DC Comics villain! What’s his name… Deathstroke!”
Deadpool gave him a blank expression. “Um. . . . What.”
“Yeah, you’re Deathstroke!”
The merc forced himself to chuckle, trying to keep his composure. “Heh… I am not Deathstroke. I’m Deadpool. Badass mercenary. Crimson comedian. Nominated for two Golden Glo—”
“Nawww, you’re Deathstroke,” the President said, shaking a finger at him.
Deadpool’s right eye began to twitch. “No. I’m…Deadpool.”
“No, you’re Deathstroke.”
“Deathstroke has a completely different costume, plus he wears an eyepatch.”
Hey, at least he didn’t confuse us with Spider-Man.
Spidey’s not even in continuity yet, so you’re not allowed to say that.
“Have a seat, ‘Deadpool’,” said the President.
“Thank you.” The red and black-garbed badass pulled up a fancy wooden chair in front of the desk. He sat down and leaned back, then sighed, making himself at home.
“After we spoke on the phone, I was eager to meet you in person,” the President said. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Deadpool was blushing super-hard under the mask. “D’awww… Thanks.”
“You got the job done?”
“Sure did.”
“You didn’t hurt him, did you? I specifically said not to hurt him.”
“Eh, probably made him piss himself, but, other than that? Elliot went straight to the police. But…ericthepilot might bring this up in his review, so I have to ask, why would the President of the company even be involved in this?”
“Because he stole a shit-ton of money.”
“How much money?”
The President signaled Deadpool to come closer. The merc leaned forward enough for him to whisper in his ear. As he told Deadpool the amount, his eyes widened.
“Jesus fuck… That… That’s a lotta money.”
“Uh-huh,” the President said as he and Deadpool returned to leaning back in their chairs. “I needed to deal with him personally. And I wanted to scare the shit out of him, ’cause let’s face it—it’s a giant pain in your keester when someone takes your money.”
“Well,” Deadpool said, “consider the shit scared out of.”
“Great. Now, let’s take about payment.”
“Hoo boy.” Deadpool clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I’m ready.”
“All right.” The President reached under his desk and conjured a metal briefcase. He opened it, letting Deadpool see the great green wonder inside. “Five thousand American bucks, as promised.”
“Oh… Oh my…” Deadpool said, his eyes gleaming.
Amazing how he just happened to have that lying around.
Hey, never look a gift horse in the mouth; we’re rich!
The President snapped the briefcase shut. “All yours, friend. Hopefully we can…do business again?”
Deadpool stood up and took the case, shaking his head. “Nope. You called me Deathstroke.”
Act 2 - “Shit Happens, I Guess”
Deadpool’s Apartment.
Still in Chicago.
So…now that that overly-developed plot thread is over, what’s next?
Now we just kick back and hang loose!
“Hell yes,” said Deadpool. He strode through the hall until he came up to his front door. He had one arm holding the briefcase of cash, and the other was holding a quite thick stack of Elliot’s porn mags, so he tried opening the door with his foot. The sole of his boot slid and slipped over the knob, failing epically to turn the knob.
“Damn…stupid…thing,” he muttered.
You can do it! Believe in yourself!
Or, y’know, we could just put something down?
“Can’t… In too deep…”
*Sigh…*
Come on! You can do it! Push it, man! Push it!
“This…fucking thing, though… Can’t get…a grip on it… Just…………gotta……… Okay, that does it. Kiyah!”
Deadpool literally dropkicked the knob. It wasn’t as badass as one might think, however. He looked more like a little boy charge-kicking his sister off the trampoline, only with both feet. As such, a lot of objects hit the floor—the magazines, the briefcase, various weapons, the doorknob, and Deadpool’s buttocks. The door to his apartment opened with a slow creak.
Now we’re gonna have to get a new door.
“Got it open, though,” Deadpool said as he sat up, gathering his things. He opened the briefcase, staring in wonder at the five thousand beautiful dollars inside. “Besides—” He closed it. “—it’s not like I can’t afford a new one, what with me being stinkin’ rich and all.”
True, true.
As Deadpool stood up and walked into his apartment, let us take a tiny break to describe his humble abode. Simple adjectives are inadequate to describe such an apocalyptic dwelling. Imagine, if you will, the most horrid apartment you can think of. Feel the grime emanating from the walls. Taste the unholy stench. Tremble in fear as you step on something squishy. Deadpool’s apartment wasn’t something that could be described; it had to be explained.
Hey, cool it with the italics; Stardrifter’s probably reading this.
Deadpool closed the door behind him and leapt into his rocking chair. He pulled the lever on the side, raising the foot rest. He stretched his body outward, relaxing into the chair.
“I wonder,” said the merc, “what kind of critiques do you think this issue will get?”
The fact that we break the fourth wall every five seconds?
“Oh, come on, that’s my shtick! That’s what I do! You can’t critique me for doing what I was literally created to do.”
Our jokes are long, bloated, and unfunny?
“Hey, if they wanna read a serious title, they can go read Batman or somethin’.”
We’re two thousand words in and there’s still no plot to speak of?
Deadpool shrugged and nodded. “Okay, that’s a good point. But we’ll get to that soon. Right now Sonny’s just letting the audience know who I am.”
Do the readers even know who we are?
They did click the issue, did they not?
Yeah, but…do they even know our origin?
“Of course they do. It all began when I was a teenager… My mom was incredibly abusive, so I burned down the house—”
All-Star origin.
“. . . Huh?”
That’s our All-Star origin story. Tell them our Infinite origin.
What even is our Infinite origin?
“Hell, I don’t remember. Let me check the booklet.”
Deadpool reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a little handbook, titled Guide to Infinite Origin Stories. It was completely blank, except for one entry in the “D” section. Deadpool opened it up and peered down at the small letters.
“Okay, let’s see… Here we go. Okay. Listen up, reader—when I was eighteen, I discovered, ‘Wow, I’m really good at killing people!’ So I signed up for Oscar Zero, a Canadian special forces group that kills bad guys. While, I was working for them, I met a really nice girl. I can’t mention her by name right now, because she’s unclaimed. So, for a few years, my life was pretty good. I had a good job, was in a productive relationship, but then it all went down the crapper. I got cancer. Tons of cancer. Like, seriously, it was a lot of cancer. I’m talking brain, lungs, liver, heart, prostate, and testicles. Just ass-loads of cancer. Things were lookin’ bleak for me, but then an Agent Smith-looking fucker found me and told me about a place where my cancer could be cured…and more.”
Dear God, are you still going?
“He told me his organization created superhumans. He said, ‘Your cancer will be gone, and you’ll have abilities people can only dream of.’ At first, I was like, ‘Nuh-uh! No way, creep!’ But when I got home, and I looked into the eyes of my girl, I knew what I had to do. Oscar Zero transferred me to a deep, scary, underground workshop, where I met an asshole named Killebrew, and another asshole named Ajax.”
Are you done yet? This is getting boring.
“Killebrew and Ajax took me into their lab and fucked me like I was roadkill. They practically drowned me in mutant ‘essence’, messing up my good looks and making me look like a dick with dragon skin. That’s why I always wear a mask. They finally gave me a healing factor—a special healing factor, one works only for me. (It really helps whenever psychos are trying to copy my healing factor.) It regularly combats my cancer cells. Think of it as a bully beating a little kid into submission, then beating him again when the kid tries to get up. It’s very handy. You can cut my arm off, and it’ll just grow back. You might be thinking, ‘Oh, what happens if you’re decapitated?’ Well, my head just grows back too! I lit’rally cannot die.”
Holy shit, is this a science class now? Can’t we just explore our backstory through flashbacks and the emergence of characters from our past? Y’know, instead of all this exposition?
“Pfff! Hell no! Flashbacks are just lazy storytelling.”
And what you’re doing isn’t?!
Just, please, skip to the part where we escape the workshop.
Deadpool frantically flipped through his section in the handbook again. “But… But I’m skipping three pages’ worth of good material!”
Exactly. Now hurry up.
“Hey, at least we’re giving eric lots of good material for the Who’s Who. So…I decided I had enough with that hellhole’s shit. I was literally insane after those experiments. Like, balls-to-the-wall, Hannibal Lector, Joker, Jim Carrey insane. I bashed Killebrew’s head into a wall and had an epic fight with Ajax. I made their workshop implode on itself, allowing me to make my escape. Became a mercenary… Super-badass… Haven’t seen my girlfriend in years… Yada yada yada. Okay, I’m done. Happy?”
Yes, very much so.
For a second there, I thought I was gonna die.
“You guys suck.” The mercenary got up from the chair and grabbed his new porn magazines. “I’m gonna have some ‘me time’.”
As if this couldn’t get even more pointless.
“Y’know, just because you acknowledge something is stupid, that doesn’t make it un-stupid.”
Deadpool trekked through the dirt and grime of his apartment, making his way to his room, which was actually pretty clean. The walls were lined with all sorts of guns—AKs, pistols, a sniper rifle, and even a bazooka in the far corner. Plastered on the ceiling was a 2016 Deadpool movie poster. Every night, before he went to sleep, Deadpool would look up at the poster and be reminded of how awesome he was. The merc swan-dived onto his bed, nuzzling his face into his pillow.
“Prepare yourself, bed; you’re about to become the I in the Pixar logo.”
If we had a dime for every time we’ve jacked off…what color of Lamborghini would we get?
“Uh, red. Duh,” said Deadpool as he opened a magazine. “Or, hey, maybe purple?”
Everything was primed and prepared. Deadpool’s body was ready. But then…a shocking pain poked itself into his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut as he rolled onto his side, curling up in a fetal position.
“Jesus Christ… What is that? Ow…”
The pain bombarded him again, even angrier that time. A low, deep rumble resonated from his stomach.
“Oh, God… Oh no… Elliot’s pizza… Ouch…”
I told you not to eat that!
“Wasn’t listening… Was bewitched…by pizza… And now…it has betrayed me… Ow…”
Deadpool mustered the strength to get off his bed and waddle his way to the bathroom, which was by far the smallest part of Deadpool’s apartment. It was barely big enough for three people to cram in, unless the third person stood in the leaky bathtub. Deadpool pulled down his pants and crash-landed his bottom on the toilet, and just in the nick of time.
“Rrraaaaaaaaaaahhh!” he battle cried. “Aaaaaiiiiiiiiieeeeee! Gneeeeeeeeeeee!”
Forty-Five Minutes Later…
Deadpool’s limp body sat on the toilet, completely drained. “Guh… I think I just passed every food I’ve eaten in the past fifteen years… I think I passed my neighbor’s bicycle (not exactly sure how, but whatever).”
Can I interject and comment on the literary brilliance of this scene?
“You may. This is a great scene, isn’t it?”
I was being sarcastic, doofus.
“Huh. Oh well. Anyhoo, guess it’s time to flush.” Deadpool reached back to the handle of the side of the toilet and pushed down. Nothing happened. “Hmmm…” He pushed it again. Nothing.
Ohhh boyyy! Looks like more hilarity’s gonna ensue!
Yay.
“Jesus Christ, damn thing’s clogged,” the mercenary grumbled.
He rose from his throne and pulled up his pants. Plunger… He needed a toilet plunger. He looked by the sides of the toilet, and it wasn’t there. Deadpool checked in the cabinet underneath the sink. The plunger wasn’t there either.
He stood up and puzzledly scratched the back of his head. “Damn. Where is that fucking thing?”
Let’s see… If we were a toilet plunger, where would we be?
. . . The bathroom?
“Except it’s not in the bathroom.”
Then let’s try the bedroom.
“. . . What?”
Just trust me. Let’s go look.
“Eh, all right. Wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”
Deadpool made his way back to his bedroom. Why would the plunger be in there? It didn’t make sense. For what purpose would someone put a plunger in their—?
Hey, would ya look at that. There it is!
The plunger lay there, in the middle of the floor. Deadpool could only stare at it, an exasperated expression on his mask.
“The fuck is that thing doing in here?”
You honestly don’t remember?
“No! And how is it that you—my brain—can remember something, but I myself cannot?”
It knocked us unconscious. That’s probably why you don’t remember it.
“Look, if you’re trying to be subtle about some sick joke, now’s not the time. Subtlety went out the window thooouuusands of words ago.” He picked up the plunger. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a poop joke to finish—uh, I mean, a toilet to unclog.”
You know, this issue’s really demeaning the credibility of the writer.
Heh… What credibility?
Ohhh! Theoretical high five!
The voices were silent for the rest of the issue. Once the merc was in the bathroom, he immediately pushed the plunger into the toilet, sticking it in like a sword into a stone. He heaved as hard as he could, until the toilet finally made a ear-piercing gurgling noise. The bodily contents inside seamlessly slipped down the drain, emptying the toilet.
“Oookay. Guess that takes care of that.” Deadpool almost turned to leave, but he noticed the toilet bowl wasn’t filling with water like it was supposed to. Trepidatiously, the merc pushed the handle on the side.
One Floor Up…
Zach Snider’s favorite film was coming on the TV—Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen! He pulled his popcorn out of his microwave, then leapt on the couch, ready to behold some cinematic brilliance. Zach told himself, “If I was a filb-baker, I’d bake one just like this. It would hab Superban fighting Batban, and it’d be brilliant!”
Mister Snider was ready. As the opening titles appeared on the screen, the area under his feet began to rumble… Zach didn’t mind; it was most likely the movie’s epicness seeping into the floor. But the rumbling only grew. Zach looked down, unsure of what he was expecting to see. Earthquake? A storm?
Then…
BOOOOMMM!
A spectacle occurred in front of him. No, not a spectacle… Inspiration. It happened so quickly, but Zach’s imaginative yet warped mind slowed it down so that he could capture every detail. it erupted from the floor. Shit. Literal shit—like the world’s gassiest volcano. And within that shit was…a man? Yes, a man—a man garbed in red and black. A man screaming at the top of his lungs. Deadpool. And then appeared a toilet, split open perfectly down the middle. The base was cracked beyond imagination, as if it had been ripped from the floor.
Deadpool crashed against the ceiling. His body made a cartoonish imprint against the material as he began to descend. Zach continued to watch in awe as the merc slammed into the soiled floor, creating a slow-mo sssplllaaaaat! Finally, it was over. Zach looked around his apartment. Any normal person would’ve had a heart attack from seeing their home get so…dirty. But not Zach Snider. He looked at Deadpool again and asked, “Hey, pal, do you think you can do that again? I need to take notes.”
Deadpool only lay there, groaning. Anyone would have done so, especially after having their toilet explode in their face.
“Looks— Looks like I’m gonna have to move,” the merc mumbled. “I guess that’s the shit that happens when your diet only consists of pizza, chimichangas, and coffee. See ya next time, readers. Next issue’s gonna have Blind Al, Weasel, and Domino. Oh, and don’t worry—from here on out, the poop jokes are gonna be at a minimum.”
“Who ya talkin’ to?” asked Zach.
