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[M] Snatched from Marvel

#1
Introduction




Hi boys and girls—fags n’ faggets!. Welcome to the awesomely twisted world of DP! And no, you nasty f***s, not double penetration . . . that’s for whores; it’s for Deadpool!

(Wow, really? My vulgarity is still being censored by Baron? A**hole. It’s been like over three years.)

Yup, that’s right, I’m back. A long hiatus away from being used by my compadre, and favorite amateur author, Baron! Idk why, but he actually thought that using my all-serious friendemy, Deathstroke, was going to satisfy the urge to right as a mercenary; but he forgot that Deathstroke isn’t the one with a mouth!

I’m starting to get sidetracked, so I’m going to try and make this as quick as humanly possible. Or, if you prefer, mutant-ly possible—as fast as Quicksilver, while running away from the responsibilities that Magneto tries to place upon him.

Anyway, this story is going to begin with a prologue. Why? Well, because prologues are awesome. They help the story like, not begin all awkwardly.

Me (Yes, I put myself first, because my grip on the English language is very loose, and because I’m just cool like that); “Mr. SNIKT” himself, Wolvie; “The Human Kitty-cat”, Sabertooth; and my good ole buddy, “B****boy” Bob are on the hunt for Kid Omega. Apparently, Kid Omega is becoming a problem too large for even the “Master of Invading your Mind to Know your Sexual Desires”, Xavier; or his undercover mental f***buddy, “My Vagina is Burning like a Phoenix” Jean Gray to handle.

Why us? Because Kid Omega has essentially raped everyone else Xavier has tried to deploy. Me, Wolvie, and Sabertooth are viewed as the only ones that can withstand Omega’s powers and survive. And Bob, well he’s just here to get my rocks off . . . Literally and figuratively >_>

And yes, that was a smiley. Cuz I’m cool like that =D

Anyway, I’ve wasted enough of your attention span with this little intro. So, without further ado, the story begins in the post below! Prologue, I choose you (Add picture of pokéball here)!!




Oh yeah, before I forget: All of my dialogue and thoughts are expressed in bold, with the thoughts also being in italics as well. It used to be identified by red text, but I guess Baron is getting lazy now on his coding.

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#2
Prologue
SNNNIKKKT

The sound of clashing metals pierced through the night like nails running down a chalkboard. Tree leaves trembled as birds abandoned their homes, opting to retreat into the sky, almost as if chasing the glowing moon above to start life anew (and if children had wings, they would undoubtedly do the same after experiencing the horror of those wretched nails).

SNNNIKKT

The metals clashed again. The sounds came from within the depths of the woods, which mostly consisted of maple trees (their leaves were stubborn against the powers of autumn, but some wore their battle scars in shades of orange and red); just east of a thin creek whose circulation was torturously being cut off by the steady construction of a beaver dam just a few miles north. It came from a small clearing that was littered with rocks and remnants of a tree that had died long ago, but had only broken into portions of dry logs.

The group of men had been occupying the small clearing in the woods for most of the day. Earlier in the day they had established a makeshift campground, moving around some of the dry logs to position them around the campfire that they had been created from the manipulation of another log. The flames of the fire were weak, and dwindled with every passing minute. At times sparks would crackle up from within its belly, almost as a plea—a yearning to be fed. They all sat on a different log, creating a semi-circle around the fire. Except for Sabertooth—he stayed near the perimeter of the clearing, outside of the flames’ sight.

Wolverine sat hunched over, only allowing the flame’s light to wash over his receding hairline and olive cargo pants (it was an off-day, and he had left the sexy spandex at the mansion). Within the darkness of his abdomen he rubbed his palms together, caressing the sides of his hands as he went along. His protracted metal claws interfered with one another every few seconds, and wept a SNNNIKKT as they did so. Sometimes, when the flame would make one of its pointless pleas, it would be bright enough to show those vicious claws, making them glisten.

”Do you always have to do that?” Deadpool asked. In his hands he played with a bush leave that he had folded thrice, and began to rip it apart along its creases. What you need to do is use those claws to trim those sideburns. You look like ‘Depressed Alcoholic Rob Lowe’, who has cable.”

Truth was, Deadpool simply despised SNNNIKKT. He perceived it as the most overrated onomatopoeia in Marvel history. It wasn’t even a real fucking sound effect. Rather just some creation that stemmed from a comic book creator that had a few too many lines of coke one night; but then Deadpool surmised that his existence was probably birthed out of something similar.

“I’m just trying to keep my hands warm,” Wolverine replied, glancing over at Deadpool, “but it’s hard to . . . without the warmth of blood running over them.” An almost sadistic grin spread across Wolverine’s face, revealing a mouthful of yellowing teeth.

”Wow, that had to have been the deepest thing you’ve ever said in your life.”

“What?”

”Nothing. I’m just talking to myself, out loud, for you to hear, because you’re an idiot.” He flicked the pieces of leaf into the air; a slight breeze kept them lifted shortly, but they then gently glided back down to earth.

Wolverine snarled, still scraping his metal claws together, but now more intensely. SNIKKT, SNIKKT, SNIKKT “You want it to be your blood, bub?”

”Bring it. I know you can’t tell right now, but the thought of you even trying to do that makes a smile wrinkle across me mask. Like the feeling of a toddler getting a new toy, that even though isn’t made for the mouth, is instantly sucked on. ‘Bub.’”

The man in the green outfit that accompanied them around the campfire cocked a brow. “That made no fucking sense whatsoever, Wade.”

”B****boy, hush.” Deadpool snapped back with a smirked, his eyes never drawing away from Wolverine. “If Wolvie wants to really get his ass kicked, again, for the one millionth time, then let him.” He slid a hand down to his waistline and caressed the handle of his gun. ”This .40 Cal will penetrate you harder than Leroy’s giant c**k does slender inmates in prison, Wolv. SNIKT that, up the butt.”

Wolverine growled. He had enough of Deadpool. If the mercenary wanted to provoke him then he accomplished his objective. Wolverine got up from the log—almost pouncing—and began to motion towards the mercenary. His fists were balled up tighter than a cold child in his comforter, and he was going to keep them warm by driving his claws so deep into Deadpool’s skull that his knuckles would be kissing the man’s cheek.

“Settle down you two,” Sabertooth said, his voice bellowing from the confines of darkness that he secluded himself to, leaning against a tree close to where the clearing in the woods came to its end. “None of us like each other, that’s evident, but we’re here for a bigger purpose. So let’s keep the internal conflict to a minimal . . . for now. Then we can resume hating one another afterwards.”

Wolverine halted. Anger was painted all over the canvas of his visage, but Sabertooth was right.

”That’s not true,”[b] Deadpool quickly retorted to Sabertooth, removing his hand from the area of his gun. “We don’t all hate one another. I like Bob. He was my Valentine this year. We were knocking boots all night.” He blew a kiss at the man cladded in green. ”Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

For once, Deadpool’s awkward sense of humor benefited people other than himself; it took a cleaver and amputated the limb infected with animosity . . . at least for the moment. Wolverine even allowed a quaint, raspy chuckle to escape his lips, retracting his long metal claws back into their confines, in-between his fingers. SNIKKT

Bob glared at Deadpool angrily. Always the center of your jokes, he thought. [/i]One these days im gonna . . . OH FUCK! HE’S STARING BACK! QUICK BOB, LOOK AWAY![/i] He quickly glanced at the ground and retrieved a small rock, underhand-chucking it into the pits of the fire. “Just for the record, everybody, I’m not Wade’s sweetie, or Bitchboy. And he wasn’t my Valentine. My Valentine was my wife.” The rock crackled inside the flames.

”PFFFT!” Deadpool exploded into laughter. ”You mean wives. I guarantee there are at least two other people living inside of that woman. She’s like four hundred pounds. That b**** had Dorito crumbs orbiting her body last time I saw here.” He quickly sunk his face into his palms, keeping himself from bursting out again (a few giggles still seeped though, but were muffled to where it was inaudible to anyone else).

“It’s not that much,” Bob murmured, playing with a new rock; he fiddled it around in his fingers. If it was not for the mask that covered most of his face the flames he sat close to would have vividly displayed his blushing cheeks; but he hung his head all the same, embarrassed.

“We should call it a night.” Sabertooth pushed himself off of the tree and walked over to the fire. “Get a couple of hours of sleep before we leave at dawn.” He took his foot and began to smother the flames with longwinded stomps. His leg burned some, but quickly healed back over, and the flames were out of breath before they even had an opportunity to cling onto his garments. “We’ll have one more overview of the plan tomorrow before we head out. That way we’re all on the same page.”

The rest of the men responded with nods of agreement, and as the flame was smothered out darkness reclaimed the camp. They were going to need all of the energy they could muster.

Even Deadpool couldn’t refute that.

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#3
* * *




Dawn had not struck yet, but the group of mutants—

Bob isn’t a mutant. He’s just some guy.

—began to wake up.

Wolverine had awoken first, perking his head up. He had slept in the same position that he had been in earlier—hunched over, forearms resting on his knees. He made an unnoticeable groan and then slowly opened his eyes. As he started to motion to get up, Sabertooth dropped down from a tree branch that he had called his bed for the night, and landed on his feet (a cat always does). His pupils were still dilated—big and bold. They locked eyes for a moment, and for a moment—though brief—almost mistook each other for the enemies they truly were, but they both immediately controlled themselves.

Bob let out a loud, longwinded yawn as he stretched his arms out as wide as he could, almost as if to hug his large spouse. He was not accustomed to waking up so early in the morning (couldn’t have been later than 6 AM or so). He got up off of the log he had slept on and walked over to the log Deadpool was still laying on. “You wake?”

The mercenary rolled over, throwing a leg out like a kickstand to catch his imminent fall, and looked at Bob with bloodshot eyes. “W-W-Wolverine snores through h-h-his nose,” he stuttered out. ”I-It’s a whining, raspy s-s-sound, like a cat in heat.”

“Get up Deadpool,” Sabertooth hollered. “We have to go over the plan.” He then walked over to Wolverine and hunkered. “Let’s huddle up,” he remarked, Wolverine crouching down next to him.

The mercenary gradually sat up and rubbed his eyes with either hand. ”Why can’t you guys just come over here and huddle up. I’m already sitting down.”

Wolverine growled subtly, his upper-lip pulling back to expose those yellow teeth. “Stop being lazy,” he grumbled.

”I wasn’t lazy when I kicked the s*** out of you and Sabertooth, at the same time, in that crappy movie Marvel made for you to explain your past.” Deadpool pointed out. ”Y’know, with Hugh Jackman, the guy that was lead role in that crappy movie, Van Helsing?”

Sabertooth felt the tension growing, sprouted back up out of the two’s everlasting animosity with for another. “Calm down you two,” he interjected. He could not fathom how Wolverine and himself could tolerate each other—and they were the greatest of rivals—but Wolverine could not bear Deadpool. Perhaps it was Deadpool’s perpetual nature to crack jokes. He looked over at the mercenary and said, “Get over here.”

Deadpool slowly pushed himself off of the log and began to sluggishly make his way over to Sabertooth and Wolverine, Bob following behind. ”Fine, fine . . . Scorpion. I remember the times when you two couldn’t even be in the same state as one another,” he added, “chasing after each other like some type of homo-erotic story of revenge.” As he neared he got down onto one knee, level with Sabertooth and Wolverine. Bob stood behind him.

The sun was starting to rise, climbing over the mountaintops to the east; its milky, early morning light eased over the group’s campsite, only partially blotched by some tree shadows that were splattered across the rim of the clearing.

“Okay, this is how we’re going to infiltrate that compound,” Sabertooth began, drawing a blueprint into a soft part of soil. His dirty, long fingernail carved into the ground, forming a box. “Deadpool is going to initiate it all by sniping from afar, taking out the guards.” He punched a single hole into the ground with his nail, about a foot from the box. “Wolverine and I will then breach the compound, taking out anyone that Deadpool has missed—“

”I don’t miss,” Deadpool interrupted. ”Who the f*** you think I am, Bullseye?”

“What we gotta do, bub?” Wolverine inquired.

“We go into the compound,” Sabertooth continued, “taking out everyone else.” He drew a line with his fingernail, around and behind the box. “We go through the back entrance. That way we’ll have the entire perimeter secured once Deadpool makes his way back to us.”

“What if there is no back entrance?” Wolverine retorted. “What if there is no compound?”

“The information is reliable,” Sabertooth snarled. “One mile south of here. It’s there.”

“What about Kid Omega?” Bob asked, peeping over the shoulders of Wolverine and Deadpool to get a view of the blueprint. “Won’t he know what’s happening? From, well you know, his powers and all?”

“We make it fast,” Sabertooth assured. “Deadpool will have to be the main engager of attack with the ‘Kid himself. He’s the only one of us whose mind is already so distorted that it cannot be manipulated.”

"I’m going to take that as a compliment, even if it was a backhanded one. And also, I got a bone to pick with either Baron or Stan Lee, for making you suddenly so much more of a intellectual. Last time I remembered you were a barbarian. And yes, I used an ‘a’ instead of ‘an’ because that’s something that the you I REMEMBER would have done!”

“Right,” Sabertooth murmured. Most of Deadpool’s outbursts regarding ‘Marvel’ and ‘Stan Lee’, or anything else out-this-worldly, was hogwash to him. “Just make sure when you’re done sniping that you rendezvous back with us on the ground floor.”

“What’s my job?” Bob asked.

“Just stay at the camp,” Sabertooth replied. “We can always communicate with you through the walkie-talkies if you’re needed.”

Bob glanced down at the communicator latched onto his belt; he knew that he would never need to draw it from there (like Wolverine, Sabertooth, and Deadpool were going to need help; they were all maestros of regeneration). “Sure,” he said with doubt in his tone.

”Don’t worry buddy. I got a job for ya.” Deadpool looked over his shoulder at Bob. “”A rimjob.” He peeled back his mask some, sticking out his tongue; he flapped it back and forth, side-to-side, and twirled it around the edges of his mouth, spittle flinging from the tip of it.

Wolverine shook his head in disgust. The thought of Deadpool and Bob giving each other rimjobs was revolting, and almost sent him into quivers. He sunk his head down and quickly dug a hand into one of his cargo pockets. After a few seconds of his fingers wandering, he managed to pull out a single cigarette and a disposable lighter, putting the former between his closed lips and then lighting it with the latter, and as the flames rose up he took deep pull onto the cigarette. “I’m ready, Bub,” Wolverine informed Sabertooth, and then exhaled, letting out a burst of smoke, like an exhaust pipe when a car first starts. “When we gonna get to the action.” He took another drag on his fug.

“b]”SNIKT time is coming, my brother from another experiment,”[/b] Deadpool said as he grabbed the barrel of the sniper rifle harnessed to his back, swinging it around his shoulder and into his hands with one nimble motion. “I’ll find a nice location I can post up at, like Tim Duncan. That was an NBA reference, by the way, any of you watch that?” The group of men simply stared at Deadpool with a look of perplexity. “I guess I’m the only one out here with actual hobbies and interests. You guys are fun sponges.”

“We can start getting ready now, Wolverine,” Sabertooth replied, standing to his feet. He then began to walk into the depths of the woods, headed south.

Wolverine got up and followed, muttering “Finally” as he went. He took another long drag onto his cigarette; trail of smoke rolled over his shoulder and assimilated into the air.

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#4
”Well, I guess that just leaves us two, ole buddy,” Deadpool said as he turned his attention back to his comrade. ”The manimals have finally left.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna start making sure that the food is ready for when you guys return,” Bob replied in a despairing tone, crouching down near the remnants left over from the night before. He noticed a couple of sticks near him and grabbed them one in each hand. “Not useful for anything else.”

”Aww, that’s not true. You’re good for a lot of things.”

“Really?” Bob glanced up at Deadpool for a second, then back at the sticks. He began to rub them together. “Like what?”

”Uhh . . .” Deadpool took a moment to ponder. Fuck, Sabertooth was right; Bob had no real useful traits that could aide the group. The only reason that the mercenary himself kept Bob was around was for comic relief, which usually was at Bob’s expense. Then a light bulb flickered on in Deadpool’s head. “I got a job for ya.”

“I’m not interested in the rimjob, Wade.” Bob remarked as he continued to rub the two sticks together.

”That’s gay, Bob,” Deadpool bantered. ”If you want your salad tossed then ask your wife. She could use a salad. Also, you’re not doing that right. To start a fire you can’t just rub two sticks together and hope for something to spark up. That’s like praying for a better life, to some invisible guy that ‘lives in the sky’.”

Bob sighed. He was useless; and the saddest part was that he was aware of it. He had always been a burden—in everyone’s life, even his own. It was seldom for him to reminisce on his past, but during this moment it felt unrelenting, and as he dwelled on it the two sticks he had in his hands slowly slid out of them, lightly bouncing off of the ground. “Completely useless,” he uttered.

Deadpool did not like to see his friend like this; it actually hurt some to watch. Behind all of the glitz and glamour of Deadpool’s persona hid a real person, and a real soul, regardless of how narcissistic it may have been. He walked over to his friend and took a hand off of his rifle to place onto Bob’s shoulder. ”C’mon man, I’ma need your help. If for nothing else but to keep me company.”

Bob looked up at Deadpool with glossy eyes that were on the brink of tears, and nodded. “R-really?” he asked hesitantly, aware that Deadpool could just be setting him up to be another butt of his joke, but then followed with: “Ok.”

”That a boy,” Deadpool said with delight. ”Now help me find a good tree to snipe from.”

The two began to search the perimeter of the camp for a suitable tree. There were many trees that had enough strength in their branches to support Deadpool’s weight, but he needed more than just safety from falling. The compound that Kid Omega was thought to have been hiding out at was less than a half mile away so he also needed safety from being seen—red was not the best camouflage attire.

“We gotta be quick, Wade,” Bob said, “Wolv and Sabertooth should be getting pretty close to the compound by now.”

The mercenary slipped away from Bob for a moment to check over by the creek that the group had fetched a couple of crawfish from the other da] (really, Deadpool had collected them, for himsel—)

Dude, I love crawfish. I hadn’t had crawfish since I went down NOLA, for Mardi Gra, and took body shots off of Kevin Federline.

”Yeah, yeah.” Deadpool replied. ”They’ll be fine. Those guys can regenerate faster than Ron Jeremey’s erections.” Deadpool’s eyes had already become fixated on a particular tree. It was a sycamore tree, which stood strong with its thick base and an array of multicolored leaves (one of those beautiful pallets that early autumn provided—red leaves, orange, brown, and even a few surviving green ones) attached to its branches. ”Found the tree!” Deadpool exclaimed. He pounced like a strong cougar into the sycamore, his feet landing perfectly on one of the most shrouded branches. “The sycamore, Bob! The sycamore!”

Bob looked back at, not seeing a soul. The mercenary must have drifted away during his talking. “Go figure you’d pick the tree that is different from the rest.” He began walking back, using Deadpool’s voice as his navigation.

Deadpool had already begun to set up shop. He sat down onto the branch he landed on and whipped his rifle back around to his front, resting its barrel onto a neighboring branch. ”Stop trying to make slick comments!” he shouted, but then lowered his voice to say: ”Leave those to me.” He reached for his utility belt (Deadpool often considered his utility superior to Batman’s—who the fuck still used boomerangs?) and retrieved some ammunition—they were long shells, with the bullets having a sharp cone shape—from one of the compartments he unsnapped. He fondled them in his hands for a second, but then removed the cartridge from the rifle and began to push the bullets into it, one-by-one.

Bob neared the tree that Deadpool had chosen, and was peering into the branches, searching for that two-tone spandex outfit that would clash with the colors of the leaves; he found it. “So what’re you gonna need my help with, Wade?” He asked, nervousness faint in his tone. Every time Deadpool claimed to have a duty, or job, or mission for Bob it was never what had anticipated (one time Deadpool needed Bob—and Bob was more than willing to help—but he found out that Deadpool just wanted his ass wiped).

”I have a very important job for you, Bobby-boy.” Deadpool replied. He slammed the cartridge back into its holder under the barrel, in front of the trigger.

“Seriously, Wade.” Bob could feel anxiety brew within the pits of his stomach. What could Deadpool want, a handjob while aiming? Maybe a—

”Easy job.” Deadpool looked down at Bob, through the branches. ”I need you to tell me which way the wind is blowing, and about how hard.”

Oh, a simple job, a real job. Bob was pleasantly surprised by his comrade’s answer. “Yeah sure!” He could barely maintain his jubilance. “Want me to climb up there, or . . .?”

Deadpool glanced through the scope of his rifle. ”Nope, you’re good where you are,” he replied, twisting the dial on the side of the scope, adjusting its vision. ”You can’t tell how strong the wind is up here. Duuhhh.”

Bob stuck his index finger into his mouth and then quickly retracting it, with a noticeable pop! sound after. “So can you see Kid Omega’s hideout from here?” He raised his wet index finger into the air; saliva ran down his fingertip.

”That was really gay.” Deadpool looked back into the lens of the rifle and began to search for the compound; bushes and broken tree limbs were all that he could see. He shifted his rifle some on the branch to move his sights. ”And nah, haven’t seen it yet.” As Deadpool turned his sights the color gray came into vision through his scope. Gray was not a natural color in the woods. Then a leaf came into his sights, blocking his vision completely. ”Gahhhh!!!!” Deadpool blurted. I think I see something, but some leaves from a tree are in the way.”

“That sucks. I think the winds blowing about a couple degrees to the northwest, by the way.”

The mercenary adjusted his sights again as he gazed through the lens. It worked. There the compound was, halfway devoured by nature. Vines strangled one side of the tattered building, stretching across the right top corner of it and stretching down to the ground. Branches from towering trees hung overhead, just a few feet from the roof. The windows were blown out on the second floor, leaving only concrete holes in a single file row that led all the way down to where the vines tightened their grip. There used to have been a doorway at the compound, but somewhere during the buildings history something happened, and now there was a large hole that connected to the doorway; one edge of it had been chipped away, exposing the rigidness of the concrete.

”Found it!” Deadpool exclaimed.

“Awesome!” Bob joined in.

”But one problem . . .” Deadpool took his eye from the rifle’s scope. ”It looks abandoned.”

“Abandoned?” Bob repeated, but with confusion.

”Yup. Tell Wolv and Sabertooth on the wal—“

POW POW POW

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#5
The loud, thunderous sound pierced through the woods. Birds from the night earlier that had braved the trip back to their homes, frantically evacuated once more. Deadpool immediately whipped his head back around to where he thought the origin of the sounds emanated from—the compound’s direction—and looked back into the scope of his rifle. He rotated the position of his resting barrel constantly, searching for some glimmer of a clue. The sound that rippled through the air was unmistakable to Deadpool. It was a sound that was so familiar to him that he often formed mental lyrics to them (and the guy goes blah, the guy is dead; and the guy goes blah, filled wit lead).

Whatever it was, it sent Bob diving to the ground, hands thrown above his crown, covering his head. “What the hell was that?!” he yelped, though he was certain he already knew the answer. Through the many years he had accompanied the mercenary, gunshots still rattled him to his core. Flashbacks of six o’clock daily news and newspaper articles always tided over the shores of his mind when he heard shots fired; he could not help but recall the instances where people were killed by stray bullets.

”Those were gunshots, Bobby-boy,” Deadpool confirmed. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins; racing through his bloodstream, like crazed drivers around a track. He welcomed it, as a true patron would.

RATATATATAT more shots rang out. Unlike the ones earlier, however, these gunshots did not have the same thunder behind them. Deadpool could quickly distinguish them as rounds that were fired out of automatic weapon.

Suddenly, Wolverine and Sabertooth came into sight. Through a patch of tangled shrub the mercenary could see the two mutants charge forward, against a horde of bullets that stampeded toward them, ripping away chunks of flesh as some struck their mark; as fast as the bullets would exit out of the two, instantaneously their healing factors would upstart and heal the damage dealt. All of the times that Deadpool had been in firefights prepared him for moments such as these. His eyes were trained to see the bullets—by frame it almost seemed—and he began to follow the gunshots back to their sender.

In the midst of the frenzy, white noise exploded from Bob’s hip, filling the brief moments of the silence between gunshots. It was the walkie-talkie attached to his waist. “Where the fuck is that support fire?!” a voice broke through the static, though choppy. Bob hesitated to reach for the walkie-talkie, thoughts of stray bullets still haunting him. “Wade!” the voice exclaimed, but then was washed over with static.

”Gosh, tell Sabertooth to calm his pussy. Get it? He’s a like part feline or something, and I’m telling him to calm his pussy. So clever it didn’t even get censored.”

After a few moments of hesitation, Bob mustered up the courage to quickly reach down and snatch the walkie-talkie from his waistline. He brought it up to his face and began to try and use it, but with all of the worries of a stray bullet hitting him he could not manage to work the device correctly (he twisted dials and pressed buttons, but in his current state he felt like a passenger trying to guide a plane to land). “How the hell do I work this thing?” he shouted up to Deadpool.

”You don’t know how to use a walkie-talkie? Okay, I admit it then, you are useless.” Deadpool chuckled.

The trail of bullets that the mercenary had followed finally took him to their shooter. Light from the guard’s barrel illuminated his body, which halfway showed over the debris of concrete next to the compounds main opening. The guard continued to fire away, countless shells of ammunition regurgitating out of his rifle. There was a smirk across his face; he must not have been aware that his head was between crosshairs.

”Duck . . . duck . . . goose!” Deadpool exclaimed as he pulled his trigger, an echoing clap sound permeated afterwards. In a fraction of a second, guard’s head exploded like a fruit struck by the might hammer of Gallagher, decorating the concrete wall behind him with a bloody collage of skull and brain bits. Deadpool pulled onto a knob on the side of his gun; an empty shell ejected itself and tumbled to the ground, and then he pushed the knob back into place. He reset his sights and scoped in onto another target—a poor guard that popped up from one of the blown out windows on the second floor, close to where the vines took hold to the side of the building. Another loud clap emitted from Deadpool’s rifle, and another target dropped. He quickly pumped the knob on his rifle, letting another empty shell eject from the chamber, not even caring to check if he decorated another wall.

”Tell Sabertooth and Wolverine that I’m raping souls out here, Bob!” Deadpool exclaimed. ”More of a lifesaver than a Wringley product.”

“Are they all dead?!” Bob replied. He wanted to rise back to his feet, but was unwilling to if the possibility of a stray still existed.

”Dude, I know you’re not about to just ignore another reference I used. So I guess only my readers can hear me say these awesome references? I just gave you versatility, Bob. I used a NBA reference before, and now a candy reference. The Marvel World really needs to start paying attention to more stuff that isn’t . . . well, Marv—“

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#6
Snatched from Marvel





The mercenary’s eyes fluttered open, greeted with sparkling blotches of light that clouded his vision. He propped the upper part of himself up off of the ground and plunged his head into one of his hands, letting it wipe over his visage, like a warm rag in the morning. Just a moment earlier, he was shrouded within a sycamore, with his rifle in grip. Now? Deadpool did not know what the fuck was going on now.

What the fudgestick happened? he asked himself. It had been a while since the last time he could remember being knocked unconscious (before there was a Deadpool, when there was only a Wade Wilson). With his hand still over his face, he peeped through the spaces between his fingers, the blotches of light in his eyes finally subsiding. His pupils surveyed from left to right, but regardless of the direction, all that could be seen was a vast white landscape; completely empty in its scenery.

The sky of this new place was as empty as everything under it—no sun, no clouds, no nothing. It almost seemed illogical that a place could be so well lit without any source of light, but Deadpool’s whole process of thinking was illogical, so he was reluctant to attach that type label onto anything.

Where am I? More importantly, how did he get there? The mercenary tried to pull his thoughts together, to remember how het got from a sycamore tree to an endless plane of whiteness, but just could not manage to recollect anything. He combed his hand over the top of his mask and then slowly gathered himself to stand up.

Did Marvel finally get tired of my rogue mentality and send me to some realm that forbidden comic book characters go to rot for eternity?

No, that’s ridiculous. I have a huge fan base. Even if this were some place that comic book characters go to fade out of existence, there would be such uproar that Marvel would be forced to release me.

Even forced to give me my own movie . . .


. . . Possibly.



“Hmm . . . seems like I got my red text back,” Deadpool thought aloud, the resemblance of a smile creasing across the bottom of his mask. ”Fuck yeah.” The mercenary’s eyes widened to the max. ”I’m no longer censored?!?!?!?!?!” He jumped in the air, pumping his fist as he reached the pinnacle of his leap. ”Hold up man, I wasn’t done with the overusing punctuation marks yet. ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! There, now I’m done. You can continue to progress the story.” The rush of enthusiasm that overwhelmed him briefly took his mind off of his perplexing displacement.

In the distance somewhere, a small spec of black blemished the purity of whiteness. It started off miniscule, almost unnoticeable, but then quickly expanded outward, devouring the dimension.

”Woah, another plot twist is coming,” the mercenary muttered as his body was engulfed by the growing darkness.

Before long, all was black.

Quote:“My name is Omni. This is not the world you know. This is the Omniverse. You interest me, so I have made you part of it. The Omniverse is a place that reflects the wishes of those who are part of it. But! There are rules. I will explain them only once, so listen carefully.”

A voice said; then a body appeared. Within the darkness, a glowing essence formed itself into a white silhouette of a man, and levitated towards Deadpool. The mercenary tried to speak, but could not. A divine power kept him from parting his lips, and though he still attempted to open them, all he could manage to do was grind his teeth. Why does he get his dialogue in quote boxes? he thought (he could still do that, at least).

The figure extended a closed fist. A plethora of colors seeped through the cracks of his fingers, and as he opened his hand, he revealed an orb that glimmered magnificently with all the colors of the rainbow.

Quote:“This is Omnilium. It’s what ties the Omniverse together. Without it, you are nothing. With it, anything you desire can be yours. But you will need more than this. If you desire it enough, you will find it. You will find that using it comes naturally. Just think of what you desire most.

How about leaving here? That an option?

The figure handed Deadpool the Omnillium. The mercenary was unsure if he wanted to accept it, but was captivated its beauty. He stared into the orb, marveling at its wonder like a young child discovering the world.

Quote:“You will not be alone in the Omniverse. There are others. Of course, they, too desire Omnilium. Do not fear death. For as long as you interest me, you will be reborn.

I don’t fear anything, except for a fishy vajay-jay.

Quote:“That’s all you need to know right now. You’ll figure out the rest soon enough. I’ll be watching … and waiting.”

The figure then disappeared; the darkness that dominated the once white plane faded away with it.

”Well, that was a pretty stale lecture. Almost seemed like it was copied and pasted . . .”

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#7
Without it, you’re nothing. With it, anything you desire can be yours, the man had said.

Deadpool wondered what he meant. This Omnilium, the mercenary rolled around in his palm, was what the man was referring to. It constantly shimmered, slowly transitioning between colors with smooth fluidity.

Anything you desire can be yours.

Deadpool concentrated on that part of the man’s dialogue, as the colors from the orb swept over his visage, one after the other. What if I wanted a pair of rollerblades? he mercenary pondered, That has rocket boosters.

Instantly, a pair of rocket rollerblades formed around the mercenary’s feet. He chuckled, and almost sent himself to the ground, but wobbled himself back to a balance.

As he clenched the orb in his fist, a grin became apparent through his mask. How about a few more inches downstairs? As soon as he thought it, he checked down his pants; no luck. I guess that’s too much to ask for.

Then he remembered the other part of what the man said: But you will need more than this.

So more ‘Omnilium’ (yes, with the quotation marks) equals more inches . . . He took the orb and then stashed it away into one of the many compartments on his belt.

One thing bewildered the mercenary, though. How the hell was he supposed to attain more Omnilium? He had been snatched from Marvel, and placed into a desolate realm of blankness, with no fucking clue as to how to collect more of the treasured orbs.

Calm down, Baron, no need to get all vulgar. Discovery is part of any good adventure! I’m sure getting more orbs is as easy as typing. Just gotta play it out.

“A new Deadpool adventure awaits!” the mercenary exclaimed, throwing his fists to his waist, and cocking his posture (all he needed was a cape, and a nice cliff for pizzazz).

”Rocket-blades, go!” As soon as the words left his mouth, flames burst from the rears of the rollerblades, thrusting the mercenary forward. He hunkered down like a world-class skier, and let rockets take him away. To where? Deadpool had no idea, and quite frankly, did not care.

A few miles down, the mercenary passed a fountain as he went, only noticing it because of a large obelisk that appeared to be structured in the center of it. Water shot from out the top of the obelisk, back into the fountain, but not before rendering to mist. There seemed to be a flock of people gathered around the fountain, armored and equipped with weapons, but Deadpool kept going.

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2017 - 4th


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#8
”I miss the Earth so much
I miss my wife
It’s lonely out in space
On such a ti-i-imless flight”


Deadpool burst into song, attempting his best impersonation of Elton John (and failing miserably), as he continued cruising through the white realm. In an ironic way, the merc’ felt more comfortable in this place than he ever did in the Marvel universe. Here, at least he could be himself, even if he was alone.

“And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home

Oh no, no, no

I’m a rocket man

Rocket man
Burning out his fuse, up here alone

And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home

Oh no, no , no

I’m a rocket ma—“


“Fuck out the way!” a high-pitched voice yelled from behind the mercenary. Deadpool stopped one of his feet, sending himself into a pivot, and turned around to see what the hell just interrupted his wonderful singing. All that greeted him was a mild gust of wind, which blew past one of his legs.

Weird, he thought. The mercenary knew that wind did not occur in this realm—at least not from a natural source. Nor did it talk. Before he could contemplate any further, a pair of levitating motorbikes zipped around him, screeching as they went along. Deadpool flinched a bit, and leaned back faintly. Whoah, more drama in me thread, he said to himself, with a snicker. It was his favorite type of drama—the type he could intervene.

As fast as he could, the mercenary whipped back around, shouting ”Rocket-blades, go!” The flames from his rollerblades reignited, propelling him forward with great speed, towards the two motorbikes.

It did not take long for Deadpool to catch up to the two bikes, and as he did he could feel the heat generated from their thrusters. The mercenary reached back for one of his katana, and clenched it fiercely. As he pulled his metal from its sheath, he stretched his arm out, cutting through the air. He gradually cocked back his weapon, and even though both of the persons riding bikes were cladded in the same outfit (something that reminded Deadpool of a Star Wars stormtrooper—pearly-white armor that covered head to toe, only receding to joint areas, where black underclothing was exposed), he focused in on the biker to the left.

”Random onomatopoeia!” the mercenary roared, lunging forward, unleashing the terror of his katana. The unknowing trooper’s head parted from the rest of him, and juggled into the air. Blood shot up from his neck, as if he were a human Coca-Cola bottle shaken too harshly, and the cap finally popped.

Baron, stop. We do not give senseless plugs to major corporations. Not without some type of sponsorship, or other monetary benefits.

Not long after the trooper had been decapitated, the bike he sat upon must have realized it was now uncontrolled; tt quickly began to rock side-to-side—first gently, then violently—as if it were a boat caught in a strong storm.

The other trooper then noticed he was riding alongside a dead man, and a rogue bike that was bound to collide into him. Without hesitation, the trooper threw a leg out and kicked his lifeless comrade—and his bike—into his new resting place, against the hard surface of the white realm. The decapitated trooper soared off his bike and toppled over a few times as he skidded against the ground, soon accompanied by the bike, which crashed and went up into flames a few meters away.

The lone trooper looked back, bewildered, wanting to know what the fuck just happened. He took a hand off of one of the bike’s handles to reach for a pistol strapped to his hip, but quickly noticed what the fuck was, that was going on. That fuck was a stranger in a red and black spandex outfit, sitting directly behind him.

”Hola, como estas?” Deadpool asked, and before he could get a response, he bitch-slapped the trooper off of his bike. The trooper cried out some as he flew off into the distance, but the mercenary could care less. He took control of the bike and continued forward.

These guys went right by me. They must have been after something, and something fast. Deadpool thought, jerking back one of the handles of the bike, accelerating its speed. I bet they were after whatever the hell blew past me.



* * *



“I think I lost them,” the small gingerbread man said between his heavy panting. “Bout fucking time.” Those motorbikes were getting faster and faster with every update of technology—Coruscant never disappointed in that department.

The gingerbread finally began to come to a halt, in front of an archway structured out of grey stone that appeared weathered, quite a bit—deep-green moss sprouted out from any space that it could, also giving way to baby vines that started to get their fingers around the archway’s edges. There was no sign of the ginerbread’s chasers for the first time in the last twenty minutes, and at his current fatigue, he did not even think to question where they went. As soon as he stopped completely, his back became noodle, and slouched forward. He palmed his legs where the bent and drew a few more heavy breaths before he forced himself upright, pressing his ginger hands against the small of his back, under the candy-impaled staff tied to his back. “I’m surprised I didn’t crumb off a piece of my foot against this hard-ass Nexus floor,” he said, with a groan, gazing into the liquid, rippling center of the archway . “I need to work out more often, or something. Gotta keep these old, crusty ginger limbs of mine fresh, and tender!”

”Cool story, bro.”

The gingerbread’s icing eyes widened into large circles. He thought about grabbing his lollipop staff on the sly, from its bottom.


”Don’t even try it, lil’ guy,” Deadpool said, bluntly. ”You owe me a thank you. I saved your life, like a true hero.”

Gingy went over his options. He could stay and brawl whatever stood behind him, or he could leap into the liquid-like center of the eerie archway that faced him. That archway was a portal, and it led to the Pale Moors—a place clouded with the fog of despair. It was a place that Gingy had not yet been, and the mysteries of such a verse was not something he ever intended to investigate, either. Slowly, he turned around to face the stranger behind him, wanting to at least get a picture of what the fighting option entailed.

”Oh shit!” Deadpool exclaimed. The small creature before him was a neatly decorated gingerbread man, with the breath of life in his lungs. His multiple outlines and patterns of icing made up everything from his facial features to his attire (which were mostly just squiggly lines covering his naked, ginger body), along with two purple gumdrops as buttons. ”You’re the gingerbread dude from Shrek, Gingy,” the mercenary said, with delight. ”You’re as adorable as a—“

The gingerbread man took the brief opportunity he had to retreat, and spit a glob of sweet saliva into the eye of the stranger. With that, his choice was made to jump into the portal.

”Ah! You little bitch!” Deadpool took his hands and began to pull away the heavy spit shot into his eye, mucus stretching between the spaces of his fingers.

“fuck you!” Gingy squealed, turning away from the stranger and running towards the portal. His sore legs, though, would not go with the same haste they displayed earlier; the stranger pounced and tackled the little gingerbread into Pale Moors.

The liquid center of the archway swallowed both of them whole.

Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th


PVP Combat Record
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3W - 0L - 0D
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4W - 1L - 0D
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