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[M] A Gloomy Town

#1
A Gloomy Town





The two of them—Deadpool and Gingy—soared through the other side of the mossy gray-stone portal, spat out from its rippling liquid center. Their descent through the aging orange sky of late evening was short, and as soon as they were ejected from the other side of the portal the two were sent tumbling down a long trail of cobblestone steps.

Deadpool tried to conjure up a joke while bouncing down the steps, but that all ceased when he and Gingy cleared a narrow cobblestone road and suddenly slammed into the side of a stone building. ”Argh, that hurt,” he whimpered, a sprinkle of debris—from the building’s dry mortar, that jointed its stones together—drizzling upon his crown as he landed in an upright position, on his ass.

He looked over to see Gingy lying on the ground next to him, on top of a small grassy patch in the facture of a cobblestone, and it did not take the mercenary long to realize that the gingerbread was unconscious. Search his pockets, a voice from within his head seemed to beckon; he complied, reaching out a hand to search the unconscious pastry’s person.

”Serves you right to be knocked out, lil’ bastard,” the mercenary muttered after briefly patting the gingerbread’s front-side down, and then flipped him over. He ripped the lollipop from the pastry’s back and tucked it between his belt and tight pants, but as he did, something caught his eye—a smartphone taped to the gingerbread man’s undecorated back. ”I’ll take this as my ‘thank you’ for saving your life.” He snatched the phone from the pastry and stuffed it into a compartment located on a strap, wrapped around his right thigh.

Something was missing; thankfully, this new world was not much different than the white plains, when it came to creative freedom—if one had the power, it seemed one could manifest any thought into being. As soon as the mercenary pictured a marker in his mind, the thought became real, and a Sharpie marker pixelated itself into reality, right in Deadpool’s hand. He flipped the gingerbread man back face-up, and with a few waves of the marker across Gingy’s forehead, the mercenary had to restrain a schoolgirl giggle.


===D



“A-are you . . . o-okay?” a voice stammered.

Deadpool brought his attention front and center to see a forty-something year old man standing before him. As the mercenary gazed at the man, he could see a trickle of sweat running down from his receding hairline to a jungle of unkempt black and gray hairs that made up a thick beard. The man probably was not accustomed to dealing with outsiders every day, and it showed with his nervousness.

Behind the man, there was a small crowd of peasants—people of all genders and ages, garmented in ragged clothing—that had formed on the far side of the narrow cobblestone road. Some of the people grumbled, while others were left speechless; the facial expressions that wavered amongst them said enough—a mixture of mildly suppressed fear and curiosity. One fearful middle-aged woman reached out a boney arm and clenched the shoulder of her young son, withdrawing the boy partially behind her long, stain-blotched dress (she could not pull him any further; his head poked out from behind her hip—he was a curious one).

Deadpool slid the marker into a slot between some compartments on his thigh. ”Yeah,” Deadpool finally replied, ”I’m good. He pushed off of the building that he had been propped up against and rose to his feet. As he did, he noticed the man hop back a few steps. ”Relax, I’m just getting up. Not like I flashed the crowd or anything . . .” yet.

He stole a glance back down at Gingy and saw that the gingerbread man was still out cold. ”Where’s the local hotel, or whatever? Me and my buddy here have had a long day. Right, Gingy?” The mercenary creased a smile across his mask as he bantered the incapacitated pastry, then quickly brought his attention back to the peasant man.

The man furrowed a brow. “A-a hotel?” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then asked, “Did you mean somewhere you can stay for the night?”

”Yeah, one of those.” Deadpool guessed a word like hotel was too advanced for a civilization like this (if they were more advanced, maybe some of the women amongst the crowd would have something besides oil build-up and dirt to fix their faces up). ’Y’know, somewhere you would take a ‘lady of the night’.” He then took his hand and balled it into a fist, reached down to near his man region; a rapid succession of jerking motions then followed.

The peasant nodded embarrassingly, even shutting his eyes as he did so. He then threw up a finger that pointed to the left. “There’s an inn only a couple houses down the road,” he said with a pinch of shame in his voice. “It will have a sign above the doorway. Plush Inn, it’ll say.”

Ooohhh! italicized text! the mercenary though to himself. Maybe somewhere interesting?

He gave the man a nod in return, and then brought his attention back to Gingy.”You’re coming with me,” he murmured as he reached down and yanked the gingerbread man off of the ground.

Okay, see ya later poor people! Deadpool shouted out for everyone in the crowd to hear. He waved a hand to them, then without further ado, left down the narrow cobblestone road. The crowd behind him slowly dispersed to go about the rest of their day; all with a look of whatthefuck that they could not quite ease from their visages.

Under the dim light of an oil-lit lamppost, Deadpool—unconscious Gingy still in-hand—made the turn around a corner where the road became a wide intersection. Plush Inn, the sign above the door of the corner building read, still visible in the purpling sky. It had been engraved into a wood board, taking up the entire space available. Where the P in Plush began and the ‘n’ at the end of Inn ended, the wood had begin to show its age—it split harshly in several places, from years of weathering.

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#2
With a twist of the knob and shove forward, the door to Plush Inn creaked open. After a few short steps inside, the mercenary swatted a hand back and swung the door closed; another creak tore through the quiet square lobby as he did so.

Plush Inn was nothing extravagant. It was quite the opposite, actually. What the hell is so plush about this place? Deadpool wondered as his eyes gradually shifted around the lobby, though it was a question that would have been better suited for the man that suggested the inn.

The walls were just as naked—no decorations or anything—as the ones on the outside of the building, and under the dwindling flames from the lone chandelier suspended above the center of the ceiling, the burgundy rug that covered the floor looked as it was once a cherry red.

The one thing that could have been considered plush was the redwood desk near the back of the lobby, to the left of a stairwell of wooden steps that ascended upward.

A woman old enough to have relations but not old enough to show wrinkles stood behind the desk, with her big blue eyes fixated on the mercenary as she grabbed a stack of bound paperwork She was plush too. Her brown her flowed down to a plush, milky skinned rack, which was made plusher by the black Victorian style blouse she wore.

“Greetings, welcome to Plush Inn” she said with her best ‘I don’t want to be here, but while I am, I might as well act happy’ voice; it was soft, but lacked the exuberance to be convincing.

Deadpool glanced down at the gingerbread in his hand and stuffed the pastry into a rear pocket, quickly returning his sights to the inside of the lobby. “Hey,” he finally replied as he began making his way towards the desk.

“Looking for a room?” the woman inquired, keeping an eye on the mercenary as she drew her attention to the paperwork in her hands. She peeled through it some. “One of two beds?”

“Yeah,” Deadpool responded as his eyes wandered down to the delicacies under her clavicle, concentrating on the blue vain ran down one of her pale skinned bosoms to the collar of her blouse.

“Excuse me, I’m up here.” The receptionist tried to keep her voice as polite as possible, but some exasperation did seep through.

The mercenary pulled his eyes from the woman’s cleavage and back to her face. ”Yeah, one bedroom,” he said. ”I’ll only take up half the bed though, just incase I get a nighttime visitor.” He tried to give off his best ‘I wanna fuck you face’, but nothing noticeable showed through his mask.

“Oooookaaay,”With a furrowed brow, she shoved a hand into a drawer on her side of the desk, pulling out a key after a few jiggles of the arm. “Fourth floor, second door on the right.” She placed the key onto the desk and then brought her attention back to the bound paperwork. “Enjoy your stay.”

Maybe a certain narrator can hook a certain mercenary up with a certain hotel receptionist, at a certain italicized inn, in the near future?


Deadpool took the key from the desk and turned to make his way up the wooden stairwell, without saying another word to the woman. The gingerbread in his ass’s pocket flapped as he went.

I guess not. Loser.


And lol . . . ass’s pocket.


It had been a while since Deadpool had to walk up so many damn steps. In his world—dimension, for that matter—there were such things as elevators and escalators; stairwells were reserved for emergencies (even then some idiots still opted for the elevator, knowing that it could seize at any moment). Even worse, each stepped creaked as he placed his weight upon them, reminding him of those annoying Resident Evil staircase cut-scenes as he phased in and out of darkness up the steps.

Fourth floor, finally. As soon as he walked up the last step, he took a sharp turn into the floor’s only hallway. He looked down the hall to see doors lining up both sides, kept illuminated by the retreating light of two tall candle posts at the end.

Second door to the right, the very much fuckable woman at the redwood desk had said.

The mercenary walked by the first door to his right, but then stopped to face the second door. He looked at the key in his hand for a moment, and then the doorknob; then put the key into the knob’s slot and twisted. As soon as he entered the room, he pulled the key out, shut the door, and then found the iron latch that locked it and clamped the door shut.

Though the small room was dark, a window adjacent to a paired desk and chair in the far corner let enough orange, oil lamp light from outside shine through its sullied quarter panes. After moments of blackness in the stairwell, Deadpool welcomed even dim, second-hand lighting.

With one motion, the mercenary snatched the gingerbread out of his rear pocket and underhand chucked him onto the bed—a flimsy mattress on a wooden bedpost (which Deadpool assumed, along with the chair and desk, completed some type of shitty medieval bedroom set)—on the other side of the room. Gingy’s body flopped against the stiff bed, not even bouncing the slightest off of its beige covers.

Damn, that thing is stiffer than a corpse; it should do for one night though. the mercenary thought as he made his way over to the window.

He placed the heels of his palms on the window stool as he found a clear—the clearest—window pane to peer though. The layout of the town was simple enough—a spider web of cobblestone streets that spread out of the town center—as all of the main roads led to one large clock tower, but an unsettling realization hit the mercenary as he surveyed the town: not a soul was out roaming around outside. Even the bleakest of towns had criminals lurking in the darkness of alleyways, or homeless people propped up against things with their cups in hand; not this town. Here, oil lamps ruled the night, dotting each intersection with their orange hues.

This place is straight out of the Dark Ages, or some shit. Deadpool was never really that good with history.

He took a glance back Gingy, only to see that the gingerbread was still laying on the bed in an unconscious state. Little guy had been out ever since they came out the other side of the portal (a few hours, maybe?).

Then the mercenary remembered the device he had taken from the pastry—the smartphone thingy. He quickly retrieved it, pressing the PWR button on the side. The screen flickered once and then, with a bright light, cut on. ‘omniMobile’ slid across the screen in bold blue letters as it centered itself, then instantly vanished with a highboop ring.

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


PVP Combat Record
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#3
It took the mercenary majority of the night to crack Gingy’s phone (a few recollections of Weasel’s brilliance was all he was equipped with). Through the lens of his dimension, the device was primitive—not even touchscreen; but complex, with a stable of firewalls in place. Deadpool had jail-broken a few iPhones in his life—even a couple Androids—but jail-breaking was a cakewalk compared to this. This, he figured, would have made the President’s phone look like a gumball dispenser; sticker buttons included, with surround-sound bleepidy boops, as you pressed them.

If I can ever get back to Marvel, I’m taking this thing with me, he thought. Have Weasel make me like a hundred of em, and sell them to minors.

”Kids, ever wanted a phone you’re parents couldn’t track or break into?”
he could picture himself asking, and a whole crowd of kids replying—yes! yes!—with giddy joy. Gone, are the days of daddy finding pictures of ‘Across the Street’ Johnny’s cock in your deleted files! Gone are the days of having to clear your browser history after masturbation!


As he breached the final walls of security, the phone flickered into an array of colors. They splashed over Deadpool’s mask, and his eyes became as large as golf balls. Then the screen went black, but instantly came back in splitting bars of luminance. All the information he was searching for—and some he wasn’t—flushed out.

And everything became clear.

It was all a game, a game created by a mysterious figure—the figure that had greeted Deadpool in the white realm. His name was Omni. Or that was the name portrayed to the masses, with the true man orchestrating everything behind the scenes. There always is, Deadpool thought.

His thumbs delicately worked the phone’s keyboard to flip through the pages of information (he wondered how a thumbless gingerbread did it). “I’ll play your game, Gre—“ He caught himself —[i]Omni. You bitch, you.”

Nice little reference to the text under my avatar, by the way.






* * *





The thick clouds that rolled over the Pale Moors tried to contain the rise of morning, but failed. An outline of the sun rose in the sky and seeped light through the clouds, which bathed the land in a pale, blue hue.

Gingy’s eyes fluttered open, then clasped shut. Light that beamed through the windowpanes washed over his visage. He threw a hand up to repel it. “Where—“ the gingerbread sat up and wiped his fingerless hands over his face “—where am I?”

He could recall evading the storm troopers, and recall stopping to catch his breath, in front of a gate. Which gate? Think, he told himself. Gray stone and moss, it was the Pale Moors. Then he remembered the red and black cladded fucktard.

“Good morning sleepy head!” a voice pierced. It was raspy and confident. “There was a plush breakfast this morning in the basement. You missed it. I had gotten you a cookie—had to beat up an old lady for it—but, ya’know, then figured that might be cannibalism, so I did my good deed for the day and gave it back to the her. I hope she isn’t dead, though.” The voice paused. “I’m sure if she was, Baron would have elaborated.”

The voice spoke nonsense. It was the type of shit that would have you conclude someone was off his or her rocker. Gingy hung his head and let his hands fall into his lap. He took a glance up; across the room, seemingly glowing as Gingy peered through the light in his face, was the fucktard. He leaned against a desk, with both front legs of his chair kicked out. The Lollipop Staff jutted out from of his side.

Great, Gingy, Gingy thought, and hung his head again, you finally got caught. “Fuck you gonna do with me now?” Gingy asked. He stared at his wrists and could already envision shackles clanking around them.

The two front legs of the chair slammed against the floor. “This sounds serious,” the man said and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What do you mean? Did you think I wanted to molest you or something?”

I’m Deadpool, by the way. I’m tired of Baron referring to me as the ’fucktard’ when he writes from your perspective. I HAVE A NAME!!!”
He jolted a trembling fist up to his face.

Without a brow to furrow, Gingy looked up with one eye widened. This Deadpool must have known what Gingy meant, but instead insisted on blabbering about bullshit, and more off-rocker talk. Gingy put it into better terms: “Why you kidnap me?” He followed it with, “You takin’ me back to Coruscant?”

Deadpool shook his head. “Nah. I’m not a big fan of Star Wars.”

Gingy assumed that Star Wars was Deadpool’s way of referring to Corsucant. If what the fucktard said was true, then he must have been a mercenary. “So why kidnap me then?” If the man was a mercenary hungering for ransom, the Kingdom was not the store that stocked it. Gingy’s missions were top secret; even if they weren’t, Camelot would never drain resources to save him. No, not for a non-human.

“I didn’t kidnap you, per se,” the mercenary replied as he got up from his chair and walked over to the bed. “I saved your life from those Star Wars dudes—storm troopers—and I wanted my thank you.” He went to sit, but saw a suspicious, whitish clear stain. He navigated his rear around the stain and took a seat at the end of the bed. “Then you spit in my eye.” He looked over his shoulder at Gingy with a wide smile, wrinkling the bottom of his mask. “So I did what any sensible American would do—chase you down to beat the fuck outta you.”

“Right.” Gingy nodded slowly.

He did not trust Deadpool. The fucktard was either trying to be funny, or was insane. The Omniverse was a strange place, with even stranger people; most were not trustworthy.

“I have to admit,” Deadpool said, “I was planning on interrogating you—break your legs into crumbs, or maybe pick your icing features off—until I checked your phone.”

My Phone?! Gingy thought. He could only watch with half dollar-sized eyes as Deadpool reached down to his thigh, and pulled a phone from one of many compartments.

“This thing saved you from a lot of creative pain,” Deadpool raised the phone up over his shoulder, and snickered. [color=red“Let’s just say you would have been left with a blank look on your face.”[/color]

Gingy’s phone contained all of his mission briefings; if they were ever to be exposed, shit would hit the fan. Big time. He was sure most of the briefings were safe. Except for the current mission. The current mission was still displayed in an open app.

Gingy wanted to ask how much Deadpool discovered, but had to be careful with his words—saying too much could compromise the mission in its own right. He found a way he could pick Deadpool’s brain without jeopardizing his mission: “Why’d you take my phone, you slimey fuck?” It was vague, but with any luck—something Gingy had none of so far—Deadpool would blurt out what he learned.

“I think my last piece of dialogue kinda alluded to me having questions, and almost causing you delightful pain to extract the answers,” Deadpool replied matter-of-factly. “Then you’re phone answered all the questions I had.”

“What questions?” Gingy inquired. If Deadpool was going to spill the beans it was now.

“About the Omniverse as a whole; nothing about you, specifically.” Deadpool’s emerald eyes drifted to the bed. He got up, careful not to place his hand on the stain, and walked over to the window. “I learned that you have a serious hentai collection, though,” he said as he leaned against the window stool and peered out into the streets. The beam of light that climbed over the bed, at Gingy, faded over his shoulder. “Something is wrong with this town. The people here, they have no hope. Not even the natural hope that comes with a new day.” It was said with grim seriousness.

As embarrassing as it was, if all Deadpool found was hentai, it was a relief. Gingy wiped his hand above his icing eyes, with a phew. But he still needed his phone back. “Yeah, this place is fucked,” he replied and stood up on the bed to walk to the far end of it. “That’s why I need my phone so I can get outta here.”

Gingy had no intentions of staying in the Pale Moors long; through his travels, he had heard enough about the verse. The place was overrun with all types of monstrosities. Most Primes that returned from Pale Moors were never the same (One Camelot captive, that had come from the 'Moors, tried to swallow his own tongue).

“You’re not getting it back.” It was said as seriously as his last remarks. “I’m taking this as my thanks for saving your cute lil, delicious ass from whatever those storm troopers’ intentions were.”





* * *

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


PVP Combat Record
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#4
Deadpool slid the phone back into its compartment and returned his attention to the streets. He could see an ox with two-pronged horns bobbing its head, as it clomped down the cobbles, towing a wooden wagon. Fresh corpses piled up overflowed the sides; limbs dangled as the wheels of the wagon vibrated along the cobbles.

A man hobbled behind it, with his head tilted to the ground. In his right hand, he held a shovel over his shoulder. What remained of his armor—a shoulder piece and single armguard—had been battered to the point where it no longer glimmered. Holes gaped his chainmail near his right thigh, and a stain of crimson outlined it.

A few people passed the man and wagon, but none of them took a second glance. Death and destruction were things that the citizens of Darkshire had become all too accustomed to, the mercenary wagered. Ever since he arrived, he could sense the feeling of despair that loomed over. It was like an unyielding, dark cloud of misfortune. But Behind Deadpool’s mask, his lips trembled into a slight smile. He knew that wherever a cloud of misfortune was, there was adventure. To him, adventure meant Omnilium.

There’s a lot of Omnilium just waiting to be grabbed in this verse. A gloomy town like this has more issues than Helen Kel—

Abruptly, a stroke of pain hit the back of Deadpool’s head, and sent his face into the top-right panel of glass. Pshshlklkblah! the glass goes, as my head goes through said glass!!” the mercenary cackled.

Deadpool went to pull his head out of the window. He took his hands and pressed them against the walls around it, but as he went to remove his head from the pane, he was struck again, behind the knee. His hands slid down the wall as his knee buckled, and his neck hit the bottom of the pane. Jagged remains of glass that lined the bottom of the pane sank into his flesh like teeth, and ushered out a reservoir of blood.

Gingy jumped up onto Deadpool’s shoulder and pushed his staff against the mercenary’s cheek; more blood spewed out as his neck slid across teeth of glass. “My phone. Now.” He pressed harder.

”W-wha fllet-vor ish thaph?” A spill of blood gargled up from Deadpool’s mouth. ”Shmals lyk bernaner strawlburrrry.”


As he spoke, a look of both perplexity and disgust plastered onto Gingy’s face. “The fu—“ He softened the grip on his staff.

With a violent jerk, Deadpool freed his head from the windowpane. A torrent of blood sprayed across the rest of the window as his head whipped out, and back around to locate at the gingerbread. Gingy had been sent airborne. His staff flew out of his hand and spiraled down to the ground.

The mercenary reared a fist, and rocketed into the pastry’s face. He aimed for the dick he had drawn earlier, and connected, sending Gingy to the far corner of the room. He bounced off the wall, and then kissed the floor with a thud!

”Lil’ Pillsbury, Fuckboy.” Deadpool said. It was with more jaw than mouth—a crooked smiley grinned ear-to-ear. Pieces of flesh dangled from his jaw, with blood pulling down to the tips and dripping onto the floor.

With a sound similar to stirring macaroni n’ cheese, the veins in Deadpool’s neck gradually repaired themselves, reconnecting like twisted wiring. His neck throbbed as muscle tissue regenerated to fill the voids left in his laceration. The new tissue was as stiff as a fresh leather jacket. And as the final layer of skin overlapped his neck, he cracked it, and grimaced.

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


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#5
Something was wrong.

My Healing Factor . . . Deadpool looked at his palms—his bloody palms—as fresh blood gradually coursed through repaired veins, and brought a couple lapses of vertigo with it. The mercenary whipped his head to quell the sensation, but only exasperated it. He swayed back and forth a bit, as if about to collapse, but caught himself. This isn’t normal, he thought; usually, his regenerative abilities were seamless and left no hangover.

He remembered what he learned from Gingy’s phone the night before: Omniverse had nerf’d the fuck out of him. And as that settled in, an irritated grunt escaped his lips as his world slowly stopped spinning from dizziness. Well, this isn’t good. Not good at all. If I don’t get this fixed soon I’m gonna be a fucking zombie.

Not the Walking Dead type though, I would hope I’m at least cooler than that.


Then he noticed the staff in the corner of his peripheral—the large lollipop Gingy had used to bash him over the head with. He reached down and tweezers-handed it off of the floor. What the fuck is his made out of, penny candy? he pondered, gliding a hand across the circumference of the candy, and then balled a fist to knock on it. It was hard as a rock, and unlike most candies, smoother than a baby’s ass—devoid of any adhesive most that candies developed over time.

Before the mercenary could examine the lollipop any further, groans from across the room sent his eyes darting. Gingy slowly wobbled back to his feet, with a forearm leaned on the wall for support. His head was sunken deep into his abdomen as be stood bent over, panting lightly like a smoker trying to hide his or her fatigue. He slowly erected his stance, revealing a smear of white icing from his eye tread down to his cheek, where the blow must have landed; along with the dick scribbled on his forehead, he looked like a drunken college girl that just finished a gangbang.

XD

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


PVP Combat Record
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3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
4W - 1L - 0D
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#6
“Y-youre supposed to be dead,” Gingy mustered out. With the back of his free hand, he wiped away a smear of icing from under his eye, gritting a toothless mouth as his breathing softened. He pushed off of the wall and found his balance.

”Supposed to be dead,” the mercenary scoffed as he chuckled. ”Been a while since I heard that line.”

Wait, wait, wait. How is that even possible—the gritting a toothless mouth part?

Gingy’s gritty face soured into one of perplexity. “Did you just talk to the ceiling?”

”What?” Deadpool rested the staff against his shoulder and widened an eye. ”What are you talking about, cookieboy?”

“You just looked up at the ceiling and said ‘Wait, wait, wait. How is that even possible—the gritting a toothless mouth part?’” His eyes narrowed into almost slits. “What are you?”

”An editor’s worst nightmare, that’s what I am.”

The mercenary overhanded the staff to Gingy—it bounced off of the wall before rattling onto the floor—and watched as the pastry’s eyes raced back and forth (at Deadpool, at the staff, repeating constantly). It was easy to read the pastry’s mind—like a book—and he could tell that Gingy was seriously considering another attack.

”Go ahead, bust a move,” Deadpool dared, reaching a hand back over his shoulder to curl a couple of fingers around the hilt of one of his katana. ”I know what you’re thinking about.” Slowly, he wrapped his thumb around.

Gingy’s eyes slowed, but still shifted between his staff and the mercenary. “If I can grab my staff off of you, and hit you with it—that fast—, what makes your bitchass think you can stop me?”

”You can go ahead then, and try to thump me, and probably die; or you can hear me out, like you shoulda done to begin with.” Ching!! the base of his katana screamed free from the sheath. ”Trust me when I say this, I’ll cut you up like some bad dope. On a Tuesday.”

After a subsequent snicker, the two shared a moment of silence. Deadpool’s eyes were locked onto Gingy, analyzing his every move—down to the faint rise in his naked belly from breathing; there was no way in hell the mercenary was going to be caught off-guard again. He tightened his grip on his katana, even adding another finger. And with a raspy whistle, the blade gradually retracted some from its sheath.

Gingy trembled a hand out towards the staff as if to pick it up, but hesitated, and brought his hand back to his body. He was beginning to mull over his options more; a drop of sweat slithered down the Dick, passing through the ‘D’ and a ‘=’ mark on his forehead. He focused his attention onto the mercenary, and the mercenary alone. “So, what now then?”

Deadpool had made a career out of murdering people (and took great joy from it) in his own dimension; Omniverse was different, however. The knowledge learned the night before revealed that a trustworthy partner was a valuable asset. Especially with his Healing Factor mitigated to a piece of shit.

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


PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
4W - 1L - 0D
[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]
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#7
”Adventure time,” he replied, easing his grip on the katana; it slid back into the sheath with another raspy whistle, and ching’d!!! shut. ”Before you decided to go rogue on me, I was gonna say I was kidding. I’m just gonna hold onto the phone for you, since you don’t exactly have any pockets.” He removed his hand from near the blade and looked at if for a moment—Lol! Baron just made a reference from the MiniChat he got temp-banned from, but he just used it in the exact form argued against him—before letting it fall back to his side. The blood that had pooled in his palm earlier was now nothing more than a dry oasis of sprawling cracks.

“I can’t do that,” Gingy replied, bluntly. “I need my phone. I got my own adventures to do.”

”I’ma go with you, silly.” Thoughts of him being paired with a living, breathing gingerbread made his cheeks rise with glee—oh, the possibilities!

“My adventures are sort of solo.”

The outline of a smirk visualized onto Deadpool’s mask.”I saved your life, so you owe me.” he replied, matter-of-factly.

Gingy took a moment to think.

Again, using that word in the same way that was argued against you

“Can you stop talking to yourself? God.” Gingy interjected. “Fine, we can pair up, for adventures. So we’re just gonna act like our little scuffle never happened?”

”I tend to overlook many fights,” Deadpool replied. “What’s going to be hard to over look is your lack of social skills. So much so that the going is italicized, like your text was.”

“And this is coming from the guy that talks nonsense fifty percent of the time, and talks to himself, right?” The pastry snickered, then reached his hand out again for the staff, but quickly paused. “I’m not gonna try to attack you. I’m just retrieving it. Cool?”

Deadpool answered with a nod. ”You’re gonna need it for the Pale Moors. This place looks rich in Omnilium.”

“Riight,” Gingy replied longwindedly. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and then said, “I got no plans of staying here. Dracula’s got a nice grip on parts of the Moors; you got Diablo’s armies somewhere; and not the mention, all the random shit that litters the verse, in general. This place is fucked.”

The mercenary giggled—everything the gingerbread said he knew already—and then whipped his head back to the window. ”I know, that’s why I wanna see wassup with this place.” Dracula, Diablo, random shit; it all sounded like sweet, sweet music to the mercenary’s ears.

Gingy just hanged his head and sighed. “This place can drive you crazy, Deadpool.”

Well, you already think I’m insane, so we should be good.

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#8
With all the damn italic text being displayed to the masses, I figured it was only appropriate to change the title of the thread. Too bad it only lasts one post, but oh well.


The two spent the rest of the morning exchanging whatever information knew about the Pale Moors. For most of the conversation, Gingy remained reserved; thought he did dish out some second-hand knowledge, and it correlated with the information Deadpool acquired.

Lol . . . he’s referring to the forums, that’s why it’s italicized.

The Pale Moors was overwhelmed with monstrosities—zombies, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, fuck-knows (creatures that had not true resemblance to anything else)—which held true dominion over the verse. Darkshire was the last beacon of hope for the Moors, but even that was bleak. With each story the gingerbread recited, Deadpool’s eyes became wider and wider like a child’s would, while staring at a continuum of toy commercials.

When the mercenary finally took the time to speak, Gingy mostly just rolled his eyes. To the gingerbread, almost everything the mercenary said was hogwash. He referred to different events happening in the Moors as threads and posts. After a while of trying to act cordial, the pastry agreed with everything the mercenary said; maybe then he would shut up.

Ouch.

”Anyway, you ready to leave out?”

Gingy nodded, then said, “Yeah. Where we going?”

”I got somewhere in mind. It isn’t dangerous, either. Scaredy-cat. . . Cookie, scared-cookie.” The mercenary made his way to the door, unlatching the iron-cast lock and twisting the doorknob. ”Come one,” he said as he held the door open.

Gingy walked out the room with Deadpool closing the door shut and following behind. They made it down the stairwell and to the lobby.

“That will be three silver coins, sir,” a voice said from behind the redwood desk. It was deep, yet with high pitches.

The smooth-skinned woman from the night before had been replaced with an adolescent boy, who stood in, what must have been, the finest outfit he could coax his father into lending him—shiny buttons on a nicely textured vest, and creased slacks (something Deadpool considered an anomaly in a town like Darkshire, based on the peasants he encountered).

”Sure,” Deadpool replied, and dug into a belt pocket The mercenary had used his Omnilium to craft a compartment’s-worth of money for Darkshire. He withdrew some coins and stacked them into the desk; if were the woman from the night before, the stack would have been larger—as large as her boobs were.

The boy reached out and cupped the tacks, sliding them across the desk and into a half-open drawer near his abdomen. As the last coin rattled in the drawer, the boy glanced over at Gingy. “You . . .two shared a bed?” he stuttered in disgust. His bottom lip trembled above a bed of blemishes.

Deadpool simply turned around and continued out of the Plush Inn. ”No homo, dude.” he snickered, opening the front door.

The door to the inn screamed open as rust shavings drizzled down. Then Gingy and Deadpool left.

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#9
Deadpool peered, sending the eyeholes of his mask branching into crow’s feet. Night had captured the day—and it was no later than 3pm—, casting its purple hue over the land. The peasants the mercenary saw from out the window earlier were long gone, with only a trail of blood droplets from the wagon remaining on the cobblestone; all that was left roaming outside was the howling whisk of wind.

“So, where’re we going?” Gingy asked, again. He folded his arms across his decorated chest and looked at the mercenary. “Or is it some type of surprise? I’m not a huge fan of surprises.”

We’re going to a place I read about,” Deadpool answered as he travelled down the short case of steps and into the intersection; Gingy followed. ”It’s called THE Pub. I don’t know why the THE is underlined, or in CAPs, for that matter, but I got a feeling we might learn something there.”

He hoped the chink’s taste in women was good; the bartender was the sole reason why he wanted to visit THE Pub. Plush Inn’s receptionist gave hope to Deadpool that there were some attractive women in the Moors. Somewhere, behind a foundation of sweat and dirt, an attractive woman could exist. Like a diamond in the rough, he supposed.

That chink better be right.

“Huh?” Gingy stared with curious eyes. “Chink?”

Deadpool forgot that the gingerbread could see him talking to himself.

I’ll do this one in my mind: Baron, you know damn well I’m not talking to myself, you grease-ball, half-breed—half Puerto Rican mutt, half Whitey—bastard!!! He mercenary growled, and his hands coiled into tights fists.

“You okay?”

”Yeah, let’s just go.”

The odd couple traveled north up the intersection, veering left at the end of the block, passing a row of dilapidated wooden and stone homes. Gingy complained about some sore leg bullshit; before Deadpool could debate, the pastry took mount on his shoulder. They continued a few more blocks until coming to a stop near another intersection.

THE Pub,” Gingy muttered, peering at the sign swaying above the door. The light from the intersection washed and rewashed over its surface, as it phased in and out of visibility. The words were deeply carved into the wood; under it was an etching of a flagon filled with a brew, and a proclamation: Best Waterin’ Hole in the Moors!

I guess you couldn’t think of a better way to describe that, huh? Had to take Alex’s interpretation, lol. And yes, I will continue to italicize my dialogue to you, as long as you’re making it seem like I’m fucking crazy for doing it.

”Yup,” Deadpool replied. He glanced over at Gingy, and behind his mask, furrowed a brow. ”You’re over twenty-one, right? Last thing I need is an overnighter at some Dungeon and Dragons jail.”

“Stop the crazy talk. The dragons aren’t in this verse”


”Now you’re starting to sound like me.” Deadpool opened the door to THE Pub and walked in, with still Gingy still mounted. ”You ever hear the joke about the cookie and the mercenary walking into a bar?”

“Shut up, and let’s get this over with.”

”Ya’know, I don’t remember you being such an ass in those movies.”

“Quit your pointless bantering.”

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#10
THE Pub held a plushness similar to the Plush Inn—run down. Wall lamps with thick white candles lined the tavern, bathing it in a yellow-orange light. The bar was position to the left, only a few feet away from the main entrance.

The mercenary surveyed the variety of patrons before proceeding towards the bar. ‘The Best Waterin’ Hole in the Moors’ seemed to attract whatever lively spirits still inhabited Darkshire; segregated groups—knights, peasants, and tourists—clashed foggy mugs and shared laughs while sitting around assortments of square and round tables.

Between an unconscious slender male patron and another male that was fat and balding, a pair of stools was still available. Deadpool took a seat to the right—next to the balding—while Gingy dismounted and sat next to the mercenary.

“So, why are we here?” Gingy pulled closer to Deadpool to make his voice clearer over the loud ramblings of drunks. “You got a drinking problem or something?”

”Questions, questions, questions; is that all you ever do—ask questions?” the mercenary replied.

He overheard a group of knights discussing Darkshire matters behind him. They sat and stood around a small square table sharing stories of events—an assembly of Primes defeating the Tarrasque; a Sorcerer Chinkand Spartan accompanying a paladin named Argento to venture into Silent Hills; and some other stories that were about the Good ole’ Days.

Changed that one word for you above, because I thought mines was more fitting.

“Would you like a drank?” a bartender walked passed and asked with a southern twang. She held a foggy mug in her left hand, cleaning it with a dirty rag in the other.

”Cheyenne . . .” Deadpool muttered, his jaw dropping as his eyes went upward from the woman’s scantly denim shorts (so short the bottom of her front pockets were exposed) to her bold blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Her cleavage swelled out from under her red and black flannel top, which she kept tied in a knot above her pierced belly button.

“Who’s that?” Gingy elbowed Deadpool’s arm and asked.

Cheyenne furrowed a finely shaped brow at the sight of Gingy, but composed herself instantly. “Can I help you boys with sum ale, maybe? If you haven’t hurd, it’s the best in all the Moors.” Her eyes shifted between the two as a soft smile formed across her visage.

God I missed southern accents. “Gimme two of ya best beers,” Deadpool rested his forearms against the counter and leaned forward, winking.

Gingy looked at the woman, grinned, and said, “I’ll take a tall glass of milk!”

”My homey wants some milk,” Deadpool reiterated as he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handful of coins. Like a slot machine, he raised his hand and slid a few of them between Cheyenne’s breasts. Her face soured and winced as the cold silvers dropped down through the flannel and dinked! off of the ground. “Make it snappy, toots, and I’ll make sure another bundle of coins comes your way.”

Cheyenne paused for a moment and cast the mercenary a vile look before placing the flagon down—rag still soaking in its brown sud water—to pull two additional mugs out from under the counter. She turned around to face a large wood barrel, yanked a cork out of its belly, and held the cups one after the other under the flowing brew. She turned back around and placed both mugs in front of the mercenary. The yellow beer tilted inside the glass. “Hare it is—our ‘house special’ Cheyenne’s blue eyes shifted to Gingy. ”Your fran’s milk is going to be fresh. I have to go fetch it from the back,” she said, picked the suddy ragged glass back up, and excused herself to the far end of the bar.

“I think this place is a waste of time,” Gingy leaned close again to say.

”Just relax. Your milk will be here soon.”

The mercenary curled his fingers around the handle of the glass closer to his left. As he raised it to his chin, he took his other hand and peeled back the bottom of his mask over his nose; the ale smelled like rotting eggs with a whiff of ammonia. It reminded Deadpool of scents that permeated through high school male bathrooms.

He brought the flagon to his lips and took a gulp. As some of the ale slithered down his throat, his upper lip flinched back. It was a salty yet bitter taste that jumped off the tongue and climbed into the sinuses. He tried to ingurgitate the reservoir of ‘house special’ remained in his mouth, but without the necessary conviction, it whished out in a yellowy mist.

Cheyenne returned from a doorway in the far portion of the bar, with a tall frosted glass of milk in hand. A few patrons leaning over the counter heckled as she past—one went to smack he ass, barely missing—but her demeanor almost enticed it. She grabbed loose coins Deadpool assumed were tips as she threw winks and blew kisses.

“Hare’s your milk, sweetie,” she said while placing the glass in front of Gingy.

”Hey, this beer tastes like piss that ran down a rancid buttcrack,” Deadpool tugged on the knot in Cheyenne’s top. ”I want you to push those coins back out from between your bosoms and into my hand. Now.”

Cheyenne scowled with slanted brows and narrowed eyes. “No touching the bartender,” she said bluntly. “Also, no refunds.”

The mercenary went for a futile rebuttal, but before he could conjure one up Cheyenne made her back to the far end of the bar, grabbing a few more loose coins as her hips swayed.

Gingy stared at his cup, hoping that it was better than his partner’s ale; with both hands he reached out and grabbed it, taking a sip. After smacking his lips a few times, he downed the whole thing. “Sucks to be you, Spandex, my milk is fucking awesome!”

”Yeah, I bet it came from a Taurus.”

“Taurus doesn’t produce milk, dummy,” Gingy replied as he put the glass back down.

”Oh, that’s my point!”

“Heyyy thur, pardon,” the balding fat man to the mercenary’s right pestered in a groggy voice, accompanied by a nudging forearm to the bicep. Deadpool looked over at the man; his eyes were as glossier than a touchscreen. “If ye don’t want yer ale I will take them off yer hands.” With what seemed to be a moment of clarity, his eyes jolted wide, and he reached inside of his jerkin to pull out a folded piece of off-white hemp paper.

”Gingy, this may be the story progression we’ve been waiting for,” he said, but Gingy paid no mind. The mercenary gently pulled the paper out from man’s grasp and then took the same hand and slid both drinks over to him in one motion. ”Take’m”

“Thank ye,” the man said, raising a flagon up in a toasting fashion towards the mercenary before chugging it down.

Deadpool opened the paper with curiosity akin to a child receiving a ‘Date Me: No/Date Me: Yes’ note; his eyes rounded as they examined the typed words.

Times New Roman font.





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Aw, font codes don't work.

”I know where we're gonna go, Gingy. . .” he murmured, refolding the paper and curling it in his hand. ”We’re going to Dante’s Abyss.”

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