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Big City Dreams

Quote:While on the floor of the barracks: Here

Ah shit, I’m in a dream. Haven’t had one of these in a while. Not since JFK was in office . . . but I guess its better than finding out I’m dead. I wonder if I’m having a dream now because I’m sick, or because without my Healing Factor I can actually be knocked unconscious again? Actually, both of those stem from my out-of-whack Healing Factor.

Oh well, on the bright side, I don’t need my 4th Walling in italics, since no one is around to call my crazy.

It had been a long time since the mercenary last dreamt—before Weapon X—and the only remnants left he had to recollect from of them was hazy pictures, over a far horizon. And from those hazy pictures all that remained were the most recent dreams, which almos revolved entirely around his cancer—the same cancer that riddled his body with tumors and blemishes.

Fuck you dude! You know I’m sensitive to that right now, especially since you wanted to shame me in front of Ron Burgundy. I wonder if there’s a place where characters like me can go to apply for a new writer . . . I’m there in a heartbeat. Maybe Alex is up to taking on another character, or Bryan . . .

He found himself standing on the humid corner of two uniting pavements. The intersection bustled with the activity of evening rush hour as Men and women cladded in formal attire went around him in a hurried fashion, only maneuvering enough to avoid contact. From the street, the sound of car horns blasted at one another while stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic (one man poked even poked his sweaty head out of the driver’s side window to bristle at the sudden change of lights as his brakes screeched his car to a halt).

Deadpool swiveled around to better absorb the vast environment created by his subconscious, and as he did he could not help but refer to Marvel’s version of New York City—giant skyscrapers kissed the sky, congested within the rectangular street blocks that entrapped them; they shined as yellow sunlight bounced off their glass and metal frames.

And while his eyes indulged in a gaze of curious fascination as he viewed the city, his mind began to process something different, and soon all Deadpool could do was wonder: why am I here? The question was simple, but the mercenary reckoned the answer was much more multifaceted. It perplexed him; the only thing in Marvel’s New York, besides good pizza, was a particular web-slinging hero (a web-slinging hero who Deadpool was much, much, much cooler than, in every variation of the word cool). For a moment, he got a kick out of imagining a fantasy spar against Spider-man, but the mercenary presumed such a thing could lead to an Omni-lawsuit (which he also got a kick out of imagining).

Then it all hit him like a drop in bowels—his daughter, Eleanor, lived in New York. Brooklyn, the mercenary recollected: 183 Carlton Ave., Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, 11205, U.S. of God-loving A.

He raised his sights up to the street pole, hoping to find the street names to corner he stood on he stood on—Spruce St and Park Row. The place where his daughter lived was only thirty to forty minutes away, if by foot. And in the middle of reciting the travel-time, he wondered why his dream would pull such knowledge from the abyss of his mind to the forefront of it.

Why am I here? The questioned remained, as simple as ever, yet still as complex as well.

The metro was only a few minutes away—one block down Spruce, and another couple down Nassau—and if he took caught the subway on a good day, he could find himself in Brooklyn within fifteen minutes, which was fraction of typical wait time. From there, it was an easy walk to Carlton Ave, passed a rundown Starbucks and a mom-n-pop fried chicken joint.

But why?

Before he could obsess further over his questions, he traveled down Spruce, and towards Nassau Street. As he veered the corner, and passed the Barnes and Noble, he could not help but notice—or feel, rather—the force of his dream guiding his feet (or Baron, silently typing his story); whatever ailments he suffered from before his dream vanished like a dwindling hallucination. He was merely a patron on a rollercoaster, pulled along for the ride.

In no time, he wrapped around the last corner on Nassau Street and stared into the darkness that the subway stairs descended down into. Red lighting from the adjacent CVS drug door danced across the green entrance of the subway. It was like an invitation into a horrific party, too horrific even for Deadpool. He could feel the whip of wind graze across his mask as a train departed, all the while his head screamed, Don’t go, don’t go!, but his feet urged onward.

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

PVP Combat Record
3W - 0L - 0D
4W - 1L - 0D
[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]

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