Back to GatefoldIssue #20 by Brad Horton
"Shinn Shitty" |
Las Vegas, Nevada.
Who knew Elvis was worshiped like a god? Everywhere I go in this city, the best damn city in the world, I might add, there's someone dressed up like The King. I mean, is he replacing Santa Claus as the most recognizable icon? Or, wait...that's Jesus. I guess I can't complain. Elvis paved the way for stealing black folks' music. Now black folks steal white folks' music. Ain't life grand? Plus, that Lisa Marie! Rrrrraaaaarww! Like a cat! Oh baby...someone...someone with a hatred for Nicholas Cage, please! Pay me so I can kill him! Lisa Marie will be mine!
Meh...I'll just get a lap dance.
What? I was going to picture Theresa in my mind. Although, that Irish accent is hard to replicate. When I dream about her, she always talks like she's from Brooklyn. That don't seem right.
# # # # #
"Place your bet, sir," the dealer says, dressed in his green vest with shiny material, dress slacks, a green bow tie and a nice white long-sleeved shirt. He was a little short and had a bald spot on the top of his head. The comb-over wasn't foolin' anybody. On the Blackjack table, he had a ten of hearts facing up, the other card facing down.
At the table was a Latina woman, dressed in a tight, black short-skirt dress. Her hair was highlighted blonde. Her brown eyes gazed over at Wade Wilson - Deadpool - as she placed a $10,000 chip on the table. The dealer gives her two cards, one face down, the other face up. The cards facing up were a two of spades and a three of hearts.
Wade was wearing a tuxedo with an image-inducer changing the appearance of his face to look awfully similar to Tom Cruise. It was an ego thing. "Oh, my bet. Um...here," Wade says as he places two $5,000 chips on the table. The cards facing up are an ace of diamonds and a five of clubs.
The woman sticks her pinkie in her mouth, lightly biting it with her teeth, "I don't know what to do." She looks at Wade, "Can you help me?"
Wade bursts out of his stool, "Do you need to lie down? I can help you lie down if you want, oh my God, your boobs are so fantastically delicious--"
"I just need help, I've never played Blackjack before," the woman says seductively.
"--oh," Wade responds. "Well, you have a two and a three, which means you probably want to hit."
The woman runs her hand down the curves of her body, "I DO want to hit..."
Wade and the dealer find themselves gulping. Deadpool looks at the dealer, "She said hit! Come on! Vamados!" Wade smiles at the woman, "That was Spanish."
The woman giggles, "Mmhm!"
"I-I-I...sorry," the dealer sputters as he places a ten of clubs on the table next to the woman's two other cards.
"Hm," Wade says, "fifteen. This is always a tough decision. Well, the dealer's got a ten facing up...the one facing down could be worth up to eleven. I'd stay. Wave your hand over the table like this." Wade shows her and the woman mimics the hand movement. Wade looks down at his cards. "Hit me."
A jack of spades. Sixteen. Oh well, what did he have to lose? "Hit me!"
A jack of hearts. Bust.
"Player busts," the dealer says as he takes Wade's two $5,000 dollar chips. He turns over his card, revealing a two of clubs. Since the dealer has to have at least sixteen, the dealer deals himself another card. It was an eight of clubs. Twenty. "Twenty beats your fifteen, miss."
"Son of a bitch!" Wade shouts. "Have you no honor? This woman is clearly hot. Can't you let it slide?"
The woman smiles as she flicks her head behind her, motioning for the dealer to leave. The dealer does as he's told, the woman speaks, "He's my love slave. He pays me, don't worry, Mr. Wilson."
"You...? Know my name?" Wade asks. "Did I accidentally turn off this holographic disguise?"
The woman holds out her hand to shake, "Eva Mellons. I'm the head of the Showgirls Guild of America."
Wade takes her hand and kisses the top of it, "Ah, so you're the madame I'm here to work for. Well, for killing someone, not the love slave thing...unless you want me to."
Eva takes her hand back, "Flattered." She takes a sip of her drink, "Let's go somewhere where we can talk."
# # # # #
'I need you to knock off a showgirl named Havanah Valley,' she tells me. For one, I never dreamed of killing a real-life Vegas showgirl before. Second, I never knew I'd get ten-million for it. God, if Terry were here, I'd...
What am I saying?
She's a top-knotch SHIELD agent now. I'll bet she doesn't even acknowledge our relationship in fear of...well, whatever being associated with me brings. Hmm, well, the CIA said they'd erase my criminal record. * The known records, anyway.
(* See issue 18 for details -- Brad)
Maybe Siryn wouldn't mind being seen with me. God, I haven't called her in so long. Do I even want to? Is SHIELD the same as the CIA? They'd shoot me on site. News on the hush-line is that Forge is the new director of the world's biggest flying circus wagon. I better not piss them off, or I'll have flying toasters ambushing me while I'm on the john at my pad.
Okay, come on, I've been sitting in this damn balcony for forty-five minutes! Does every show in Vegas have a mandatory wait forty-five minutes rule?! I wanted to see the volcano erupt at the Mirage. THE VOLCANO! God! Urrghh!
Wait, it's starting! Huh? Wayne Newton is making some kind of pre-show commentary.
"Do-in do-ooo-ooo-oooo....," the overly tan man sings while nodding his head from side to side with a wireless microphone in his hand.
Didn't he make "Danke Shane?" He sounded like a girl.
Whoa, some old broad just threw her rotten panties on the stage. Wait a minute, this really is a Wayne Newton show, not that showgirl representation of Former Avenger, Tigra, the Musical! Well, this is embarrassing. Now I gotta disassemble all this sniper equipment. I have my new eisel-tripod thing and everything.
Damn, nine o' one! THE VOLCANO! Urrrghh! I'm leaving tonight! Damn, damn, damn!
"Don't move!" a husky, bald man says, pointing his Magnum at me. He cricks his head, motioning his five-hundred pound buddy to provide backup. An obese black guy waddles in with one of those 1940s pistols, wearing taped glasses.
I better cooperate, don't want to draw attention--
*BLAM*
"Ahh! You shot me in the face!" I yell. Strangely, the crowd is too fixated on Wayne Newton to pay attention. Even Newton himself is fixated on himself to notice I accidentally showed up, looking like I was going to kill him.
The two security guards wrestle me to the ground and drag me kicking and screaming (well...mainly screaming) into a secluded room. They tie me to a wooden chair. And proceed to beat the crap out of me.
I spit blood out the side of my mouth, "Thank you, sir. May I have anoth--"
*WHACK*
*PUNCH*
*SOCK*
"Hey, thanks!" I shout.
"What?" the Asian guard asks.
"You broke the molar that had a cavity!" I smile. "Such a friggin' pain in the ass. I can regrow limbs, but not teeth? I want a refund on this healing factor from Weapon X."
"Cavities don't heal," the nerdy, obese guard squeals, pushing up his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah," I say, with a well-informed looking look, "but limbs don't either." My face falls back to its normal position, "Douche."
One of them pulls off my red and black mask, and they both gasp. I'm not sure what it was, the blood seemed to hide all the unsightliness.
"What the hell are you?!" the husky Asian yells.
"He's a mutant!" the nerd squeals.
"Y'know, by that way of thinking, you're a mutant," I say. "Honestly, look at yourself. Your pants being up that high is anatomically impossible. It's a wonder you're still considered part of the male gender."
"Shut up!" the nerd shouts with tears welling up in his eyes as he pistol-whips me in the forehead. I feel the warm, stickiness of blood gushing all over my face.
The Asian pushes his pal away from me, trying to settle the situation, "Okay, sir. Why were you trying to kill Mr. Newton?"
"I wasn't trying to kill him. I came to his show by mistake. I was going to kill a showgirl," I confess.
"You sick sonuva!" the guard yells as he begins playing Make Pizza Dough with my head. The nerd screams, flailing his hands all over as he takes his shots with the blunt end of his pussy-ass gun.
"How could you do such a thing to a beautiful woman?!" the nerd screams. Is he related to Michael Jackson or something? Only 0% artificially sculpted and fat?
Damn! I could be waiting for the next eruption of the Mirage volcano! Instead, I'm here, losing multiple cell brains. THE VOLCANO! Urrgghh!
# # # # #
Klingers Headquarters
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
"We have done well, fellow Klingers," Crochet utters, with his leather jacket and black-white combination costume.
"Yes, we have set up shop as the best mercenaries on the East Coast," Musk says with a smile behind his black mask, which matches his totally black costume.
"Not even our template himself could do a better job," Pornet smiles. He had a black and purple costume. On his chest was a yellow emblem of two lesbians in the sixty-nine position.
Oddity simply nods, since it was his turn to speak, "I...have nothing to add." He had a yellow and silver costume.
Mini-Deadpool simply rolls his eyes in his exact replica of Deadpool's original costume, a few sizes smaller, obviously. The Klingers have treated the young clone with much disrespect, mainly because he talks out of order...except for this instance.
"You cocksuckers are really full of shit. It's a surprise you aren't puking shit up and having shit come out your ears," Mini-Pool mutters. "An' yer nose."
"You'll need to start watching your language," Crochet warns.
"You may be technically the same age as the rest of us, but you're still physically seven years old," Musk observes.
"But, I'm mentally as old as you friggin' morons, only I don't have to follow the goddamn pecking order you fucks talk in!" Mini-DP shouts.
"Maybe we should carve a five into your forehead...," Pornet suggests.
"Yeah, then you'll have to speak after me," Oddity says with a smile.
"And not me after he," Crochet says, as if he was proud, crossing his arms.
"Then you'll see to be," Musk starts.
"More of a model mercenary," Pornet continues.
"Like you and me," Oddity says with a smile as he rubs Mini-Deadpool's head as if he had a bunch of hair.
Mini-Deadpool sighs, rubbing his temples as if he were experiencing a migraine, "You guys are so fucking stupid. If you carve a five into my forehead, it's just going to heal up in two seconds! Even then, I'd probably kick you in the nuts."
"Wait, you mean to tell us...we can heal quickly?" Crochet asks.
Mini-Deadpool flings his arms into the air, "Yes! Are you mentally handicapped? We were cloned from Wade Wilson, who had an experimental cancer treatment done on him. The procedure left his body as scarred and mangled as ours, but it also cured the cancer, and gave him a healing factor. You guys didn't figure that one out?"
"We just knew how to kill," Musk reveals.
"The shadow-government apparently didn't care if we didn't know about our gifts. We were expendable," Pornet says, slouching in his chair some.
"Expendable? I don't see it that way...," Oddity smiles.
"Oddity is right. We thought life in the merc business was short, because we all knew sooner or later, we would have shots fired upon us as a defensive measure against our targets' major domos, toadies, and cronies. We would inevitably die. Now...it's a little more interesting. Who's next on the hit-list?" Crochet asks.
Musk picks up the long list, entitled "Mercenaries to Kill." Many of the names have a red line drawn through them. He clears his throat, scanning the list, "Only top-knotch one's we have are Black Swan, Bullseye, Deadpool, Elektra, Mini-Deadpool, Taskmaster--"
"Technically," Pornet smiles as he cocks his...er...gun, "we have one of our targets right here in front of us. Why waste the time traveling the globe looking for the others?"
The Klingers peer at their short friend. Mini-Deadpool reaches for his holster and pulls out a gun, "You might have a healing factor, but you can't heal a dead brain!" He pulls the trigger as water squirts Crochet in the face.
Mini-Deadpool looks in shock at his weapon. It was a child's toy, "You fuckers! Replacing my heat with friggin'...humidity?"
Mini-Deadpool is shot in the chest by Crochet, followed by Musk, Pornet, and Oddity. The young clone grunts in agony. He musters the strength to dive out through the window, shattering glass all over the dark Philly alley.
Crochet rushes to the window and fires multiple shots into the darkness. There was silence. Oddity grabs Crochet's arm, "Boss?"
"Don't worry about him. Alphabetically, Black Swan is our next target...but let's skip right down to Deadpool, shall we?" Crochet asks. He smiles underneath his mask, "Oh hell, let's kill Black Swan, anyway."
As the Klingers regroup, Mini-Deadpool is sitting in a dumpster, pulling bullets out of his heart with an old fork, "There's only one mother-humpin' bitch-tity that can take those fuckin' Kling-ons the fuck out. And dat's Deadpool..."
# # # # #
Okay, this is stupid. These guards keep on bashing my face in with their fists, trying to beat an answer out of me. This could go on for hours. My healing factor doesn't have an off switch. In-between blows, my face is healing itself...but then they just break a new wound...bastards.
"Which showgirl were you hired to kill?!" the nerd screams.
The Asian, with his deeper voice, taps his index finger into the nerd's chest, "Let me handle this, Sherman."
I snicker, "Sherman, Sherman, Sherman."
"Shut up, Eddie Murphy's version of the Nutty Professor was no where near as good as the original!" Sherman sneers.
"SHERMAN!" the Asian man shouts.
"Sorry, Funakitakamakilaki," Sherman grumbles.
"Whoa," I hear myself groan. "What's your last name?"
"I don't have one. It's like Cher," Funakita...um...er...whatever, says.
I begin to laugh hysterically.
"What's so funny?" Sherman asks.
I simply raise my now-freed hands, "While you two bumbling fuck-faces were arguing this whole time, I've been using my concealed razor blades in my gloves to cut through the...oh hell, do I really have to explain?"
I lunge forward with my arms and I flip, the chair comes with me as my ankles are still tied to the two front legs. The back legs knock the two guards in their faces. I land on my back and I struggle to cut the rope around my ankles. When I'm totally free, the Asian guy with the ridiculously long name is standing in my way. He draws his gun and fires into my chest.
As my lungs fill with blood, I unsheathe my katana and slice through his gun, taking the trigger finger with it. He screams like a little girl. I spin around and deliver a perfectly executed Tae Kwon Do kick to his jaw, sending him into a wall, knocking him unconscious.
Sherman's shot gets me in the shoulder blade. He shot me from behind. He must be shaking from the fear. The bullet got me at an angle. His hand was too shaky for it to be straight on. My enhanced healing factor was already healing the injury, going so far as actually expelling the foreign object from the wound. I turn around and smile.
"I'm Deadpool. You're my bitch," I say coldly. "Now where can I find Havanah Valley?"
Sherman nods his head as sweat falls down his forehead, "Yeah...I-I-I know that one. She's a showgirl, r-r-right? I can tell ya! Just don't kill me!"
I find my discarded mask which these bastards decided to take off of my head, causing my self-esteem to drop slightly. I pull it back over my face, "Where?"
# # # # #
A lanky, awkward-looking woman in fishnet stockings and a black leather corset and glitter-enriched bra walks into her dressing room, dramatically sighing as she slams the door, much to the dismay of all her male and lesbian fans. She was Havanah Valley, the pale-skinned, curly brown haired "beauty" that has been the star of Former Avenger, Tigra, the Musical for weeks now.
Many talented young women looking for the part have been scoffed by this...this monstrosity. The only reason she has the part and the other babes don't is because her late father used to own a casino. The Trailer Park, to be exact.
Yeah. A casino named The Trailer Park.
Pretty sure Anna Nicole Smith tried to get a piece of that dad of Havanah's.
Either way, this bitch is going down.
She screams when she notices me hiding behind a rack of her outfits, which is just a bunch of frilly, silky women's underwear type stuff...which probably adds to the list of reasons why I should have picked a better hiding spot.
She draws a switch blade from the crotch of her panties, "Who are you!? I said no private dances! I'm a showgirl, not a stripper!"
Okay, showtime.
"Actually," I begin, "I was wondering if I could get your autograph."
Oh God, I looked at her bikini line...her pubes are showing for Christ's sake! Argh!
Havanah smiles, "Oh, well...let me get a pen." She sits down at her makeup chair in front of the mirror with a whole bunch of lightbulbs around it. She grabs a pen from a drawer, but drops it on the floor. She bends down in the chair to pick it up, but her hair gets snagged on an edge, pulling it off. It was a wig!
Oh my lord, it was a man, man.
"Don't tell my mother!" the boy cries. I see a wallet on the desk and nab it. I open the flap to check the ID. His name was Cory Wiegel of California.
I shake my head, "It was paining me to do this job, knocking off a showgirl an' all. But now knocking off a wiener with a sexual identity crisis stealing the jobs of really hot chicks is an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT STORY!!!"
*BLAM*
# # # # #
"How do you want me?" Eva says as she seductively slides her skirt down to her ankles. No panties. Me like. She shaved her region. Me like also. She unbuttons the vest she was wearing and flings it on the floor. No bra. Big jugs. Me like much very.
"Um, I thought showgirls didn't do private dances," I say with a drunken smile. I decided to have a couple of those tall glass alcoholic drinks, the kind where they set the top on fire, just to celebrate.
"Well, because of you, the Showgirls Guild of America has a lot more employees," Eva says as she straddles me.
My eyelids flicker with pleasure as she works her magic on my body. I'm about to climax. Yay.
"--And then I lost half my kid's college savings playing craps!" an overly loud plump man shouts in my ear.
I lift my head and realize I'm on the plane back to New York. Must have dozed off. Damn it! My own personal VOLCANO! I missed it! Urrrgghh!!
"How much money did YOU win?" he asks me.
I suddenly smile, "Ten-million."
"Hoooooooly fuck! Playin' what?!"
"Find the Transvestite Showgirl and Kill It," I respond. "It's a new game from Europe. It's gonna be big."
"Dude, I went to that Former Avenger, Tigra thing like fourteen times. Even met with the star of the show in the back of her dressing room, if you know what I mean," the man nudges me in the ribs.
Oh man. Just like the end of Ace Ventura.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Okay. Act natural.
"...um, that wasn't a woman," I say, trying not to snicker.
Suddenly, the men on the plane begin to spit and vomit in their seats, including the guy next to me.
*BING*
{{Ehh...this is your captain speaking...did you say Havanah Valley was a man?}}
"Yes," I respond.
{{Ehh...are you sure?}}
"Yep."
{{Ehh...positive?}}
"YES."
{{Ehh...okay...I need to throw up, take over, Kareem.}}
{{I'm not Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, I am Murdock, dammit!! Wait...Havanah Valley...? She had two of my kids...that's...oh my...*BLAH*}}
Heh. I have ten-million dollars and everyone is throwing up. This is like a bad episode of Cheers.
END
Who knew Elvis was worshiped like a god? Everywhere I go in this city, the best damn city in the world, I might add, there's someone dressed up like The King. I mean, is he replacing Santa Claus as the most recognizable icon? Or, wait...that's Jesus. I guess I can't complain. Elvis paved the way for stealing black folks' music. Now black folks steal white folks' music. Ain't life grand? Plus, that Lisa Marie! Rrrrraaaaarww! Like a cat! Oh baby...someone...someone with a hatred for Nicholas Cage, please! Pay me so I can kill him! Lisa Marie will be mine!
Meh...I'll just get a lap dance.
What? I was going to picture Theresa in my mind. Although, that Irish accent is hard to replicate. When I dream about her, she always talks like she's from Brooklyn. That don't seem right.
# # # # #
"Place your bet, sir," the dealer says, dressed in his green vest with shiny material, dress slacks, a green bow tie and a nice white long-sleeved shirt. He was a little short and had a bald spot on the top of his head. The comb-over wasn't foolin' anybody. On the Blackjack table, he had a ten of hearts facing up, the other card facing down.
At the table was a Latina woman, dressed in a tight, black short-skirt dress. Her hair was highlighted blonde. Her brown eyes gazed over at Wade Wilson - Deadpool - as she placed a $10,000 chip on the table. The dealer gives her two cards, one face down, the other face up. The cards facing up were a two of spades and a three of hearts.
Wade was wearing a tuxedo with an image-inducer changing the appearance of his face to look awfully similar to Tom Cruise. It was an ego thing. "Oh, my bet. Um...here," Wade says as he places two $5,000 chips on the table. The cards facing up are an ace of diamonds and a five of clubs.
The woman sticks her pinkie in her mouth, lightly biting it with her teeth, "I don't know what to do." She looks at Wade, "Can you help me?"
Wade bursts out of his stool, "Do you need to lie down? I can help you lie down if you want, oh my God, your boobs are so fantastically delicious--"
"I just need help, I've never played Blackjack before," the woman says seductively.
"--oh," Wade responds. "Well, you have a two and a three, which means you probably want to hit."
The woman runs her hand down the curves of her body, "I DO want to hit..."
Wade and the dealer find themselves gulping. Deadpool looks at the dealer, "She said hit! Come on! Vamados!" Wade smiles at the woman, "That was Spanish."
The woman giggles, "Mmhm!"
"I-I-I...sorry," the dealer sputters as he places a ten of clubs on the table next to the woman's two other cards.
"Hm," Wade says, "fifteen. This is always a tough decision. Well, the dealer's got a ten facing up...the one facing down could be worth up to eleven. I'd stay. Wave your hand over the table like this." Wade shows her and the woman mimics the hand movement. Wade looks down at his cards. "Hit me."
A jack of spades. Sixteen. Oh well, what did he have to lose? "Hit me!"
A jack of hearts. Bust.
"Player busts," the dealer says as he takes Wade's two $5,000 dollar chips. He turns over his card, revealing a two of clubs. Since the dealer has to have at least sixteen, the dealer deals himself another card. It was an eight of clubs. Twenty. "Twenty beats your fifteen, miss."
"Son of a bitch!" Wade shouts. "Have you no honor? This woman is clearly hot. Can't you let it slide?"
The woman smiles as she flicks her head behind her, motioning for the dealer to leave. The dealer does as he's told, the woman speaks, "He's my love slave. He pays me, don't worry, Mr. Wilson."
"You...? Know my name?" Wade asks. "Did I accidentally turn off this holographic disguise?"
The woman holds out her hand to shake, "Eva Mellons. I'm the head of the Showgirls Guild of America."
Wade takes her hand and kisses the top of it, "Ah, so you're the madame I'm here to work for. Well, for killing someone, not the love slave thing...unless you want me to."
Eva takes her hand back, "Flattered." She takes a sip of her drink, "Let's go somewhere where we can talk."
# # # # #
'I need you to knock off a showgirl named Havanah Valley,' she tells me. For one, I never dreamed of killing a real-life Vegas showgirl before. Second, I never knew I'd get ten-million for it. God, if Terry were here, I'd...
What am I saying?
She's a top-knotch SHIELD agent now. I'll bet she doesn't even acknowledge our relationship in fear of...well, whatever being associated with me brings. Hmm, well, the CIA said they'd erase my criminal record. * The known records, anyway.
(* See issue 18 for details -- Brad)
Maybe Siryn wouldn't mind being seen with me. God, I haven't called her in so long. Do I even want to? Is SHIELD the same as the CIA? They'd shoot me on site. News on the hush-line is that Forge is the new director of the world's biggest flying circus wagon. I better not piss them off, or I'll have flying toasters ambushing me while I'm on the john at my pad.
Okay, come on, I've been sitting in this damn balcony for forty-five minutes! Does every show in Vegas have a mandatory wait forty-five minutes rule?! I wanted to see the volcano erupt at the Mirage. THE VOLCANO! God! Urrghh!
Wait, it's starting! Huh? Wayne Newton is making some kind of pre-show commentary.
"Do-in do-ooo-ooo-oooo....," the overly tan man sings while nodding his head from side to side with a wireless microphone in his hand.
Didn't he make "Danke Shane?" He sounded like a girl.
Whoa, some old broad just threw her rotten panties on the stage. Wait a minute, this really is a Wayne Newton show, not that showgirl representation of Former Avenger, Tigra, the Musical! Well, this is embarrassing. Now I gotta disassemble all this sniper equipment. I have my new eisel-tripod thing and everything.
Damn, nine o' one! THE VOLCANO! Urrrghh! I'm leaving tonight! Damn, damn, damn!
"Don't move!" a husky, bald man says, pointing his Magnum at me. He cricks his head, motioning his five-hundred pound buddy to provide backup. An obese black guy waddles in with one of those 1940s pistols, wearing taped glasses.
I better cooperate, don't want to draw attention--
*BLAM*
"Ahh! You shot me in the face!" I yell. Strangely, the crowd is too fixated on Wayne Newton to pay attention. Even Newton himself is fixated on himself to notice I accidentally showed up, looking like I was going to kill him.
The two security guards wrestle me to the ground and drag me kicking and screaming (well...mainly screaming) into a secluded room. They tie me to a wooden chair. And proceed to beat the crap out of me.
I spit blood out the side of my mouth, "Thank you, sir. May I have anoth--"
*WHACK*
*PUNCH*
*SOCK*
"Hey, thanks!" I shout.
"What?" the Asian guard asks.
"You broke the molar that had a cavity!" I smile. "Such a friggin' pain in the ass. I can regrow limbs, but not teeth? I want a refund on this healing factor from Weapon X."
"Cavities don't heal," the nerdy, obese guard squeals, pushing up his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah," I say, with a well-informed looking look, "but limbs don't either." My face falls back to its normal position, "Douche."
One of them pulls off my red and black mask, and they both gasp. I'm not sure what it was, the blood seemed to hide all the unsightliness.
"What the hell are you?!" the husky Asian yells.
"He's a mutant!" the nerd squeals.
"Y'know, by that way of thinking, you're a mutant," I say. "Honestly, look at yourself. Your pants being up that high is anatomically impossible. It's a wonder you're still considered part of the male gender."
"Shut up!" the nerd shouts with tears welling up in his eyes as he pistol-whips me in the forehead. I feel the warm, stickiness of blood gushing all over my face.
The Asian pushes his pal away from me, trying to settle the situation, "Okay, sir. Why were you trying to kill Mr. Newton?"
"I wasn't trying to kill him. I came to his show by mistake. I was going to kill a showgirl," I confess.
"You sick sonuva!" the guard yells as he begins playing Make Pizza Dough with my head. The nerd screams, flailing his hands all over as he takes his shots with the blunt end of his pussy-ass gun.
"How could you do such a thing to a beautiful woman?!" the nerd screams. Is he related to Michael Jackson or something? Only 0% artificially sculpted and fat?
Damn! I could be waiting for the next eruption of the Mirage volcano! Instead, I'm here, losing multiple cell brains. THE VOLCANO! Urrgghh!
# # # # #
Klingers Headquarters
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
"We have done well, fellow Klingers," Crochet utters, with his leather jacket and black-white combination costume.
"Yes, we have set up shop as the best mercenaries on the East Coast," Musk says with a smile behind his black mask, which matches his totally black costume.
"Not even our template himself could do a better job," Pornet smiles. He had a black and purple costume. On his chest was a yellow emblem of two lesbians in the sixty-nine position.
Oddity simply nods, since it was his turn to speak, "I...have nothing to add." He had a yellow and silver costume.
Mini-Deadpool simply rolls his eyes in his exact replica of Deadpool's original costume, a few sizes smaller, obviously. The Klingers have treated the young clone with much disrespect, mainly because he talks out of order...except for this instance.
"You cocksuckers are really full of shit. It's a surprise you aren't puking shit up and having shit come out your ears," Mini-Pool mutters. "An' yer nose."
"You'll need to start watching your language," Crochet warns.
"You may be technically the same age as the rest of us, but you're still physically seven years old," Musk observes.
"But, I'm mentally as old as you friggin' morons, only I don't have to follow the goddamn pecking order you fucks talk in!" Mini-DP shouts.
"Maybe we should carve a five into your forehead...," Pornet suggests.
"Yeah, then you'll have to speak after me," Oddity says with a smile.
"And not me after he," Crochet says, as if he was proud, crossing his arms.
"Then you'll see to be," Musk starts.
"More of a model mercenary," Pornet continues.
"Like you and me," Oddity says with a smile as he rubs Mini-Deadpool's head as if he had a bunch of hair.
Mini-Deadpool sighs, rubbing his temples as if he were experiencing a migraine, "You guys are so fucking stupid. If you carve a five into my forehead, it's just going to heal up in two seconds! Even then, I'd probably kick you in the nuts."
"Wait, you mean to tell us...we can heal quickly?" Crochet asks.
Mini-Deadpool flings his arms into the air, "Yes! Are you mentally handicapped? We were cloned from Wade Wilson, who had an experimental cancer treatment done on him. The procedure left his body as scarred and mangled as ours, but it also cured the cancer, and gave him a healing factor. You guys didn't figure that one out?"
"We just knew how to kill," Musk reveals.
"The shadow-government apparently didn't care if we didn't know about our gifts. We were expendable," Pornet says, slouching in his chair some.
"Expendable? I don't see it that way...," Oddity smiles.
"Oddity is right. We thought life in the merc business was short, because we all knew sooner or later, we would have shots fired upon us as a defensive measure against our targets' major domos, toadies, and cronies. We would inevitably die. Now...it's a little more interesting. Who's next on the hit-list?" Crochet asks.
Musk picks up the long list, entitled "Mercenaries to Kill." Many of the names have a red line drawn through them. He clears his throat, scanning the list, "Only top-knotch one's we have are Black Swan, Bullseye, Deadpool, Elektra, Mini-Deadpool, Taskmaster--"
"Technically," Pornet smiles as he cocks his...er...gun, "we have one of our targets right here in front of us. Why waste the time traveling the globe looking for the others?"
The Klingers peer at their short friend. Mini-Deadpool reaches for his holster and pulls out a gun, "You might have a healing factor, but you can't heal a dead brain!" He pulls the trigger as water squirts Crochet in the face.
Mini-Deadpool looks in shock at his weapon. It was a child's toy, "You fuckers! Replacing my heat with friggin'...humidity?"
Mini-Deadpool is shot in the chest by Crochet, followed by Musk, Pornet, and Oddity. The young clone grunts in agony. He musters the strength to dive out through the window, shattering glass all over the dark Philly alley.
Crochet rushes to the window and fires multiple shots into the darkness. There was silence. Oddity grabs Crochet's arm, "Boss?"
"Don't worry about him. Alphabetically, Black Swan is our next target...but let's skip right down to Deadpool, shall we?" Crochet asks. He smiles underneath his mask, "Oh hell, let's kill Black Swan, anyway."
As the Klingers regroup, Mini-Deadpool is sitting in a dumpster, pulling bullets out of his heart with an old fork, "There's only one mother-humpin' bitch-tity that can take those fuckin' Kling-ons the fuck out. And dat's Deadpool..."
# # # # #
Okay, this is stupid. These guards keep on bashing my face in with their fists, trying to beat an answer out of me. This could go on for hours. My healing factor doesn't have an off switch. In-between blows, my face is healing itself...but then they just break a new wound...bastards.
"Which showgirl were you hired to kill?!" the nerd screams.
The Asian, with his deeper voice, taps his index finger into the nerd's chest, "Let me handle this, Sherman."
I snicker, "Sherman, Sherman, Sherman."
"Shut up, Eddie Murphy's version of the Nutty Professor was no where near as good as the original!" Sherman sneers.
"SHERMAN!" the Asian man shouts.
"Sorry, Funakitakamakilaki," Sherman grumbles.
"Whoa," I hear myself groan. "What's your last name?"
"I don't have one. It's like Cher," Funakita...um...er...whatever, says.
I begin to laugh hysterically.
"What's so funny?" Sherman asks.
I simply raise my now-freed hands, "While you two bumbling fuck-faces were arguing this whole time, I've been using my concealed razor blades in my gloves to cut through the...oh hell, do I really have to explain?"
I lunge forward with my arms and I flip, the chair comes with me as my ankles are still tied to the two front legs. The back legs knock the two guards in their faces. I land on my back and I struggle to cut the rope around my ankles. When I'm totally free, the Asian guy with the ridiculously long name is standing in my way. He draws his gun and fires into my chest.
As my lungs fill with blood, I unsheathe my katana and slice through his gun, taking the trigger finger with it. He screams like a little girl. I spin around and deliver a perfectly executed Tae Kwon Do kick to his jaw, sending him into a wall, knocking him unconscious.
Sherman's shot gets me in the shoulder blade. He shot me from behind. He must be shaking from the fear. The bullet got me at an angle. His hand was too shaky for it to be straight on. My enhanced healing factor was already healing the injury, going so far as actually expelling the foreign object from the wound. I turn around and smile.
"I'm Deadpool. You're my bitch," I say coldly. "Now where can I find Havanah Valley?"
Sherman nods his head as sweat falls down his forehead, "Yeah...I-I-I know that one. She's a showgirl, r-r-right? I can tell ya! Just don't kill me!"
I find my discarded mask which these bastards decided to take off of my head, causing my self-esteem to drop slightly. I pull it back over my face, "Where?"
# # # # #
A lanky, awkward-looking woman in fishnet stockings and a black leather corset and glitter-enriched bra walks into her dressing room, dramatically sighing as she slams the door, much to the dismay of all her male and lesbian fans. She was Havanah Valley, the pale-skinned, curly brown haired "beauty" that has been the star of Former Avenger, Tigra, the Musical for weeks now.
Many talented young women looking for the part have been scoffed by this...this monstrosity. The only reason she has the part and the other babes don't is because her late father used to own a casino. The Trailer Park, to be exact.
Yeah. A casino named The Trailer Park.
Pretty sure Anna Nicole Smith tried to get a piece of that dad of Havanah's.
Either way, this bitch is going down.
She screams when she notices me hiding behind a rack of her outfits, which is just a bunch of frilly, silky women's underwear type stuff...which probably adds to the list of reasons why I should have picked a better hiding spot.
She draws a switch blade from the crotch of her panties, "Who are you!? I said no private dances! I'm a showgirl, not a stripper!"
Okay, showtime.
"Actually," I begin, "I was wondering if I could get your autograph."
Oh God, I looked at her bikini line...her pubes are showing for Christ's sake! Argh!
Havanah smiles, "Oh, well...let me get a pen." She sits down at her makeup chair in front of the mirror with a whole bunch of lightbulbs around it. She grabs a pen from a drawer, but drops it on the floor. She bends down in the chair to pick it up, but her hair gets snagged on an edge, pulling it off. It was a wig!
Oh my lord, it was a man, man.
"Don't tell my mother!" the boy cries. I see a wallet on the desk and nab it. I open the flap to check the ID. His name was Cory Wiegel of California.
I shake my head, "It was paining me to do this job, knocking off a showgirl an' all. But now knocking off a wiener with a sexual identity crisis stealing the jobs of really hot chicks is an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT STORY!!!"
*BLAM*
# # # # #
"How do you want me?" Eva says as she seductively slides her skirt down to her ankles. No panties. Me like. She shaved her region. Me like also. She unbuttons the vest she was wearing and flings it on the floor. No bra. Big jugs. Me like much very.
"Um, I thought showgirls didn't do private dances," I say with a drunken smile. I decided to have a couple of those tall glass alcoholic drinks, the kind where they set the top on fire, just to celebrate.
"Well, because of you, the Showgirls Guild of America has a lot more employees," Eva says as she straddles me.
My eyelids flicker with pleasure as she works her magic on my body. I'm about to climax. Yay.
"--And then I lost half my kid's college savings playing craps!" an overly loud plump man shouts in my ear.
I lift my head and realize I'm on the plane back to New York. Must have dozed off. Damn it! My own personal VOLCANO! I missed it! Urrrgghh!!
"How much money did YOU win?" he asks me.
I suddenly smile, "Ten-million."
"Hoooooooly fuck! Playin' what?!"
"Find the Transvestite Showgirl and Kill It," I respond. "It's a new game from Europe. It's gonna be big."
"Dude, I went to that Former Avenger, Tigra thing like fourteen times. Even met with the star of the show in the back of her dressing room, if you know what I mean," the man nudges me in the ribs.
Oh man. Just like the end of Ace Ventura.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Okay. Act natural.
"...um, that wasn't a woman," I say, trying not to snicker.
Suddenly, the men on the plane begin to spit and vomit in their seats, including the guy next to me.
*BING*
{{Ehh...this is your captain speaking...did you say Havanah Valley was a man?}}
"Yes," I respond.
{{Ehh...are you sure?}}
"Yep."
{{Ehh...positive?}}
"YES."
{{Ehh...okay...I need to throw up, take over, Kareem.}}
{{I'm not Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, I am Murdock, dammit!! Wait...Havanah Valley...? She had two of my kids...that's...oh my...*BLAH*}}
Heh. I have ten-million dollars and everyone is throwing up. This is like a bad episode of Cheers.
END