(As the story unfolds, we find ourselves face-to-face with the living legend, All Might, and the guy with the hair that could rival a shampoo commercial, Eraser Head. Tension is rising, the wind is whooshing, and-)
{Yellow Box, stop the dramatic narration. We've got a story to tell, and Deadpool doesn't do dramatic pauses.}
(But it adds suspense!)
{Suspense? We're Deadpool! We live for chaos!}
"HEY WRITER, ENOUGH WITH THE DRAMA. BACK TO THE GOOD STUFF!"
====
"ALL MIGHT?!" I hollered, pretending to be all surprised.
{Okay, let's impress these guys! Say something epic!}
(Yeah, like 'Hello, All Might, remember me from the last superhero mixer?')
{Ugh, Yellow, we need better material.}
"Yeah, yeah, good idea, team," I whispered to the voices. Then, with all the charisma of a unicorn riding a skateboard, I blurted out, "All Might? More like All Right! You got an autograph book or should I just sign those biceps?"
{Oh no, we didn't just say that.}
(Yes, we did. Brace for impact.)
"What!? No... There's a chance he liked it!!" I grumbled to the voices.
All Might just blinked at me, smile faltering for a hot second, then replied, "Well, young one, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I believe my pecs are best left unsigned."
I shrugged dramatically, a glint of mischief in my eye, "Alright, All Might, how about a high-five and a selfie? Don't worry; I'll keep your pecs a secret—this time."
Eraser Head cut in with his no-nonsense vibe, "Cut the chatter, Deadpool. Your vigilante antics are causing too much trouble. I'm erasing your quirky commentary from this equation."
(Well, this is a first. Eraser Head just erased our banter. Rude much?)
{Can you blame him? I mean, we do tend to take the "chatterbox" label to a whole new level.}
(True, but it's our thing! Our shtick! What are we without the banter?)
{Maybe a bit more focused? Productive, even?}
(Nah, where's the fun in that? Besides, Eraser Head needs to loosen up. Maybe he should try telling a joke or two.)
{Or maybe we should just let him do his job without turning every situation into a stand-up comedy routine.}
(Fine, but if things get too serious, I'm blaming Eraser Head for taking the "fun" out of dysfunctional.)
{You do realize that's not how that phrase goes, right?}
(Details, White. Details.)
Leaning in, I whispered to the voices, "Psst, guys, did you hear that? Wrinkle-head over there thinks he can erase my jokes. I say we give him a taste of the ol' Wade Wilson charm."
(I'm all ears... figuratively speaking.)
{Please, let's not make this situation any worse.}
"Grumpy cat doesn't like my jokes, huh? Let's see if you can erase my moves too, Wrinkle-head! Time for a dance-off, my friend!"
I whipped out my knives, still dirty from the Bird-Thingy monster fight, and threw them with a flourish. Eraser Head and All Might dodged like a couple of pros.
"Is this really necessary? I erase quirks, not dodge cutlery," Eraser Head deadpanned.
"Wait, where is he?"
(Awwwww he misses us)
{Well he won't for long}
"I'm right here sweet heart!"
"And yes the knives were necessary. How else will I have a Distraction?"
I yelled, soaring through the air. Behind them, I aimed my fists, crashing down, making them eat dirt. All Might reached for my leg.
SPLAT
"Oh shit."
(Ew, was that a splat I heard? I think I need a mental shower.)
{Gross. Did we just become a pancake? And why does that splat sound worryingly squishy?}
(I'm officially grossed out. Do you think were part jelly now?)
{Well, whatever we are, at least it matches our colorful personality.}
(True, but can we erase the mental image of that splat? My eyes need some bleach.)
I'm, laying on the ground with a theatrical groan, whispering to the voices
"Psst, Yellow, White, I think I've officially joined the "Flatpool" club. And guess what? I've got a new dance move—The Break-Leg Boogie!"
((sarcastically) Oh, splendid. You always know how to make an entrance, or in this case, a splat.)
{Are you sure it's a dance move or just your bones protesting against gravity?}
"Details, my internal debate partners. Details. Now, how about a hand—or, you know, a chimichanga?"
{Wait, how does a chimichanga is even related to this conversation?}
(Seriously, can we talk to the writer? It's like they think chimichangas are the only thing on Deadpool's mind.)
{I mean, sure, he loves them, but come on! We have other things to discuss, like, I don't know, not breaking every bone in our body?}
I'm rolling my eyes
"Yeah, yeah, even I need a break from the chimichanga jokes. Let's mix it up, Writer. Throw in a taco reference or something. Spice of life, you know?"
(Agreed. A little variety never hurts anyone. Unlike, say, being thrown onto the ground by a certain overly enthusiastic hero.)
{So, dear writer, can we please diversify the Deadpool menu? Taco Tuesdays, maybe?}
I started feeling my inner puddle regenerating. Helping myself up, I hold my leg and pull it hard until CRACK.
"OUCHHHH!"
All Might looks at me with disgust, and then he says, "Look, just come with us. We don't need to fight."
I cross my arms and say, "Yeah, but it's BETTER to fight."
"Wait, where is Mister McButt Face?"
BAM! I got hit in the back of my head, and I passed out.
====
End of chapter 2!!!