Flamin’ Fireworks on the Fourth, Fearless Fans!
Hey you loyal Deadpool lovers, guess where me’n’the Agency folks are tonight?
Oh, you’ll never guess. NEVER.
Give up? OK, I’ll give.
NEW JERSEY.
No, seriously. Sandi’s got some friend who was beggin’ her to visit for some burgers and fireworks, and since we just wrapped that assignment on the murderous fella with the eyeball keychains, Orca X and I had nothing better to do, so we kinda tagged along--I mean Sandi begged us to come, is what I mean. Fer real.
So, y’know, we all hopped in the truck (strapped Orca into the truck bed; it was a perfect fit) and drove on down to some highfaulutin’ rich suburb that spends more on one night for exploding sticks than I spend on my entire collection of magazines for discerning gentlemen. Seriously. They had all kinds of little flamin’ pictures on the ground and rockets in the air and whirling stuff and I kinda wanted to toss a grenade in there to add to the fun but Outlaw told me she wouldn’t play strip poker with me anymore if I did. She shoots down all my best ideas.
The only parts that sucked were that we got pulled over on the way down for speeding and because the policeman thought we had a pile of dead bodies in the back, and that Outlaw brought her new boyfriend and he’s a total stick-in-the-mud whiner. Fortunately after the cop who pulled us over realized it was just one giant porker in the back, he calmed down a bit and even told us he wouldn’t give us a ticket for the speeding if we let him take a picture of Agent X to show to the rest of the guys, ‘cause he didn’t think they’d believe it. I hope they get a good laugh out of it. Or blow it up and use it as a dartboard or something. There wasn’t a thing we could do about Outlaw’s obnoxious new "man," though. He would insist on dragging that hammer everywhere and on lecturing me about what’s “morally right.” (“Wade, it wasn’t right to use your sparklers to set that old lady’s hair on fire.” “Wade, you shouldn’t have stolen that little boy’s ice-cream. It’s not right.”) After awhile I managed to block it out, and now all I hear when I listen to him is “Wade, wahwah-wahwah-wahwah.” Which is a total improvement, let me tell you.
Anyway, the rest of those mooks are sprawled out on the futons sleeping and whatever now, so I figured I’d answer a few questions. Lessee...
Ooh, my loyal fan lady_of_mists writes:
Dear DP,
What time is too late to go to work and when should you just call in out of embarrassment?
And if I had mutant powers, what would they be? Either I'm oblivious or I don't have any... :(
Best Wishes, Lady_of_Mists
P.S. Thanks for taking the time to answer all of us! Much appreciated. :)
Oooh, m’lady. I know only too well the pain of waking up four hours after you were supposed to be out saving some dude from a hit by the mob or stealing a giant diamond from the eye of the crocodile god or blowing up a top-secret government outpost before the enemy soldiers arrived and absconded with all the dirt on top government feebs.
The thing about it is, you gotta figure late is better than never at all, right? I mean, as long as you get the job done, I don’t know what your employer’d have to complain about (well, unless you were employed by the guy who is now dead from a mob hit, but really, that only happened ONCE. Cut a guy a break, y’know? ) So what I do is just make sure the job still gets done - track down the lady who got to the diamond before you, knock ‘er dead, and steal it back, jump those HYDRA lackeys who’re trying to access the latest gossip on who Senator so-and-so is sleeping with and blow ‘em all to hell...you get the point. Which is that it’s never too late to go out and kick some ass, and sometimes it’s even fun to wait, ‘cause then you can kick more ass. And if your employers have a problem with the way you do the job? Just kick their asses too. And steal all their loot. That’s how I handle it, and I’ve never failed to come out on top yet.
As for mutant powers, well, clearly your mutant power is like that dame the Runaways ran into a hundred years ago who could attract every man in range once they got a whiff of her perfume. I mean, I’m a few states away from you, and even I say “RRRAWR.” Haven’t you noticed the guys fighting over you in the hallways at work? It’s kind of a limited power, as far as I can tell (i.e. immediate chances of someone dying = less than stellar), but she certainly seemed to enjoy using it. And hey! Maybe you’re a direct descendant or something. Which would be kinda cool, ‘cause it’s always fun to say you’re related to famous people, even if they were famous for making people stab each other in the ear.
And no problem - always glad to answer the questions! It’s not like I could sleep right now, anyway. Sandi snores like a bear on Ritalin.
OK, one more before I smother Sandi with a pillow and get some shut-eye. Oohh! My favorite little schnitzel, Miss Addy, has written in again!
addygryff writes:
Dear Deadpool,
1) What's the most annoying song ever?
2) Are you looking forward to 'Wolverine: Origins'?
3) Why did that stupid chicken cross the bloody road? What was on the other side? Did it even get there without being run over? Sorry, but someone needed to get that question out of the way.
4) You know, does the bodyslide thingie still work now that Cable is back? Did you try it?
Woah, there's this really big thunderstorm outside right now, that's so totally cool, but I'd better go offline now, before I get electrified or something.
Yay for the whole end of the world feeling!
Keep up the good work, Wade. :)
♥,
Addy
OOOOH. NUMBERED QUESTIONS!!! Once again you make me bounce in joy. OK, here we gooooooo!
1) Oh, I love starting out with the easy questions. OK. So. The MOST ANNOYING song EVER is that one about the car crash and the dead girlfriend. You know, the one Eddie Vedder made the massive mistake of covering at some point, possibly when he was high on a cocktail of paint-remover fumes, helium, battery acid, and venomous Venezuelan tree-toad serum? That must have been what he was on, because otherwise I don’t know how such a God of Music could have thought that would be a good idea. Man. The boring story? The depressing droning about where his ‘baby’ has gone? DO NOT WANT. But really, the reason it’s most annoying is NOT the terrible lyrics, the toneless tune, or the lack of vigor with which it is sung - it’s the fact that there is NO situation, whether it be a stakeout, a late-night game of strip poker, a fistfight, or a shootout, in which singing that song makes things more fun. And that cannot be said about any other song. Not even the one about the horse that got lost.
2) OH HELL YEAH. Are you kidding me? I mean, yeah, I’m a little bitter they didn’t ask me to play me, but I can understand why - after all, I’m so busy these days, they had to have known that I’d have to call out every other day for emergency shootings, stabbings, and other things done with bits of pointy metal, and that would play merry hell with the production schedule. Sure, they could have at least asked me out of, as they say, politesse (that’s French for "being nice"), but I’m not gonna get my boxers in a bunch just because they decided to use a Hollywood hunk instead. And if they had to pick one, Mr. Ryan Reynolds is totally the way to go. He’s got the cajones and the rhythm to do a fair imitation of me, although of course nothing’s as good as the Real Thing (or quite as bendy). Me and Ry go way back, too - I called him up the other day and gave him a few tips, and he was real happy to hear them, once he figured out I wasn’t a crazy stalker or nothin’.
Anyway, I don’t know yet what part of my awesome life they’re gonna show, ‘cause Ry couldn’t tell me any of the details or those movie mooks’d hire a contract killer to take ‘im out for “spoiling” the movie, but he assured me it was “all good things.” So probably it’ll be that part where I gutted Wolverine and left him with his broken nose in the dirt, or maybe where I punched that uppity little girl who follows him around (damn that was a good time), or maybe that time that ol' Wolvie told me he wished he was as awesome as me. We’ll just have to wait and see when it hits the theaters, I guess. Well, YOU will, at least. I’M planning on crashing the premiere.
3) Damned if I know what was on the other side, but I know why it crossed the road. ‘Cause I was on THIS side, and I was HUNGRY. And even chickens, with their tiny, pea-sized brains, gotta figure that my side of the road isn’t a good place to be when that happens.
Lucky for me they aren’t smart enough to figure out that I can cross roads, too. That chicken stew was delicious.
4) Well t’tell you the truth, I’m not a real big fan of babies and stuff - the squooshy smelly diapers, the spitting-up-in-your-face, the stupid tiny little adorable feet wavin’ around. And I just KNOW if Nate started wonderin’ what I was up to while he was hangin’ out with the tiny tot, he’d figure out some way to trick me into wiping its dirty butt or something:
“Hello, Deadpool! I’m an anonymous person calling to hire you for a ridiculously low fee to retrieve a valuable artifact that is hidden someplace slightly messy. You’ll have to clean up a bit to find it, but I have confidence you can do it! Did I mention I am offering you a completely LAME sum of money for this?”
And there I’d be again, up to my neck in $#^% and with no clue how I even got there. So, yeah - not planning on tryin’ that bodyslide thing anytime soon, and just hopin’ he forgets all about it for awhile. S’far as I’m concerned, good ol’ Nate can trek around with Widdle Woobie tryin’ to save the world until the cows come home, and I’ll just sit here in my cushy merc agency making the dough and scorin’ with hot chicks. The less he remembers of my existence, the better! Until, of course, some feebs over at Marvel realize it’d help their revenues to pull that bodyslide gimmick. At which point, hey-ho, a-butt-wipin’ we will probably go, whether I WANT to or not. Stupid *&$%@!# writers.
♥ you too, little miss. Rrowr! Stay out of the rain, now. I don’t want you to melt before I make it to Germany for our date.
And speakin’ of dates, I got a date with some beach-bum hotties tomorrow (unless they’ve all been mutated by the Jersey Shore beach sludge) so I’d better get some shut-eye. So CIAO, as the Italian mob dudes who inhabit this ritzy town would say.
Oh, you’ll never guess. NEVER.
Give up? OK, I’ll give.
NEW JERSEY.
No, seriously. Sandi’s got some friend who was beggin’ her to visit for some burgers and fireworks, and since we just wrapped that assignment on the murderous fella with the eyeball keychains, Orca X and I had nothing better to do, so we kinda tagged along--I mean Sandi begged us to come, is what I mean. Fer real.
So, y’know, we all hopped in the truck (strapped Orca into the truck bed; it was a perfect fit) and drove on down to some highfaulutin’ rich suburb that spends more on one night for exploding sticks than I spend on my entire collection of magazines for discerning gentlemen. Seriously. They had all kinds of little flamin’ pictures on the ground and rockets in the air and whirling stuff and I kinda wanted to toss a grenade in there to add to the fun but Outlaw told me she wouldn’t play strip poker with me anymore if I did. She shoots down all my best ideas.
The only parts that sucked were that we got pulled over on the way down for speeding and because the policeman thought we had a pile of dead bodies in the back, and that Outlaw brought her new boyfriend and he’s a total stick-in-the-mud whiner. Fortunately after the cop who pulled us over realized it was just one giant porker in the back, he calmed down a bit and even told us he wouldn’t give us a ticket for the speeding if we let him take a picture of Agent X to show to the rest of the guys, ‘cause he didn’t think they’d believe it. I hope they get a good laugh out of it. Or blow it up and use it as a dartboard or something. There wasn’t a thing we could do about Outlaw’s obnoxious new "man," though. He would insist on dragging that hammer everywhere and on lecturing me about what’s “morally right.” (“Wade, it wasn’t right to use your sparklers to set that old lady’s hair on fire.” “Wade, you shouldn’t have stolen that little boy’s ice-cream. It’s not right.”) After awhile I managed to block it out, and now all I hear when I listen to him is “Wade, wahwah-wahwah-wahwah.” Which is a total improvement, let me tell you.
Anyway, the rest of those mooks are sprawled out on the futons sleeping and whatever now, so I figured I’d answer a few questions. Lessee...
Ooh, my loyal fan lady_of_mists writes:
Dear DP,
What time is too late to go to work and when should you just call in out of embarrassment?
And if I had mutant powers, what would they be? Either I'm oblivious or I don't have any... :(
Best Wishes, Lady_of_Mists
P.S. Thanks for taking the time to answer all of us! Much appreciated. :)
Oooh, m’lady. I know only too well the pain of waking up four hours after you were supposed to be out saving some dude from a hit by the mob or stealing a giant diamond from the eye of the crocodile god or blowing up a top-secret government outpost before the enemy soldiers arrived and absconded with all the dirt on top government feebs.
The thing about it is, you gotta figure late is better than never at all, right? I mean, as long as you get the job done, I don’t know what your employer’d have to complain about (well, unless you were employed by the guy who is now dead from a mob hit, but really, that only happened ONCE. Cut a guy a break, y’know? ) So what I do is just make sure the job still gets done - track down the lady who got to the diamond before you, knock ‘er dead, and steal it back, jump those HYDRA lackeys who’re trying to access the latest gossip on who Senator so-and-so is sleeping with and blow ‘em all to hell...you get the point. Which is that it’s never too late to go out and kick some ass, and sometimes it’s even fun to wait, ‘cause then you can kick more ass. And if your employers have a problem with the way you do the job? Just kick their asses too. And steal all their loot. That’s how I handle it, and I’ve never failed to come out on top yet.
As for mutant powers, well, clearly your mutant power is like that dame the Runaways ran into a hundred years ago who could attract every man in range once they got a whiff of her perfume. I mean, I’m a few states away from you, and even I say “RRRAWR.” Haven’t you noticed the guys fighting over you in the hallways at work? It’s kind of a limited power, as far as I can tell (i.e. immediate chances of someone dying = less than stellar), but she certainly seemed to enjoy using it. And hey! Maybe you’re a direct descendant or something. Which would be kinda cool, ‘cause it’s always fun to say you’re related to famous people, even if they were famous for making people stab each other in the ear.
And no problem - always glad to answer the questions! It’s not like I could sleep right now, anyway. Sandi snores like a bear on Ritalin.
OK, one more before I smother Sandi with a pillow and get some shut-eye. Oohh! My favorite little schnitzel, Miss Addy, has written in again!
addygryff writes:
Dear Deadpool,
1) What's the most annoying song ever?
2) Are you looking forward to 'Wolverine: Origins'?
3) Why did that stupid chicken cross the bloody road? What was on the other side? Did it even get there without being run over? Sorry, but someone needed to get that question out of the way.
4) You know, does the bodyslide thingie still work now that Cable is back? Did you try it?
Woah, there's this really big thunderstorm outside right now, that's so totally cool, but I'd better go offline now, before I get electrified or something.
Yay for the whole end of the world feeling!
Keep up the good work, Wade. :)
♥,
Addy
OOOOH. NUMBERED QUESTIONS!!! Once again you make me bounce in joy. OK, here we gooooooo!
1) Oh, I love starting out with the easy questions. OK. So. The MOST ANNOYING song EVER is that one about the car crash and the dead girlfriend. You know, the one Eddie Vedder made the massive mistake of covering at some point, possibly when he was high on a cocktail of paint-remover fumes, helium, battery acid, and venomous Venezuelan tree-toad serum? That must have been what he was on, because otherwise I don’t know how such a God of Music could have thought that would be a good idea. Man. The boring story? The depressing droning about where his ‘baby’ has gone? DO NOT WANT. But really, the reason it’s most annoying is NOT the terrible lyrics, the toneless tune, or the lack of vigor with which it is sung - it’s the fact that there is NO situation, whether it be a stakeout, a late-night game of strip poker, a fistfight, or a shootout, in which singing that song makes things more fun. And that cannot be said about any other song. Not even the one about the horse that got lost.
2) OH HELL YEAH. Are you kidding me? I mean, yeah, I’m a little bitter they didn’t ask me to play me, but I can understand why - after all, I’m so busy these days, they had to have known that I’d have to call out every other day for emergency shootings, stabbings, and other things done with bits of pointy metal, and that would play merry hell with the production schedule. Sure, they could have at least asked me out of, as they say, politesse (that’s French for "being nice"), but I’m not gonna get my boxers in a bunch just because they decided to use a Hollywood hunk instead. And if they had to pick one, Mr. Ryan Reynolds is totally the way to go. He’s got the cajones and the rhythm to do a fair imitation of me, although of course nothing’s as good as the Real Thing (or quite as bendy). Me and Ry go way back, too - I called him up the other day and gave him a few tips, and he was real happy to hear them, once he figured out I wasn’t a crazy stalker or nothin’.
Anyway, I don’t know yet what part of my awesome life they’re gonna show, ‘cause Ry couldn’t tell me any of the details or those movie mooks’d hire a contract killer to take ‘im out for “spoiling” the movie, but he assured me it was “all good things.” So probably it’ll be that part where I gutted Wolverine and left him with his broken nose in the dirt, or maybe where I punched that uppity little girl who follows him around (damn that was a good time), or maybe that time that ol' Wolvie told me he wished he was as awesome as me. We’ll just have to wait and see when it hits the theaters, I guess. Well, YOU will, at least. I’M planning on crashing the premiere.
3) Damned if I know what was on the other side, but I know why it crossed the road. ‘Cause I was on THIS side, and I was HUNGRY. And even chickens, with their tiny, pea-sized brains, gotta figure that my side of the road isn’t a good place to be when that happens.
Lucky for me they aren’t smart enough to figure out that I can cross roads, too. That chicken stew was delicious.
4) Well t’tell you the truth, I’m not a real big fan of babies and stuff - the squooshy smelly diapers, the spitting-up-in-your-face, the stupid tiny little adorable feet wavin’ around. And I just KNOW if Nate started wonderin’ what I was up to while he was hangin’ out with the tiny tot, he’d figure out some way to trick me into wiping its dirty butt or something:
“Hello, Deadpool! I’m an anonymous person calling to hire you for a ridiculously low fee to retrieve a valuable artifact that is hidden someplace slightly messy. You’ll have to clean up a bit to find it, but I have confidence you can do it! Did I mention I am offering you a completely LAME sum of money for this?”
And there I’d be again, up to my neck in $#^% and with no clue how I even got there. So, yeah - not planning on tryin’ that bodyslide thing anytime soon, and just hopin’ he forgets all about it for awhile. S’far as I’m concerned, good ol’ Nate can trek around with Widdle Woobie tryin’ to save the world until the cows come home, and I’ll just sit here in my cushy merc agency making the dough and scorin’ with hot chicks. The less he remembers of my existence, the better! Until, of course, some feebs over at Marvel realize it’d help their revenues to pull that bodyslide gimmick. At which point, hey-ho, a-butt-wipin’ we will probably go, whether I WANT to or not. Stupid *&$%@!# writers.
♥ you too, little miss. Rrowr! Stay out of the rain, now. I don’t want you to melt before I make it to Germany for our date.
And speakin’ of dates, I got a date with some beach-bum hotties tomorrow (unless they’ve all been mutated by the Jersey Shore beach sludge) so I’d better get some shut-eye. So CIAO, as the Italian mob dudes who inhabit this ritzy town would say.