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Deadpool is Pissed About the Oscars
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Well, fuck the Oscars.
I guess the notoriety of being an R rated superhero family film has run its course, and it was too late to save ourselves. Even if we borrowed the same crowd-favorite butt-chin villain from the other franchise and incorporated all the diversity.
I don't mind being outshone by a singing raccoon and a… whatever the hell gaga is. At least they sounded pretty good. But it's fine. I'm just going to go back to Celine Dion's anthem for my four-hundredth listen.
"Out of the aaaaaashes," I sing mildly, lifting the bottom of my mask and sucking noisily through a crazy straw. The gin and juice-box combination doesn't just taste delicious, it stings the hell out of my mouth as if I used a potato peeler for flossing. But who flosses, really? We all know you lie to your dentist when they ask.
"What sorta gun is that?" asks my current company, which to any other passerby's, might just look like a pile of rocks with a face, two arms, and two legs. He's far too relaxed against the wall, legs resting on the balcony edge in front of us.
"A Walther P99?" I respond slowly. "Honestly whatever the hell it is. I point, I pull the trigger, it ka-booms, someone dies. So I don't honestly give a shit."
"Ah," he replies, "Reliable weaponry is highly sought after."
I flip the gun in my hand, spinning it before tucking it into my holster. "Look, Balboa…"
"It's Korg. Just Korg, mate. S'alright. It happens."
"Ko-org," I correct. "I appreciate you offering to take watch with me tonight, really, I do, it's comforting when the bad guys are inevitably attacking in the middle of the night for the second-act tragedy to have someone made out of - cement. I like you. I know for a fact audiences like you. The pull for you to have your own Disney series is astounding. But I also am in the mood for some - quiet time. Just a little me, a little gin, a little Celine Dion. You understand, yeah?" I fold my hands together. "I thank you for your service to this country. Now please leave."
"Oh, it's nice of ya, but I ain't leavin', I'm under strict orders - not so much strict as they were ineradicable orders - from the Mr. Stark to stay at your side and, I'm quoting 'im directly here, to watch you closely an' make sure you don't screw us over. I'm sorry if you find that 'urtful in any way. It truly ain't meant to be offensive. Just doin' my due diligence."
"Jesus. Okay. Christ. Is this how every one else feels when I wind up?" I finish my drink and tug the mask over my chin once more, whipping my head towards him. "Let me ask you something really important."
"Go on, then."
"Do you have a penis? I mean we've established the stones part - but - I mean you are sort of wearing this armored loin cloth thing, which leads me to believe you are hiding something, and I'm just going to need to understand the mechanics of how you procreate. Here's how I see this going. You put on a little smooth jazz, decorate with a little moss, pour a few glasses of fine cave pool water, and before you know it, it just looks like a landslide took out half the room…"
"Well your insinuations are certainly…" Korg looks down at the bench where we're sitting. Like the rest of the hotel, it's disgusting, and stained. "Oi, there's a mess here."
"Probably just some late night janitor fun," I wave him off.
"This is not a fine establishment, and I feel bad for the folks we're protecting here," Korg says. "Locked in a room all night, wondering if you'll make it out alive, while heroes like us sit outside the door to stand guard and discuss penises."
"Okay, well, when you put it like that…" I open up another juice box. "Want one? Can you drink? Or does it do like the river thing where all the liquid just goes around the rocks?"
"I could do with some nourishment," Korg's extra large hands grasp the tiny juice box, trying not to squeeze it too hard. He has difficulty finding the straw at first, but when he does, he slurps louder than a third grader with something to prove.
The door slides open behind us. "Can you keep it down?" Wanda glares from the dingy, dark interior of the room. "I am trying to sleep."
"Can't Vision play you a lullaby or something?"
"He's a synthezoid being, not an ipod," Wanda sighs.
"That's really too bad," I groan. "Alexa, play Despacito."
"Who's Alexa, and what is her instrument of choice?" asks Korg. "I myself enjoy the harmonica."
"Can Vision sleep?" I ask. "Or does he just lie there and watch you sleep all night?" I turn in my chair and give Wanda an eager, anticipatory look. "Hear me out - before the sleeping starts. I have a delicate question for you."
Wanda slides the door shut so fast that she nearly takes it out entirely.
"It's not sexual if it's mechanical," I call after her, but then she whips the curtains shut as well. "I guess we don't get anything more than some saucy invitations in Scotland hotels because anything more will give them a higher rating. Which puts them in my category."
Korg presses a huge gray finger to his lips. "The witch and the robot need their sleep."
"He doesn't fucking sleep."
"It ain't for us to judge. Y'know, the last time I judged someone by their appearance, I kicked an empty wall, so, something to learn from this, I think."
"What was so bad about his appearance that it made you kick a wall?" I lift up the edge of my mask. "Does this make you want to kick a wall?"
"Oh, hardly, as you're not a ghost. Not yet, anyway." Korg taps his chin thoughtfully. "If I look like a pile of rocks, then you look like…"
"If you say mozzarella cheese, I will turn you to gravel."
"I was going to say the result of dastardly human experimentation, but I could be wrong."
I pause. "Well, fuck me. You're correct."
I turn with a huff and put my legs back up on the balcony edge. "I'd explain more, but we'd have to do flashbacks, which require footage from the other studio. There's a little red tape on that still." I flip through some of the song options on my phone till we get to Celine.
Out of the asheeeeeessss…
"Is that the song from Titanic?" asks Peter Parker, hanging upside from a thread, slowly lowering to our balcony from the room above.
"Jesus, fuck, hell of a - kid," In the process of these expletives, I'd dropped my phone, scrambled to my feet, and dropped another juice box on the ground.
"Ah, the floating boy!" greets Korg happily. "How is the view?"
"Um…" Peter's hair looks a little too long, hanging off his scalp, and his feet are pressed firmly together on the string coming from the shooters in his wrists. "Same as it was last time you asked, I guess."
"Do these old fucks a favor and stop creeping down here like a Japanese horror film," I exclaim. "Say something next time, like, I'm coming down or I have dumb pop-culture questions."
"I don't have dumb questions!"
"How are the rest of the folks upstairs?" Korg asks.
"They're good, I guess. Sleeping. Sitting. They're watching something on TV." He sighs. "I'm bored."
"Kids are the future," Korg exclaims.
"Bored, huh?" I say. "Well, then. Perfect timing to play my favorite game." I grin under the mask. "It's called pinata."
"Oh shit," Peter exclaims, just as I wind back and push both arms into him as hard as I can, swinging him off the balcony. He lets out a short shriek, swinging off to the left, and then over Korg and my head's to the right, back and forth like a pendulum.
"Not fair!" he exclaims, when the swings begin to slow.
"Want to go again?" I ask.
He reaches out with one hand and slams it against the wall just above the sliding patio door, stopping himself from another arch. "No, no thank you. I'll just go back upstairs. Thanks."
"Give Cap a smooch for me when you get up there."
"Ew, uh, no. No thanks. Give it to him yourself."
"Oh I will. It's not a matter of if, but when." I pause. "Wait, what are they watching on TV?"
"The Academy Awards, I think."
"Oh, fuck that," I exclaim, withdrawing both swords. "Do you think it's possible to get to the Dolby and do a little murder before morning?"
"Suns already rising, mate," Korg points at a low stream of gray just beyond the nearest cascade. "Or will be in just a moment. I thought it might be nice to watch it, y'know? Worked so long on a garbage planet, livin' in chains, it might be pleasant to experience it now even if we are running for our lives and protectin' Ms. Maximoff…"
"Look, I appreciate the whole WALL-E bit. Trust me. It's sweet," I respond. "But Daddy's getting anxious. In the mood for blood."
"Do you…" Peter tilts himself right side up, unsticks the palm of his hand and lands lightly on the balcony beside us. "Do you want a turn upstairs? It's still on, if you wanted to watch. I can sit with Korg for awhile."
"Fuck yeah I want to watch this shit," I hand both of my swords to Peter. He accepts them with a clumsy flinch, nearly dropping them both. "I hear we're nominated for best costume design, too. I knew the diversity would come in handy. And the juggernaut jumpsuit, man. It's one in a million."
"It's not…" Peter pauses. "Um. Yeah. Have fun."
"Will do, Crackerjack." I launch myself off the balcony, grabbing the edge of the one above, and groan way too loudly at the deadlift to crank one elbow up and over the edge, grasping the balustrade until the other arm can reach higher and grab the railing.
Just in time to hear the actual winner for best costume.
"Fuck the system," I exclaim.
"Sorry, mate, for whatever troubles you," Korg says, glancing up and holding another juice box to his slips, slurping loudly.
"It's fine," I call down. "We still have the X-Force and a clever retcon to make sure half of them didn't actually die, plus holiday rereleases with childhood favorites to earn money from the easily influenced and slightly damp middle-school crowd."
I finish crawling up and over the balcony, tapping on the glass window.
The patio door slides open, and Tony Stark stands with exhausted indifference.
"You again?" he asks.
"I want in."
"Go back downstairs where I posted you."
"Petey is taking my shift. I want the Academy."
"Well, the Academy doesn't want you, so…"
"Wow, touche." I fold my arms over my chest. "Let me ask you an important question. Are you familiar with Celine Dion?"
"Oh," Peter's voice pipes up again. "That's the exercise model, right? Like with those old rooftop music videos?"
"That was Cindy Crawford, dipshit," I call over my shoulder. "I ask because only my sanity is at stake for the…"
The door slides shut in my face.
"Jesus, fine." I hook a leg over the banister and nearly fall, catching myself last minute and huffing and groaning till I can let go and safely land between Peter and Korg, both noisily sipping from juice boxes now. The pack of twenty-four that I got is now sadly down by half.
I'm a thirsty guy.
"All right, assholes," I pick up another juice box, stab a hole in the top with my knife, twist the handle around so that the blade makes a round hole. Then I pour in another shot of gin. "To watching the sunrise sans background music with a couple of studio-crossing heroes."
"Cheers, mate," Korg says, tapping his juice box with mine.
"Oh, right. Cheers," Peter taps his.
The three of us slurp noisily together.
"All By Myself" by Eric Carmen starts playing.
"You've got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME," I shriek.
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The End
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PS: Remember I don't agree with Deadpool about, like, any of this haha. I loved that Black Panther got all those noms. I thought it would be funny for Deadpool to try and be bragging about how inclusive his movie was when yes, it is very inclusive, it still has nothing to do with the fact that the costumes in Black Panther were WAY BETTER THAN JUGGERNAUT.
PS: I didn't even watch the Oscars this is based solely on knowledge from one clip sent to me by QueenofCrystallopia of Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper singing
