A tale of Yugi's past, rated PG-13 for some disturbing thoughts and mild language. I mean, Deadpool IS the main character.
Confessions: (1/?)
Diary of a Wasted Wade Wilson
by XMAN0123
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It was a Friday night. So I'm told, anyway. Terry had just chewed me out for breaking into X-Force HQ. Okay, so maybe slapping Indian boy around like a red-headed stepchild had something to do with it, too. But he deserved it! I mean, if someone looked at you and shouted, "What the hell?!" wouldn't YOU want to slap them? Okay, maybe it's just me. Anyway, the doctors expected him to come out of the coma within the year.
Naturally, I felt like less than dirt after Terry kicked me out, so I headed down to the Villains' Bailiwick for a cold drink. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "But you're not a villian anymore, Wade!" Oh, yes, I am. Ask Little Jimmy...if he ever wakes up. Besides, the last time I was there, me and Death had a pretty nasty bar brawl. Yeah, he got me a few times with that pig-sticker, but when I called him a Wolvie wanna-be, he just lost it and started smacking everybody. After that, I got a coupon for free drinks. They said only a bad guy (or an X-Man) would be crazy enough to take on Death, and they knew I didn't hang with the "Dare to Dream" crowd.
So I'd just gulped down ten Harvey Wallbangers, three margaritas, and a bottle of ketchup (I did say I was drunk, didn't I?) when she walked in. And I don't mean "she" as in one of your Everyday Dames. No, I mean "SHE" as in your Worship-At-Her-Feet, Drool-Til-You-Drown, Beat-Your-Head-In-With-Beer-Bottles-So-She-Can-See-You're-A-Crazy-SOB-With-Suicidal-Yet-Strangely-Arousing-Tendencies Goddess. And no, it didn't hurt that she was wearing one of those Princess Leia slave outfits that all red-blooded guys (and even a few gals) secretly desire. Just call me Jabba the Slut. Wait, that came out wrong. Man, I WAS drunk.
She walked over to the bar, stopped right next to me, and leaned over the counter. It was almost as if she wanted me to look down. So I did. Wow. I never knew they got that big. This would almost be perfect if she wasn't staring at me like I'm some sort...of...uh oh. She's staring at me. And she's...smiling?
"See something you like?" she asked. What, like I was gonna say no?
Being the gentlemen I was (for tonight), I bought her a martini. I figured I should pay for something, since I'd probably drink enough to put the place out of business with my free ticket. I was a little disappointed when she sat down, as it blocked the view, but then I remembered she had other things to ogle. Just a few inches up and...there we go. Oh, yeah. Those are real nice. Reminds me of some melons I stole once.
She didn't seem to mind me staring. In fact, she kept leaning over and reaching across me, giving me the perfect view. I'd secretly named them 'The Twin Islands of Dr. Deadpool.' Now all I needed was a few mutates and a midget twice as ugly as me.
"So, what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?" she suddenly asked. No need to be dishonest. I told her plain and simple: getting drop-dead drunk. She thought that was funny. I didn't. But when she laughed, the Islands...danced. Oh, man, I needed another drink.
After another margarita and a jar of Grey Poupon, I could barely remember why I'd come here in the first place. But she was sitting in my lap, telling me how good my place was starting to sound. She'd obviously never been to my place, or she just had no standard of living at all. Either way, she wanted to go home with me, and she wasn't drunk, drugged, or under the influence of an illegal substance. And she was conscious! There was no way I was gonna pass up a chance like that.
So I 'ported us both home with my trusty, handy, personal teleporter dohickey. Hickey...I could really use one of those right now. Or is it Mickey? It's been so long since I've tricked a woman into coming here, I've forgotten how to drug a perfectly good date. But she seems to like me. Maybe I can impress her with my with my body count scrapbook.
She wanted to slip into something more comfortable, but I couldn't figure out why she went into the kitchen. When she came back, I nearly fainted. She was wearing a whipped cream bikini. Sweet Mother of Magneto, how was she keeping those strawberries on?! And the banana slices! The chocolate sauce! The chopped nuts! GASP! THE CHERRY?!?!
I think I did pass out after that. Either that, or wild-mannered Wade Wilson transformed into Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am Man, with the power to satisfy any woman for a good 40.7 seconds and then pretend to fall asleep so she won't ask for more. Though usually they didn't ask. They were too busy sobbing quietly in the shower and moaning, "So dirty...so very dirty! NO! It won't come off! The dirt's still there! I CAN'T GET CLEAN, DAMMIT! I CAN'T GET CLEAN! WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!" Usually.
Anyway, I woke up with a full stomach, a killer hangover, and an empty bed. Okay, no big surprise there. She probably left hours ago. Yeah, I can hear birds chirping outside. Must have forgot to set the traps again.
Then I got the second biggest shock of my life. She was still here! She was standing in the doorway, wearing one of my old Sailor Moon T-shirts (purely for disguise, and not perverted purposes...yeah, right!), smiling at me. Man, she's beautiful. I've never been this lucky. So now, according to the Wilson's Law of Suckiness, something has to happen to ruin it all. It HAS to. Or else something in the universe has been screwed up to X-Men-sized proportions and I'm on the positive end of it, for once.
She slips into bed and curls up beside me, staring into my eyes. Without thinking, I reach over to give her boobies an affectionate tweak. Except my hand goes through them. Okay, no big deal. I am in the middle of a hangover. So I try again. No luck. By now, she's noticed, and there's a worried look in her eyes. Maybe it's not the hangover hallucinations again. Oh, great. She's got some secret to tell me. Like she's really a man. Or she's married. Or she's got kids. Or she's a married man with kids and is now pregnant. Something along those lines.
"Wade," she whispers, "there's something you should know about me. I'm not who you think I am."
Yup, a man. Or a transie. At least that'd be somewhat new.
"I'm not a fictive. I'm a Muse. And I don't really look like this. It was all an illusion. I really look..."
The air around her shimmers, and she shrinks in on herself, like in the "Help, I'm melting!" scene in the Wizard of Oz. Except she isn't a gross, smoking green puddle when it's over. She's...a kid. A cute kid, but a kid. Oh, Lord. I did it with a kid. It's all over. This is TOO sick, even for me. I mean, I had a few standards left, and now one of them is gone. I slept with a kid. Wade Wilson was no longer a man. He's that stuff you tell your little girls about to scare them into becoming virgins for life. You know, those old women in crazy houses that are always laughing for no reason. Or so I imagine.
"Wade, please don't be mad," she says, laying her head on my arm.
I'm not mad. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm one of those crazy guys on Most Wanted that goes after little girls and--wait. She came after me. She seduced me. Maybe I won't go to jail. At least, not for that.
So I take a moment to look at her. She's got this soft, blonde hair that frames her face perfectly. These big, blue eyes that I just can't turn away from. And those pouty lips. Maybe...just maybe... Oh, man. I think I still want her!
She told me her name was Yugi, and that she wasn't a kid. She was a fictive-turned-Muse, fresh out of the Colle-whatsit (okay, so I was never good with big words). And she was lonely. That explained the illusion. And she had been a bad fictive, so there was no problem getting into the Villain's Bailiwick. Nothing a few telepathic suggestions couldn't fix, anyway. I actually felt sorry for her. For ten seconds. Then I told her to get lost and leave me alone with my shame. Even if she was ten centuries old, she still LOOKED like a kid.
Never mind that she said we didn't do anything except cuddle. I guess I was still too into the hangover to realize that made me less of a pervert and restored a tiny bit of my dignity. But by the time I realized that, she was long gone, and I was off to get drunk again. I never saw her again, and I never thought I slept with a kid again. Sadly, I still gulp down ketchup bottles to this day, but every time I look at a banana split, I think of her. And then the pimple-faced night manager asks me to get off the counter and stop humping the ice cream through the glass. Okay, so maybe I miss her. The real her. And maybe, just maybe, when she can't get clean in the shower one of these days, she'll think of me and smile. Or at least shudder in horror and go nuts. But she'll be thinking of me, and that's what counts.
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Disclaimer: Deadpool belongs to Marvel, Yugi belongs to Pioneer.
Confessions: (1/?)
Diary of a Wasted Wade Wilson
by XMAN0123
------------
It was a Friday night. So I'm told, anyway. Terry had just chewed me out for breaking into X-Force HQ. Okay, so maybe slapping Indian boy around like a red-headed stepchild had something to do with it, too. But he deserved it! I mean, if someone looked at you and shouted, "What the hell?!" wouldn't YOU want to slap them? Okay, maybe it's just me. Anyway, the doctors expected him to come out of the coma within the year.
Naturally, I felt like less than dirt after Terry kicked me out, so I headed down to the Villains' Bailiwick for a cold drink. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "But you're not a villian anymore, Wade!" Oh, yes, I am. Ask Little Jimmy...if he ever wakes up. Besides, the last time I was there, me and Death had a pretty nasty bar brawl. Yeah, he got me a few times with that pig-sticker, but when I called him a Wolvie wanna-be, he just lost it and started smacking everybody. After that, I got a coupon for free drinks. They said only a bad guy (or an X-Man) would be crazy enough to take on Death, and they knew I didn't hang with the "Dare to Dream" crowd.
So I'd just gulped down ten Harvey Wallbangers, three margaritas, and a bottle of ketchup (I did say I was drunk, didn't I?) when she walked in. And I don't mean "she" as in one of your Everyday Dames. No, I mean "SHE" as in your Worship-At-Her-Feet, Drool-Til-You-Drown, Beat-Your-Head-In-With-Beer-Bottles-So-She-Can-See-You're-A-Crazy-SOB-With-Suicidal-Yet-Strangely-Arousing-Tendencies Goddess. And no, it didn't hurt that she was wearing one of those Princess Leia slave outfits that all red-blooded guys (and even a few gals) secretly desire. Just call me Jabba the Slut. Wait, that came out wrong. Man, I WAS drunk.
She walked over to the bar, stopped right next to me, and leaned over the counter. It was almost as if she wanted me to look down. So I did. Wow. I never knew they got that big. This would almost be perfect if she wasn't staring at me like I'm some sort...of...uh oh. She's staring at me. And she's...smiling?
"See something you like?" she asked. What, like I was gonna say no?
Being the gentlemen I was (for tonight), I bought her a martini. I figured I should pay for something, since I'd probably drink enough to put the place out of business with my free ticket. I was a little disappointed when she sat down, as it blocked the view, but then I remembered she had other things to ogle. Just a few inches up and...there we go. Oh, yeah. Those are real nice. Reminds me of some melons I stole once.
She didn't seem to mind me staring. In fact, she kept leaning over and reaching across me, giving me the perfect view. I'd secretly named them 'The Twin Islands of Dr. Deadpool.' Now all I needed was a few mutates and a midget twice as ugly as me.
"So, what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?" she suddenly asked. No need to be dishonest. I told her plain and simple: getting drop-dead drunk. She thought that was funny. I didn't. But when she laughed, the Islands...danced. Oh, man, I needed another drink.
After another margarita and a jar of Grey Poupon, I could barely remember why I'd come here in the first place. But she was sitting in my lap, telling me how good my place was starting to sound. She'd obviously never been to my place, or she just had no standard of living at all. Either way, she wanted to go home with me, and she wasn't drunk, drugged, or under the influence of an illegal substance. And she was conscious! There was no way I was gonna pass up a chance like that.
So I 'ported us both home with my trusty, handy, personal teleporter dohickey. Hickey...I could really use one of those right now. Or is it Mickey? It's been so long since I've tricked a woman into coming here, I've forgotten how to drug a perfectly good date. But she seems to like me. Maybe I can impress her with my with my body count scrapbook.
She wanted to slip into something more comfortable, but I couldn't figure out why she went into the kitchen. When she came back, I nearly fainted. She was wearing a whipped cream bikini. Sweet Mother of Magneto, how was she keeping those strawberries on?! And the banana slices! The chocolate sauce! The chopped nuts! GASP! THE CHERRY?!?!
I think I did pass out after that. Either that, or wild-mannered Wade Wilson transformed into Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am Man, with the power to satisfy any woman for a good 40.7 seconds and then pretend to fall asleep so she won't ask for more. Though usually they didn't ask. They were too busy sobbing quietly in the shower and moaning, "So dirty...so very dirty! NO! It won't come off! The dirt's still there! I CAN'T GET CLEAN, DAMMIT! I CAN'T GET CLEAN! WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!" Usually.
Anyway, I woke up with a full stomach, a killer hangover, and an empty bed. Okay, no big surprise there. She probably left hours ago. Yeah, I can hear birds chirping outside. Must have forgot to set the traps again.
Then I got the second biggest shock of my life. She was still here! She was standing in the doorway, wearing one of my old Sailor Moon T-shirts (purely for disguise, and not perverted purposes...yeah, right!), smiling at me. Man, she's beautiful. I've never been this lucky. So now, according to the Wilson's Law of Suckiness, something has to happen to ruin it all. It HAS to. Or else something in the universe has been screwed up to X-Men-sized proportions and I'm on the positive end of it, for once.
She slips into bed and curls up beside me, staring into my eyes. Without thinking, I reach over to give her boobies an affectionate tweak. Except my hand goes through them. Okay, no big deal. I am in the middle of a hangover. So I try again. No luck. By now, she's noticed, and there's a worried look in her eyes. Maybe it's not the hangover hallucinations again. Oh, great. She's got some secret to tell me. Like she's really a man. Or she's married. Or she's got kids. Or she's a married man with kids and is now pregnant. Something along those lines.
"Wade," she whispers, "there's something you should know about me. I'm not who you think I am."
Yup, a man. Or a transie. At least that'd be somewhat new.
"I'm not a fictive. I'm a Muse. And I don't really look like this. It was all an illusion. I really look..."
The air around her shimmers, and she shrinks in on herself, like in the "Help, I'm melting!" scene in the Wizard of Oz. Except she isn't a gross, smoking green puddle when it's over. She's...a kid. A cute kid, but a kid. Oh, Lord. I did it with a kid. It's all over. This is TOO sick, even for me. I mean, I had a few standards left, and now one of them is gone. I slept with a kid. Wade Wilson was no longer a man. He's that stuff you tell your little girls about to scare them into becoming virgins for life. You know, those old women in crazy houses that are always laughing for no reason. Or so I imagine.
"Wade, please don't be mad," she says, laying her head on my arm.
I'm not mad. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm one of those crazy guys on Most Wanted that goes after little girls and--wait. She came after me. She seduced me. Maybe I won't go to jail. At least, not for that.
So I take a moment to look at her. She's got this soft, blonde hair that frames her face perfectly. These big, blue eyes that I just can't turn away from. And those pouty lips. Maybe...just maybe... Oh, man. I think I still want her!
She told me her name was Yugi, and that she wasn't a kid. She was a fictive-turned-Muse, fresh out of the Colle-whatsit (okay, so I was never good with big words). And she was lonely. That explained the illusion. And she had been a bad fictive, so there was no problem getting into the Villain's Bailiwick. Nothing a few telepathic suggestions couldn't fix, anyway. I actually felt sorry for her. For ten seconds. Then I told her to get lost and leave me alone with my shame. Even if she was ten centuries old, she still LOOKED like a kid.
Never mind that she said we didn't do anything except cuddle. I guess I was still too into the hangover to realize that made me less of a pervert and restored a tiny bit of my dignity. But by the time I realized that, she was long gone, and I was off to get drunk again. I never saw her again, and I never thought I slept with a kid again. Sadly, I still gulp down ketchup bottles to this day, but every time I look at a banana split, I think of her. And then the pimple-faced night manager asks me to get off the counter and stop humping the ice cream through the glass. Okay, so maybe I miss her. The real her. And maybe, just maybe, when she can't get clean in the shower one of these days, she'll think of me and smile. Or at least shudder in horror and go nuts. But she'll be thinking of me, and that's what counts.
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Disclaimer: Deadpool belongs to Marvel, Yugi belongs to Pioneer.