God I'm good. Chapter 3 like a motherfucker. All naysayers can grab their ankles and get ready for the ride of their lives.

Disclaimer: You can't spell "disclaimer" without "lame". I mean, you have to take the "i" out, but either way, it's still pronounced the same. You certainly can't say "disclaimer" without "lame" in any case. So there.

Burzum fucking rules. Varg Vikernes, less so.

Arkham Asylum: I Don't Get Paid Enough for This Crap

第三章

(According to Google Translate, that's "Chapter Three" in an unspecified form of Chinese.)

Patient #644805

Name: Julian Day (alias: Calender Man)

Dr. Fitzgerald: So, Julian, how are you doing today?

Julian: Do you know where your towel is, doctor?

Dr. Fitzgerald: I'm sorry?

Julian: I asked if you know where your towel is.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Uh... in my bathroom, I assume.

Julian: That's not good, doctor. How do you expect to be a hoopy frood without your towel within reach at all times?

Dr. Fitzgerald: I... what?

Julian: A towel is just about the most massively useful thing any interstellar hitchhiker can carry. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow, heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you — daft as a brush, but very very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (a non-hitchhiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, washcloth, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet-weather gear, space suit, etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidentally have "lost." What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence, a phrase which has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is."

*Dr. Fitzgerald stares at Julian for several moments*

Dr. Fitzgerald: What on God's green Earth are you talking about?!

Julian: Do you know what tomorrow is, doctor?

Dr. Fitzgerald: Uh... Monday?

Julian: Yes, but I meant the date.

Dr. Fitzgerald: ... May 25?

Julian: Yes.

Dr. Fitzgerald: And?

Julian: May 25 is Towel Day.

Dr. Fitzgerald: I... I see. And... the... the space... stuff?

Julian: Do you not know of Douglas Adams, doctor?

Dr. Fitzgerald: I... wait, the author of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?

Julian: Yes.

Dr. Fitzgerald: What does he have to do anything?

Julian: Towel Day is held in Douglass Adams' honor every year on May 25, to commemorate the anniversary of his death - though he in fact passed away on the 11th.

Dr. Fitzgerald: I... see. And, all of this... towel business, is related to his books?

Julian: Indeed.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Well... I suppose this conversation now makes about as much sense as it can be expected to.

Julian: I tried requesting a towel from the orderlies, but they seem to be under the impression that I might use it for some nefarious purpose. Of course, their concern is understandable, considering the myriad uses a towel would make available to me. Still... most unfortunate.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Ah, the hell with it. I'll get you a towel. I want to see what happens.

Julian: I am grateful. For a strag, you are a most hoopy frood, doctor.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Fantastic. Now if you don't mind, I have an appointment with Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon VI, and I don't want to be late.

Patient #516308

Name: Harleen Quinzel (alias: Harley Quinn)

Harley: Good mornin', Dr. Fitzgerald.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Good morning, Harley.

Harley: I must say, ye're lookin' rather... down in tha dumps. Last time we talked, ya really weren't doin' so well, but today? Whoo, boy!

Dr. Fitzgerald: You know, I try, and I try, and I try to better the lives of my patients, but no matter what I do, all I receive for my efforts is scorn, mockery, and unflattering messages left in the men's room. How the Joker manages to get out of his cell so frequently, for the sole purpose of scrawling obscene images onto the stalls involving myself and the Penguin that I don't care to describe, is beyond me. And don't tell me it wasn't him! Cause I know it was! I know it!

Harley: Please, doc, calm ya self. Nuthin' wuz evah solved by bein' irrational.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Of course. I'm sorry, Harley. It's just so frustrating.

Harley: I'm sure. I know ya try ya best, an' don't think it ain't helpin' any.

Dr. Fitzgerald: You don't have to say that just to make feel better.

Harley: No, really. I mean, Two-Face is still nuttiah than squirrel poop, but just yestahday, I saw him choose between Salisbury steak an' meatloaf in tha cafeteria, without flippin' his coin.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Hadn't the Batman recently given him a concussion?

Harley: Doc, if concussions could cure mental illness, then this place would be outta business.

Dr. Fitzgerald: So... you really think I'm helping?

Harley: Of course. Don't be so hard on ya self. On a related note, I know all tha stress ya been undah has been causin' tension with tha missus. How's that goin'?

Dr. Fitzgerald: Not so well. I tried doing what you suggested.

Harley: Tha trip to Hawaii?

Dr. Fitzgerald: Yes. But she just blew me off, saying "I'm just so busy at work, there's no way I can take time off."

Harley: She turned down Hawaii?! Man, that's bad. I'm thinkin' it might be beyond time for some couples counselin'.

Dr. Fitzgerald: You think that would help?

Harley: Of course! No relationship is beyond help. No mattah how much he... well, anyway, if ya like, I can pencil youse two in for next Satuhday? I'll have ta check wit' my assistant, but I think I could prob'ly pencil ya both in for around... 3:15?

Dr. Fitzgerald: That would be wonderful! I'll have to talk to her about it, but with any luck, I think I can bring her around.

Harley: Whatevah ya do, doc, don't give up. There's nuthin' in this world more important than love. Trust me.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Thank you, Harley. Your help really means a lot to me.

Harley: Don't mention it. Now, I'm sorry, but it looks like our time is up. I got anutha appointment in five minutes.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Of course. I understand.

Harley: Well, till next time, doc. Guards? I think it's time ta take Dr. Fitzgerald back ta his cell.

Dr. Fitzgerald: Wait, what?

Patient #187666

Name: Wade Wilson (alias: Deadpool, the Merc with the Mouth, the Regeneratin' Degenerate, etc)

Dr. Fitzgerald: Good morning, Wade. How are you feeling?

Wade: Like a million rubles. Why am I here?

Dr. Fitzgerald: Well, according to your file, you have been remanded to our custody pending a seventy-two hour mental health evaluation. Apparently you were found intoxicated, wandering through traffic, singing AC/DC's "Big Balls", while covered in your own feces.

Wade: Hey! I was not drunk.

Dr. Fitzgerald: That's not what the police report says.

Wade: The cop just thought his breathalyzer was broken.

Dr. Fitzgerald: ... Yes, well, in any case, that is why you are here, Wade.

Wade: No, yeah, I get that. Happens all the time. But why am I here?

Dr. Fitzgerald: I'm sorry, but I don't understand the question.

*Wade rolls his eyes*

Wade: I mean, I'm a Marvel character. This is DC. What the fuck is going on with this shit?

Dr. Fitzgerald: Uh... I'm still not following you.

Wade: Look, Mr. College Educated Psychiatrist Dude with a Degree In Being a Fucktard, I'm in the wrong comic book universe.

Dr. Fitzgerald: You... believe yourself to be a comic book character?

Wade: No dur.

Dr. Fitzgerald: And... you're in the wrong universe?

Wade: By Jorge, I think he's got it!

Dr. Fitzgerald: And I am a comic book character as well?

*Wade snorts*

Wade: You? Nah, you're just some generic doctor cliche in a bad fanfiction the author came up with on the fly cause he was too lazy to come up with a real character. You don't even have a first name.

Dr. Fitzgerald: That's absurd. Of course I have a first name.

Wade: Yeah? So what is it, Smarty McDumbass?

Dr. Fitzgerald: It's... Look, Mr. Wilson, we're here for you. So, if we could just discuss these "ideas" you have?

Wade: Why am I even talking to you? You didn't even exist a week ago.

*Wade turns to the screen*

Wade: Hey, you! Asshole!

Dr. Fitzgerald: Mr. Wilson, who are you talking to?

Wade: Hey! I'm talkin' to you, Batlord!

The Batlord: WTF? You can't do that. Stick to the script.

Wade: Or what? You'll write me out of continuity? And what kind of asshat publishes Batman fanfiction with a screen name like "The Batlord"? That's like showing up to a concert wearing a band shirt of the band you're going to see. Loser.

The Batlord: It's not a Batman reference! It's-

Wade: Yeah, yeah, it's a music reference. No one gives a shit, cause no one knows what band you're talking about. It just makes you look like a douche.

The Batlord: Dude, fuck you.

Dr. Fitzgerald: What on Earth?! Mr. Wilson, who is this person?

Wade: Butt out, baldy!

Dr. Fitzgerald: I'm not bald.

Wade: Yeah, check the dome, chrome.

Dr. Fitzgerald: That's nonsen-... holy hell, what happened to my hair?!

The Batlord: Hey, quit fucking with my character! He's not supposed to have physical attributes. This is a dialogue-centric fic.

Wade: "Fic"? You fucking nerd! It's 3:16 in the morning, and you're lying down on your mattress with no bed frame like some crackhead, typing away on your shitty Chromebook your mom bought you, writing "fics"? Here's an idea, why don't you go cry yourself to sleep like a twelve-year-old girl with a zit, and think about why you haven't gotten laid in-

The Batlord: Hey, hey, hey! Not cool, dude. Why you gotta be an asshole?

Wade: Cause I will NOT be written into god damn fanfiction by some tool who hasn't even read Cable & Deadpool. There's no way you can write me for shit. You're not Joe Kelly. You're not even Daniel Way. You're Rob. Fucking. Liefeld.

The Batlord: Yeah, well, your daughter's ugly.

Wade: Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong's dick in your ass! I know you've read Deadpool Kills the Marvel Universe.

The Batlord: Yeah, so?

Wade: Remember the end - SPOILER! - when I go through the portal into the real world, and I'm about to kill everyone at Marvel Comics?

The Batlord: ...

Wade: I suggest you make peace with your gods and go fuck your dog goodbye, cause you've got about ten minutes of not having a life left.

The Batlord: You're bluffing. That shit was just a comic book.

Wade: Maybe. You willing to take that chance, fatboy?

Dr. Fitzgerald: I demand to know-

Wade/The Batlord: SHUT UP!

Wade: So what's it gonna be? Close this tab on your browser and forget about publishing this steaming pile? Or say "Hello" to your gastrointestinal tract?

The Batlord: ...

Wade: Hey! Hey! I see that! Don't you dare hit Save! Don't you-

Fuck Deadpool

The End

Deadpool: Well, I warned him. I was gonna make sure this never saw the light of day, but I've decided to publish it anyway, as a warning to any of you self-polluting neckbeards stupid enough to fuck with me. Think of me as Anne Rice, and just say "NO!" to writing Deadpool fanfiction. Or I'll find you.