Chapter 16: Deadpool

Now, you are probably wondering what the hell this chapter is going to be about. You already read everything from the dad feels to creep vibes. This, well, this is going to be different. But don't worry! It's still rated K+. Wait… what? Teen? Okay, fine! Teen then. It's rated Teen. Jesus… how delicate are you readers?

Let's start. There I am. Standing in the middle of my apartment that I once shared with Blind Al, trying to make sure this enhanced celebrity doesn't bleed out all over the old rug. For someone so small, he bleeds a lot. He keeps yammering, asking to be taken somewhere else or for his phone (which, shush! Don't tell him that I broke it).

Now, you're probably wondering how I got into this bloody mess. Well, it started when a short, elfin-like creature with a bow and arrow shot at me. Hold on... what? That's too far back? It's my story! Shit. It's not my story. I only get a fucking chapter?! Oh... never mind then. Forwarding. Okay, so the double SparkNotes version: met Agent Barton who introduced me to Avengers who asked me to help them on a case involving Spidey-boy. Caught up? Good.

Let's get on with the show... story.

Half-hour ago

As we already revealed, I'm working with the Avengers. Part of their team actually, but only because they begged me. Honestly, I feel like I'm doing all the heavy-lifting on this mission. Not once have the other Avengers contacted me (granted, they did go to Weasel, but that is beside the point) or done recon on the possible suspects. That was all up to me.

Which is why I'm sitting on top of this house, drawing out my plan of attack. It's pretty accurate. The duplex homes. The broken light. The driver standing by the hood of his car smoking a cigarette. I got them all. Including the extra bad character. I have my katanas crossed at his neck. He's begging, "Oh! Please, Mr. Deadpool! Don't kill me! I need more lines to be remembered!" Yeah, well, already I think he is a waste of space. A real distraction from the actual plot of the story.

What's more distracting is his name. Birth name: Lester. Lester?! Most have been the least favorite child. He doesn't go by Lester anymore. He's goes by the name Bull's Eye. Because Hawkeye was already taken.

But, let's look at his resume, shall we?

Government operative; former freelance assassin, professional thief, mercenary, extortionist, Major League Baseball pitcher…

Yeah. A jackass of all trades. Probably why he has no friends and Palmer ratted him out in a heartbeat—which is unfortunate that Palmer didn't survive our playdate. I kind of liked him. Scratch that. I didn't want Griggs to win the cash, but Palmer died. Damn him.

The driver flicks out his cigarette on the street and reaches into his jacket for a strip of gum. Another person enters the scene. Blonde, well-built, blue-eye California Dreamin'. A human clone of Ken Barbie. Now, what the hell is Ken Barbie walking out and about?

Spoiler alert! He's not really Ken.

That would be Lester. AKA Bull's Eye.

What an unfortunate name in this instance. And yes, readers, that's foreshadowing.

Bull's Eye and all of his glory approaches Mr. Driver. I slither closer. Bull's Eye asks for the time. Ooh… a classic and cliché move the bad guy does right before—Holy motherfucker! He just stabbed that guy! With a needle. Okay, yep. Mr. Driver is down. He's gone. Dead. Well, that is… a shame. Really. Now my whole drawing is messed up. That guy was supposed to live. Damn it! I hate when things go off script.

I reach for my katanas, ready to make introductions when the front door of a duplex home opens. Why is my timing off tonight? I stay in the shadows, tapping fingers for this kid to hurry up and carry on his way to God knows where? What the hell is this kid doing out at night anyway? Scratch that. Of course kids are out at night. What was he thinking? But right now? With a killer just a few feet away?

What the hell is he doing?! Why is this dumb kid going straight to the fuckin' car? Uh—hello? Bull's Eye is in the driver's seat. Not Mr. Dead Driver.

If I have to go and rescue this kid's ass, I'm going to…

Holy Shit! Let's pause here a minute so I can gather my bearings.

Pause.

As you already probably figured it out, the kid is actually Peter Parker. Yep. The same one you've been reading about for the past fifteen chapters. Honestly, with everything happening around him, I didn't think he was allowed out of his 100 acre cage. Apparently, I'm wrong. That never happens.

Okay, so I have little Petey skipping ("I'm not skipping!")… okay, loping over to the car and gets in. I have two options.

Option 1: Go in. Kill Bull's Eye. Rescue Peter Parker and become his beloved hero.

Option 2: Stay here another thirty seconds and let Bull's Eye kill the bitty spider.

I think we all know which option I picked.

Unpause.

Time for another fuckin' dance off. I stand up and jump, landing like a dazzlingly, perfect modeled superhero. Again, not because I want to. It's bad for your knees and very impractical, but that's in the script, so… I'm really embracing the battered patellar tendon at the moment as I slide up to the dance floor.

I'm doing this old school style.

For my opening act, I chose the gateway crash routine. Don't know what that is? Wait and see.

I make my running start, arms pumping into a full on sprint. When the stolen car and kidnapped child come into exact location, I hurl myself, feet first at the driver's window. Arms crossed, spinning in the air like a ballerina, I crash right through the window and land on Bull's Eye's lap.

We stare into each other's eyes. Long and lovingly. Two dudes, trying to make it in the world, but torn apart by their destinies. One as a second-rate character and another (me!) as a legendary kiss-ass. And like every good tragedy, we are forced to battle one another and it's truly heartbreaking. Mostly because at that moment, I punch him hard right over his heart.

The struggle begins. We kick, punch, stab and, overall, having a swell time in each other's company. I'm sliding all over the front seat as he wrangles out a gun like the cowboy he is. Me, on the other hand, only have my real guns available at the moment.

Maximum effort.

I shove my feet in Bull's Eye face. He grunts, like music to my ears. It got me singing my all-time favorite tune, "Push It." I hum along as I battle Bull's Eye. Like any typical fight, there's violence and blood. I punch Bull's Eye in the nose and throw his arm out to wrestle the gun from him. And for story purposes, the gun drops to the floor. Without his gun, he uses his leg to side-kick me like a little pu—wussy (happy, censorship!). I slam his leg, cracking it right on the gear shift.

Bull's Eye growls as his ankle snaps. He grips the wheel and takes a sharp turn to throw me off. Smart, considering I didn't have a seatbelt. I fly in my seat. My face smashes against the window and I think, "Did I forget to turn off the toaster oven? Shit. I forgot to turn off the toaster oven. Damn it!"

The car straightens out. Free from the window, I flip and ready to use all my flutter kick power. Except, Bull's Eye is a cheap cheat. During the whole fast turn, he got his gun again. Don't ask me how. I have no idea. It makes no sense how he got the gun from the floor. Let's agree that it's lazy writing.

Bull's Eye does his clever, maniacal grin. Like with a gun he wins this whole fight. Obviously, he's unaware that I am one gigantic bulletproof vest. He gets ready to pull the trigger on me. I don't do anything, mostly because what can he do to me? I already tried killing myself. Harder than it looks.

And it continued to be so even at this moment. Neither of us expected it because right before Bull's Eye fires, a hand shoots from the back and yanks Bull's Eye arm back to the point it snaps. Like pop, lock and drop type of move. In desperation, Bull's Eye fingers the trigger.

Loud shots echo in the car. One bullet plows into me. I hardly feel it. Kidding! I do. But, can't die. Remember?

Anyway, I'm pissed off. Why? Because Bull's Eye put a hole in my suit! Does he know how long it takes me to piece all this cloth together? And keep it clean and ready for the next mission? What? You thought—it doesn't take a couple of seconds! I don't have spares! That's all part of the video editing process.

Deviating here. I'm pissed off and you know what happens when I am pissed off? Well, if you don't, you're about to find out.

I take out my dagger and chuck right at Bull's Eye's chest. As expected, the shock of a knife gutting his chest hits him hard. He slams on the break and if you know anything about physics is that I go right through the windshield.

Don't worry! I'm not dead. I didn't splatter all over the pavement. As I fly through the windshield, I grab ahold of the steering wheel. Yeah—right? Cool move. Impressive and one for the books. Anyway… so, there I am, on top of the hood and hanging onto the steering wheel as Bull's Eye is bleeding out all over the front seat. Like, his whole face is bloody from his broken nose and his chest has my dagger sticking out of him like a miniature kebab.

He's angry too. Like, Jason Voorhees angry. Scowling and all disfigured, he hits the accelerator, driving madly around this tinsel town to fling me off. But, I'm not a fling type of person. I'm dedicated and devoted. I'm a tender lover. His attempts to throw me off him is just… heartbreaking!

If that's the way he wants to be, then I am cool with this whole Swift-Perry break-up. Ending this bad blood between us because I'm really done dealing with this shithead of a mercenary. I counter his turns to cause him confusion to give me enough type to draw my gun. Yeah, if he's going to be a cheater, might as well make it even.

In lickety-split, I take aim and fire. The bullet charges and smacks right in the middle of Bull's Eye's forehead.

And, yes. Yes I did yell, "Bullseye!"

The annoying prick slumps and when I took full control of the wheel, he flops over his seat. Great! Now, I have to do all the work in keeping this car from crashing. Thanks a lot Bull's Eye!

I stand fully up and bend over, looking down the street as I carefully guide the car to a more reasonable area to stop. Not that I had much control in that department, considering I'm on the hood. So, I squeeze my tight ass and slim, muscular and envious bod right through the broken windshield into the driver's seat. Obviously, Bull's Eye is making the whole situation awkward in weird, but I kick his dumbass out of my way and take full control of the car.

Which was perfectly time because we came up to an empty spot on the side of the street. The car slows to a stop before its settles in one exhaust.

"Holy shit!" I shout. "I'll have to re-write that whole chapter in my memoir."

I sigh, looking over at dead Bull's Eye. "Ugly son of a bitch. Perverted and dangerously unhinged psychopath killer, who kidnaps children to do… oh shit."

I twist in my seat to look in the back of the car. There sat Peter Parker. Innocent, young and surprisingly pale for a Caucasian. He's haphazard in his seat, clutching the side of his chest to keep the blood from…

"Holy fuck! You're bleeding!"

He really is bleeding. Blood seeps between the gaps of his fingers. The kid is breathing, slow and steady to withstand the pain.

"Err… yeah," Peter mumbled. "I, um… a bullet, um, it um… it hit me."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Definitely wasn't part of the plan. Why is everything going off the fucking script? Jesus fucking Christ! Think Deadpool. Think! You can't let him bleed to death in the backseat of a car. You can't take him to the hospital either. Explain that to a group of dumb police officers and doctors. If I drive to where the Avenger's compound is, the boy will definitely die.

Shit. That leaves one option.

I set the car in reverse and speed out of the neighborhood. The kid is sliding in his seat and I yell at him to buckle up. He does his best considering his condition.

"W-who are… you?" he stutters through his gritted teeth. "Who… was he?"

"Who? Me? I'm just your knight and shining armor, baby boy," I claim as I twist the wheel as the car goes around the bend. "As for him? A dickhead. Anyway, how you holding up?"

The kid's silent for a split second. "Like… I'm about to… puke."

"Well, try not to."

"Are you going to hurt me?"

Do I have some kind of menacing face? I mean, I thought my mask was quite good-looking compared to others. "No—I'm going to get you help," I say. "You just have to try not to bleed to death, okay?"

Little Peter nods, but I can tell he's a bit out of it. His shirt is getting redder by the second. Anyway, I sped all the way out of Queens and to our final destination. Thus, that is why I am here. Standing in the middle of Blind Al's apartment, carrying a bleeding Peter Parker in my arms. The boy is somewhat cold. Not dead cold, but… a bit disconcerting. Not entirely sure if he's going to make it.

"W-what?"

Did I say all that aloud? Damn it. "Nothing," I tell the boy.

I drop him on the couch and rummage through my old stash of meds as Peter keeps badgering me on and on about, "Wait… what are you badgering me about?"

Peter takes that moment to crack his eyes open. "Call—"

Oh. Right. Tony. Stark. That guy. Yeah… I'm not really in the mood to deal with him. Besides, I have everything under control here. After chugging a can of beer, I went to work on the kid's wound. Of course, he resists. Keeps trying to pull away from me and begging to be taken to the Avengers or something or another. I wasn't really paying attention to his words. I'm trying to utilize my skills in Operation to real life surgery.

I got the shirt and jacket off him and, boy, that kid is ripped! I mean… what does he have? A ten pack? Jesus Christ!

Anyway, I get the wound clean with some alcohol. That made the boy cringe and whimper. "Suck it up," I grunt him.

I carefully dig for the bullet with a pair of tweezers as Blind Al goes on and on about stupid shit like needing cocaine and heroin or whatever drug she used up to make her go blind. The boy lets out a guttural cry as I yank the bloody bullet right out of the boy's chest.

Okay, I honestly feel a bit sorry for causing that pain.

I let the bullet drop to the floor. The kid is losing a lot of blood. Why is his heart-rate so fast? "Hey—you wanna cool it? Fucking calm down," I tell him. "Trying to kill yourself?"

The kid turns his head up to me. "I-I have you… to do that for me."

"Cute kid," Teens are so angsty and angry nowadays. "I got that bullet out of you. Don't make me stick it right back in."

I clean the wound again. Mixed blood and alcohol dripped down onto the old, fat lady couch. I take out needle and thread. "Warning: this will hurt. A bit. I think. Don't know. Figured I should say it."

I stitch up his wound, closing it as I wipe the blood away to see what I was stitching. Again, the kid's rapid heartbeat isn't helping the situation. I eventually sew the wound together. Not a great job, but it will do.

Typically, I don't have to worry about such nonsense as I heal too quickly for anything to be problematic. But as a former, human mercenary, I picked up the trade skills of first aid. Once I stitched the wound up, I made a homemade bandage out of cloth and duct tape. What? I'm not an actually fucking doctor nor is this a fucking hospital! It's an old coke den.

"There you go, kid. Good as new," I tell him. "Although, you may want to wait a bit before bolting. You did lose like a lot of blood, which is surprising because you should be dead by the fact that you bled all that amount."

Peter's little chest barely lifts up as he breathes. "Who… are you?"

"Deadpool."

"Is that your real name or made-up name?"

He's a cutie, isn't he? "Made-up," I answer, "but it fits perfectly, right? Could become the next Marvel hit movie, am I right?"

"What?" The little baby looks so confused.

Whatever, I really don't have time to explain all this madness. "You need rest, little Spidey. You want me to sing you a lullaby or tell you a bedtime story?"

Peter's brows crinkle. "I… I have to talk to—"

I put my gloved finger on his pink lips. "Shooo," I coo. "Rest little, crazy-ass, strong baby."

"I'm n-not… tired," the little, bitty spider slurs his words. Eyes blink in a weary effort to stay awake. "I n-need to… May…"

The boy's eyes sideways, half-lidded as his little face pinches into one of determinism until it slackens. His head lolls to the side and he is out. Finally! You know, he looks so adorable when he's asleep. Not a care in the world.

I give him a little kiss on his forehead. "Sleep tight, my little bed bug!"

Blind Al shambles into the room. One waft and she scoffs. "Great. Now I have to pay for a damn carpet wash," she huffs. "Why the hell did you bring it here? Why not your place?"

"Because blood doesn't match with the décor at my place," I shout at her. Why do I fuckin' have to explain everything to her? "Do you have anything other than beer?"

"Like what? Apple juice?"

Hardee-har-har. "Anything at this point just so I could throw it at you!" I yell. "But, apple juice would be nice."

"I don't have that sugary shit."

"Just regular shit?"

"Don't even have that. Can't find it."

"That's because you're blind, Ray Charles," he quips, heading over to the kitchen. I scour the refrigerator. She needs to update her grocery list. Beer and mangos isn't much of substance. "I'm gonna have to go to bodega. You have absolute shit."

"I told you," Blind Al grumbles as she tries to find a way to a seat. She almost sits on the baby, but feels his legs in time. "Why you gotta let him take up the whole damn couch?"

"Um, because he's bleeding lick a suck pig and needs to be horizontal," I tell her. "Now, I'm out. You watch him."

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"It's supposed to be an insult," I say. "Be like all other babysitters and pretend to watch. I gotta go pick up some formula for the baby."

I leave the apartment and back to the stolen car. Sure, it's dented, shattered and the interior is left to be desired, but it's a car. I don't need to call Dopinder and tell this whole damn story all over again. Bull's Eye's dead body is still in the front seat. I actually forgot about him.

A dark, red hole oozed thickly dead center of his forehead. A professional hit. Well done, Deadpool. Well done.

But now I had to deal with all the blood that coated the leather seats. And do something with the body. God—all this extra effort for a simple "talk". This sucks. Never ever work with kids again. Kids are the worst.

Deal with it all later. Need to get some kind of juice. That's what kids drink right? I got to the bodega. At this point, Sebastián the bodega owner isn't even phased by my appearance. He lets me buy three bottles of juice, a bag of Lays and a Twix bar without much of a greeting. The way I like it.

I get back to the borrowed blood bank car and throw the grocery items in the back when I hear a phone go off. There, on the floor in the back, was a phone. It was lit up with a face taking up the entire screen. I pick up and admire the red-haired beauty. Damn… who is she?

The phone stops ringing. I check and she's listed as Aunt May. Oh… I see. The kid's guardian. Got it. Probably wondering where he is.

The phone goes off again. This time it's the big guy. Tony Stark.

I still don't answer. In fact, I hit ignore and copy his number onto mine. May need it in the future. I copy all the necessary contacts from his phone before I unsheathe my katana. One slice and the fancy phone is split in two. Dead. Done. What? The kid will receive a new one anyway. Can't have Iron Man come storming into Blind Al's apartment. May get the wrong impression.

I return to the apartment. Blind Al is sitting in that old IKEA rocking chair. Hadn't move since I left. Typical.

She hears me come in. "Kid is still asleep."

"How would you know? You're blind."

"Because he hasn't said a word."

You see what I am dealing with? This is why my life is difficult. I check on the kid. He's still out. His stitches are holding up, but I need to redo his bandage. Damn it! I knew I forgot something. I go back to the kitchen and grab a new cloth to replace the bloody one.

The kid doesn't even flinch when I rip off the soaked bandage. I splash more alcohol on the kid's wound. It's healing nicely. Less blood. I tape up the new bandage over the wound. I let the kid sleep. Not because he deserves it. Because I don't want him fighting me at the moment. Not when I need to complete my mission in regards to Bull's Eye.

"Keep babysitting him," I say to Blind Al and she responds with some half-ass remark. I don't even bother listening because that is how much I care what she says.

I drag Bull's Eye's body out of my new car. He's heavier than I thought. It's like moving a hippo's carcass with an odor of Rudy Giuliani's balls. Don't ask me what that smells like. It's not pretty. Definitely not lavender scented.

It's a good thing no one speaks in this neighborhood. We all have dirt on one another and keep a code of silence. It's an honor code thing we all have. What? I never said I hang-out in a good place. Nor did I say I was a good person. I think you already kind of figured that out on your own.

I search the perverted child-kidnapper, checking his pockets. Like any reasonable, talented mercenary, I find a burner phone, wallet with a fake ID and two hundred dollars in cash (pocketing that! Call it payment) and a keychain with a single key. How mysterious!

I check the phone. Only a few phone calls. Not all from the same number. I move to the gallery next. Might find some… blackmail photos. Nope. Just pictures of the kid. Wow. A complete stalker. How did this kid not notice?

Hmmm… well, this guy got his intelligence from someone. I go back to the numbers. Let's give them all a call.

I dial each number. The first five were all dead. No number found in existence. Suspicious.

It wasn't until the sixth number that I got a recording. Oh my! Well, there's a twist you don't see every day. This is good stuff. Very good stuff. Thank you Bull's Eye! You were somewhat useful in the end.

Now, we're going to take a short break and do some of the behind the scenes sort of research. I mean, it's boring anyway. You won't find it fascinating. Anyway, take this time to eat, use the bathroom, masturbate or whatever you fucking do while waiting.

And we're back. I know. It was pretty quick.

Now, you are in the second act. We can finally move on with the story. As I was saying in the previous act, thanks to Bull's Eye, I now have my next target lined up and who better than to be my sidekick on this mission than little, bitty Spider-baby.

Who is awake and sitting up, examining his patched-up wound. "W-what did you do to me?"

"I saved your life," I say. "You're welcome."

Peter caressingly massages his wound. "Are you some kind of doctor?"

"Nope."

The answer didn't surprise the boy. He closes in on himself, wrapping his bony arms around his bare-chest. "Um… where are my clothes?"

Oh. Right. I forgot I threw his bloody clothes in the garbage truck along with Bull's Eye's corpse. Johnson is a pretty cool garbage man. Doesn't care what I throw in there.

"Gone. Trashed," I say as I rummage through Blind Al's drawers to find some clothes for him.

I hand him one of Blind Al's shirt and old lady shorts. Peter accepts the clothes and he honestly looks like an American version of Oliver Twist. The clothes are too big for a skinny runt like him. But, it's better than him wearing boxers. That would be way too distracting.

He drinks two of the three bottles of apple juice and the few chips I left for him. There was no more Twix. I ate that. "Um… who are you exactly?"

"A good Samaritan."

"Really?"

"No."

"Oh." The baby Spider stays silent for a second. "So… what exactly happened last night?"

Oh, great. Did he miss the entire thing? He was there for the whole event. I give him a brief, but detail summary. "A merc killed your driver. I killed the merc. I saved you. And… scene!"

Peter blinks, seemingly still lost. "So… the guy in the driver's seat wasn't my driver."

I deflate, arms dangling. I thought Peter Parker was a genius of some sort? Did I read the file wrong? "Did you not hear a word I said? What? Could you not tell that the guy is a bad guy?!"

"I was in the back."

"No excuse," I claim. "You stop him from using his gun on me. Doesn't that mean you knew he was a bad guy?"

"I was trying to stop someone from being killed," the kid answers. Then his eyes narrow questionably at me. "Wait… how did you know that he wasn't my driver? And why were you in the area? Were you following me?"

"Who me? Yeah… you wish. No, I wasn't following you. I happen to be your friendly, neighborhood Deadpool," I reply. "I saw you were in trouble, so I saved you. Nothing to it. Well, besides that whole fight scene. Getting thrown around a bit. Shot at. I can keep going." I pause a moment, remembering something important. "Oh, I've been meaning to ask you—how are you feeling?"

"Um… nothing. A bit light-headed to be honest," Peter says. "How much blood did I lose?"

"Enough to donate. Drink up that juice. Got it for you, my precious," I purr as I stroke his cheek.

Peter scrunches his face and pulls away. "Don't call me that," he says and takes the third bottle. "How long was I out?"

Hmm… "Four hours? It's only two in the morning."

The little boy shoots up to his feet in a fret. "Two in the morning!" he exclaims. "I-I… I have to call Aunt May!" His head spins in different directions. "Where is my phone?"

And we all remember what I did with that.

"Oh, it's broken," I tell him.

"I can fix it."

"Beyond repair."

Peter tenses. "Wait… so, no one knows I'm here?"

"I'm gonna have to say that's a positive negative."

"What?"

"No."

Peter looks frantic. "I gotta call Aunt May! I… I need your phone!"

"Go ahead," I say, tossing him the burner phone the belonged to dead Bull's Eye. "Do you even remember her phone number, kid?"

Peter freezes. His mind looks blank upon the realization that he doesn't remember their numbers. And here comes the pickle. Can't contact someone if you don't remember their number. The challenges these young kids have to go through these days.

Peter lowers the phone as he realizes the futileness of it. He looks back to me. "Do you think I could… um, unless… am I free to go?"

I almost said yes, when I remember the change of plans. "What if I say no?"

The boy stares. "Are you saying I'm not free?" he asks, concern. "Are you holding me hostage?"

Blind Al, who happens to make her reappearance in the living room, shuffles him. "That's all he does, kid."

Peter immediately pales and stumbles a bit away from me. I'm actually hurt by that. "Are you holding her hostage too?"

"What? No!" Look, I know I say I'm not a hero and that I am a bad person. But, I never said I'm a bad guy. There's a difference. "I'm holding no one hostage. Ignore her. She's just angry because I hid her coke from her and she can't find it."

Peter peeks back to Blind Al. "She's blind."

"Spoiler alert, mini-Stark! I know that," I say. "And I'm not holding you hostage. I was only curious to know what you would do."

"Um… leave anyway," Peter shrugs.

That sounds reasonable. It's something I would do. "Well, it's a long walk from here to your little clubhouse."

Peter glances around the den. "Where exactly am I?"

"Lower East Side."

"Oh." He makes a glance to the door. "So, um, well, I guess I should, err, get a cab or something then. Uh, thank you, Mr. Deadpool, for saving me and everything. I owe you."

He limps to the door. Poor baby! I simply want to pick him up and cuddle him. "Wait? That's it?" I exclaim, shock by the sudden dismissal. "You're just going to leave? You're not at all worried about another merc gunning for you?"

That made the kid pause. He turns. "Are there more?"

"Probably. Most likely. Definitely."

That left Peter's head spinning. "Wait… so is there or isn't there?"

I give a helpless shrug. "You'll find out once you go out there."

And the boy stops inching to the door. "If I stay a little longer, will you tell me what you know?" he inquires, "about this whole… merc did you say?"

I clap with a giddiness. Great! Bro-time! I drag Peter away from the door and sit him down on a couch, snapping my fingers at Blind Al and beckoning her to bring us a gourmet meal.

"Didn't you tell me that I have shit in my kitchen?" she remarks at me.

"JUST BRING US SOMETHING!" I shout. "God—why do I have to play host all the time that I am here?"

"Because I never invite you here," comments Blind Al. "You just show up."

She shuffles to the kitchen anyway. Like the fail hostess she is. I turn back to Baby Boy. He sits straight up, eyes flickering from Blind Al to me. The bottom eyelids flatten as the corners of his lips pull back near his ears. He moves his hands from the sides to his front.

"Hold shit—are you afraid? Don't be!" I say to ease him. "I'm not going to hurt you and neither will Blind Al. She's just a disgruntled, old hag. This addiction she's kicking isn't making her a sweet, old grandmother that's for sure."

"She wasn't the one disconcerting me."

"Who? Me? Please, Baby Boy, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead," I promise. "Trust me… I'm not the scary one in this household."

"Says the man wearing a mask," he gestures to my face. "What are you hiding underneath there?"

"Just my handsome, scarred face," I tell him, kicking back in my seat as I relax. "Honestly, you don't want to see it. Looks like Hugh Jackman's burnt ass. It isn't pretty."

"What?"

"Point is that I won't hurt or kill you with mask on or off," I lean back on two legs of my chair. "I mean, if I did, I wasted a lot of effort saving your damsel-in-distress ass from Bull's Eye."

"Bull's Eye?"

"I know, right?" He also finds the irony in such a name. "What? Was the name Hawkeye already taken?"

Peter tilts his head. "Um… yeah, so are you—what are you?"

"What do you mean? I told you already. Deadpool."

"Like a hero? Like an Avenger?"

I laugh. Aloud. Not a sweet laughter either. A very rumbustious, hearty laughter. But when I realize Peter looks offended, I stop. "Sorry—no. I'm not a hero. Far from it."

"A villain then?"

"Nope. Just a good, old fashion mercenary myself."

The stiffness returns to Peter's posture. I roll my head. "I'm still not going to kill you, kid," I say. "Trust me. Well, actually, if I were you, I wouldn't trust me either. I know that doesn't help my cause. And I don't really want to get anymore blood on this outfit. Do you know how long it takes to wash blood out of clothes? It's basically why I wear red."

Peter blinks after that long ramble. "Are you insane?"

"Funny that you ask."

Silence. Crickets.

Peter breathes. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes and No. In my mind, I'm perfectly and handsomely sane."

"And outside your mind?" the boy asks.

"I get mix results," I reply. "Some call it brilliance."

"And the others?"

I shrug. "Who cares about those losers?" I drop all four legs of my chair back on the floor. I lean closer to the kid, resting my head in my hand. "I'm more interested in what you think?"

Peter instinctively (and, let's agree, smartly) leans away from me. "Um… I'm still analyzing at the moment," he answers as he scoots further into his seat. "So… about, um, Bull's Eye—why was he after me in the first place? Do you know him?"

"Bull's Eye? What you think all mercenaries know one another? Why? Because all you superheroes know one another and share a cool club?"

Peter pauses before he innocently shrugs. "Just asking."

"Well, to help my credibility, I'm thrilled to tell you that I don't know him," I proudly state. "Don't know a thing. Just that his name is Lester and he goes by Bull's Eye."

"And you have no idea why he's after me or what's to kill me?"

"Of course I do, don't you?"

That throws Peter off guard. "W-What?"

"What?" I mirror. Did Stark and company not tell him? Oh… shit. Was this a top secret mission? No kiddies allowed?

Peter presses on. "I asked first."

True, he did ask first. But, if Stark and Captain and the Pussy Cat didn't tell him anything about the mission in regards to his parents' death, was he supposed to know? Am I obligated to tell him? Shit. I put myself in a delicate position. And I hate being delicate. It's not my style. I'm all rough and tough and bang, bang. Shit.

"Well, yeah! Everyone knows." Why the hell did I say that?

Peter appears baffled by that response. "Everyone?" he mutters in shock. "I-I don't understand. Why was he after me then?"

"Well, you're, um, Spider-Man. Famous teenager. Celebrity. You know. Famous."

Peter cocks his eyebrows. "You said that already," he points out, shifting in his seat. "Are you saying that this kidnapping is an attempt to ransom money from Stark?"

Huh. I didn't think of that. Sounds like a good lie to follow. "Err… I assume so?"

Peter pinches his face in thought. "That's stupid," he states. "Why would anyone want to face up against the Avengers?"

I do not say a single word. I really, really want to. But, I check myself. I say nothing. But I am grinning like a crazy, admired fan. Little does Petey know that I faced up against his heroes and beat them. Well, join forces with them, but same thing. I guess. Not sure.

"I know. Crazy!" I say a little too loudly. "Insane! Maniacal! Absolutely nuts—"

A box of raisins and a bag of peanuts crash right in the middle of us. Except for the fact the baby spider caught the bow of raisins with one hand with his quick reflexes. I turn around to see Blind Al tuttering away, grumbling about how she should just shoot me whenever I come into her apartment.

Idiot. And so unappreciative. Did she forget that I built that stupid bookcase of hers?

"Sorry about her," I tell Peter. "Again… old hag."

"I don't know. I think she's cool," Peter comments as he opens the box of raisins. He chops on a few before he spits them out in his hand. "Sorry… stale."

"Don't try the nuts then."

Peter sets the raisins aside. "I'll take your word for it," he says. He scratches underneath his chin. "Doesn't make sense for a single person to do it. This Bull's Eye has to be working with someone. You said he's a mercenary, right? Someone hired him."

Oh my god. Is he asking what I think he is asking? Oh my god. He is. He is! My heart is racing right out of my chest. "Are you saying you want to do a team-up?" I asks with hearts in my eyes.

Can you imagine? Spider-man and Deadpool. Partners in crime. They could call us Spideypool!

But all those high hopes are punctured by a single sentence. "I was thinking more along with telling Mr. Stark and Captain America about it," Peter relays. "They'll know what to do."

Oh, yes. Of course! Disney's ultimate blockbuster, money-making heroes! They know what to do. Can't be a Marvel story without them making an appearance or doing the heavy-lifting. Not a superhero story without them. Little, arrogant shitheads.

Peter gets up, a little wobbly at first too. "So, um, do you have a car by chance?"

"Why?"

"Please answer the question."

I groan. "Yes. It's the stolen car. What? You want to go on a road trip?"

"Back to the Compound," Peter says and I fall flat again. Seriously! Does the kid not see me melting on the floor? What's he trying to do? Ruin all the fun?

Apparently he doesn't care, because he keeps on talking about how Stark will solve all his problems. "We can tell Tony what happened tonight," Peter rattles on. "They would want to meet you too. My aunt especially. To thank you."

Oooh. I doubt that they would want to see me again. My departure of our last get-together didn't leave a good impression. A lasting one, but not a good one. I did leave a pair of hands.

However, I didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. He is already rallied up, limping to the door. "We should get going," he orders me about. "Hey? You okay?"

He's asking me. Right. Got to say something. "Of course! I'm always okay when I'm with you, bub."

Peter's quizzical eyes find me. "Bub?"

"Apparently you say that to a friend," I explain. "I know. Doesn't sound cool at all."

"Um, no, it's okay. Just… weird," Peter says and Blind Al takes that moment to reappear in the living room.

"You leaving?"

"Sure am, Stevie Wonder," I tell her. "Duty calls. You know how it is. I have to go. I know you'll miss me. Tell our children Daddy loves them. And remember… there's coke still hidden in this apartment. Good luck on never finding it."

"Fuck you, Wade," Blind Al mutters.

"Love you too, Al!" I cry. "And go to the grocery store every once in a while, for God's sake!"

Little Peter brushes past me and goes up to Blind Al. "Thank you for sheltering me," he says, trying to suck up to her. "It's kind of you and I'm sorry I bled all over your floor."

Blind Al's brows furrow. "Just get the fuck out. I'm tired."

And Peter takes two, big steps backwards from Blind Al. I shake my head. I told him that she can be a shithead when she's trying to kick the bucket. Sweet, Mama June… no one ever believes me.

"Don't worry about her," I direct Peter to the front door. "She's been a bitter old lady ever since her grandchildren told her to rot in hell."

"Wait—what? Really?" Peter inquires.

Poor, poor boy. Such a rare innocence in the world. No fucking wonder Stark and company are so protective of him. He's a child I would die for!

"Yeah," I lie to him. "Now, you were saying something about a road trip?"

We get outside where I park the stolen car. It's completely dark outside. Not even a single light came from the moon or stars. That's fine. I work better in the dark anyway.

Peter stiffly rounds around the car, heading to the shotgun seat when I grab the little Spidey. "Um, you probably want to sit in the back," I warn. "Haven't cleaned the blood off."

Spidey snaps his hand back from the handle. "Okay, I'll sit in the back." He returns to the backseat, but stops. "Um, there's blood here too."

"Yeah, but it's your blood. Not a complete, psychopath stranger's blood."

Peter nods. "Good point," he says as he maneuvers away from the spilled blood. He slams the door closed. "Let's get going!"

"Oh, sure, but first!" I say, turning on the radio. "We rock out to these sweet tunes and go pick us up some snacks! You like Twizzlers or Red Vines?"

"Um… I'm okay. I think we should just go straight—"

"You need something in your system," I say. "And it's not a road trip without sing-alongs and junk food."

Baby Boy sighs helplessly. "Fine… um, I actually prefer a Milky Way instead of the whole licorice thing. Or a bag of potato chips is fine as well."

"Perfect!" I say as I get the engine running. "Hold onto your asses. It's about to be all Vin Disel up in here."

"You mean Fast and Furious?"

"Uh, yeah," I say. "Now… let me do my own commentary, okay?"

I drive out of Blind Al's apartment and down the street. I park on the side of the road and order the little Spidey to stay in the car. Not safe being outside with all these hitmen looking for him. Peter promises to stay in the car while I go inside to get the food.

I buy him the Milky Way bar, the bag of chips, a bottle of Gatorade and some Benadryl. What? I know what you're thinking. You're absolutely right. I'm going to put a few drops in his Gatorade. Why? No reason. None whatsoever.

I purchase the items from Sebastian again. He doesn't even say a goddamn word. Little fucker. But I love him.

I open the Gatorade and add a few drops of the Benadryl. I shake it up. Looks good to me. Won't notice a thing! I skip back to the car. Peter is still there. He looks on edge. Well, no surprise there. A hitman already came after him once tonight. Maybe another will show up.

I "open" the Gatorade and pass it back to him along with the snacks. "Here you go," I say. "Drink up!"

Peter looks at the Gatorade funny. "You got me Gatorade? Why?"

"Because it has electrolytes and you lost some blood," I say in my sweetest, but nonchalant way as to not give away the fact that I somewhat spiked it. "Something to help you replenish. Plus, I got you your Milky Way bar. As promised. See? Told you I was a nice guy."

"You never said you were or weren't," Peter quips in return as he takes the Gatorade and has a drink. "Thank you. You know? You're not so bad. Actually, I think you'll get along with Mr. Stark. You guys would probably—"

"Oh! Hey! Look at the time!" I exclaim to cut him off. "We better hit the road again or be late. Keep drinking that Gatorade! I want to see it all gone mister or I'll have my head."

Peter tips the Gatorade bottle back and keeps drinking. He wipes his mouth with his arm. "Yeah, we better go. I keep getting this weird feeling."

I hope he doesn't mean the Benadryl. "All right! Deadpool and Spider-Man! First road trip ever! Spider-pool. Spider-pool. Does whatever a Spider-pool does. Can they beat the world? Sure they can. Cause they're a team of ass-kickers!"

I hit the accelerator and fly down the street. Somewhat heading north as I watch in the rearview mirror as Peter slowly loses conscious. After twenty minutes driving north, the boy is passed out in the backseat. Wow. Maybe I added too much Benadryl to his drink. Oh well. He's out.

I turn the car around, hitting the bridge out of Manhattan as I sing along to The Clash, "Should I stay or should I go? If you say that you are mine. I'll be here until the end of time."

We arrive.

If you want to know, I didn't drive Peter upstate. I drove downstate. Further south than Manhattan. But, I swear, it's all in good fun. Peter will be happy to have come along. Even if he doesn't realize it yet. Or even when it's years in the future.

I reach back and poke the baby awake. Spider-Man shoots up in his seat. "What? What? Are we here?" he looks wildly around, his befuddled looks fading to one of securitization. "Wait… Mr. Deadpool—"

I sheepishly shrug, palms up. "What? I never said I would take you to the Avengers."

I stifle a laugh as Peter glares at me. He looks cute when he gets all red. "Where am I?" Peter demands. "Where did you take me?"

"Oooh. You're going to love this, baby boy," I tell him, parking the car and shutting it off. "It's a surprise."

Peter shakes his head. "No—no. No more surprises! I want to go home! Give me your phone!"

I dodge his hand and get out of the car. "We already talk about this! My phone is useless because you don't remember their numbers."

I hear the baby growl in frustration from inside the car. The sun is barely over the horizon. Still dark enough that people in this quaint suburban neighborhood are asleep.

I knock on Peter's window. "Come on out," I sing-song to him. "It'll be fun! You'll like it. I promise!"

"Take me home!" Peter yells from inside the car.

I release a long, heavy sigh. This would be easier if he simply cooperates. "You are making this less fun for me," I say. "Look—I swear to you over Miss June's lost weight, I promise to take you home once you get out of the car."

I wait. Peter doesn't respond. I still wait.

"Are you coming out?"

"No! Because I know you're lying," snaps Peter. "What's wrong with you? Don't you know it's illegal to kidnap children and to take them across state lines?"

What. The. Hell? "How do you know this?"

"I read!" Peter responds, frantic hitches in his tone. "And you know what? I finished my analysis. You are insane!"

I don't care anymore. I pull the door open and I see Peter scooting away from the open door, sliding his ass over the dried blood. "I'm not joining you on whatever this thing is," the kid says trying to dodge my grabs. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

Because I can't leave him in the car. You know. Child safety reasons. What? I'm a responsible adult. So, like any reasonable, good adult, I grab him by his ankles. He appropriately kicks me, but he's not up to strength. Still recovering from his wound and blood loss and etc. But, I will say this, he's strong. What a power kick! I bet all those in his kick-boxing class are jealous!

His kick doesn't throw me off… entirely. I almost tip backwards, but I have a pretty good hold on his ankle that keeps me from falling on the pavement and breaking a hip. If that was how he was going to play, I'll show him my WWE moves. I went to rip him out of the car, but he sticks to the leather seats. No matter how hard I tug, he doesn't even budge. What the hell is in that kid's Wheaties?

I surrender, completely exhausted. Like my muscles are burning! "Look… you wanna know where we are? We are outside of Baltimore. Maryland."

"Why?" demands the kid.

"Because the guy who tried to kill you also happens to be in cahoots with the person living in that house," I point to the house in front of us. "Now, aren't you a bit curious who is trying to kill you? Hmm? Even a little?"

I can see the boy's mind turning the thoughts over his head. The clogs clicking into consideration as he ponders over his desire to go home over his desire to know answers. By the small sigh and turn of the lips, the boy relents.

"Okay. Fine," Peter says as he unglues himself. He slides out of the car in his end. "But we aren't doing anything to them. No fighting or killing. Got it? Just… recon. That way we have something to report back to Tony and the others."

Oh sure. Go to tell Stark and his boy band. "Of course!" I say.

"And you'll take me home right after?"

"Sure."

"Pinky swear?"

I drop my head back in exasperation. "Yes! Fine! Pinky swear. Can we get going? I'm bored!"

Peter shakes his head, but stealthily heads up the cement path to the picket-fence homestead. I skip up to the porch, loping an arm around Peter's arm. I drag him up with me as I ring the doorbell multiple times.

Peter gapes at me like I'm mad. Well, he's not completely off. "What the hell are you doing?" Peter whispers. "I thought we are doing recon?"

"We are!" I say, slyly as I hear charging footsteps coming in our direction. "Oh, wait-for-it! Here it comes! The grand reveal! You're gonna piss in your pants! Just wait. Keep waiting and…"

The front door swings open. An old man greets us, wrinkles mapping out his expression upon our intrusion. His mustache is unkempt, silver hair in disarray as he glowers his frustration and fatigue. He looks like a man with disgruntled with the world. Almost as if he is done with everything and everyone. Like it is he who was betrayed by the injustice in life and not the person who victimized others.

Typical. All politicians act that way.

Peter clenches beside me. "Y-You're…"

The old man's eyes glow. "Peter Parker?" he growls. "What the blazing hell are you—"

Pop!

The soft sound of my silencer gun goes off and Thaddeus Ross yelps as his knee cap is blown off by my bullet. Peter gasps, trying to pull away, but I keep a good grip on him to stop him from running.

"Hi! I'm Deadpool," I introduce myself as the former Secretary of State hobbles away from the doorway. "Where're you going? We need to talk."

I drag Peter Parker into the house with me and slam the door shut. No need to interrupt everyone else's slumber. That would be just a douche move. Peter is blabbering like the sweet, innocent baby kangaroo that he is. But, I have my eyes on the injured Secretary at the moment. Can't cope the words out of his mouth.

I catch up to the Secretary and punch him in the face, knocking him flat on his back. I snatch his hand and drag him to a chair to throw him in. Getting everyone settle for our recon mission.

"What are you doing?" Peter gasps the words out from his shocked state.

"Doing recon, duh!" I reply. Which reminds me. Since this story is rated T, I'm going to have to cut this short. You know… censorship doesn't allow you guys to see all this. So, I'm going to have it end it here.

See you later! Buh-Bye!