I've already updated! Thank goodness for long weekends. I'm so glad everyone is enjoying this bit of insanity I'm spitting out.
BlueFox: it's all good. Also, your guess about thigh high boots is right on the nose. I'm happy to tell you that that story will stay at a T rating. Long Black Gloves went up mostly for the violence. If you're interested in reading Thigh High Boots when it comes out, I can send you a little summary of what happened in the last story so you're all caught up. But if not, it's all good. I'm just glad you like this story = )
Zany: that was a nod at you that I forgot to make note of at the end of the chapter. Opps. Sorry.
Fire Makes Me Smile: fear not! Christine will come out a winner in the end too.
Everyone else: I'm glad you're liking my Deadpool. I work hard on his crazy.
XXXXX
"Hey! Logan! Let's have a contest to see who can get drunk first."
"No."
"Com'on. It'll be fuuuuuuun."
"No."
"Do you know why it'd be fun?"
"Leave me alone, Wilson."
"It'll be fun 'cause we both heal. It makes getting drunk hard for us, huh?"
"Shut up, Wilson."
"Loggie, com'on!"
"Don't call me Loggie."
"Loggie!"
"I'll cut your head off if you don't shut the hell up, Wilson."
"I'll just put it back on," Wade countered.
Logan grunted.
"Com'on, Wolive," Remy slurred. "Don' be such a stick in the mud."
John nodded, sloshing his beer about carelessly. "That's right, Badger. Jus' take a look at me and Rems." He gestured at his friend. "Drinkin' like we don't gotta care in the wide, blue world. Not like your boy scout over there. The yobbo."
Scott slammed his open hand on the table. "Hey! I am not a stick in the mud or a whatever you just called me!"
"Yeah!" Wade agreed. "You're more a flunkee if you ask me!"
"No one asked you."
Remy laughed. "A loser."
"Dork!" John added.
"Dweeb!"
"Stick up the ass!"
"Young adult male who is unable to control his mutant ability to shoot lasers from his eyes!" Wade added, throwing his head back to laugh. When no one laughed with him, he stopped, looking around. "Too specific?"
"Yup."
"Aye."
"Oui."
"I am not a loser. Or a stick in the mud."
"What about a yobbo?"
"No!"
The men glared at each other. Silence stretched.
Logan grunted. "We need more beer."
"Yup."
"Aye."
"Oui."
"Christine!"
She squealed from her spot behind the bar. "Yes, Mr. Deadpool?"
"Shots! We need shots! And lots of them. Like that song. Do you know what song I'm talking about? The one about shots?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sing for me, Christine."
The red head lifted a lofted eyebrow. "…what?"
"Sing for me! Pretend that I am the deformed Phantom of the Opera, my disfigured face hidden behind a red and black mask of loneliness. And you are my…hey!" He pointed a finger at the shaking Christine. "You're my Christine! Just like the girl from the Phantom of the Opera! Isn't that funny?"
"Yes, Mr. Deadpool. Very funny."
"Sing for me!" he bellowed in a dramatic voice.
"But I—"
"SING!"
Christine glanced around the room nervously a few times, seeming unsure if she was actually being asked to sing by the deranged man in the red and black mask. But when none of the other people—the attractive one with the odd eyes, the one who kept playing with his lighter, the angry one, and the one in the funny glasses—did nothing to help her or stop the crazy one, she did the only thing she knew to do.
She sang.
"Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots…" she squeaked, swaying her hips awkwardly. The one in the mask nodded approvingly. "Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots. Everybody."
She finished awkwardly, looking around for signs of approval. When all the men in the room just stared at her, she added a little, clumsy bow. She forced herself to smile.
"Ta-da."
The others stared. But the one they called Deadpool leaped to his feet and applauded like it was one of the most amazing things he had ever heard. Even if it was as confusing as sin, it made her feel better. Because if he was happy, he probably won't fire off any more shots or throw more plates through the window.
"That was beautiful, Christine! You have the voice of an angel."
"…thank you?"
"I could listen to you sing songs about alcohol until my ears bled. And even after they finished bleeding, I would continue to listen. Your voice is heavenly! Magnificent! It is—"
In the middle of his speech, the angry, hairy one growled something fierce. Jumping to his feet, six metal claws popped out and he was swinging the blades at Deadpool. Christine nearly fainted when he cut off the madman's arm, sending it flopping on the table in three different pieces.
It was kind of funny when Deadpool screamed like a girl, though.
But beyond his girlish squeal, no one else really reacted. The one in the funny glasses looked mildly disgusted but no one really cared about the dismembered arm on the table. The angry one just glowered at Deadpool.
"Do you ever shut up?"
"Not while I'm awake," he answered easily. He sat down and picked up the pieces of his arm, looking at them like the pieces of a puzzle. "Christine, can we get the shots?"
"Oh. Yeah. Yes, Mr. Deadpool."
The men went on with their conversation while Christine went to work on getting their drinks. When she glanced over, she saw Deadpool putting the three pieces of his arm back on. He was frowning, twisting and turning the dismembered pieces until they made the right fit and mumbling to himself quietly.
"So why aren't you drinking, pretty boy?" Wade asked.
"I am drinking," Remy answered, looking baffled. He glanced down, just to double check that he was, in fact, holding an alcoholic beverage.
"No. Not you pretty boy." Wade pointed his still unattached hand at Scott. "That pretty boy."
Scott lifted his nose into the air, sniffling haughtily. "I'm not twenty-one. Therefore, I don't drink."
Silence stretched. A very long, very uncomfortable silence.
"You're serious?" John asked, looking angry. He began flicking his lighter faster and faster, an act that went unnoticed by no one. Remy nudged him. "You really are a dork."
"I am not a dork."
Remy clicked his tongue chidingly. "I dunno, Scooter. You ain't makin' a very strong case for yourself."
"You're just saying that because you drinking under the legal age."
"First of all," Remy began, ticking the points off on his fingers, "I'm twenty-three, you ragin' dork. Secondly, under-age drinkin' is the most minor of the many, many illegal things I have done. Finally, pull the stick from your butt and relax."
Scott looked around him, his expression scandalized. "Logan, are you really going to condone this?"
The older man shrugged. "You need to let loose sometimes, Summers."
"Logan!"
Christine arrived at that moment, carrying a tray full of shots. She set them out around the table for the intoxicated men. The handsome one tipped his head at her.
"Merci," he drawled.
"You're welcome."
"Thanks, kid," the hairy one said.
"No problem."
"Thanks, shelia."
"Of course."
"Thanks," the one who wasn't drinking said, probably just to be polite.
"No problem."
She reached Deadpool, who had finally fastened his arm on securely. "You're a doll, Christine."
"…uh-huh."
"Hey! I got a great idea!"
"You always do," Logan grumbled.
"Christine," Wade began, placing a friendly hand on her feminine shoulder. She eyed it with trepidation. "Why don't you set our buddy Scott up with a drink to help him loosen up a bit, eh?"
"Okay. What should I get him?"
"Your finest appletini, my good sir!"
"Hey!" Scott hollered.
Remy and John snickered in the background.
"Yes, Mr. Deadpool." Christine gnawed on her lip, looking around the room nervously. She tucked a piece of her red hair behind her ear, forcing herself to smile her most charming smile. "Oh, Mr. Deadpool?"
"Yes, darling?"
"I was just wondering…will I be getting out of here soon? Not that I'm in a rush," she added hastily. "It's just…I have somewhere to be after I'm done being held hostage."
"Christine, I'm hurt!" He pressed a hand over his heart. "No one is holding you hostage."
"So can I go?"
"No."
"Oh."
"Where do ya gotta be anyway, shelia?"
She looked at John. A blush spread across her cheeks. "I have a date."
Remy and John shared a mischievous grin, nudging each other like two, drunken old friends. "Ooooohh," the called in unison. "A date. With who?"
"His name is Nick," she said, smiling bashfully. "He works here and I've liked him for awhile."
"Aw, chere, sounds like you got it bad."
"I do."
"Does the bloke like you?"
Her smile slipped away. "Well…."
"Uh oh."
"Not good."
"Poor girl."
"Aw, Christine."
"An appletini? Seriously?"
Another bullet zoomed by Scott's face, lodging itself in the wall behind his head. Slowly, he turned to Wade. Once again, he had a smoking gun pointed at him. Right between his eyes.
And once again, his so-called teammates did nothing but throw back more shots.
"Boy Scout," Wade began, his voice chiding, "Christine was talking. It's very rude of you to try and change the subject."
"Sorry," Scott mumbled.
Another shot was fired, sounding like thunder in Scott's ears. He was going to go death before the night was over.
"I'm sorry, Boy Scout. But I don't think Christine heard your apology. Would you mind repeating yourself a little louder?"
Scott swallowed. Loudly.
Remy giggled.
"I'm very sorry for interrupting you, Christine."
"It's okay."
"There we go." Deadpool lowered the gun. "You were saying, Christine?"
"Well….I really like this guy, Nick. And I know we're friends and all." She shrugged helplessly. "But I can't really tell how much he likes me."
John slammed his now empty shot glass down on the table. "Man oh man shelia, can I relate."
"Wait. So Pyro can interrupt and it's no big deal but if I do I get shot at?"
Once again, Scott was shot at. He raised his hands defensively, unsure of what his offense was this time.
"Boy Scout, John was speaking. You really have to watch your manners. Christine, grab the boy an appletini and then pull up a chair, kiddo. "
The waitress rushed off. The attention was returned to John, who continued to flick his lighter.
"You were saying?"
He adopted a dreamy expression. It could have been all the alcohol. But somehow, everyone knew it was something more. He smiled languorously.
"Well, her name is Wanda…."
XXXXX
Isn't it sad that the song Deadpool made Christine sing is a real song? Poor Christine. I think she's our new, Mick-like character.