Hi. I don't own Deadpool. But he owns me. So yeah. I also have no idea where this story is going. I just wrote it. Out of nowhere. For fun. Okay bye.


A few days ago, I was told to escort a Gentle Rose into the waiting arms of a certain "Mr. Fox." No boo-boos or no money. Hey, that's fine; I'll just cover her with bubble wrap and carry her straight to him. I'll use a FedEx box too, but Rose could be as fat as yo momma. It's an easy job, but I can't do it; "Gentle Rose" isn't actually gentle – at all.

"Aaaaahhh!" Rose screams, tossing another chair at the wall.

It gives a short crack of pain, the wall grunting in sympathy. A piece of the chair's leg rolls toward me, bumping against my trademark red-striped black boots. I pick up the fragment, examining the workmanship. Victorian Luxury is craved on the bottom, practically screaming "I'm-worth-millions-of-dollars!" I whistle softly, wondering how Mommy and Daddy Rose would react. They probably wouldn't even notice with all the identical copies filling the room.

Rose gives another shriek and launches into the gold-titled books nearby. Little mushroom clouds of dust explode with every 700-page bomb she throws, creating more noise than an amateur drummer.

"That idiot!" she splutters, arms still whirring. "Would it kill him to get a limo? Or even a jet! No, he sends a donkey instead of a stallion!"

Well that was rude. The b**** is just asking for a bottle of weed killer. But I'll forgive her for the cash. Only for the cash.

The "donkey" gives a short mocking bray that was very convincing if I do say so myself. Not-So-Gentle Rose whips around and glares at me with some obviously fake green eyes. I bet she has an entire color spectrum of contact lenses in her make-up room. Rich b****.

I smile at the spoiled she-devil but drop it when I realize that she can't see my face under the mask.

"Sorry for not being a limo," I say. "Or a Transformer. But Donkey Kong here wants to keep his bananas, so let's go, Princess Peach, because Mario's waiting."

Her scowl twists into an odd mixture of hate and confusion.

"Are you insane?" she asks.

My fingers twitch. Rich as she is, you would've think she'd be able to afford a PlayStation or something.

"Look, Rose," I say. "I want money, and you're the key to Fox-face's money chest, so let's go, go, go."

She sniffs and crosses her arms.

"I require my baggage, " she says, and looks at me expectantly.

As if I'm here to be her damn servant. Yeah, right.

"Uh, no," I tell her. "Apparently, I'm a donkey, and I can't load myself. I can only transport. And I've been told to transport one 'Gentle Rose,' not one 'Rose with a bag of cow s**t.'"

"What—!"

"Hold still, honey."

I jump off the windowsill I'd been sitting on, and pull out a large size roll of bubble wrap from god-knows-where. Hey, I wasn't kidding. I even bought a FedEx box, and luckily, Rose is the size yo momma wants to be: petite and light as a feather, even when wrapped in sheets of bubble wrap. Unfortunately, Rose's momma appeared at the doorway just as I was shoving Rosie into the box.

An awkward second ticks by as fancy dressed prune stares at shadily dressed ninja pushing down a tightly wrapped princess. I should be gone by now, but that old bag caught me by surprise. I guess I'd better nix the box before she realizes the wriggling bubble-worm is her daughter.

Hefting said worm over my shoulder, I give a quick salute to the prune and jump out the window.


INTERMISSION

Now the story you've just read, that's just a preview of what I do. I'm not really a kidnapper or a crazy chaperone that likes to use codenames for the hell of it. Okay, I will be if you pay me enough. But that's not exactly what I am; I'm a mercenary (one of the best, too), and sometimes, I do more than kill. I'm kind of like a man-for-hire, like that Mexican guy named Pedro on your block who will do odd jobs for money. Except I'm more exclusive and expensive. Supply and demand, you know? There's only one of me, and ten million Pedro's.

So, yeah, I'm a pretty normal guy, all weird parts aside. Underneath that oddball layer of tight spandex (and scarred skin, but don't worry; it's not contagious), I'm just Deadpool, mercenary for hire. I can spy, kill, transport, satisfy (wink, wink), and I don't care if you're liberal or conservative, as long as you're rich and generous. I'll even be your stand-in comedian and cheer you up, that is, if you cheer my piggybank up first.

But enough advertisement. Now that you know who I am, who I really am, and who I'm not, let's get back to the plot. It's in here somewhere.

By the way, I can be contacted at 1-800-DEAD-MERC.

Just kidding.