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Deadpool: The Apocalypse

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The camera pans across a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Crumbling sky-scrapers are lying on their sides, empty husks of cars litter the landscape like someone has kicked over a kid’s toy box and left everything where it landed.

The color-palette of the scenery is variations of shit, from yellow-brown to almost-black-brown, all deeply unpleasant. Slowly, the gaze is drawn to what seems to be the one exception to this monotony and we zoom to the top of what once was a building of some kind but is now nothing more than a collection of cement blocks. On one of them sits Deadpool, wearing his customary outfit (which kind of fits, being the bloody-about-to-die-of-bowel-cancer-shit shade of red) and kicking his feet.

“Oh hello,” he says, looking up at the camera. “I know, looks pretty crappy, am I right?”

The camera moves up and down, imitating a nod.

Deadpool continues: “You probably have questions. You look like a reasonably intelligent and attractive human being, after all, one with an inquisitive mind and skin like a Georgian peach before the dehydration process. Whereas I’m none of those things and even I have questions. They may even be the same questions as you have: What the fuck happened here? Why is the world a smouldering pile of ruins? Whose fault is it? Why is this dipshit the one left standing when even the cockroaches appear extinct? Where does James McAvoy buy his hair products? Is this the worst date movie decision you’ve made since the Green Lantern?”

Deadpool stares at the camera expectantly. After a while the view screen bobs up and down briefly again. “That’s what I thought,” Deadpool says. “Well, I’ll tell you if you come a bit closer.”

The camera zooms in.

“No, closer.” Deadpool curls his fingers beckoningly. “It’s okay, I won’t bite. We’ll just nuzzle a bit.”

The camera slowly zooms in some more until the screen is filled with Deadpool’s head and shoulders. He inhales deeply. “Damn you smell good, like sugar covered Peter Parker on a spit-roast, and I’m not talking about the barbeque kind here if you know what I mean.”

The camera zooms back out, somehow managing to convey disgust. “Yeah, alright,” Deadpool says, flapping a hand. “Keep your pants on until the credits roll and then we’ll talk. I did promise to address those questions first. The answer to all of them, in one way or another, is…” He leans back an unzips his suit, revealing a horribly pockmarked chest as expected but also four diagonal slashes that are bleeding sluggishly and shockingly showing no signs of healing. “…fucking Wolverine, that hairy immortal ballsack.”

Deadpool zips his suit back up and brings both hands to his mouth in mock surprise. “Right? Should’ve fucked his adamantium ass when I still had the moral high ground. But, let’s review.”

The screen goes black. The words ’10 Days Earlier’ appear, the words themselves fading out quickly while the number 10 remains, slowly merging into a door number in what appears to be a run-down hotel. A hand comes into the view, knuckles poised to knock. It hesitates and then drops out of the frame. A second later the hand is back, this time hovering over the door for longer but again disappearing. The third time the hand comes up there’s no time as the door is wrenched open, and Deadpool appears behind it, hands on hips.

“Either shit or get off the pot, already. I’ve had to pause my pay-per-view porn to watch you dither like a virgin before the prom. What is it?”

We switch to camera view 2 which reveals Wolverine behind the door, his hand still raised ready to knock. “Go fuck yourself, Wilson,” he says, lowering his arm awkwardly.

“I was going to,” Deadpool says. “You’re crashing the party.”

“Give the unicorn a night off,” Wolverine says, pushing into the room. “I need your help.”

End scene.