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         “Stupid school,” Peter Parker thought as he tapped his pencil on his desk, “making me take stupid Economics.” He looked at the clock, begging it to creep on just a little faster, to hobble over the finish line and drag itself to the end of the day. He’d have no such luck. The clock taunted him. Just five more minutes, Peter, five more long minutes.

         Agonizingly slowly, it ambled into the last seconds of the period. Five, four, three, two, one, and he was free. Peter ran through the hallway, stuffing his textbooks in his backpack as he leapt down the school staircase. He tore over the football fields and through the back alley behind the school.

         He slowed down in front of his favorite sandwich shop, Delmar’s. The faded sign welcomed him, and the shiny bell above the door tinkled as he walked in.

         “Number five,” Peter said as he grabbed a bag of gummies. He petted Mr. Delmar’s cat and hummed a stupid song he’d heard Ned humming at lunch.

         “Gracias,” Peter said as Mr. Delmar handed him his sandwich. He haven him the money and put the change in the tip jar. Can’t hurt to help out a local business, right?

        “No problema. Dice hola a tu tia por mi, eh?” Mr. Delmar said.

         “Quizás,” Peter laughed. He put the bag under his arm and walked out of the store into a nearby alley. He threw his bag against the wall and absentmindedly webbed it up as he slipped out of his clothes and into his costume. No longer was Peter Parker, the dork with glasses, standing in the alley. No, in his place stood Spider-Man, defender of New York, do-gooding vigilante, total badass.

           He stretched a bit, the sandwich still clutched under his arm. He reached his hand out to the wall, letting his fingers slowly latch on as he climbed up the bricks. Usually he would prefer to just web himself whenever he wanted to go, but he thought it was good practice to start a patrol with a nice little workout, to get the blood flowing.

         Finally he got to the top of the building. It was beautiful up here with the sun shining down on the rooftops. So many people were down there, so many people who needed Spider-Man’s help. But first, Peter really wanted to finish that sandwich.



         It had been a pretty slow day. Peter had helped a lady get her cat out of a tree, then helped a man get his dog out of the same tree after it had chased the cat and gotten stuck itself. He’d helped several confused tourists, stopped a pickpocket, and explained how ATMs work to an old woman.

        It had been a slow day, that is, until he went to grab some milk from the 24 hour store down the street from his apartment. He stood at the counter for a few minutes, still wearing his costume, before he decided to go make sure everything was okay in the back. Mr. Pope, the man who ran the store, really wasn’t the type to leave it unmanned in the middle of the night.

         “Hello?” He called as he cracked the door open, “is there anyone there?” He got no response, so he cracked the door open a little more, letting in more light. As his eyes adjusted, he slowly made out a lump on the ground. A twitching lump. A lump covered in blood.

         “Oh my god,” Peter whispered, “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” He felt a lump Rose in this thought as he pulled out his phone, his hands clammy and cold. He called the police, sobbing, and ran out the door before they arrived. He waited in the alley as the sirens pulled up. People’s voices filled the air, mixed with the static of dozens of radios firing off at once. Peter didn’t really hear it though, he was too busy puking his guts out behind a dumpster.

          He heard the voices get closer as he swung onto a neighboring building. He took a breath of air, in through his nose, out through his mouth, even though he was still shaking all over. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a red figure. Slowly he turned around.

         “Hey Spidey,” the figure said, “it’s been an awfully long time since we spoke.”

         Of course. Deadpool. Because why not?

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      “How could you do that?” Peter asked. He was shaking, though he wouldn’t have admitted it if you asked him. He raised his hand up, ready to web Deadpool.

      “Woah! Calm down! I didn’t do anything,” Deadpool said. Peter watched as he stood there, his hands out and up in a gesture of peace. He stood with that cloud of pride around him that he always carried, like he already knew exactly what was going to happen and was just waiting for Peter to catch up.

      “Of course you did. You killed Mr. Pope in cold blood, in his own store,” Peter cried. And like that Deadpool stopped. The little ticks and fidgets that came with the package that was Deadpool stopped. He stood still, and so did the world. After one agonizing moment a dog barked on the street below, and suddenly their were a million noises. The city’s symphony played with the sounds of pigeons cooing and people shouting and sirens flashing.

      “He had a wife and kids, Deadpool,” Peter muttered, “a real nice family. Always smiling. So nice.”

      “I swear I didn’t kill that guy. You have to believe me,” Deadpool pleaded. The usual playfulness of his voice was gone, replaced by a dead seriousness.

      “Then who did?”

      “It was the hit monkey.”

      “Deadpool! You can’t joke at a time like this! A man’s dead,” Peter said, aiming at Deadpool’s feet with his webshooters. Just as he was about to shoot, Deadpool cut in.

      “No! Really! He’s a monkey, sees himself as some sorta vigilante, killing off murderers. He’s been going around the city for the last few weeks. Cool character, I’ve heard, very high up in the merc business. That’s where I think he gets his list.”

      “His list?”

      “His hit list.”

      “Well,” Peter said, “I don’t see what’s so bad about someone who’s just trying to stop criminals.” Deadpool was silent.

      “No,” Peter gasped, “you’re not scared of him, are you?”

      “It’s not that I’m scared, Spidey, it’s just that I’m,” for a second he was lost for words, “careful.”

      “I never thought I’d hear you call yourself careful, Deadpool. You’re the equivalent of a baby with the nuclear football.”

      “I don’t want to die, okay? Believe it or not, I care about my life.”

      “I thought you couldn’t die though?” Peter was curious. Maybe there was some way to finally shut Deadpool up for good.

      “Fine, I can’t. But gunshot wounds hurt like a bitch, Spidey, they really do.” Peter stood there for a second, watching Deadpool.

      “So what do you want me to do?” Peter asked.

      “I was thinking that we could team up, maybe. Just Spider-Man and Deadpool against the world.”

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Peter said.

      “Why not?”

      “Well you’re,” he gestured at Deadpool, “you, and I’m me.”

      “So? We can be the new dream team. Like Fred and George, or Captain America and Iron Man.” He paused. “Actually scratch that last one, it didn’t turn or well.”


      “Spidey, please, I’m begging you.” Peter sighed. He was going to regret this.

      “Fine! You win,” Peter relented.

      “Thank you! This is, like, the eighth best day of my life,” Deadpool said.

      “Do you have somewhere to stay or-“ Peter looked at Deadpool. “You need a place to crash, don’t you?”

       Deadpool nodded as Peter walked to the edge of the rooftop.

       “Just follow me. And please,” Peter said as he jumped off the building, swinging onto the next rooftop, “keep up.”


      Peter slowly crawled though his window, letting the warm glow of his apartment shine on his face. He climbed over the wall, past his collection of Star Wars LEGOs and his signed copy of Breakfast of Champions (his most prized possession). Slowly he closed the door and dropped down from the ceiling. He dropped his costume on the ground and quickly slipped on some jeans and a t-shirt. 

       He walked out of his room and through the apartment. His aunt was fast asleep in her room, but a plate of meatloaf had been set out for him. He checked the time. 12:30. 

        Peter knew that he needed to go get Deadpool, who he’d left up on the roof, but he’d also settled into the coach with the (dry) meatloaf. He sighed and pulled out his phone. Deadpool had made him save his number for emergencies, because that’s what partners do. He’d just saved Deadpool’s number as ‘Jack-ass’.

         Peter called Deadpool and told him to just come down the fire escape on his own, because he didn’t feel like getting up. After making sure his aunt was asleep he’d gone back into his room and put on his mask (which was posing a great problem in the eating arena), and that was as much movement as he wanted to do for the rest of the month. 

        “Aye aye, Captain,” Deadpool said, “I’ll be down in a second.”

        “Don’t tell anyone where I live, okay?” Peter said. 

         “Of course not, Spidey,” Deadpool replied as Peter heard a knock of the window. He turned around to see Deadpool through the glass, flashing him a thumbs up. Peter was most definitely going to regret this.

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      Peter woke up with a pounding headache, and he wasn’t really sure why. He glanced over at his alarm clock, only to realize with a start that he wasn’t in his nice, cozy bed. Instead, he was nestled in the sofa’s couch cushions like a little Peter taco. Slowly the events of the night before came back to him. 

       He groped at his face, praying that he’d taken his mask off after letting Deadpool in. He couldn’t let his aunt see him. She’d know he was Spider-Man. Not only would he never be allowed to patrol again, he’d also never be allowed to go outside again, period. Luckily, the mask was off. Peter sat up, realizing that the sun was shining in his face. It must be at least noon.        

      "Pete! Buddy! Good to see that you're awake." Peter shot up. The voice that had spoken was sarcastic and almost dry. No, Peter thought, it can't be. He looked over to the kitchen table, where his Aunt May sat with a teenage boy. He was tall, lean, and horribly scarred. Deadpool.

       "It's nice that you're awake," Aunt May said. "I've been talking to Wade here all morning. He seems like a really great guy. I'm glad you're putting yourself out there, making friends." She stood up and walked to the fridge. "You want some juice?"

       "Um, sure," Peter said. He ran his hand through his messy brown hair as he stood up. He was still wearing his jeans and t-shirt from last night, though they were ruffled and probably all gross. But then again, if Deadpool wanted to come into his house, he'd have to deal with Peter. Wait, he realized, Deadpool knew where he lived. And what his name was. That was, like, the biggest security risk in the world.

       "It's nice that you're hanging out with Wade, honey," Aunt May whispered in Peter's ear. "It's good for you to have friends. Plus, he's kinda cute."

       "May, please," Peter begged. He looked over at Deadpool (Wade?), who had pulled out his phone.

        “What? Am I not allowed to worry that my nephew’s becoming a little,” she paused, “isolated? Aren’t you lonely?”

         “May, I’m fine, really. And Wade’s just a friend.”

          “Of course,” she said. 


          “Oh, that reminds me. Please tell me before you invite your friends over from now on, okay?”

           “Yes, May.”

           “Good. Now go out there and have some fun!”


        “So, Petey, what do you want to do?” Deadpool asked after they walked out of the apartment complex.

         “I was just assuming we would go look for that ‘hit-monkey’ you were talking about, or whoever’s been targeting people in the city,” Peter said.

          “Oh baby boy, we gotta have some fun first! Who would I be if I let you spend your entire day patrolling?” 

         “You haven’t earned the right to call me that, Deadpool.”

         “Well, when will I?”

         “I reserve the right to make that decision, Deadpool. And from the way things are going, you won’t earn it until long after I’m dead,” Peter said dryly.

         “There’s no need to be melodramatic, Pete, really. Now, I was thinking we could go to the Moving Picture museum. I read about it on a tourist blog!”

          “When did you have time to read tourist blogs, Deadpool?”

           “Call me Wade,” he said to Peter. 

           “Fine Wade, when did you have time to read some stupid tourist site?”

           “Last night when I wasn’t sleeping.”

           “For the sweet love of Jesus!” Peter cried. Suddenly he realized he was standing in front of the museum. He sighed. 

            “What a coincidence!” Wade said. 

            “Wade, please.”

            “Okay fine, Peter. I knew you weren’t paying attention so I led you here. Big deal. Sue me.”


            “Look, I’ll pay for your ticket.” He pulled a crisp stack of hundred dollar bills out of his back pocket.

             “Where did you get that?” Peter squeaked. 

             “If I don’t tell you, I can’t lie. Now come on!”


         Peter shouldn’t have thought that his day couldn’t get worse than going to a museum with Deadpool. He really, really shouldn’t have thought that. 

         See, everything had been going surprisingly well. He and Wade watched a strange experimental film by Jimi Hendrix, checked out old latex SFX masks, and even played some rounds of Pong. It had all been going well. Peter would even dare to say that he was having fun. That was until they went into the old quasi-Egyptian style movie theater to watch a classic Superman movie. And suddenly hell broke loose. 

      It had started with a small rumble, the ground shaking, just a bit. Strange, Peter thought, but probably nothing. And then the lights flickered. Peter felt Wade grab his arm. The movie flickered and turned off, the projection screen a clean black slate. 

       A cackle filled the theatre and the whole room went black. Peter felt the hands on his arm disappear, and just like that the lights turned back on. And Wade was gone.

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         “Wade?” Peter asked. He shouted it again, but there was no answer. The old couple in the back of the theatre had already left, so Peter was alone. He stumbled out of his seat, past the red velvet seats and yellow and blue pillars. Down the stairs he walked, but there was no sign of Wade. No handprints, no scraps of fabric, nothing. Before Peter knew it he was back in the lobby. He’d thought it was nice earlier, all clean and modern and beautiful. But now it was just sterile, empty, lonely. 

         Peter was about to leave when the older woman behind the counter called out to him. She was around fifty, if Peter had to guess, with messy grey hair and kind brown eyes. 

          “You dropped a bag off, didn’t you honey?” She asked. Peter nodded dumbly and walked over. He fumbled in his pocket for his ticket, handing it to her. She smiled and walked into the back room. She emerged a few minutes later with his backpack. He thanked her and left, for what else could he do?

         As he walked down the street, he noticed a piece of yellow paper flutter to the ground. Peter frowned, bent down, and picked it up. He realized it was a post-it note, albeit a crumpled one with a mysterious brown smudge on the corner. 

         It read “416 Ocean Ave.” Peter peered a bit closer, but he couldn’t make out the scribbles at the bottom of the bag. Slowly Peter pulled up his phone, typing faster and faster as he looked up the address. It was only 15 minutes away, 8 if he swung there. It was a wild chance, sure, but he had to take it. Right?


         Peter stood outside the building. It seemed to be a fairly standard affair, six or seven stories tall, red brick apartments. And, apparently, it was home to a villain’s headquarters. Hopefully it was an evil headquarters. 

         Peter walked up to the entrance way. He stood awakwardly for a minute, waiting for someone to come in or out of the building. When no one did, he decided to ring the doorbells of each and every house. Someone was bound to let Spider-Man in eventually. 

         He started with Adams, George, and ended with White, Nina, but no one would let him in. Apparently being a super-vigilante doesn’t give you the power to enter any building you want. So, Peter sighed, he would have to break in. 


         Peter wished he could say that sneaking into the apartment building had been a challenge, but that just wasn’t true. All he’d had to do was climb to the second-story fire-escape and then walk until he’d found an open window (on the fourth floor). Then he’d silently crept through the apartment and into the hallway. Easy-peasy. Now he just had to find Wade. If he was even in the building. 

         After careful consideration, Peter decided that his best course of action would be to start on the top floor and work his way down, asking each tenant if they’d seen anything. It went well, at first, though Peter wasn’t really learning much. That was until he got to apartment  3C. 

         “Hello?” Peter asked when the door slipped open a crack, just enough for an eye to poke past the door chain.

          “S-Spider-Man?” A man asked, unlatchinf the door and opening it more. He had a huge beard that covered the bottom half of his face, and Peter was prett sure he could see a piece of Dorito hanging out of it.

           “That’s me. I was just wondering if you’d seen anything suspicious recently, maybe a guy in a red suit, or one with severe burns?” Peter said. 

          “You’re not gonna call me crazy are you?”

          “No,” Peter reassured him, “of course not.”

          “Well I saw some guy with a screwed up face earlier. Came with the monkey,” the man said.

          “What monkey?”

          “The one that lives down the hall.” When Peter didn’t respond, the man rushed to defend himself. “I promise! There’s really a monkey. He wears a little business suit, and I’m totally not hallucinating him. You gotta believe me.”

           “I do,” Peter said. And he did. Because apparently the hit-monkey was real, and Peter was living in his own personal Hell where Wade Wilson actually knew what he was talking about.


           “Yeah. Which apartment is this monkey in?”

           “3A, two to the left.”


         Peter’s original plan had been to just knock on the front door, but he didn’t think that that was very wise anymore. So instead he opted for his apparent new favorite way to get around: the mighty fire escape. 

          From the escape he peered into the window of the apartment. It would have seemed like any other, with bright yellow walls, a nice wooden bookshelf, and little pots of succulents, had it not been for the fact that anime other than Deadpool was sitting right smack-dab in the middle, tied to a chair. His head was lolled to the side and there seemed to be a bullet wound in his shoulder, but other than that he seemed very alive. Peter was sure that the hit-monkey (he had to have a better name) must have tried to kill him, but struggled past Deadpool’s seemingly infinite healing factor. 

          Slowly Peter opened the window until it was wide enough for him to sneak through. Then he crept into the room and over to Deadpool. As soon as Peter began to cut away his ties, he heard a gurgling sound from Wade. As he got closer and closer to freeing him, the gurgling turned into words. 

         “Sp-iey, m-key, hnd you,” Wade muttered as Peter cut away the last tie, propping Wade up and dragging him towards the window. 

         “M-key, m-key,” Wade said. 

         “You’re fine, Wade, I’m getting you out of here,” Peter replied. 

         “No. M-key,” Wade stammered, “m-key, m-key, mo-key, monkey.” Realization dawned on Peter and he slowly turned around to see a short, white monkey with a long pink face. He was wearing a neatly-tailored three piece suit in a smart blue, and he carried a gun in each hand. The hit-monkey.