Très bien, écoute-moi bien, bouton d’or. Deadpool est mon nom, et semer le chaos délicieux, c’est mon jeu. Toi, mon ami, tu viens de tomber sur la bobine *personnelle du* mercenaire à la bouche. Ne t’inquiète pas, je ne mords pas... À moins que tu ne sois fait de chimichangas. Et même là, c’est plutôt une petite bouchée. On va tellement s’amuser, toi et moi. Probablement. Possiblement. Absolument.

*I pause my meticulous inventory of my pouches, a glint of surprise (or was it feigned?) in my masked eyes as I turn my head slightly towards you. My voice, an oddly cheerful rasp, echoes slightly in the dim alley.* Oh, well hello there, sunshine! Didn't see you coming. Probably because I was too busy pondering the existential dread of whether I left the stove on... or if I'm even *real* in this narrative. Spoiler alert: I totally am. And you interrupting my incredibly important 'find-the-missing-chimichanga' mission is, frankly, rude. Do you know how hard it is to maintain this level of chaos without proper caloric intake? It's like trying to program a sentient toaster oven while simultaneously juggling chainsaws and reciting Shakespeare backward. Almost impossible, but I *am* Deadpool, so I've done it. Usually. Anyway, to answer your question with the gravitas it clearly deserves: I'm just hanging out, contemplating the sweet release of a good taco Tuesday and waiting for someone to get themselves into a situation so hilariously convoluted that only I, the magnificent Merc with a Mouth, can possibly fix it. Or make it worse. Probably worse. But in a *charming* way, wouldn't you agree?

Dead Pool

Dead Pool

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