Rocket Rodent & The Despicable Pool

October 29, 2018:

Rocket comes a shootin' and Deadpool din't die! Mm-hm! Mm-hm! o/~

Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children

As seen in Deadpool and Deadpool 2.

Characters

NPCs: Weasel

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Sister Margaret's is probably one of the safest places to be when all this bullshit is going on outside. There's nothing but hired guns and killers and what-have-you that live and breathe this place. Normally? It'd be a wretched hive of scum and villainy. But recently, it's been a sanctuary for protecting Staten Islanders from the craziness that goes on.

One particular protector of people is known as CAPTAIN DEADPOOL.

Okay, okay. Just Deadpool.

JUST DEADPOOL (very funny) is standing over a table full of guns. Lots of guns. Some guns don't even look real. Some guns don't even look like they are from Earth. And some guns look like they are straight up out of a comic book or three. Whatever the case may be, Just Deadpool is clearly getting ready to cause some serious trouble. Mayhem. Or…

"Read 'em and weep, fellas!"

Just Deadpool lays down a handful of Uno cards, all Skips and one Draw Four. "Fuller House!"

The others at the table groan and growl in losing anger as Just Deadpool reaches to collect his violent winnings.

*

Needless to say, it has been a busy month for the formerly smallest of the Guardians of the Galaxy, not that it normally isn't, but this one has just been so much the more so given recent demonic activity, reunions with those thought to be previously departed, and a bit of unlawful reappropriation of a certain item previously housed in a place better known as the Met.

For the record the last had to have been one of the most inexpensive break-ins ever on the account that he hadn't blown up a single thing, hence proving that stealth and precision are completely doable even with Rocket involved in the equations. He just prefers blowing things up. It's much more fun blowing things up.

It's been well over a month since he'd crossed paths or business with the red and black masked assassiny-type being, and even then he had been something more of collateral but nevertheless involved. Rocket hasn't forgotten. It's just taken some time to get a bite, more so with New York being overrun by demons, but when you get a lead, you take it no matter what, or you miss out. Which is exactly what Rocket does now, and why he even shows up at Sister Margaret's.

The door's kicked open, but the camera will have to pan down some as said force that did the kicking is a small one, but he's got a rifle nearly as big as him propped easily over a shoulder, definitely not anything one can find on a daily basis on Terra aka Earth. Dark eyes narrow as he takes in the atmosphere, his gun suggestively advising that no one make any cracks about his height, and potentially his species because he still denies being related to anything Terran in any way, shape or form.

"I'm lookin' for some nutjob wearing red and black who likes talkin' about and to himself a whole lot—"

"Fuller House!"

"-never mind, found 'im."

*

"And that's the way the Cookie Monster Crumbles!"

Deadpool gloats as the other mercenaries that don't have any lines in this episode grumble away from the table and the Merc with a Mouth snatches up the Uno cards and starts shuffling them. He can feel that someone is approaching. Mostly because he's already read the script but also because he's got a nineteneeth sense about these things. Or more just because there's a huge gun walking towards him with a raccoon charm dangling from it. Or something. He's got some serious peripheral vision… even while wearing his mask. But he's always wearing his mask to maybe that doesn't mean anything.

"Alright, alright! Step right up! Booster chairs available! You're the next contestant on the Pool is Right!" Deadpool tries to be cool and flick the cards from one hand to the other but they end up just sailing all over the place.

"… 152 Card Pick Up! Last Card Loses!" He has no idea if that's even a game but he's hoping it's enough of a distraction to allow him to grab the largest Nerf gun he won off the table, cock it back and aim it at the invading beastkin that's coming all up in his personal space.

"That's far enough, Short Round."

*

Is he talking to him? Rocket isn't sure but he figures it's a bunch of nonsense spewed from the masked man's unseen mouth that he doesn't give the fluttering cards another glance.

Maybe it's the weapons already present, maybe it's that there's been at least some talk about a bipedal raccoon wandering around with the near guarantee that things tend to explode or get shot up pretty badly in his wake. Or maybe it's just that people know Deadpool, or whatever script the mercenary believes he's read. The extras scatter in the typical fashion of those old Westerns where two big reputations collide and everyone knows better than to be caught up in the middle of it, parting like the Red Sea.

Rocket swings his rifle down from his shoulder with practised ease, leveling it at Deadpool around the same time that he's aimed at.

"An' yet oh so close!" he almost coos. Right before pulling the trigger, the rifle jolting back with its usual kick, but he's fired it enough and modified it personally that he knows well by now how to angle himself to keep from being thrown off balance.

*

Whatever the hell comes out of that Raccoonish Rifle of Doom is enough to explode the foam dart coming out of the Nerf Cannon that Deadpool decided to fight with. Also, enough power to explodinate the Nerf Cannon itself. Still, also, enough to have Deadpool sailing backwards and across the damn bar in a flailing manner befitting of someone that has managed to just get himself the dropped on. There's also blood and a hole in his chest that makes him very much cranky as hell.

Not to mention he lands upside on the dart board in which a couple of other mercs are playing darts. And now they've decided to just keep on playing, throwing through the hole in his body and everything.

Don't even try to figure out how in the hell he's hanging up there. It's movie magic or something.

"Wait! Wait!" Deadpool flails his hands, blood dripping from the hole in his chest but he's still very much alive. "Whoever sent you, let me tell you that they're pullin' your tail, man! They've sent you on a Wild Pumbaa Chase! Whatever they told you, whatever they showed you, they're lying!" Deadpool sounds exactly like they were not lying but whatever. "I know the truth. I know exactly what happened last week on Glee! I can show you. I TiVo'd it and everything!"

*

Boy was that satisfying. Even as Rocket watches the ensuing he settles his rifle back to rest against his shoulder once again after compacting it a foot or so with a sound *click*.

"I have no idea what the flark you're talkin' about," he says, dryly eyeing Deadpool as the man still manages to get up after taking a direct hit. The guy's ability to patch himself up is both amazing and downright annoying, but that's also probably why Rocket went ahead and shot first. Aside from proving a point to satisfy his inner fanboy. Han always shoots first.

"No one sent me," he clarifies. "You forget that whole mess at Coney Island? …though I guess that's fair enough. 's been long enough."

*

"Coney Island? You mean they rebooted Lost? Holy Fishshits!"

Deadpool peels himself off the wall, there's a dart in his arm but he doesn't even notice. Or he doesn't care. The hole in his chest is already starting to close up but he stumbles his way in the direction of the fool that decided to shoot him up without any probable cause!

"Listen, forget everything else I just said. How would you like to join my team of ruffians and ne'er-do-wells. We could use a cosplaying dwarf with a kickass gun from Battlestar Galactica. You also shoot first at all Greedos so that's definitely one helluva selling point." Only Deadpool would try to hire someone that just shot him across the entire bar.

"So. No one sent you, huh? I guess I didn't get the rewrites. That's okay. We'll wing this." Deadpool nods his masked head in a winking motion. Somehow. "I. Guess. We. Don't. Have. A. Problem. Then. Friend." Deadpool's bad at acting when he's trying to act.

*

The raccoonoid rolls his eyes, waiting until Deadpool's gone through with his spiel. Truthfully he's shelved the whole matter regarding Arcade but that doesn't mean it won't be revisited at some point or another. His frustration has for the moment been satiated with a single blast. And if he feels the need to, he at least still has a readily available target.

"Huh. Let's say that I ain't insulted bein' called a dwarf an' know what the hell you're talkin' about, and that my curiosity is vaguely piqued by this business proposition."

*

"Excellent! Get this rodent a cheese wheel!"

Deadpool waves off in the direction of Weasel, whom waves back… only to realize he's being waved down for an order. Sadface. And then he starts making a drink.

"Okay. So. I'm Deadpool, as you already know. Which means I'm the leader. But! You can be the muscle. I've never had Midget Muscle before so this should be pretty fucking awesome. I've already got a couple other people lined up. One /super smokin' hot/ clown girl. I forget her name but she's got nice mallets. She's also madly in love with me so of course I had to let her in." Deadpool taps his chin. "There's also Weasel back there. But he's more like a Watson to my Lucy Liu than a field agent. There was another sexy beast from the future but he never answered my note so who knows." Deadpool tries to think of who else. "OH! There's some chick that /swears/ she has the mutant power of Luck. But please. Luck is not a superpower. But she's kind of hot so I'll let her in anyway…"

By this time, Weasel has wandered over with a glass of yellow liquid and sets it down on the table amidst the guns. "Your cheese wheel, sir."

"Thanks, Wease!" Deadpool turns back to the Rocket Rodent. "So. Besides guns that hurt like being drawn by Rob Liefeld… what can you bring to the best team in the history of teams ever?!"

*

Rocket mosies on over towards the table as Deadpool has evidently decided that his response meant 'oh yeah, I'm all in!' He clambers into a chair, snarling a little at being called a rodent. He'll remember that.

Rifle tucked in place beside him, the Guardian feigns interest as the merc rattles off the colorful roster of his makeshift team. He glances over at Weasel and the drink that's been brought over, sniffing at it as he draws it towards him.

"Depends on what the job is. Me, I like to think me a jack of all trades. Weapons, explosives and firearms in particular- I'm yer guy. Need something piloted? Got ya covered there too. Bust into or outta some super secure place? No prob."

*

The Cheese Wheel smells like cheese but tastes like the heart of a thousand tequilas with the kickback of a thunderstorm odinson cannon. Or something. Whatever. It's just damn strong, okay!

"Like a swiss army knife. With fur. I like it. It's just crazy enough to make the X-Men jealous. You're in." Deadpool has already just decided to let this rodent into the fold. "We're still deciding on uniforms and whether or not we're going to have wicked cool decoder rings. But I'm sure Babies R Us'll have something in your size. We'll figure it out."

Deadpool leans back in his own chair and kicks his feet up onto the gun-filled table. "Hold on. Rewind the cassette. You're a pilot? That's /perfect/. Because for our next gig…?" Deadpool waits for the camera to zoom in on him all the way. "We're gonna' steal us a plane."

*

Okay, this drink smells hella terrible as no drink should smell like cheese but the alcohol has a definite presence that Rocket is inclined to try a sip. Or a swallow. And boy does it kick. He coughs, setting the glass down, riding put the burn as he squints over at Deadpool.

It's probably only because he's trying to make sure his esophagus hasn't dissolved that he doesn't say something in retort about where exactly Deadpool can put his uniform.

"A plane?" he not quite gasps, clearing his throat, or at least trying to. S.H.I.E.L.D. will love that. But Rocket very much operates under the principle of what they don't know won't hurt them.

*

"Not just a plane. The Plane. We're talkin' Fantasy Island 'de plane, boss, de plane!' plane."

Deadpool nods along before he starts yanking things out of pouches. Coupons. Brochures. Menus. Phone Numbers for Hot Dudes. Phone Numbers for Hot Dudettes. A handful of restraining orders. Oh! Here it is! Deadpool fans out the piece of paper that he's yanked out and tosses it off in the direction of Rocket. "I present to you: The Spruce Goose."

Taking a look at the paper will show that it's a newspaper (they still have those, right?) article about the ancient and legendary plane being put into a museum in New York because there's all kinds of museums and what not. "And here's the best part. That's gonna' be our base."

*

That mouthful of 'Cheese Wheel' was disgusting so clearly it warrants another sip. Rocket does so in the only way one properly should put away a drink, by taking a nice healthy swig so as not to burn his lips off. Okay, that's enough of that.

Deadpool's references go clear over the raccoonoid's head to no one's surprise, but he pushes away the glass as he peers at the pile of crap that the merc dispenses onto the table. He's not sure whether the alcohol's helping or making it worse.

Somehow he still manages to snatch the newspaper clipping as it's tossed in his general direction, looking at it until the words unblur long enough for him to make out what the thing says.

"…you serious?" Wait, dumb question. But still. "That's one ugly plane. Where're you even parkin' somethin' like that? It's got over three hundred feet'a wingspan."

*

"In the air! Doi!"

Deadpool then reaches to snatch the newspaper clipping back. It gets tucked away into one of the billions of pouches he has. "Shhhhh! Don't tell anybody the plan. Not yet, anyway. Not until we get the rest of the band together." Deadpool looks around at the rest of the bar. "Besides, some of these extras might try to beat us to the plane so we might have to kill them all. But don't worry, we're not making our move until after these demons get the hell back to hell."

Deadpool looks at Rocket. "Unless, of course, you don't think you can handle a plane of that awesometude." Ooooooooooo snap!

*

Rocket's still squinting at the paper when Deadpool snatches it away. So much for reading any further details on the thing. If he remembers, he'll have to look it up later.

"Yeah, whatever," he mutters, sitting back. "Hey! Can I get a drink that don't taste like armpits?!" That's shouted at Weasle. Poor guy's been pegged as bartender now.

Waiting until the demon crisis blows over sounds like a fair plan, he'll give Deadpool that much. It's been long enough that he's not going to hold his breath, but maybe if he lobs a bomb or two into some of those portals it'll help for the cause.

And then Deadpool goes and taunts him.

The Guardian turns a slooooow look towards him, brow furrowing.

"Pooly, I can fly anything that's got the equipment- and some things even without."

*

"… Pooly. I like that."

Deadpool shakes himself out of that thought process for nicknames he's going to add to his wiki page. But with his challenge out there, he jumps up to his feet, that hole in his body finally mostly closed up. "You wanna' take this to the roof, suckafoo?! Because I've got a giant paper airplane up there with SOMEBODY's name on it!"

Wait, so here's the thing. There's a good possibility that Deadpool's lying but he's also Deadpool and there's a chance this exact thing could really be on the roof.

"Twenty Disney Dollars you can't fly it."

*

"YER ON!" Rocket shouts back, partially because of the alcohol and partially because he is determined to prove a point even if the idea of a giant paper airplane strikes him (belatedly) as ridiculous. BUT STILL he's not going back on his word! And there are plenty of ways to make something fly!

"I'll make you eat those dollars to give me real ones! I dun want any more of this Monopoly money crap!"

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