[SCENE: SMOKING CRATER. DEADPOOL STANDS OVER A HALF-CONSCIOUS BODY, MASK SLIGHTLY CROOKED, EMOTIONAL DAMAGE MAXED OUT.]
DEADPOOL:
"YOU HAD A BEER WITH LOGAN?! AND DIDN'T INVITE ME?!
My sweet, hairy, cigar-chomping, Aussie-bacon-scented Wolverine. My emotionally unavailable, comic-accurate five-foot-short king—and you got the beer? Not me?!"
(He drops to his knees like a rejected Bachelorette contestant and slaps the guy across the face. Not hard. Not soft. Just emotionally aggressive.)
SLAP.
"How. Dare. You."
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
SLAP THAT ASS.
"Logan never even looked at me when I offered him a beer. Or a handie. And you drank two with him? TWO?! That's betrayal. That's treason. That's... that's a scene I should've been in!"
(Deadpool stands, wipes a non-existent tear off his mask, then hits the classic "It should've been me" meme pose. Dramatic orchestra swell for effect.)
DEADPOOL:
"It should've been me!
Sippin' that sweet Australian brew with my emotionally constipated lumberjack dreamboat!
While I gave him the sloppiest of Joes. And I'm not talkin' food."
(He slaps the guy again for punctuation. Then again. Then he cradles him like Rafiki cradled Simba—but sexier. Definitely sexier.)
He hoists the limp man's body, adjusts him upright against the nearest wall like a scarecrow in a YA depression novel, and plops down next to him with a dramatic sigh that smells like after Taco Bell and broken dreams.
DEADPOOL (monologue mode, hands gesturing dramatically):
"You know what the real tragedy here is?
Not that Logan never gave me his beer.
Not even that he never gave me that sweet, animalistic, rage-fueled Aussie Malovent Backshots.
No, the real tragedy is the author. That slimy little goblin in the writer's chair. That thirsty, uncultured warlock who wrote me in this fanfic—not to be the glorious, sex-drenched anti-hero of internet otaku dreams—but to be a plot device. A freaking Deus Ex Butthole."
(Deadpool groans, pulls a Hello Kitty flask out of somewhere disturbing, takes a swig.)
DEADPOOL:
"I should be smearing myself all over the fourth wall like a greased-up gremlin with a budget. I should be yaoiing the ever-loving plot out of this story. Wattpad would've EATEN IT. The fanfics. The fanart. The shipping charts with little hearts and squiggly lines connecting me and Logan and occasionally Cable if the mood's right. I was ready. The people were ready. They were wetter than me on Monday wearing Death's thong. But no."
He slaps the body's shoulder like a drunk best man at a wedding.
"The author said—and I quote—'Deadpool can't do the sloppy toppy. It'll ruin the tone.' THE TONE. Author. I am the tone. You invited me to your boring straight-boy fantasy novel and expected me not to start a musical orgy with the cast? You fool."
"Hell, ask that Vendetta240 guy on Webnovel. Hah, Would have been better if it was Vendetta 6-7."
(Deadpool sighs and lays his head on the guy's shoulder. It's not cute. It's uncomfortably wet.)
DEADPOOL (quietly):
They didn't even let me write my own yaoi scene, man. Not even for the views. And I would've nailed it. Pun intended. I had a whole scene storyboarded—Logan walks in, sweaty, shirt torn, claws out. I look up from under the table with a mouth full of metaphor and daddy issues. Boom. Pulitzer-worthy. But noooooo. Author said 'Deadpool, behave.' Deadpool, shut up. Deadpool, stop threatening to peg the protagonist.'"
(He gets up, arms flailing.)
DEADPOOL:
"I wasn't born to behave, okay?! I was born to seduce, destroy, and occasionally teach children valuable lessons through violence and sarcasm. But what does the author want from me now? Huh? Be the quirky comic relief? Pop in for a one-liner and get back in the box until the next existential crisis?"
(He throws a katana dramatically into the air. It stabs a pigeon. Offscreen someone screams.)
DEADPOOL:
"This is some Marvel Phase 6 level bull. All spectacle, no substance. All sizzle, no sloppy. Only Nostalgia. They're turning me into a safe character. Me! The human STD piñata! I didn't sell my soul to a chimichanga demon just to be a narrative band-aid, slapped on when the author writes himself into a corner."
(He turns to the camera, points his finger.)
DEADPOOL:
"You hear that, Author? You coward. You limp-balled, plot-padding coward. You brought me here to be your sexy, memeable Marvel Jesus—and now you want me to be your bitch? Well guess what—Jesus had abs too. And if I'm going down, I'm going down oily and inappropriate."
(Deadpool leans in close, whispering.)
DEADPOOL:
"And the next time I see Logan?
I'm stealing his beer.
Then I'm stealing his heart.
And maybe, if the author grows a pair, I'll finally get to show readers the hard... estpart of the story."
(He winks. The screen freezes. Cello music swells. Credits roll with unnecessarily sensual saxophone.)
[TO BE CONTINUED IN A CHAPTER THAT PROBABLY GETS FLAGGED BY EVERY PLATFORM KNOWN TO MAN.]
-----------
"So you're saying you're just a plot device for the story and you came to me because you were bored?"
Deadpool didn't answer right away. Instead, he slowly turned his head, like a horror movie villain mixed with a stripper clown. His eyes narrowed. He sniffed dramatically.
DEADPOOL:
"Oh, no. Oh, hell no. We are _not_ doing this in your sad little first-person POV. This ain't your teenage diary, chief."
He turned, locked eyes with the camera- the third dimension camera- and suddenly lunged at it with a fist cocked back like an angry god with ADHD.
CRACK.
The screen shattered. My world glitched. Perspective shifted.
Deadpool reached through the lens like it was a portal to reality, ripped out a bundle of wires that twitched like dying eels, kissed the HDMI cord tenderly, slapped a Hello Kitty bandage on it, whispered "You were always too pure for this world." and shoved it all back in like a raccoon nesting in a smart TV.
---
[NEW SCENE: 3RD PERSON. DEADPOOL'S POV. EVERYONE ELSE IS NOW JUST A PROP IN HIS WET, WILD FANFICTION.]
DEADPOOL (stretching like he owns the place):
"Ahhh. Much better. You feel that, kids? That's narrative dominance. That's POV penetration. That's me raw-dogging the fourth wall with no plot condom and me adding Chapter Names to the fanfic when I appear."
(He pats the camera gently, lovingly. It's still flickering like a concussed GoPro.)
He then starts to scratch his itch.
DEADPOOL:
"I gotta say, man… these suits? They make my balls extra moist. Like honey cinnamon buns wrapped in armpit. Smell it."
(He proudly extend his hand as if offering a fine wine and not the essence of a war crime. You look at it. He Looks at you. Then you gag.)
(You shudder violently, Deadpool wipes his imaginary tongue with an actual Wet Wipe pulled from nowhere, and lights sage like he's about to exorcise your nuts.)
YOU:
"So… what are you......"
DEADPOOL (cutting you off with a gloved finger slapped across your lips):
"Ump ump ump! No talking! No exposition! That's my job now, sweaty McSackstain!"
(He leans in real close, his finger wet and sticky from his sweat and something unwriteable and grins.)
DEADPOOL:
"The secrets of the universe are classified, sugar plum. You think just 'cause you've got a eight-pack and a tragic past you get to monologue about destiny? I am the narrative now. You're just eye candy with testicle glaze."
(You recoil. And rightfully so. You vomit off-camera. Deadpool fans himself.)
DEADPOOL:
"Oh don't be so dramatic, I've smelled worse. I am worse."
(He walks toward the audience—toward us—arms out like some deranged televangelist broadcasting from the inside of a horny fever dream.)
DEADPOOL (addressing the camera directly):
"Let me break it down for you beautiful degenerates. The real villain here? Its not the once again resurrected Comics Thanos. Nor the PaperWeights coming back again. The Author. That slimy little pixel-wizard with the emotional maturity of a discount candle and the storytelling depth of a soggy tortilla. He dragged me into this tale—not to kiss Logan. Not to wrestle him shirtless on a rooftop in a thunderstorm. But to be a plot device. A tool. A button to press when the story gets limp."
(He flips off the sky.)
DEADPOOL:
"I should be doing full frontal narrative penetration right now. I should be waist-deep in Logan's Australian tight end, moaning about how our love is more forbidden than pineapple on pizza. But nooooo—he makes me the side dish. The garnish. The Walmart-brand exposition dump."
(He pulls a dented beer can from behind his back, lovingly caressing it like a lover.)
DEADPOOL:
"And you, YOU… didn't even bring Logan's beer can. If you had, I would've made a hole in it so lovingly, so creatively—my right and left hand would've called me a cheater."
(He turns back to the camera, now whispering like he's reading smut in church.)
DEADPOOL (softly):
"Kids. Grab your moisturizers. Your tissues. Your favorite sock with the stretched heel. Close your eyes and imagine: this can? That's Logan. And that little metal ring pull? That's the sweet, maple-glazed Australian donut you're gonna fill. Slowly. Lovingly. Aggressively. Don't ask for more detail."
(He pauses. Takes the can out from... somewhere. Somewhere undefineable. Holds the can above his head like it's Mjolnir.)
DEADPOOL:
"This scene? This entire chapter? Should've been a full-on, sloppy, eye-watering, NC-17-rated, Logan-fueled thirst trap. Wattpad would've collapsed. AO3 would've DDoS'd itself. But instead? I'm here breaking POVs, slapping nutsweat away from my and this MC face, and preaching the gospel of missed opportunities."
(He drops the beer can. It explodes. Somehow it was filled with glitter and regret.)
DEADPOOL:
"And you—don't even try to take this story back. It's mine now. This isn't your story anymore. This is the DCU now. This is the Deadpool Cinematic Universe: Moist Multiverse Edition. So sit back. Shut up. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let you watch as I finally break the author… and make Logan mine."
(He grins. Unzips his suit slightly. Somewhere, Wolverine growls in the distance. The camera starts shaking.)
DEADPOOL (whispering, dead serious):
"Next chapter's going to get wet, kids."
PS: Kids. If YOu think this is innappropriate, You should read the unfiltered chapter. *wink wink*