Yesterday, 8:23 AM (Chicago)
Dreadpool, clothed in red and black adorned spandex, was seated along the edge of a peculiarly low rooftop. His infamously scarlet mask shrouded his countenance from view, and veiled his eyes in deepest white. His sheaths, each carrying a blade heavily resembling a katana, had been placed upon his back. His waist, as usual, bore a jet-black gadgetry belt, used for carrying assortments of firearms and other lethal weaponry. His form was bathed in the radiance of a rising sun, pale clouded skies flecked with azure hues. Placed around his head, oddly enough, appeared to be a sleek, silvery set of Astros, connected to an ebony phone firmly grasped in his right hand.
"I'd like to be, your executioner... Hey dude, lemme kill you now. If I was behind you, I'd shoot you in the head. If I was--" He sang, in a cadence mockingly reminiscent of a certain young star that most of us happen to deeply despise. Instrumental music blasted in his ears, he himself remaining quite unperturbed by its loud resonation. Gently swaying from side to side as he got further and further into the song, he was abruptly thrust back into the world as his phone went received a sudden notification, which had been edited to sound like a storm of bullets and blades whenever such occurred. "The freak is this? Doesn't this prick get that I'm TRYING to improve a crappy teen-made song FOR A BETTER GENERATION!!" He roared, shaking his head in fair vexation. Clicking the instrumental off with a simple press of the screen ("Touchscreens revolutionized the world more than Stark ever did, bub"), his eyes trailed along what appeared to be a pending... contract?
Attention clearly diverted, his eyes rapidly darted across the notifcation, absentmindedly scrolling through it as he did so. As he finished, his expression lit up with excitement, raising his head upward from the screen. "I.... I gotta call Brad Henshaw about this!"
Dialing Bradshaw's number with great haste, he raised the cellphone to the place where his ear would be ("Through the mask, stupid idiot!"), when suddenly... click. A familiarly mechanical voice played through the speakers, simultaneously speaking as words came onto the screen.
Your call has been rejected by 'Eric Bradshaw'. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options.
"Sonuva... Still too busy playing the cash grb Call of Duty games he gets all of his experience from. I'll calm em tomorrow..."
Shifting his focus back to the widespread notification, he jocularly began, "Alright, alright... so the mutant leader of a country wants people to kill some cyborg virus dude with a cliche villain last name, who wields a bow and arrow... seems legit."
Reclining till he was flat on his back, he continued to himself, "Wait a sec, which idiot decided to name their kid's last name 'Savage'? Least Knightfall's got a little class to it... Nope, I never said that." The fact that a notable mutant leader of another country was enlisting people to kill someone would generally be no laughing matter to any other individual. On the contrary, considering it was the Shogun issuing such, it more than likely would be a matter of utmost importance! But, in McGrath's case...
"You know, maybe I shouldn't agree to this. Perhaps I should be a model citi-sassin, and firmly stand against the enlists of such a superpower. I mean, I'm sorry Ponygirl Baldie, but I don't see the point... screw it, yolo," Standing up to full height, his phone raised directly in front of him, in any way he could, he remotely accepted the issue. Accepting a mercenary position to aid the Shogunate in this. Because why not? S.T.R.I.K.E HQ was getting boring anyway, not like the director would care. Right? Right?!
OOC
- This isn't a Dreadpool tale, just something I typed up quickly in response to The Purge. As you might be able to tell, it's a little bit rushed. Might've gotten a few details wrong here and there, and if so, I'll edit em. Hope ya enjoyed!
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