I'm not one to boast, but I am pretty much the best there is at everything and everyone else sucks but me.
This doesn’t really “describe” me per se. It’s a nice bar graph, don’t get me wrong. But how do you describe a guy like me in a little bar graph? Seriously, how? Nothing? You’re not going to say anything, are you. Fine. Be that way, a-hole.
… I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I had a hard day at the office, the VP of marketing is on my ass about those getting damn reports on his desk by morning, and I missed my son’s soccer game. Again.
Wait. That’s not describing me either. I guess the bar graph was good enough after all. Yeah. Stick with the bar graph.
Hell yeah, ninja sword! The best part about ninja swords is how they are all SWOOSH and then blood and severed limbs and junk. God! I love cutting people with ninja swords. Almost as much as I love Vermont maple syrup. Don’t judge me, man. Vermont makes the best maple syrup and ninjas make the best swords. Period.
Now I am hungry AND hankering for a ninja sword fight. If only there was a way to combine the wholesome goodness of maple syrup with the exciting awesomeness of ninja sword fights. It would be like peanut butter and jelly, but instead of peanut butter, it is syrup, and instead of jelly, it is swords cutting people in half.
(WHAT FOLLOWS IS AN ACCOUNT OF THE BIOGRAPHY OF DEADPOOL AS HE IS IN THE EXILES GAME CONTINUITY. IT DOES NOT REFLECT THE ACTUAL DEADPOOL FROM MAINSTREAM MARVEL COMICS CONTINUITY)
I was born to an army general father and a really sick mom. I’m not saying my mom was gross. I’m saying she had cancer. Lung cancer, to be exact. After mom died, dad took to smacking me around a lot, which was fun. I started my welt and bruise collection at the same time as dad started his empty scotch bottle collection. Good times.
I guess being constantly whupped by the old man might have put a bit of a chip on my shoulder, because honestly I was kind of a jerk as a teenager. Unlike now. When I was seventeen my dad got killed in a bar fight with one of my drinking buddies. I used this as an excuse to drop out of high school and I decided to join the Army. I went into the Green Beret program, but I was so good that the Army had to kick me out because I was making all the other army guys jealous of how awesome I was. What? Dishonorable discharge because I was too much of a loose cannon to be relied upon by my superiors? Huh. Well, I am sticking to the ‘too awesome for the army’ story anyway.
I got a job as a mercenary at about this time, and after a while I had quite the reputation as a bad ass. My ass was bad, and everyone knew it. When I was on a ‘business trip’ (mercenary code for ‘going somewhere to kill a guy for money’) in Boston, I met Vanessa Carlyle, and yeah… I hit that. Actually, I really did love Vanessa, and the sex was only a really great part of it. I mean really, really great. But I digress.
Anyway, I found out I had cancer, like my mom had when I was a kid. I had to find a way to deal with this cancer, because it was affecting my ‘job performance’ (that’s mercenary code for ‘ability to kill a guy for money’). I kind of f’ed up a mission to kill this guy named Blind Al. When you can’t even off a blind guy, it’s time to reexamine your life, I always say. Okay, I’ll fess up. I’ve never said that before, and I don’t know how I would ever work it into a conversation anyway. The people I was working for got pissed that I screwed up and went after Vanessa, but this other chick swooped in to save her at the last second. So, between suddenly being a terrible mercenary and also suddenly dying of a terrible wasting disease, I was obliged to break up with Vanessa. I decided not to let Vanessa watch me shrivel up and die, but I suck at break ups, so to let Vanessa think I didn’t love her anymore, even though I did. Man, I missed her smile. And ‘dat ass. But I was dying of the Big C, and I couldn’t let her get involved in that crap.
I was really getting desperate at this point. I volunteered for the second Weapon X program, where my body and mind were altered on a genetic level. This was supposed to give me a healing factor like Wolverine, stop the cancer from killing me, and make me like a super soldier. So I was all “Hell, yeah! Hook me up!”. But I guess the cancer interacted with the process, because instead of making me awesome I wound up looking kind of like a slab of old meat when you leave it out in the sun for a few days, then you kick and stomp the meat for a while, then back to rotting in the sun some more. That was what I looked like now. Thanks, second Weapon X program!
They put me in a field team with Garrison Kane, Sluggo, and Slayback. Slayback was kind of a dick, so I blew him up with explosives. He was all like KABLOOM and bits of him everywhere. It was great. But yeah, they kicked me out after that.
I was sent to this place called The Hospice where the Weapon X program keeps all its rejects. It was also called the “Workshop”. I never saw anyone building birdhouses or fixing carburetors in there though. If they were, I didn’t see it, because I was too busy getting tortured and experimented on. There was this neat game we played, though, called the Dead Pool. Basically, all the inmates bet on who would die next. Dr. Killebrew (awesome name, I know) chose me as his “special project” and said my odds of dying were very low, with like a thousand to one odds, making me the leader of the Dead Pool.
I have to admit, things get a little hazy here. I remember this really hot goth chick, Death, had a thing for me. I kept trying to get killed so I could be with her. But, no dice, I kept on living, like a jerk. Eventually, my healing factor went into overdrive after one of Killebrew’s experiments, and Death (that bitch) dumped me because I can’t die now at all. What a tease.
Anyway, I got my skin back, got rid of my cancer, and got re-accepted into Weapon X, even though my psych profile still had me listed as “a dangerously delusional, violently insane individual with little tangible acceptance of reality”. I don’t know what any of that means except for dangerous, violent, and insane. Heh… guilty. I haven’t been right in the head in a long time, but I’m having too much fun chopping dudes in half with ninja swords to really give a crap.