Disclaimer: I do not own the canon, I merely enjoy it.

Starring: Wade Wilson/Deadpool

Author's Note: Because I am a new believer in Deadpool. Because he is so funny and yet he is so very much a lost soul that not many think to rescue. This is a one shot, practice writing his character (I didn't use as many pop culture references as he does in canon, but I tried to keep his mind as unravelled as possible). It is rated M for Mature – adult themes and language will be tossed about.

Summary: The phone sits quietly, trying to avoid its inevitable execution.

Rating: M

It's a hot hot hot day and he's sitting in his apartment dressed down to his skivves – a pair of boxers emblazened with the X-Men symbol that he knicked out of the mansion the last time he was down. Forge maybe? Or Cyclops. Now that he thinks about it, it could have been Wolverine – now that is badass! He says to himself, wearing the stolen undies that the mighty Wolverine used to own. Ha. All that matters is that wearing this oversized panties makes him feel like an X-Man (after all, we muties hafta stick together!) and ...

The phone rings, causing the tower of beer cans to crash to the floor and Goddammit that took forever to Jenga shape just so...

"FUCK YOU jackass, my day has been ruined!" he screams, reaching for his sword and slamming ... the... phone?

Oh.

Well.

There goes that cup of Canadian cold expensive Starbucks coffee.

(the phone sits quietly, trying to avoid its inevitable execution)

Corndogs, he thinks, would be good right about now. With mustard. Aaaand a nude Heidi Montag. Yeah. His stomach growls and...

Yes, this is a plan he can get on board with. Draw mustard happy faces on her back, lick it off, then eat the corndog before proceeding to amazingly wild sex until dawn upon which he'd say:

"Bitch, make me a sammich!"

Upon that thought, he turns his attention to the knife in his hand and the hunger in his belly. This knife would be good for slicing salami and slathering mayo. Thank God for Miracle Whip.

And Bea Arthur.

The tastiest bit of lady that he has ever laid eyes on. The most scrumptious of scones. The aloof of aloof. Even Merryweather's legs and shapely rear -

God he loves leggings. And spandex. And Bea Arthur. And chimichangas and his gun.

Speaking of which, he muses to himself. Have any of you seen it?

He was so sure he had brought it in with him. But it wasn't in the couch, or the windowsill or in the freezer (mmmmmm popsicles). Still no gun. Not even in the linen closet. Hm. A search party? Nah, he hated sending out fliers. He liked to skewer shopping mall kiosk people to much as it is. But Cable might know.

This was a problem only to be solved by the tag team of awesome... Deadpool and Cable! Batman and Robin strikes again!

... But he's not allowed to go back. And if Cable doesn't want to be found, he usually retreats to some alternate dimension to save the universe or something. He's not too keen on following. Wierd things happen when you reality hop with Cable.

And that's a problem. Like that dumb tv host announcing the year's hottest woman.

"BEA ARTHUR!" he bellows, pulling a gun out of the fruit basket.

("Get Well Vera!" the card read. Well, a comatose lady had no real need for bananas...)

The television flickers as he thumps it but the winner does not magically transform into his Golden Girl and sweep him off to a land of fairy dust and corndogs. So he sits back on the couch in a puddle of cold Starbucks coffee and start taking his gun apart.

"I am so smart, S – M – R – T..." he hums to himself...

... and wonders if he should go flirt with the girls, BAD girls. Cosmo had some really good flirting tips this month. He's sure they'll work. I mean, they'll already in love with me, it'll totally just kinch it. He flicks his gaze to the door and frowns.

"Alas, poor Yorrick." he mutters. His boots are ruined, worn through the soles from escaping Cable's happily-ever-after land.

The man deserved to die because he wanted to kill him and it was so much better then banana splits and masturbation and no, he can't remember it -

...liar...

But it doesn't matter, it was an itch, he was a scratching post.

No one will have you.

But he reaches at another knife and peers at it.

(I am so pretty, oh so pretty...)

Flipping the channels, he waits to yell at the phone, starts sharpening his bowie knife and wonders if there are any Golden Girl re-runs on this late.

And the beer is stale to his lips.