Previously, on Deadpool: Weapon:
[Hey, chili dogs, what you doin’ up at this hour? Yeah, I couldn’t sleep either. So I guess instead I could fill you in on what was shakin' in Chapter 3. I know you were on the edge of your seats for The Big Fight Scene, but instead we had a mega-ton of lame dialogue with The Dark Knight right after I arrived in the Big Apple. Oh well. At least his name’s scarier than “Teen Titans.” Anyway, I think he must have had food poisoning or something, ‘cause there we were just chatting away and all of a sudden he was down on the ground in the fetal position muttering, “Please, make it stop.” I offered him some Rolaids but I don’t think he saw.
Now I’m about to put this
Chapter 4: And the gun it lies next to me, whispering, whispering*
Still Some Dirty Alley, from Whence Batman Has Just Gone, Crying Softly
Deadpool leaned against the glass wall of the payphone and dialed the number. “Collect call for Slade Wilson,” he said in a ridiculously fake nasal soprano.
“Who shall I say is calling?” asked the operator.
“One moment, Mr. Cheney,” she said, as she put the call through.
A minute later, Deathstroke’s voice came over the line as he accepted the call.
“This is Slade Wilson. Mr. Vice President...*hrmph*...why are you calling collect?” he said suspiciously.
“Mr. Deathstroke, sir, is it really you?? Hiiii!!! Ohmygosh it’s such an honor to talk to you. The ‘Stroke himself! Wow, I’m a BIG fan. Tell me, how does that nifty staff-thingie work? I’ve always wondered about that. Say, if I ask real nice, can I have your autograph??”
“What?! Who is this, and how did you get this number?” Wilson roared.
“Huh. I can see you’re not big on the fanboys, then. Shame. Can I have a few of yours? Mine seem to be kinda thin on the ground right now. I think I need a better publicity agent. Is yours good? Maybe we can swap names. Oh, hey! Did I mention I’ve got your ex-girlfriend Pat tied up and stashed somewhere right now? But I’ll let her go if you ask real nice and give me an autograph. Gosh! I reeeeeally want to meet you!”
“How dare—where is she, you piece of slime?”
“Well you know I can’t tell you that just yet. But I’m in an alley off the corner of Amsterdam and West 128th, so, you know, if you want to chat...”
“You stay right there, punk, because I’m coming for you. And if you hurt the lady...”
“Hey, whoa there, ‘Stroke. I resent that insinuation. I never hurt the ladies...unless they ask real nice. So, we gonna stand here chatting all day, or you gonna get your ass on out here for a visit?”
“I’m on my way,” Deathstroke snarled, “and you’ll be dead if she’s not in mint condition when I get there!”
Deadpool heard the phone on the other end of the line slam down. “Well, hey! It worked!” he exclaimed, and dialed the next number.
“Teen Titans, Kory speaking,” said the voice that answered.
“Hey, babe! This is the pan-universal Merc-with-a-Mouth, reporting. I’m about to cook me up some Deathstroke soup, so in an hour or so I’ll be collecting my fee [pitiful as it is]. You gonna be around to dish it out?”
“Um...yes, Mr. Deadpool, you can collect your fee from Titan headquarters when the job is finished,” she said.
“Sweet! And speaking of dishes, has anyone ever told you what a tasty morsel you are? I’ve got some free time before the universes re-align, so if you’re not doing anything...”
“Good-bye, Mr. Deadpool,” Kory said firmly, and then Deadpool heard a loud click from the receiver on the other end.
“Damn,” sighed Deadpool, and sat down on the curb to sharpen his knives.
After a moment, he began to whistle:
She thinks my tractor's sexy, it really turns her on...
Chapter 5...I can haz fight now, pleez?
*Chapter title from Alabama Motel Room, by Matthew Good Band