Chapter 725: A New Universe, A New Run of Bad Luck (Part 2)

In a game arcade on the edge of Hell's Kitchen, a small yellow figure leapt onto an arcade machine, skillfully inserted two coins into the coin slot, then used hands and feet alike to operate the joystick and buttons.

Soon, a dark shadow fell over the control panel; the Pikachu, fully focused on controlling his character, didn't notice someone had approached from behind.

With his tiny yellow paws, he shoved the joystick hard and stomped the buttons nonstop, turning the arcade cabinet into a dance machine—yet the character onscreen executed a dazzling combo.

Just as Pikachu was about to land the final hit, his hands and feet suddenly hung in midair, still frantically pushing the joystick and pressing buttons.

Watching his character get KO'd due to lack of input, Pikachu flailed wildly—but to no avail. Fuming, the yellow rodent bit down hard on the hand.

A loud "Ow!" echoed from behind; a man in black-and-red uniform, a long sword strapped to his back, clutched his hand, bent over, legs pigeon-toed, howling in pain.

"Wilson! Are you insane?!" Pikachu shouted. "Didn't you see I was about to win?!"

The man named Wilson shook his hand. "I've told you a hundred times—call me Deadpool. And yes, while we share the same actor, Ryan Reynolds, that doesn't mean you can just blurt out Deadpool's name…"

"Are you crazy?" Pikachu crossed his arms. "If you've got nothing to say, get lost. Don't interrupt my game!"

Deadpool shoved Pikachu aside. "Do you even remember you're a detective? You're turning into a professional gamer. I saw it—you were terrible. Let me handle it. I'll K. . them so hard they'll need a new screen."

Pikachu snorted and jumped to the side.

Ten minutes later, Deadpool yelled: "Taste my Deadpool Dad's big B—!"

"!"

With a loud "Boom!", the onscreen character unleashed a massive move and instantly KO'd the opponent—but Deadpool shoved the joystick too hard; it snapped with a sharp "Crack!"

Seconds later, the arcade owner grabbed them both by the collars and threw them out. Sitting on the steps outside, Deadpool handed Pikachu a taco he'd just bought.

"Where's Spider-Man? Lately, where's he been? Why doesn't he come play anymore?"

"Don't bring him up. S. . . . . . has been assigning him work, and he's still got classes. Do you think he's some unemployed bum like you?" Pikachu bit into the taco and snorted.

"I already told you—I'm a mercenary!"

"Sure. The kind no one ever hires." Pikachu sucked down a sip of soda. "Since I met you, when have you ever landed a job? Can you even support yourself?"

Deadpool paused, then said: "You're right… I really am useless… but it's not entirely my fault, right??"

He growled: "Back then, plenty hired me to assassinate rivals—even some willing to pay big to kill the President. Now? Damn it, everyone's cooperating. Big companies get orders like snowfall; even small ones get scraps. No one needs to kill for contracts anymore…"

"Not just me—even the top hitmen? Some went home to get married and have kids. Others just slipped into astronaut programs for space research…" Deadpool sighed, as if the weight of life had bent him double.

"Then why don't you join the astronauts? I remember you're pretty skilled." Pikachu asked.

"What are you talking about?" Deadpool took a bite of taco. "Astronauts can't have scars. What else do I have on me besides scars?"

Pikachu nodded. Deadpool gulped down a huge sip of soda, choked, coughed twice, then said: "When's Spider-Man ever free? I want to play with him—we never finished that game last time…"

"Who knows? Maybe you should get a job first. Otherwise, you won't even have money for arcade coins."

Deadpool snorted. "You really underestimate me… I don't even have money for arcade coins anymore!"

He stood up, patted his pockets—nothing inside. He shook out his wallet; two photos of his own face tumbled out. Not a single cent.

"My last money went to food. If I don't get a job soon, I might actually have to get a real one." Deadpool shrugged.

After parting with Pikachu, Deadpool returned to his apartment in Hell's Kitchen. That night, with no money for ready-made snacks, he decided to cook himself a meal.

He opened the fridge—some leftover dishes remained. He didn't know how to cook, but at least he could light a stove and boil water.

After heating the pot, he dumped everything in: leftover hot dog buns, a bowl of noodles from a Chinese restaurant, half-eaten spicy rice cakes, even half a raw bread crab.

With no spatula, he stirred with his hands. When white steam rose, he dumped it all onto a plate.

Deadpool sniffed, muttered: "Tastes probably awful. But I've got no sense of smell. Who cares?"

He carried the plate to the table and devoured it. But he forgot one thing: though he was a modified human with no taste buds, he still got diarrhea.

His guts weren't made of iron. Even if they were, they couldn't withstand days-old leftovers and his terrible cooking.

Soon, Deadpool was running to the bathroom. His modified genes gave him one major problem: he produced an astonishing amount of waste.

Before long, the toilet clogged. But he was in pain, had just moved in, and didn't know where the nearest public restroom was. He had to fix it himself.

As a mercenary with years of field experience, Deadpool assumed repairing a small appliance was no problem. Seconds later, the toilet exploded.

Hell's Kitchen's poor environment didn't mean neighbors tolerated a tenant blowing up his own toilet. Soon, the landlord was called. After stripping Deadpool of every valuable item, he threw him out.

Covered in shit, Deadpool sat alone on the rooftop. Then a figure swung beside him. Spider-Man approached. "What's wrong? Why are you alone here?"

"Hey! Spider-Man! My landlord kicked me out—because I couldn't fix the toilet…" Deadpool whined. "But it's not my fault! His furniture's ancient!"

"Hmm…" Spider-Man scanned him, then sniffed. Deadpool always smelled bad—but today, the stench was worse. Spider-Man stepped back two paces, but still asked with concern: "No place to stay? Let me lend you some money. Get a hotel."

"Oh my god! I can't accept that!" Deadpool rubbed his pigeon-toed feet together. Spider-Man shook his head. "It's fine. I've got cash. And it might rain tonight. Go find somewhere to sleep."

Deadpool took the money, nearly in tears. "No one's ever been this kind to me… Spider-Man…"

"It's nothing. Just caring for a friend. I'm busy lately, but when I've got time, we'll play together." Peter waved, and Deadpool noticed he looked exhausted. Before Deadpool could say anything, Peter swung away on his web.

Deadpool clutched the cash, sniffled, and jumped off the roof, heading to find a new place to live—when his phone rang.

"Hello? Who is this? … You're who? But I don't know you. Did I ever give you Spider-Man's number?"

"Alright, I can call you… uh… Rodriguez Doctor? What a mouthful. You say you're a S. . . . . . psychologist? You must be rich…"

"Yeah, I'm a mercenary. What?! You want to hire me?!" Deadpool shot upright, excited. "What's the job? Kill someone? Which president? How much? I'll tell you right now—even if prices dropped, don't try to screw me!"

"Not killing? Then why call me?"

Deadpool stood silent for a long moment, listening. Then he said:

"You're saying some unethical game company, due to a programming error, rolled back the entire server to months ago. One of your good friends spent months grinding, got wiped out, and now has severe anxiety—even might need hospitalization…"

"Oh my God, is the game's operator an idiot? You should blow his head off—let his brains splatter on the keyboard, so deep you can't even scrape it out…"

"Yeah, I get it. I love games too. My friends are all hardcore gamers. Wait… your friend—by any chance—isn't it…"

Deadpool's mind snapped into place.

The psychologist calling him, Shiler Rodriguez, was a S. . . . . . shrink. Spider-Man had recently been working for S. . . . . . And just now, when Deadpool saw him, Spider-Man looked exhausted—nothing like his usual energetic self.

Could this psychologist's friend… be Spider-Man??

Deadpool looked at the cash in his hand. He knew Spider-Man hadn't shown up by accident. Only the yellow rodent could've told him about Spider-Man's condition. That's why Spider-Man came. And from his exhaustion, he'd clearly slipped away from work just to help him.

Thinking this, Deadpool asked quietly: "You want me to kill him?"

"Just give him some trouble? Isn't that too lenient? … Hmm, you're right—if I go too far, it might hurt the victim. Okay, I understand. Address is…? Wait, this address feels weird. I have to find it myself? … Fine. I'm a professional."

"Payment? No. I'll give him a memory he'll never forget!"

After hanging up, Deadpool lifted his head, straightened his collar, and strapped on his pistol and long sword.

He walked down a dark alley, stepping forward with heroic resolve under the dim yellow glow of streetlights.

Soon, a voice echoed across Hell's Kitchen:

"Landlord!

You got any more shit?!

!"