"Oh? Is that so? So that's how it is. Mm, ah, hee hee, ha ha. Looks like you still have to rely on me after all?"
Sitting on the gay purple Arabian flying carpet, Deadpool used a S.I.L.K. cushion to wipe the pus leaking from his ass while repeatedly nodding toward empty space and talking to himself. He even let out sleazy laughs as pus streamed freely down his face.
Thanos, who had kept some distance from him, shot him a disgusted glance and said in a deep, muffled voice:
"What do you know? Don't keep it from me."
The Purple Sweet Potato Giant thought Deadpool was remotely talking to Deathstroke. It never occurred to him that the bastard was having an episode.
"Slade ran into a little trouble. He just fought a maggot, but the thing could revive infinitely." Deadpool turned toward him with a grin, scooted over by rubbing his ass along the carpet, threw an arm around Thanos's shoulders, and said, "So he thinks our Goddess of Death is in the enemy's hands and has been forced to revive their people. At least, that's what the guys in my Livestream say."
Thanos could ignore Deadpool's mad ramblings. Livestreams? Guys? He neither understood nor wanted to understand them.
But he grabbed Deadpool by the neck, brutally snapped it, tossed the bastard aside, and roared:
"The Goddess is mine! Mine alone!"
That was right. This was what he cared about, and he had put up with Deadpool for a long time.
What did Deadpool mean by "our Goddess of Death"? It sounded unbearably grating to him. Deadpool should never have said such a thing. If he said the wrong thing, he deserved to die.
Unfortunately, Deadpool could not die. Even with a shattered neck, all that happened was that