"Hi, wife, sister-in-law, and brothers."
Deadpool seemed to see nothing wrong with this at all. He pulled his hand out of Death's collar, waved it around, and loudly greeted everyone. "I made money today! Cousin gave me money again just now and told me to bring Death to Gotham for dinner. We were originally going to the Iceberg Lounge, but unfortunately, it isn't open for business right now, so we've just been wandering the streets looking for a snack shop. Oh, God, but guess what terrible thing I discovered along the way? It'll scare the hell out of you—Gotham, a city this huge, doesn't sell Mexican Burritos! It's like going to the bathroom without toilet paper. No, not no toilet paper—it's like every roll of toilet paper has a hole punched through the middle. You know what I mean? You can make do, but only barely. Oh, right, I haven't introduced her yet. This is the Goddess of Death. How should I put it? She's a good friend of mine."
When he said "good friend," he guiltily avoided Shakara's gaze and lowered his head to stare at his shoes, as though he had just stepped in dog shit.
The truth was that his brain had only just short-circuited, reminding him that he was already married. His wife was right in front of him, while his mistress was at his side. Even though he knew Shakara would not mind, he still felt somewhat guilty.
Serial killers generally did not talk much. Ghostface, who had an excessive amount of nonsense to say, had wanted to chat with Deadpool, but Miles pulled him back.
Deadpool simply talked too much. Before anyone else could say anything, he had already chattered away in that rotten drake-like voice of his, enough to give everyone a headache.