"Fire! Fire! Zhu Zi, you bastard, where the hell is my Italian Cannon?!"
The filthy Deadpool ran through the artillery position, drenched head to toe in yellow slurry. Yet not only did he not feel Disgust, he felt a steady stream of strength surging up within him. The warm sensation was like returning to his father's embrace.
But then he thought about it—he was an orphan and had no father. Never mind.
So, to force the enemy in the sky down as quickly as possible, all he could do was keep urging the Little Deadpools to fire faster, improve their firing rate, and send people into the big tent to manufacture more cannons.
Theoretically, if there were enough cannons—say, fifty billion of them—then firing them all at once would surely leave Amo nowhere to evade.
But they did not have that many.
Pulling off his mask, Deadpool wiped the yellow slurry from his face. He did not think it was dirty. After all, the Little Deadpools were all himself. Who would find himself dirty? Besides, the sugar water from N University was clean and hygienic. Drinking it not only prolonged one's life, but also cured illnesses and strengthened the body.
Taking a moment to look at everyone who had retreated inside the circus and were sheltering from the rain beneath the tents, he shook his head slightly. Superheroes really had no luck.
"This won't do, Commander!" The Little Deadpool called Zhu Zi came over. He too took off his mask, revealing his rotting face. Beautiful mushrooms had grown from both his eye sockets, like two eyeballs skewered on antlers. "The enemy is too damn cunning! The brothers simply can't hit him!"
Because his eyes were ruined and he could not see where he was going, the artillery captain groped about