A blown-off head was a fatal injury for many people, but for Deadpool, it was practically routine.
Sometimes, he even shot himself in the head to "clear out" his brain. It was as convenient as rebooting a computer, and problems he could not think through could be unclogged with physical means.
"Wow, that hurts."
The muscles at Deadpool's neck writhed as they regrew. Blood vessels and muscle fibers tangled together like a mass of maggots, quickly forming the outline of a head. His new head was still rather small, though, and did not quite match his body.
"Where's my wig? Where did it fly off to? That's my limited-edition wig. It's been with me for a very long time."
"Over by the wall." Cable lowered his gun and crooked his fingers. "Give me the belt, then get the hell out of the way and stop making noise. If the Teleportation Belt malfunctions and breaks down halfway through, we could both get dumped into Hell."
That was not a threat, but the truth. Spacetime teleportation was a technology that demanded extremely high precision. Whether something went wrong with the temporal or spatial aspect, it would undoubtedly be a major problem.
Deadpool did not care much. He probably would not die even if he got thrown into Hell, but Cable did not have that much confidence in himself.
"Fine, you really do lack a sense of humor. No, wait, we're in DC now, and the dark stuff is popular here. Comedy might not be appropriate. So you really are cunning. Did you notice that long ago and secretly switch your script?"
After saying that, Deadpool became serious as well. He tried hard to look dark and solemn, making the corners of his mouth beneath the mask turn downward.
You might ask how