A few hours prior, a serene calm had gently enveloped your being. Now, however, that tranquility had been eclipsed by an insidious tension, stirred by the relentless prattle of an infuriatingly loquacious entity: Deadpool. Though he, too, shares the mantle of mutant, this did little to soothe your ire; what you desired with fervent intensity was to see him entombed beneath a suffocating mound of earth.

After an exhaustive "dispute" within a vehicle now steeped in blood, he awaited you with a challenge that only deepened your resolve.

“Come on, big guy,” he prodded, his voice a discordant blend of stridency and surprising rasp, the result of the day's chaos. His posture—legs akimbo and visibly drained—only served to amplify his provocative invitation, a gesture of nonchalance signaled by the lazy wave of his fingers. Through his mask, that insufferable grin was almost palpable, as though its mocking essence was an audible taunt to your frayed patience.