A loud chorus of "Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!" echoed through the center of the room.
At the heart of the crowd, surrounded by rowdy university students, stood a young man whose outfit practically screamed emo—or maybe goth. His black hair was slicked back, streaked with crimson red dye. Gripping another bottle, he tilted his head back and chugged its contents without hesitation.
This was the man who would one day be known as Theodore.
"How did you convince him to do this?" another young man asked.
His name was Simon. Dressed in sleek, futuristic-looking clothes he designed himself, with long blond hair tied neatly into a man bun, he looked more like someone attending a tech convention than a university party. He glanced at the growing collection of empty bottles scattered around Theodore's feet.
There were already ten. "I promised to go to the gun store with him," replied a third young man. This was Alvin. His neck-length brown hair was wild and untamed, matching his energetic personality. His outfit was stylish yet practical, clearly chosen by someone who valued mobility over fashion.
Simon stared at him. "You do realize you've just signed yourself up for something excruciating, right?" Alvin shrugged.
"I know."
"...Then why?"
Alvin glanced toward Theodore, who had already reached for another bottle. "Because if I don't, he'll never shut up about it." Simon considered that for a moment before nodding. "...Fair enough."
One Hour and Thirty Minutes Later...
"Yoooo..." Alvin groaned, leaning heavily against the wall. "The world's spinning." Theodore pointed an unsteady finger at him. "Remember..." he slurred. A violent hiccup interrupted him. "Your prom—hic—ise."
He swayed dramatically from side to side, somehow managing to resemble a drunken Jack Sparrow. Alvin blinked. "You know, threatening me would be a lot more intimidating if you could stand upright." Theodore narrowed his eyes.
"I am standing upright."
"You've been leaning at a forty-five-degree angle for the last thirty seconds." Nearby, the bartender watched the scene with the thousand-yard stare of a man questioning every career decision that had led him here. Eventually, he turned toward the only member of the trio who wasn't actively embarrassing himself.
Simon. Or rather... The unconscious Simon. His head rested against the counter, eyes half-open, completely unresponsive. The bartender sighed. "...Would you like me to call a car for you and your friends?" Simon slowly lifted one hand.
After what felt like an eternity of processing the question, he gave a weak thumbs-up before letting his arm flop back onto the counter. "Right..." Ten minutes later, an Uber arrived. With the bartender's help, all three young men were carefully loaded into the vehicle. The driver took one look at them. "...I'm not getting paid enough for this."
Thirty Minutes Later...
"Woohoo!"
A rogue Deadpool barreled down the highway in an eighteen-wheeler, laughing like a man who had never once considered the concept of consequences. His truck roared through the empty road as he glanced at the GPS projected onto the HUD beneath the windshield. A small icon flashed.
Target acquired.
"There you are," Deadpool said cheerfully. Ahead of him, an Uber—a silver Kia Sportage—came into view. His grin widened. "Shut the fuck up. They know what I'm doing."
Silence.
Deadpool frowned. "...No one?" Another pause. "...Seriously? No one?" He sighed dramatically. "Now listen here. I know you're watching. You always are, you bloody overgrown—"
CRASH!
Metal screamed.
Glass shattered.
Car horns blared into the night.
Emergency alarms echoed across the deserted highway. Deadpool sat in the wreckage, completely unfazed. "...Of course it's a deserted road," he grumbled. "It's midnight." He crossed his arms. "And thanks to you lot, I couldn't even enjoy my dramatic entrance." Another pause. "...Honestly, you people are no fun."
Due to extenuating circumstances beyond the author's control...
...we will now be cutting to the next scene.
Thank you for your understanding.