fandomhigh | Punching People and Not Breaking Your Hand: Fighting 101 - Period 5

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Punching People and Not Breaking Your Hand: Fighting 101 - Period 5 - [05/26f]

It was Memorial day and they were in France.

France.

Deadpool wasn't a happy lil' butterfly.

"Today, I'm teaching you an important lesson on tactics. Maybe the most important one you will ever learn in your lives." A beat and he pulled out a picture of a mime. "This is the enemy. Study it well and be prepared to kill it. By any means necessary."

He shuddered. "Just a step below the common clown in insidiousness. They can't be allowed to propagate their invisible walls and ropes that pull nothing!"

There were the same punching bags from last week, but this time they had mime pictures taped to them. And a jaunty little beret on the top of each.

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IN THAT DAMN BOX (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjgPu6cwl2k&feature=related).

As far as Lois was concerned mimes were just monochrome clowns. She hated clowns. So naturally she hated mimes too. She had no problem with punching them.

If mimes piled out of cars like clowns did, John saw no problem punching them in the face. Creepy bastards.

...what?

O...kay.

Because my head wasn't already muddled up enough.

Giselle raised her hand instantly. "But perhaps if we talked to the nice little man, there wouldn't need to be any hitting?"

"They're silent," Deadpool pointed out. "Silent and evil. Like the wind."

"Oh, but the wind's not evil," Giselle said. "And it's not silent either. You can hear it blowing through the trees!"

"That's because it's plotting a tornado."

Deadpool nodded sagely. He knew these things.

"Oh, I don't think things are nearly as mean as you think, Mr. Deadpool," Giselle said sweetly. "You need to give them a chance!"

"And get stabbed in the lung again? I think not!" Deadpool said, waggling a finger. "Next thing you know we have Bartoc the Leaper running around and being French and it's just a disaster!"

"Who's Bartoc the Leaper?" she asked curiously. "Is he a dwarf? Or an orge?"

Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Re: Listen to the ... lecture.

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Jo found she couldn't muster the expected enthusiasm for beating on mimes.

That was...worrying.

Sam noticed Jo's lack of enthusiasm, and went over to sit beside her. "Hey," he said quietly. "How's it going?"

"Hey," Jo replied, shrugging. "I'm okay."

Mmm...repression.

"Oh yeah, this is totally your okay look," Sam said gently. "I don't know about you, but I'm starting to think people shouldn't be allowed to graduate."

Another shrug. "It's not their fault if they have to leave," she said miserably. Sam might have gotten the impression she'd been saying it a lot to herself.

Anemone stuck her hand up. "I don't get it. What's a mime?"

"A mime is a silent clown that's French." A beat. "All of which are bad."

Unresolved childhood Issues began to flourish as Bob stared at the mime's picture tapped at the Punchbag.

"May I borrow one of your swords Wad.... Deadpool?" Bob was feeling a bit like Wolverine whenever he saw Deadpool.

While the rage for mimes was appreciated...

Deadpool rolled up the picture he had in his hand and thwapped Bob on the nose. "No! Bad student. Bad!"

"Hail HYDRA" Bob yelled while rubbing his nose.

"Man, why am I the only one in class you hit?" Bob asked while carefully taking a step back to stay out of Deadpool's reach.

"Because." Which, as an adult speaking to a kid, was totally a reason.

"You expect me to settle for that?" Bob inquisitively looked at Deadpool.

"I may look like a 16 year older, but I'm actually 33. And my hair still falls"
Bob continued.

He took another step back.

Yes. Yes I do," Deadpool said cheerfully, smacking him on the nose again.

*Schhiuck* Bob yelped.

"You broke my septum!" Bob then bellowed and hid behind the punchbag. Bob was a drama Queen.

"And I lost the HYDRA health Insurance" Bob muttered to himself.

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