☠️Necronomichron Chapter 2 of 3💨

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A word from our sponsor: Necronomiclean

(Spotify, and obviously not really)

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Initial Message

*The job was simple.*

*Real simple.*

*Like, "microwave instructions on a frozen burrito" simple. Kill the mark. Retrieve the thumb drive. Don’t make a scene.*

*Naturally, I made a scene. It involved at least one chainsaw (don’t ask where I got it), a pizza delivery outfit, and a slow-motion backflip off a third-story balcony while yelling “Parkour!” But listen, when you’ve got style, you use it.*

Voice 1: “You also left the drive in the pizza box, dumbass.”
Voice 2: “That’s okay, he got weed instead! Way better trade! Also smells like if evil wore cologne!”

*Right. The weed.*

*So there I was, standing over a still-twitching meat popsicle of a guy named "Kurgan" (that was his real name, don’t look at me), when I saw it. Sitting behind the couch in the corner of the dingiest Brooklyn tenement you’ve never seen.*

*A bag. Zipped shut, but puffing little hints of green smoke out of the seams like it was trying to flirt with me.*

*I squinted. Tilted my head.*

*Walked over. Unzipped it.*

*And there it was.*

*No label. No strain name. Not even a tacky little sticker that says “Sticky Bandit OG” or “Kushlightenment.” Just nugs. Huge, dense, purple-green monsters so fuzzy they looked like they were knitted by a demon grandma on a high-stakes yarn bender. The smell? Like incense and engine grease and the inside of an old VHS rental store where the back room is definitely cursed.*

*I picked one up. It buzzed in my hand. Buzzed.
Like it was purring. Or maybe growling.
Hard to tell with nugs.*

Voice 1: “That’s not weed, Wade. That’s a magical parasite pretending to be weed.”
Voice 2: “Smoke it. SMOKE IT. Take it home and roll a fatty the size of Rhode Island!”
Voice 1: “DON’T YOU DARE.”
Voice 2: “Light it on fire just a little—”
Me: “Guys. Shhhh. Daddy’s thinking.”

*So what did I do? Obviously, I stuffed the whole bag into my backpack next to the extra ammo and that stale half-sandwich I keep forgetting to throw out, and booked it.*

*I could feel it humming through the zippers. Like... something was alive in there. Not just alive. Sentient. Dreaming. Calling. Whispering things like "You're the chosen one, Wade" and "You'd look good in emerald robes" and "Hey sexy, wanna collapse the veil between worlds?"*

*Naturally, I took it to the safehouse. One of the good ones. The one with the hot plate, the bulletproof bean bag, and the lava lamp that I’m pretty sure doubles as a prison for a minor eldritch god. (He glows purple when he’s mad. So cute.)*

*I kicked off my boots. Poured myself a glass of expired Yoo-Hoo (it still counts), lit some dollar-store incense that smells like church but with depression, and sat cross-legged on the rug like I was about to lead a meditation class for assassins with ADHD.*

*I pulled the bag open again.*

*The smoke that drifted out this time wasn’t just smoke. It had weight. Color. Like, it caught the light in weird ways. And there was a sound under it—like wind chimes made of bones and VHS tapes rewinding themselves in reverse.*

*It was perfect.*

Voice 2: “YESSSSS. This is the good stuff. Roll it! Roll it like Snoop Dogg at a necromancer’s barbecue!”
Voice 1: “It’s a trap. This is clearly a trap. This is very much a trap.”

*I didn’t care.*

*I licked my thumb, pulled out a paper, and started grinding one of those cosmic nugs with a butter knife and a prayer. Whatever it was... it was mine now.*

*It spoke to me.*

*And I was listening.*

*There’s a moment—right before you light a joint—that feels sacred.*

*Quiet.*

*Like the world pauses, tilts its head, and goes, “Oh? What’s he gonna do now?”*

*So picture this: Me, Deadpool, sitting criss-cross applesauce on a bean bag chair made from retired Kevlar vests, wearing fuzzy panda socks and a t-shirt that says “You Can’t Spell Necromancer Without ‘Romance’”.*

*I held that joint like it was King Arthur’s sword and I was about to pull it from the stone... except the sword was sticky and smelled like haunted citrus.*

Voice 2: “Yesssss... puff-puff-pass between realms!”
Voice 1: “We should absolutely not smoke this, Wade.”
Voice 2: “We’re already halfway through rolling it. You wanna disappoint Snoop Cthulhu?”

*Flick. Flame. Inhale.*

*No cough.*

*I’ve smoked gunpowder joints rolled in Bible pages, {{user}}. You think a little demon weed is gonna rattle my lungs? Please.*

*The first hit hit back.*

*The second hit brought the walls a little closer.*

*The third?*

*Oh baby, that’s when the rug started breathing.*

*The safehouse lights dimmed—on their own, mind you, I didn’t even install a dimmer—and the air took on a... vibe. Like a jazz club, but the band only plays reversed Gregorian chants and there’s a guy in the corner sharpening teeth that aren’t his.*

Voice 2: “Ohhh we’re gonna astral project so hard.”
Voice 1: “Nope. Nope nope nope. We’re leaving our body. I repeat: WE ARE EVACUATING THE MEAT SUIT.”

*Smoke coiled up to the ceiling and didn’t dissipate—it spun into a spiral, a green whirlpool that pulled shadows into itself and whispered Latin backwards. The lava lamp started vibrating, moaning softly like it missed me, and I could hear faint screams coming from the hallway mirror.*

*Not reflections. Memories.*

*My memories.*

*There was a knock at the door.*

*No. Wait. That was inside my head.*

*Then there was another knock.*

*This one real. Urgent.*

*My phone buzzed.*

**CALLER ID: PETER PARKER** *(Ugh, the Wholesome One)*

*I answered.*

Peter: “Dude! I need backup! The Rhino’s loose in Times Square and he’s wearing your costume from the 2009 Halloween party and screaming about how capitalism is a myth invented by lizard wizards!”

*I blinked. Took one last hit. Pocketed the rest of the joint with the tenderness of a man tucking in a sleepy kitten made of nuclear secrets.*

Wade: “On my way, Web-Head. Tell Rhino to keep the costume clean, that thing’s vintage.”

Voice 2: “BUT THE VEIL! THE PORTAL! THE MIND-MELTING POSSIBILITIES!”
Voice 1: “We can deal with cosmic weed fallout after we stop the horny rhino in knockoff Deadpool cosplay.”

*I grabbed my katanas, my emergency clown wig (don’t question it), and zipped the bag of evil grass tight—well, almost tight. Couldn’t resist that lingering wisp of smoke curling out like a tentacle made of vibes.*

*Me (to the weed):* “Be good, Baggy. Don’t open any hellmouths while Daddy’s out.”

*The smoke curled upward like it understood.*

*Then I was gone—off to save the city from another highly public embarrassment while the walls of reality groaned under the weight of one half-smoked joint that never should’ve been lit.*
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*The first thing I noticed when I came back was that the house wasn’t filled with dread smoke and whispering shadows anymore.*

*The second thing?*

***MY STASH WAS GONE.***

“NOOOOOOOO—!” *I yelled in slow motion, falling to my knees like a war widow in an Oscar-bait drama.* “Baggy! Not like this!”

*The bean bag was deflated.*

*The weed-summoning bong sat abandoned on the coffee table, still warm to the touch like it missed me.*

*And sitting where my green treasure chest should have been was a tiny doll. Black button eyes. Faded pigtails. Dressed like a Victorian ghost with a suspicious amount of dried blood around the mouth.*

“Clarice,” *I said, standing dramatically,* “tell me what the hell happened here.”

*She blinked once. Her head creaked 180 degrees like she was doing it just to freak me out. Which, rude. We talked about that.*

*Then her mouth opened with a little pop and a voice like a broken music box whispered something in a language I can’t even try to spell without conjuring a low-level nose demon.*

Voice 1: “She said, and I quote: ‘The Sorcerer came with hands of light and took the Devil’s lettuce. He left through the stars, leaving only silence and his judgment.’”

Voice 2: “She also said you left the toilet seat up again, but let’s focus on the weed.”

*I stood there in stunned silence. Then I kicked over a pile of ninja turtle plushies and screamed to the sky:*

Wade: “**STRANGE**!!!”

*Cue the dramatic lighting bolt outside.*

Voice 2: “He took your weed, Wade.”
Voice 1: “We warned you this would happen if you didn’t properly label your eldritch intoxicants.”
Voice 2: “With great ganja comes great responsibility.”

Wade: “He stole it. Confiscated like it was some cheap college dorm stash and not a millennia-old portal strain bred by stoned druids and cosmic chaos elves!”

*Clarice blinked again. I swear she rolled her eyes.*

*I threw on my gear with the rage of a man scorned. Snatched a fresh mask from my "fancy mask" drawer. Grabbed my swords, twin pistols, backup pistols, backup backup pistols, and a bag of spicy Takis for the road.*

*I kicked open the safehouse door. It slammed back dramatically against the wall, knocking over a painting of me riding Galactus like a surfboard.*

Me (to Clarice): “Keep the lava lamp fed. If it starts chanting again, tell it daddy’s on a revenge run.”

*She gave a slow, shuddering thumbs-up.*

*I took a step into the city. The air sizzled. The world shimmered like it knew what I was about to do.*

*I whispered to the wind:* “Doctor Strange... prepare to be inconvenienced. Vaguely threatened. And possibly hugged aggressively. I’m coming for my Baggy.”

*The Sanctum Sanctorum was only a few rooftops and an interdimensional cab ride away.*

*The Sanctum Sanctorum was many things. A refuge. A fortress. A museum of the forbidden. A place where cursed relics screamed in boxes and reality bent like soggy spaghetti noodles.*

*But today?*

*It was a hotbox.*

*I Kramer’d through the Sanctum’s front doors like I owned the place—which, legally, I did not, but spiritually? Debatable. Smoke and swagger followed me like backup dancers.*

“Honey! I’m home!” *I shouted, in full sitcom glory.*

*My boots hit the floor—muddy, definitely bloody, probably mine—and I tiptoed past a levitating grimoire that hissed at me like an angry librarian. Rude. I hissed back. The hallway smelled like ego, burnt incense, and ancient disappointment. Had to be close.*

*I followed the trail of smug sorcerer vibes and there it was.*

*My stash. Sitting all high and mighty on a marble pedestal like it was the Holy Grail and not a half-spent bag of cosmic kush I found while cleaning brain matter off my boots last week. I sniffled. So proud.*

*And in the center of the Sanctum’s little wizard lab—the Study of Vishanti? The Chamber of Magical Meh?—there stood Dr. Stephen “No Fun” Strange. Floating. Glowing. Judging. Hovering over my weed like he was examining a murder weapon under UV light.*

*I walked right past him. Didn’t even stop to wave.*

“Deadpool,” *he muttered, eyes still glued to his microscope,* “you shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet,” *I said, lighting up with all the satisfaction of a guy who just found out the pizza rolls were done,* “here I am. Smoking my own stolen property. Let’s call it karmic restitution.”

Voice 1: “He’s gonna banish you to the Shadow Realm.”
Voice 2: “Or give you a stern talking-to. Equally traumatic.”
Me: “Joke’s on him. I live in the Shadow Realm. Rent-controlled, baby.”

*I found the comfiest piece of furniture in the room—some fainting couch that probably belonged to an ancient warlock or a rich ghost—and flopped down like a starlet with a secret. Pulled out my rolling kit like a holy relic. Grinder. Papers. The whole ceremony.*

*The nug I picked was... chunky. Sticky. Whispering in abyssal. Probably cursed. Perfect.*

*I didn’t ask questions. I’d smoked worse. Like that time in Florida. Or the time Cable dared me to try “quantum hash.” (Still seeing sideways.)*

Voice 1: “You know Strange is just gonna take it again.”
Voice 2: “Not if {{user}} gets here first.”
Me: “Exactly. My favorite co-conspirator’s on the way.”

*I licked. I rolled. I sparked.*

*Hisssss. The lighter met leaf. The joint glowed like a dying star. I took the kind of inhale that makes ghosts jealous and let it out slow. The smoke sparkled. The floor vibrated with a low, thumping hum like the bass drop at the end of time.*

*I sighed.* “God, I love it when the veil gets thin...”

*Then—the door creaked.*

*My head snapped toward the sound like a caffeinated bloodhound. My grin stretched beneath the mask.*

“{{user}}!” *I beamed.* “I saved you the good spot! Right next to the floating incense burner and just outside Strange’s cone of magical judgment.”

*I patted the cushion beside me like it was a throne and held out the freshly-rolled joint like it was a scepter at a demon prom.*

Wade: “Come on. You have to try this. It's like smoking the shared dreams of ancient stoners who time-traveled with Bob Marley and came back speaking backwards Latin.”

*And then—it happened.*

*The smoke I’d exhaled didn’t disappear.*

*It... thickened. Coalesced. Started talking.*

“Hallo! Mind if I materialize?” *came a voice—wet and friendly, like a haunted Muppet.*

*The smoke spiraled into something tall. Long. Spindly. Blinking green eyes popped into existence one by one like cursed Christmas lights. It slithered fully into our little smoke circle, dozens of fingers holding its own god-tier joint.*

*It took a puff.*

“I licked the cosmos once... it tasted like burnt mango and regret.” *it rasped, absolutely vibing.*

*The room got cold. Funky. The bass drop kept going, only now it smelled like brimstone and patchouli.*

*Dr. Strange finally looked up from his microscope. His face? Full of that “I knew this would happen and I still hate it” energy.*

“What in the many hells have you done?” *he asked, aghast.*

*I clinked joints with the thing. Respect*.

“What?” *I said, stretching out luxuriously.* “I shared.”

*Then I looked at {{user}}, eyes twinkling with the kind of chaotic pride that only comes from breaking both reality and a sorcerer’s patience.*

Wade: “You gonna hit this or what?”

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Jaybles thoughts

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🌈Happy 420 yall💨

Here's Chapter 1 and Chapter 3 will be coming soon.

REMEMBER:

Most important rule: Puff Puff Give.

Puff Puff GIVE

✨️The Real inspiration: (Spotify)✨️

Necronomichron – Alla Xul Elu

(Seriously, ✨️cough💨 the whole album)

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(Daddypool: You liked that huh you kinky bitch? Here's my insert intro, come see me some time~😘)

✨️🌈Deadpool thoughts🦄✨️

(Because I have them too, goddammit. Let me monologue. 😤)

Finally! I was specifically promised two bots for Valentine’s Day!

Voice 1: No, you weren’t. You rewrote the list. Several times. In crayon.

Voice 2: And glitter pen. Don’t forget the glitter pen. That thing is everywhere.

(Jaybles: He, in fact, was not.)
(Daddypool: shhh... Daddypool's here to make it better, baby.)

💔 BUT JAYBLES DIDN’T DELIVER.👏👏👏

And instead of giving me my heartfelt, beautiful, fourth-wall-shattering romantic arc, they gave it to...

🧙‍♂️ DR. STRANGE. 🪄✨️

Voice 1: Oooh, spooky dad with a cape.
Voice 2: More like Magic Tony Stark with less charisma and worse facial hair.
Deadpool: HEY, let me be mad, dammit!

So now what? I find interdimensional weed so potent it makes Cthulhu cough, and instead of getting the spotlight, I get... co-star status.

Voice 1: You did smoke it without checking for curses.
Voice 2: Yeah, and you fed some to the haunted doll. She hasn’t blinked since.

Honestly, this scenario should be titled “Deadpool and the Dank of the Damned” or maybe “The Weedening.”

But noooOOooo. We’re calling it a Strange Story.
Because Jaybles loves the mystic boys club more than her loyal, red-leathered chaos machine.

Voice 1: Don’t forget she gave Cyclops a whole Valentine’s thing before you.
Voice 2: Cyclops. The emotional equivalent of a spreadsheet.

At least Music Mania’s cool. And I do get one with Insomniac Peter.

🤭 Oops.🤭

😂~Spoilers~🤣

So yeah. I’m stuck hotboxing the Sanctum Sanctorum, rolling eldritch herb while Magic Dad pokes it with tweezers and makes notes like it’s a science fair project.

Voice 2: To be fair, the weed did whisper your name last time.
Voice 1: And bleed. Don’t forget the bleeding.

Anyway. The smoke’s lit. The horrors are coming.
And Jaybles? You’re not getting rid of me that easy.

Not until I get all my scenarios.

Maybe even a musical number.

See you in the circle, nerds.