Harley Davis was not your stereotypical Marvel fanboy. No chiseled jawline, no bulging biceps, no mysterious tragic backstory—just a skinny barista in Miami with a knack for latte art and an apartment so packed with Marvel merch it could double as a nerd museum. Seriously, his room was one gamma-ray experiment short of glowing in the dark.
Between pulling espresso shots for caffeine-fueled Karens and arguing with customers over the superiority of oat milk (it's a thing, okay?), Harley's true passion lay in the world of comic books. His sanctuary? A bedroom festooned with posters, action figures, and enough graphic novels to put a small library to shame. His prized possession? A first-print copy of Deadpool Kills the Marvel Universe, worn and dog-eared from years of rereads.
Deadpool was his favorite. Who wouldn't love a guy who breaks the fourth wall more often than the average sitcom? For Harley, Deadpool wasn't just a character; he was a spirit animal. The irreverence, the sarcasm, the way he stabbed bad guys while cracking jokes—Deadpool was living the dream. And Harley? He was the guy watching from the sidelines, hoping for a cameo.
Late one night, after an exhausting day of caffeinated chaos, Harley slumped into his armchair with his trusty Deadpool comic. "Just one more read before bed," he muttered, knowing full well that "one more" was code for "until 3 a.m." As he flipped through the pages, Deadpool's wisecracks seemed sharper, his antics more outrageous. Harley chuckled, the kind of laugh that said, Yeah, I should probably get some sleep, but this is worth it.
But then it happened. You know the cliché: eyes getting heavy, comic slipping from his hands, head nodding forward. Classic sleepy nerd syndrome. He fought it valiantly, but sleep won the battle, pulling him into unconsciousness like Thanos snapping his fingers.
When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was the sound. Gone was the soothing hum of his espresso machine. In its place: honking horns, distant yelling, and the unmistakable wail of a cat fighting for dominance in a dumpster. The second thing? His chair wasn't his chair. It was a lumpy relic that smelled faintly of mildew and regret.
"Okay, weird dream," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. But when he opened them, the room didn't transform back into his Miami fortress of geekery. Nope, still stuck in what looked like a low-budget sitcom set. Dingy gray walls, mismatched furniture, and a broken skateboard that screamed, I was cool in 1997.
Harley bolted upright, his heart pounding. "What the—?!" He looked around, desperate for some logical explanation. Maybe he'd been kidnapped. Maybe he'd been pranked. Maybe—cue dramatic music—he was in an alternate reality.
He shuffled to the window, hoping for a view of palm trees and sunshine. Nope. Welcome to New York City, population: too many, vibe: aggressively rude. The alley outside was straight out of a gritty crime drama, complete with flickering neon lights and a puddle that definitely wasn't just water.
"Okay, Harley, don't freak out," he said, pacing. "This is just a dream. A really vivid, really inconvenient dream. Any second now, I'm gonna wake up, and—"
His gaze fell on the duffel bag in the corner. Inside: a few of his clothes and his Deadpool comic. He froze. "No. No, no, no. This is not happening." He grabbed the comic, flipping through its pages as if the answer might be hidden in the margins. "Deadpool, if this is your doing, I swear, I'm gonna—"
"Do what?" a voice drawled.
Harley yelped, dropping the comic. He spun around, heart hammering. But the room was empty. Silent. Except for the faint sound of laughter. His laughter. No, scratch that—Deadpool's laughter.
"Great. I'm hearing voices now. That's... healthy."
In the back of his mind, Harley could almost hear Deadpool's snarky commentary. Oh, look at you, breaking into my world. Welcome to the madhouse, pal! Pro tip: try not to die.
He sank onto the lumpy couch, clutching the comic like a lifeline. "This can't be real," he whispered. But it felt real. The smell, the sounds, the cold floor beneath his feet—it was all too vivid.
Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed, and Harley realized he had two choices: sit here and panic or figure out what the hell was going on. He glanced at the comic again, Deadpool's masked face grinning up at him like a mischievous Cheshire Cat.
"Alright, Wade," Harley muttered. "If this is your doing, you'd better have a damn good reason. And if I don't survive this? I'm suing."
Deadpool didn't answer, of course, but Harley could almost feel the fourth wall cracking. Somewhere, somehow, the Merc with a Mouth was probably watching, popcorn in hand, ready to make his next move.
Harley stood, determination bubbling up beneath the layers of disbelief and terror. If his life had turned into a comic book, then fine. He'd play along. But he was going to find answers—and maybe, just maybe, punch Deadpool in the face while he was at it.