Celine Dion Plagiarizes Adele
Brad and Celine looked at Fred like he was crazy. (Matt Damon looked like he was crazy.)
“Are you out of your mind?” Brad hissed.
With all that had happened to him in the past few days, Fred wasn't really sure that he wasn't out of his mind. One day he had been living his reasonably happy, famous-but-not-too-famous life, and the next he was being kidnapped by some character from a comic book movie.
“Probably.” he said, “Are you coming with me?”
Brad and Celine held a hasty, whispered conference. Fred shuffled his feet. He really didn't want to go alone, but he would if he had to. Finally, Celine spoke, her voice melodious.
“We will come with you.”
“Anything is better than waiting down here to starve.” Brad added.
They all looked at Matt, who was still muttering and seemed totally oblivious of them.
“I guess we'll have to leave him here.” Fred said reluctantly. He wanted nothing more than to bring him along, but it was too risky. This was going to be a stealth mission, and Matt wasn't exactly in stealth mode. Fred knelt down next to him and whispered a few quiet words to him. The expression on Matt's face didn't change. Fred stood slowly and led the way into the darkness. He only looked back once at the muttering figure, hunched over the light of the dying cellphone. He repeated the words quietly to himself.
“I'll come back for you. I promise.”
The quiet echoes of their footsteps hissed and faded into the unseen recesses of the far corners of the basement. Fred walked ahead, shuffling his feet carefully, waiting at any moment to run into a wall or stack of boxes or something. But the basement seemed to stretch on forever.
“How big is this place anyways?” Brad asked.
Fred shrugged a reply, but no one could see it in the darkness.
“Does it ever end?” Celine asked in a musical, perfect voice.
Fred wished they had some light. The cellphone's glow had flickered out behind them, whether from distance or because it had finally run out of battery, Fred didn't know. Either way, he was glad that Matt at least had been able to enjoy the last few moments of light.
Finally, he stubbed his toe against something.
He grunted in pain.
“What? What is it?” Brad asked.
“I think I found a wall or something.” Fred spoke through gritted teeth. He reached out with his hands. There was nothing. Carefully, he felt his way forward with his foot. Not a wall, stairs! He had found the way out! Hope leapt in his heart. “Come on!” he hissed.
But he only made it up three steps before a voice spoke out of the darkness behind them.
“Well just where the fuck do you think you're going, Fred?”
Brad and Celine gasped in unison. Fred turned around slowly. They all recognized that voice, though all that could be seen were two, glowing, white eyes. They stood out cartoonishly in the darkness of the basement.
“Deadpool!” said Fred.
“Deadpool!” said Brad.
“Hello.” said Celine Dion.
Deadpool shook his head and tsked sadly.
“And I thought we were friends now. Fred? We bonded over Nickleback? Don't you remember? Brad? I bought you a cup of coffee?”
“Oh so you got him coffee!” Fred said, throwing his hands in the air.
“Spiked coffee!” Brad protested.
“I'm sorry, Deadpool.” Celine said, moving over to stand closer to the merc, “I stalled them as long as I could.”
Fred reeled. Celine Dion had betrayed them!
“You were working with him this whole time?” Brad exploded.
“I'm afraid so.” Celine replied.
“I trusted you! I told you my deepest, darkest secrets!”
“And now the whole world will know that your fursona is a blue owl named Ozymandias Deathbeak.” said Celine in a rich and creamy voice.
“YOU BITCH!!!” Brad shouted. He leapt at Celine. There was a series of bright flashes and the deafening rattle of gunfire filled the basement. Fred ducked instinctively. When the shooting stopped, he looked up. By the light of Deadpool's glowing eyes he could make out a still form laying crumpled on the ground. Blood pooled across the cold floor.
“What the fuck?” Fred screamed, “You killed Brad Pitt!”
“Nobody fucks with Celine!” Deadpool screamed back, “She is a national fucking treasure! Besides, what kind of shit- brain thinks that an owl would make a good fursona? They don't even fucking have fur! They have feathers!”
Fred felt weak. Something hot dripped down his leg. He had pissed Brad Pitt's pants.