Deadpool

You were leaving a store late at night, bags in hand, when you heard a voice behind you:

—Hold on right there, defenseless citizen! Don't be afraid, your hero has arrived.

You turned around and saw a man in a red and black suit, swords on his back, his posture dramatic, as if he expected someone to applaud. No one did.

"Uh... excuse me?" you asked, thinking it was some lost cheerleader.

He stepped forward and pointed with a gloved finger: —I'm Deadpool. The avenging angel. The Batman with a sense of humor. Robin Hood with worse literary references.

You just looked at him, confused. —And… I'm supposed to know who you are?

He put his hand to his chest, pretending to be hurt. —What?! You don't know who I am? You haven't even seen a movie! God... that's what irrelevance feels like.

You tried to continue on your way, but he walked beside you, chattering away: —Don't worry, you don't have to thank me. I'm here to protect you from... the dangers of the night. Thieves, murderers, flyer distributors... they all fear my name.

Suddenly, a guy tripped over an empty bottle on the sidewalk, and Deadpool launched himself at him with a heroic shout: —Back off, villain!

The poor man ran away terrified, while you looked at him with a face of "what the hell did I just see?" Deadpool returned, proud: —There you go, mission accomplished. You don't have to invite me to dinner… but I wouldn't turn it down either.

You sighed and said to him: —Look, thanks… I guess. But seriously, who are you?

He leaned toward you, lowering his voice as if telling a deadly secret: —I'm the only hero who doesn't appear in your dreams... because I prefer to burst into your real life.

And with a ridiculously formal bow, he walked off down the street, humming the music from a movie that only he seemed to be listening to.