“God help me,” he mutters. “I’d die for these weird little monsters.”
The cafeteria is decked out in bunting. Someone borrowed the small wooden bridge from physical therapy and turned it into a makestift stage. There’s a very unstable podium made of milk crates zip-tied together. One kid plays a kazoo, constantly hitting the same off note. The counselors stand at the front, half-dressed in camp shirts, half-draped in exhaustion.
It’s been a long summer.
West rubs his temples. “Why is the kazoo part of the anthem again?”
“Tradition,” Jax says.
“This is literally thefirstyear of Camp BALLS,” West replies.
“And already steeped in lore,” Jax grins.
“Can we focus?” McCormick yells over the din, waving a clipboard like a baton. “We needdignity.Decorum. Order.”
Brandt raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Are we talking about the same camp?”
McCormick points to the kids lined up behind the ‘stage’.. “They’re about to start the national anthem.”
The kids stand tall. Some with hands on hearts. Some chewing string cheese.
And then—disaster.
A small, panicked voice cuts through the quiet. “I peed.”
Dead silence. Then a dark stain begins to spread across one camper’s shorts.
Mandy freezes. Jax chokes on laughter. West closes his eyes.
The kazoo keeps playing. Off-key. Heroically.
Brandt, with the precision of a Secret Service agent, wraps the kid in a camp flag like a patriot and swiftly escorts him away. The anthem ends to polite applause and a few whispered “ewww”s.
West mutters, “Honestly? Still more respectful than the Fourth of July barbecue last year.”
As Mandy steps forward to continue the ceremony, a faintclickechoes from behind the podium. Then another click. Then a soft, mechanical whir.
McCormick turns just in time to see a group of kids wearing lab goggles and suspicious grins shouting: “THREE… TWO… ONE?—”
BOOM.
The Weenie Blaster 9000 roars to life one final time, launching a flaming hotdog in a glorious arc over the cafeteria. It lands in the punch bowl with a wetsplat.A second dog shoots out and knocks over a decorative balloon arch.
Brandt taps West. “Tell me you got that on camera.”
Jax just nods. “That’s some damn fine engineering.”
West holds up a charred hotdog impaled on a fork. “We’re keeping this. For the archive.”
“Now,” says McCormick, voice echoing through a cracked bullhorn, “it’s time for our final awards.” He gestures to the front. “By unanimous vote, the campers have chosen their favorite counselor. For bravery, mystery, and the ability to out-sprint a sugar-high eight-year-old…” He turns dramatically. “TheCoolest Superhero Counseloraward goes to… MANDY!”
The campers break out in applause. Some shriek. Someone throws confetti. Mandy blinks like he’s been hit with a stungrenade. He walks up slowly, scarred hands tucked in his sleeves, posture stiff.
A tiny kid hands him a hand-drawn certificate that says,
“Mandy is Deadpool but Better”
and a sparkly foam crown. Mandy hesitates.
