[ WP ] The walls are down between the Marvel and DC Universes . Of all the bars , in all the towns , in all the world , the Joker and Deadpool meet for the first time in yours .

The cackling was the first thing I noticed. The shrill, unrepentant cackling. 
 
 A quick glance down the bar confirmed the source of the harsh noise: two dimly lit fellas sharing a drink at a table at the other end of the room. Without staring too long ( not the safest career path in this establishment ) and, what with the cataract-enabling ambience the place had going for it, I did n't get a good look at their faces. One of them was wearing some garish purple head to toe, the other one just had on some dark red shirt or something. Lively bunch. 
 
 From my best guess, Purple Man was the one who was letting loose with the stream of laughter every few minutes. At first, folks had given them that same side-glance you give a noisy kid in a shopping mall before you get back to your life. The ‘ *thank God you ’ re not my problem look*. ’ But the two men had been conversing for some time now, and their outbursts were only getting more and more obnoxious. The only thing preventing an angry drunk was the…shit, *aura, * I guess…that surrounded the table. I ’ ve been coming to this bar for a while now, stopping off for a drink or two before heading home while my wife thinks I ’ m held up in a meeting, and I ’ ve gotten pretty good at psychoanalyzing my fellow drunkards. These two guys were different, somehow. They weren ’ t like the businessmen ( myself included ) who had sold their soul to the corporate devil long ago, and sat wallowing in self-doubt and insecurity. Not like the tattooed wannabe badasses who sat menacingly, daring someone, anyone to try their hand. These guys had the feel of guys who just didn ’ t give a *fuck. * They weren ’ t trying to impress you or be noticed by you—in fact, they might as well have been the only souls in the bar for all they seemed to care. I hadn ’ t even seen them order any drinks, though the stacks of glasses cluttering their table told me that alcohol was definitely in play. Deliberate or not, that devil may care attitude definitely kept any interlopers at bay, and I wasn ’ t go to be the dumb asshole who stuck my nose where it didn ’ t belong. 
 
 More cackling—*Jesus, it ’ s like a hyena. * 
 
 These guys were starting to creep me out. I sure as hell wasn ’ t going to poke my neck out just to get it chopped off. Not that dumb. And besides, my business meeting was just about to end. Home to the loving arms of my doting wife. I put my wallet back in my back pocket, finished the last sip of backwash, tried meekly to smile at the pretty bartender with no personality—Stephanie? Maybe Stacey—and made my way to the bathroom in the back…a route that took my right past the two horsemen of the apocalypse. I kept my eyes down as I walked up—I ’ m more interested in what they ’ re saying that what they ’ re talking about, anyways—and I stepped into the narrow hallway where a payphone used to sit, and where a phone book, still wrapped in its little blue bag, currently sat, unused. Purple Man must ’ ve said something I couldn ’ t catch, but I did hear Red Dude ’ s reply. 
 
 “ Don ’ t sweat it big guy. It could ’ ve been worse. They could ’ ve picked Nic Cage. ”
