Times Square, New York: New Year’s Eve. The crowds have gathered for the countdown.
CAP: 10… 9… 8…
CAP (Apocalypse): All else has been distraction.
High above the square, Apocalypse looks down on the festivities from the balcony of a penthouse apartment. He appears smug and self-satisfied.
CAP: 7… 6… 5…
Apocalypse: I have bided my time, distracted myself with petty squabbles and insignificant campaigns… all because I knew this day was coming.
Close on Apocalypse, grinning, victorious.
CAP: 4… 3… 2…
Apocalypse: The Mayans, the Celts, the Hopi… Sybil, Nostradamus, Ozymandias…
Apocalypse: All the prophets foretold...
A stunned Apocalypse looks down at a steaming great hole in the middle of his chest.
Apocalypse: My... greatest...
Apocalypse collapses to the ground. Behind him stands Deadpool, holding a ridiculously huge gun in one hand… and a folded open copy of Marvel Previews in the other. Smoke pours from the barrel of the gun.
Deadpool: Know where I go to read the future? This here magazine.
Deadpool: Know who it says is gonna die this year?
Apocalypse’s point of view. Deadpool leans over him, holding the copy of Marvel Previews open to a black page with the word ‘Dead’ written on it, half of Deadpool’s logo. He’s pointing to the advert, explaining why Apocalypse had to die.
Deadpool: So the end of the world’s postponed – least until everyone’s had a chance to buy my black bagged, New York Times-spoilered death issue. Y'hear me, Spocky-Lips?
Deadpool: No one. Else. Dies.