Friday, July 10, 2009

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 18

This chapter was surreal to write. I love doing fucking disturbing things with Disney characters. It feels like you're teaching your kid brother swear words, and then telling him to go tell mom so he'll get spanked. This chapter is officially the closest thing to porn this Fanfic gets. I promise. (And even then, it's a very specific kind of porn. You'll see) This chapter earns the "Grimdark" tag.

To contrast this, over there, I have an MSpaint I did on a whim. It's less about the Fic and more about Jose Carioca in general. I asked myself the artistic question "What would happen if Al Hirschfeld (Look him up) went to see Joe's floor show?" The answer is, of course, he would draw the caricature you see here. I tried to stick as close to Al's style as I could while in MSpaint (Clean ink lines only, no paint fill, hatching and cross hatching, Final destination) and it is a... unique challenge to make a caricature of an already exaggerated cartoon character.

I like it, so, with apologies to Al Hirschfeld, I present it to you.

In b4 Dat Ass


Episode 18:

It was late in the day by the time the group had flown into Chihuahua, the sun had begun to dip low on the horizon over the bare Mexican landscape. The three girls looked excitedly out the windows, searching for any signs of their uncle, climbing over each other to look out over the sleepy ranch town that had already gone to ground for the night. Huey had to concentrate not to get too distracted by this display occuring on his co-pilot seat, and definitely had to stop thinking about the vague wish that he was indeed a co-pilot seat, so that he wouldn't smash the nose of the Sea Duck into the ground.

As the bird landed, Louie awoke from his sleep, feeling less than refreshed, the normal part and parcel cricks and aches of sleeping in an airplane seat overlaid over the not so typical aches associated with being savagely beaten within an inch of his life a while back.


Dewey looked out the window, as a single horse backed rider that had come to meet them, "We're here, Louie. Wake up."

Without a word, Louie began to rise, working through his aching body as he stood up from the uncomfortable seat. He, too, looked out of the window. "Everyone else in town is asleep already, I gather. And it's not even dark out yet."

"Not all of us can survive on a couple hours of sleep a night, Louie," teased Dewey as he stood and walked towards the exit, opening it up and jumping down onto the dusty ground below.

Webby stood and began to help Louie to follow his brother.

"Skip it, Webby," he said, shrugging off her gentle hands, "Doofus needs more help than I do."

"Er, right," she said, as she walked over to the still prostrate Doofus.

Soon, the group had assembled outside of the plane, and were being lead by the single horseman, another of the Crow night watchmen that patrolled the ranch after dark. The girls chattered on in Portuguese, with Huey hovering over them catching every other word. Dewey strode a discreet distance away from Webby, who supported the weakened Doofus on her shoulder, who for his part carried a suitcase by his side filled with his armor, which Webby forbade him to use until he was better. Louie walked, or limped, a little behind the group, all of the sexual politics languishing through the Chihuahua cattle range making him roll his eyes. However, he couldn't help but think of Gosalyn. How old was she anyway? Could he be arrested for that?

On, through the edge of the village, and towards the tavern. Their Crow guide said nothing, preferring instead to simply hurry on before darkness fell completely over the town. For their part, the brothers and company were too exhausted by their flight to make too much conversation amongst themselves, and more than one of them planned to crash on the first bed in sight.

The crow dismounted from his horse and tied him up in front of the tavern, before he walked in through the front. The entire group moved after him, through the swinging doors of the tavern. Dewey, at the head of the group, noted that everyone in town, it seems, was gathered in the bar, sitting rail straight at tables and on the floor when they couldn't fit. Drinks sat untouched on tables and the bar, and the entire scene held an eerie silence that Dewey was all too familiar with.

"Wait!" He yelled, already backing away from the tableau, "It's a trick!"

But it was too late, all of the five ducks had found their way through the swinging doors, and found themselves helpless as each townsperson, as a man, tossed a wave of small, green balls towards the ducks and parrots, which flashed brightly as they struck the ground with a clear 'foof' noise. Instantly, Dewey felt his legs shake and his vision leave, as he felt his body and senses be stunned by the torrent of foof bombs. He tried to stay standing, but he was suddenly too weak. He fell, to the ground like a ragdoll, along with his brothers and allies, who fell about each other like so many sacks of potatoes.

"M-"Dewey tried to begin, "M-magic... ca..."

"I'm terribly sorry," said a voice, crackling and fragile, but with a familiar Italian lilt, "But I'm afraid this may be your final adventure, nephews. You've gotten between me and my plans for long enough."

As Dewey's vision began to return, he saw the outline of a black-clad figure, a hag of a duck, thin as death, with fright-white hair and more crags and lines than the face of a mountain. She stood among the now standing townspeople, holding a glowing wand in her right hand, and with the other caressing the chin of a man, Panchito.

"I shall not dally long, Duck. I have come for the dime."

"My... D..."

"Your dime?" She laughed, a wracking heave of a cackle, "Claiming the old man's dime as your own, eh?" She approached, slowly, using the curves she no longer had, "how funny of you. Shall I tell you what I will do with that dime?"

"I know what you... want..." Said Dewey, sheer gumption allowing him to recover from the foof before any of his companions, "...Midas... touch..."

She laughed again, casually dropping another foof bomb on the ground. Dewey was caught in the flash, and once again found himself stunned.

"THAT old spell? I gave up on that years ago. No! I have found a new use for the old man's dime." She twined her thin, boney fingers around the wand, a long, glowing green whip of a stick. "I have found in my studies the secret to eternal youth and beauty. The Elixer of Aphrodite." She turned away from Dewey and began to hobble about, reveling in her own genius. "Ever since I lost my beauty I have been travelling the world to find the components of this spell, including the first coin made by the richest duck in the world. I had thought that the magic in the coin would disappate with his death as his wealth was distributed through the world, but... After it counteracted my beautiful Ideologue spell, I see that it is still potent after all these years." She rubbed her face. "Wealth is... hard. Cold. Beauty, now that is the greatest treasure of the universe. I did not know what power I had until it was gone... It is, ephemeral, temporary, and it is the greatest asset that I could ever choose to have. For my youth back, I would gladly sacrifice you, this town, those blasted idiotic thembrians... the whole world!" With a smile, her still haunting eyes narrowed, "today I shall settle for you."

Supine and numb all over, Dewey was unable to move as Magica DeSpell walked up, her trembling, arthritic hands reaching towards his pocket where he kept both dimes.

"WAAAAK!" He suddenly yelled, forcing his dead arm to move to clumsily knock against her hand, an utterly weak attack, but enough to cause her to draw back.

"There is spirit in this one. Well. We shall have to fix this." She waved the acid green wand towards the Green parrot sitting at the bar, José, "You, Playboy. Get me Scrooge's dime."

"Yes, Comrade," said José, his trance smoothing out his accent. The parrot stood, limping forward without the help of his umbrella.

"José," Said Dewey, drained after his desperate attack against Magica's probing fingers, "Joe. Please..."

But José did not listen. He merely reached his hands into Dewey's pocket, and, as he was told, withdrew the dime. The heaving cackle began once again.

"And now it is mine! Slave! Bring it to me. Let me... hold it in my hands."

José turned blankly, holding the dime between his thumb and forefinger. He walked towards Magica, arm outstretched, and she held out her arms as if accepting a beloved child back home.


"I win, Dewey Duck! I win!" She laughed as the dime hovered ever closer to her fingers.


Suddenly, a crash! The window... No! The whole side wall of the tavern caved in violently, sending splinters and hypnotized victims to ground. A cloud of dust preceded the entry of a large brown object flying in, smashing though the old wood of the tavern's wall. Dewey blinked away the dust and residual foof, anc could have sworn that he saw a struggling horse fly through the air away from the wall, to crash into the bar hard, sending strong spirits all over the ground. The horse, coming in contact with the ground, struggled and screamed on its broken body, before it slowed down and began to shrink in size, the chocolate tones darkening and turning black, and the two broken front legs becoming a pair of broken, busted wings. Soon, the horse had become a raven, who screamed and cried in pain, speaking words in Italian that none but the uncaring Magica could understand.

"What was that?" she demanded, trying to wave away the smoke, before she saw the silhouette. A duck. A billowing cape. Boots. A flash of yellow and black. She snatched the dime away from José quickly.

"Drop the dime, Magica!"

"Or what? Who are you, silly man? Who dares face Magica DeSpell, Sorceress?"

The dust cleared fully, showing the one-eyed mask, the costume, and the face of pure rage.

"They call me..." He said, eye wild, "...PK!"

"Rooster! Playboy! Get him you fools!" Magica Screeched as she ran upstairs to the upper level of the tavern.

"Yes, Comrade."

"Dewey!" PK yelled as Panchito began to draw his twin guns, and José took up an umbrella, which he brandished like a sword, "Your dime!"


"Throw me your dime!" Bang bang bang! PK jumped out of the way just as Panchito tried to fill his gut with hot lead, "Quickly!"

"But... I can't... It's mine..."

"Dewey! Right now!"

Something in the voice called Dewey back, to hot summer days playing in the backyard with his two brothers, to ice cream sodas, to Super Snooper comics, and misadventures ending in the dreaded switch. Unconciousely, his arm disconnected from the rest of his numb body, he reached in his pocket for the remaining, 1967-dated dime and ripped it from its housing on its string in his pocket. Before his natural money-grubbing tendencies could get the better of him, he threw it towards the fray before passing out altogether.

As the flying dime neared the two hypnotized caballeros, it began to vibrate. PK dived, reaching his arms out to grab it out of the air, and landed in a roll. With the dime in hand, he could feel the power fighting the communist magic that bewitched the parrot and rooster. Balling it into his fist, he gave two swings; baf, Pow; and Floored José and Panchito in two shots. When they opened their eyes, it was clear they were back to their normal emotional selves.

"What happen'?" said José.

"Where is the weetch!" cried Panchito, hopping up and pointing his guns towards the masked man, "Who are you? We do not take kindly to strangers here in Chihuahua!"

But José, still prostrate on the floor, looked up at PK with a kind of wide-eyed reverence, "Is... is it...?"

"No time," Said PK, "She's getting away. Come on!" He then disappeared up the stairs after tossing the dime back to the unconscious Dewey.

Panchito and José looked in each other's eyes for a moment, before smiling broadly. Panchito helped his friend to his feet, and, with an old spark of life rediscovered, charged up the stairs after PK.


The small hearth in the center of the tavern's guest room was lit, and Magica was sitting by it, desperately rummaging through her bag.

"Telepowder. Telepowder. Where is that... Ah!" She called in delight as she withdrew a small brown sack from her bag, full of a fine powder.

"Not so fast, Witch!"

Not even bothering to answer, She reached into her sleeves and tossed two foof bombs towards the three men who stood in her door frame. She covered her eyesand nose to protect herself from the bomb's paralyzing effects, before she peeked, seeing the cloud of smoke dissipate.

"What?" she screeched, as she saw the outline of the wide, black umbrella, acting as a shield for the three men.

Before she could react, Panchito moved first, popping over the rim of the umbrella and taking a well-aimed potshot at Magica. The bullet tore through her arm, causing her to drop nearly the entire brown bag into the shouldering hearth with a small pile of dust settling over the sides. The fire turned red, then orange, then green, before settling on blue, with the faint outline of a destination.

"Imbeciles! Do you have any idea how much that powder costs!" she yelled, ignoring her grotesquely limp arm. With her other, she pulled out another wand, a golden one, and aimed it at the floor. The ground where she fired the magic seemed to burst into flame, and from the fire grew a figure that glowed with a kind of infernal light. It turned towards Magica.

"Kill them," she said, simply, before jumping into the fire, just before, in a rainbow of color, she was gone.

The three looked at the figure as it continued to grow, until it seemed to take up the entire room. The three then looked to one another.

"I am the Alpha and the Omega! I am lord of all evil! The Underworld is my playground, and I have but to stretch my pinky and subjugate each of your so... what are you doing? Stop!"

In a whirl, the parrot and Rooster had hurled the masked hero towards the huge demon. The duck was a tornado of fists and kicks. The Demon found himself caught off guard, shielding his firey eyes and face from the windmill of punches that came off of the wild duck, who made that horrible noise all throughout with his voice. Meanwhile, Panchito had opened fire, careful not to strike his ally clinging to the demon. José waved his arms and screamed encouragement at Panchito and PK, before poking the Demon in the stomach with the pointy end of his umbrella.

"Unholy shit! You guys are crazy!" said the demon, "Beelzebub out!"

In a flash of fire, the devil was gone, leaving only a scorched patch in the ground.


"Wake up!" said a voice, before Dewey's face was slapped.

"What happened?" said Dewey, groggily, before remembering, "The dime! Where's Magica?"

"Probably all the way back to Vesuvius by now."

"We... We've got to go, get back Uncle Scrooge's..." He began to lift himself up, but a hand was placed on his chest.

"Not so fast. We need to think this through."

Dewey's eyes had finally caught up with the rest of him. PK was sitting over him, looking gruff. Around him, Huey, Louie and the others were being helped up by Panchito's various relatives and relations. José was embracing his nieces, and they were reciprocating t gesture, all speaking at once. In front of Dewey's face, PK was waving the 1967 dime, which he snatched out of his fingers quickly.

"Thanks," He said curtly, "but we have no time for thinking. If we don't hurry, she's going to melt that dime down for that crazy potion of hers unless we can stop her."

"And how do you plan on getting to Italy within an hour?"

"I... she teleported, didn't she?"

PK nodded.

Dewey trembled lightly, before he let out a long, anguished wail, beginning with a wide 'a' noise, before transitioning with a dipthong into a teeth-clenching long 'e.' His throat clenched over the noise, creating a hard G which gargled in his throat, letting all the rage and frustration percolate to the top of his being.

When the outburst was over, Webby wandered over, "Dewey?"

"I lost it! Uncle Scrooge's dime. It was right here in my pocket, and... Oh! God! Why did I let it slip away?" He fell to his knees, with a groan. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! It's... it's gone, and it's all my fault!"

"No," said Webby, "Dewey, it wasn't anyone's fault."

"You don't understand! It was... The number one dime was... It was his legacy. The first thing he ever earned by his own sweat and labor, and I let it go. I couldn't protect it. I... Now... It's gone and I'll never see it again."

A ripe crack against his cheek took his mind off of his troubles for a moment. "Stop hitting me, PK!"

"That wasn't PK," said Webby, before she slapped him again, this time on the other cheek, "Pull yourself together!"


Slap! "No buts Deuteronomy Ebenezer Duck, you listen to me. That dime was Uncle Scrooge's responsibility to protect. Not yours, not PK's, not anybody's but Uncle Scrooge's. It was his wish that you boys forgot all about that dime and went to make your own fortunes. You understand me?"

"But Webby..."

Slap! "Now we are going to sit down, calm down, and talk about what to do about Magica DeSpell using Scrooge's dime in a spell for immortality and eternal youth, you understand me? The dime is beside the point, the world is at stake here, and if you're too short-sighted by your little love-affair with your Uncle's ghost then I... I'm... I'm afraid I will have to give my two-week notice."


"I cannot work under these conditions. You're small-minded, pay barely any attention to me, pay me barely anything, are frankly horrible to the people around you without realizing it, and you only ever care about one-upping Uncle Scrooge. Well Nuts to that, Dewey. You need to get your priorities straight here. Magica. Farid. There are people threatening the world, and all you can think about are your petty little problems that nobody asked you to care about.

Webby stood up, placing her hands on her hips and scowling, "Now I'm giving my ultimatum. Are you going to give up right now and sulk, or are you going to get your head out of your hindparts and find a way to beat Magica?"

Everyone in the room had frozen to behold this outburst, and as she finished, Webby was suddenly aware of it.

"...sir," she added quickly.

There was a small pause as Dewey sat. He was holding his own dime in his hand and trying to figure out what to stare at. He settled his gaze on the dime, on Webby, and on his silent brothers. He dropped his head down and began to cry. Once he was finished, he stood up and faced PK, wiping his tears from his eyes.

"We need to get to Mount Vesuvius as soon as possible. There might still be time."

PK reached into a pocket in his cape and withdrew a small, clear back filled with the fine telepowder Magica had used to escape, "She only left enough for one person."


Spiced smells of dark things wafted through the old shack on the face of Mount Vesuvius. Within, the glow of the pot, bubbling in the center of the room with no apparent means of heat, overpowered the senses with ghosts of light and sound. The ingredients went in, one-by-one, from the single, useful hand of the witch concocting the Elixer of Aphrodite.

She sat as if in a trance, her eyes wide open, but milky and unseeing. Her hand moved as if controlled by something outside of her body, and her throat made mumbled incantations as she places each component in the pot. Soon...

Her arm reached for the dime, sitting at the bottom of the stack, surrounded by perfumed rose petals, that wilted as her fingers closed around the shiny metal. With the prize held in her hands, she held her hand over the boiling pot, which spewed pink smoke like a chimney.

All at once, the fireplace at the end of the room roared, and the roar of flames transformed into a roar of voices. As if burning away in reverse, Dewey Duck appeared in the fireplace. He cocked Scrooge's Musket on his shoulder and fired a single musketball with a scream of rage. The large projectile passed clean through Magica's heart, exploding out the other side in a spray of crimson. Dewey lowered the rifle as he eyed the magician.

The arm moved closer to the pot, undeterred by trivial ailments of the body. The dime fell into the pot.

Cruel laughter in the familiar sensual voice that seemed to run backwards and forwards at once echoed through the room. Before Dewey, above the living corpse of Magica DeSpell, there appeared an ethereal presence in the shape of the youthful temptress of Dewey's youth.

"It is no use. The elixir will soon be complete, and this body of mine will be remade to match my beautiful spirit," said the ghost, "And I will be more powerful than ever before. At my full strength I shall not kowtow to any man ."

"You're mad, Magica!"

"Mad, you say? To want to live forever is madness? To want power is madness? Then perhaps you too are mad, little boy."

"Shut up!" Dewey yelled, before he tried stepping towards the cauldron. However, he was knocked backwards off his feet by an unseeable force.

"You think I didn't plan for you to come here? I am more than protected from you, and your pitiful bullets will be of no matter when I am once again young and powerful." A cackle, strong and supple. "First I shall take care of those troublesome Thembrians... No! Them second, After I kill you and your little family right in front of you."

The ghost floated down to hover over her own body, letting her own hand swish over the cauldron, laughing merrily all the while, "Soon, Dewey, I will be myself. Young, supple, beautiful. You will have the pleasure to be the first to look upon the new queen of this world, and also be the first to be crushed beneath her heel!"

Her laugh started small, but grew in a horrific crescendo, letting out the mad evil she radiated in every cackle. At the apex of the mad laughter, the hands of the sorceress moved, one of them flopping about grotesquely, and dipped her hands in the pool. Instantly, her wrists hardened up, as the magic within the elixir youthened them. A deep draught of liquid was taken from the pot by the two hands, and forced down the Witch's unfeeling gullet.

"Yes. Yes! I can feel it happening," she said, the spirit form beginning to rub herself all over, down the front of the black dress the spirit wore out of some memory of human modesty, which was quickly flying out the window as the opposite hand travelled lower. "Yes. It is warm! Oh, Yes!"

Dewey felt his throat go dry at this display, and to distract himself, he started to pack down some more powder into his musket, before dropping a ball in. His stomach was tied in knots with terrified fear, but he couldn't let that stop him.

Magica's body had begun to change. The dead hands slipped the robes she wore off, revealing the nakedness of the old woman underneath. Spots and wrinkles seemed to melt away as the potion worked its magic on her body. Dewey had to suppress his gasp as the bosom began to fill out, and sagging skin realigned with the sleek body in a process Dewey found fascinatingly grotesque.

Looked down at his Musket, he decided to fight. Iron bullets pass through magic barriers after all. He raised it and fired, but the sorceress was already more powerful than ever before. With a wave of her hand, the musketball stopped in mid-air and turned, nearly piercing Dewey straight through if he hadn't ducked out of the way in time.

"You are a fascinating plaything, Dewey Duck. You have grown into such a strapping young thing. It would be a shame to kill you straight out," said the astral projection, who had begun to look more and more like the rapidly de-aging husk below, naked and gorgeous, and touching herself all over and reveling in the sensations the Aphrodite Elixer warmed in her.

"Go to hell, Magica!" Yelled Dewey as he tamped down another round into the musket.

"Eventually, yes, but not for a long time now." Then the projection froze, a probing finger drew itself back from its explorations, "Wait... what...?"

Dewey looked down at the body. Something had changed within it. The husk had slumped over, the spirit above having lost control of the magic keeping it upright and connected to her spirit.

"What? No! It cannot be!"

Dewey wanted so to cover his eyes, but found he couldn't. Magica's age had regressed to the prime of womanhood, beautiful, supple, raven-haired and smokey-eyed, but somehow the skin and feathers seemed off. Dewey soon realized why. It was crawling.

"No! No! NO! What went wrong? The spell! The spell is backfiring!"

Dewey could only watch in terror as the feathers began to molt off of the duck, revealing that the skin underneath had become red and runny. Skin no more, it had begun to resemble the muscle underneath, and all over the woman's body, it ran off like water. Soon the inner mechanics of the body were laid bare for Dewey to behold; wide, lidless eyes beheld in unconscious terror; Beak, falling open, allowing the flesh of the mouth to dribble out, before the tendons and cartlage holding the orange bill up melted away, causing it to fall to the floor with a sickening thump; Hands, slender fingers of both hands stripping away to reveal muscle, then the white peeks of bones between.

The projection above, still nude and alluring, was screaming in pain and terror, too far-gone to form words for what was happening to her one and only body.

Soon, something had begun to take hold inside as well. Her chest expanded, as if breathing, but then seemed to widen like a measure of elastic. The area around her heart grew out, pushing the liquefying bones out of the way, before the muscle exploded outward, spraying all of the blood forward in a harsh stream towards Dewey. Magica's force spell still held, however, and Dewey beheld the strange sight of all of the blood of a Duck's body dripping down a pane of invisible glass.

Finally, the body itself gave a death rattle, a horror-filled scream to rival that of its soul, before the entire body detonated, meat and bone quickly flying apart in an orgy of gore that Dewey couldn't tear his eyes from. The chunks fell to the floor, held within the circle by the force field, before they finally completed the melting process, and, eventually, evaporated away, meat, bone, blood and all, leaving only a vague stench of death, tinged with roses.

"No! How? HOW?"

"You picked the wrong dime, Magica." Said Dewey, letting words flow out of his mouth so his lunch wouldn't, "Scrooge's dime is powerless. It has been since he was gone. He... He isn't around to give it meaning anymore."

"But...! But I saw you use the dime to counteract the symbol! I saw the power with my own two astral eyes!"

"You saw this!" Dewey pulled from his pocket his own number one, still tied to its string, "Scrooge isn't the richest duck in the world anymore. I am. Flintheart Glomgold is dead and his businesses dispersed, John Rockerduck was never even close, and that just leaves me, Dewey Duck, rightful owner of McDuck Enterprise and de-facto Richest Duck alive," He stuck out his hand holding the dime, proudly, "And this is the first dime I ever earned with my own labor."

Magica's spirit, all that was left of her now, drew away from the sight of the dime and screamed like a banshee as she flew away, through the roof, and up into the sky, railing at the unfair world that had wronged her so.

Dewey looked around, before pocketing the dime. The latent magic in the hut, held up by Magica's spirit, dispersed, and the horrid smell held in by the force field, a smell of death and corrosion, wafted past. He held his beakholes shut as he stepped forwards to the now still cauldron, its contents having evaporated along with the victim of its horror-filled spell. He looked down into it. He reached inside. He found, at the bottom, a lump of metal, a composition of silver and copper, with seated liberty's still recognizable on one side. It had been melted slightly, and crinkled by the corrosive magic. It was recognizable as a dime, but no one would ever take her as currency every again.

Dewey stared at the lump, before he pocketed it. Without a word, and trying to block out the things he had seen, he searched the hut until he found another measure of telepowder, intending to go back to Chihuahua and take as much time as he needed to get over whatever totally never happened here today.

Before he threw the powder into the fire, he dug the ruined dime out of his pocket again. Scrooge had always thought of it as a useless keepsake. The first bit of money that he attributed memories to. A shoeshine boy in Glasgow, Scotland, unknowing heir to a castle, a legacy, treasure, adventure, thrills, heartbreak, just trying to earn his way in the world.

Dewey shook his head of the images of his uncle he had never seen. Those weren't his memories. They were never his memories.

I should leave it behind, he thought, Scrooge is gone, and there's no reason to keep it anymore.
But then, he thought about all of that time they spent defending the money bin. Storms of Beagle Boys, A witch, a rival millionaire. Some after the money itself, others after just a part. He looked down at the remains of the dime. He remembered his own first encounter with it. He and his brothers were being lead through the money bin for the first time. Scrooge looked old, tired. More exhausted than they ever saw him like again after that. It was in a glass dome, on a green cushion. It had been just after that hard Christmas up on Bear mountain when they had first heard from their uncle, and slept in that dangerous bear-infested cabin. Uncle Donald pointed out the dime to me, calling it, like many did, the "Lucky dime." I jump as Scrooge's voice cuts the air, refuting the name. Calling it "Balderdash." He wears a hat that I learn later is his clan tartan.

Moments later, he opened the vault door, and there, just sitting there, was more money than I had ever seen in my life.

Dewey looked up from the dime, to the fire, then back down to the dime. He salvaged the long string from his own dime, figuring he could find another somewhere, and tied it into a rough circle. He then took a thin implement, some sortof needle, from off of one of magica's workbenches, and poked a hole through the still-softened metal before it could harden back up and become just a hunk of Silver and copper. He threaded the string through the hole in the dime, before hanging it around his neck, underneath his shirt.

Those are my memories, he thought, attached to his dime. He wanted me to make my own memories, and my own fortune. That's why I kept it. He smiled as he threw the powder into the fireplace, thinking of that hearth in Chihuahua.

I already had my own memories, all along.


In the long, sacked hall of the Thembrian palace of the former Tsar, his most excellent Grand High Marshall of Thembria was taking a call from overseas. Unable to move his arms, a servant held the receiver to his mouth, and the speaker to his ear, and covered his own ears with cotton so he could not eavesdrop.

He talked of politics, and the tiring maze of it all, and how the fantastic is so much more interesting.

He talked of money, and his disdain for it.

He talked of power, and his lust for it.

He talked of living forever, and how he feared that it would never come.

He talked for an hour over the phone, undeterred by such things as phone charges, expecting the country's coffers to pay for any necessary luxuries he required.

As he talked, he suddenly heard a second voice in his mind, as if in a dream. He began to splutter on and on to the person on the other line. Ducks. Dimes. America. The fugitive Dewey Duck. The Sea Duck. There is a Dime held by the fugitive. That is the Capitalist symbol. If he can attain it and destroy it... or better yet...

Memories, as if from another body flowed into his mind. Something called the elixir of Aphrodite. Religious hogwash of course, but... but the promise of eternal health, youth, and beauty? To be young and handsome again. To be able to move from this bed.

He began to breathe hard as he rambled, and the State Telephone Operator hadn't noticed. He must find the dime. He must find Dewey Duck. He must create the Elixer, and live forever. So says Rasputin!

He awoke, his brow covered in sweat, the man on the other end of the line calling into the line.

"Marshall, Marshall. Are you all right?"

"Rasputin has come to me in a dream. His earthly vessel has been slain once more."


"But he has... But he has given me a mission. A glorious war of honor against the terrorist, Dewey Duck, for that symbol of Capitalist blindness and corruption, this... 'lucky dime.' I must..." He breathed deep, his eyes wide, "I must have it!"

The voice on the other end of the line seemed to smile. "I think," said Farid Kagan, to his new friend and business partner the Grand High Marshall of Thembria, "That is a wonderful idea."

As plans were formulated and the tide of events began to rise, there could be heard a wild cackle echoing through the grand hall, disappearing as the last of her magic faded, with a smell of death and roses.

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