My Terrible Fanfiction

If you liked this..

2010-07-01T13:50:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone who might still be watching this blog. (Probably less than one but more than negative one) Another Disney-themed fanfiction originating on Plus4chan has begun over here:

http://mmpicases.blogspot.com/

Mickey Mouse as a private detective in the 20s. Go read it if you want, it's pretty cool.

The Adventures of Chaptor: The Case of the Stratfordian Mattress - Chaptor 3

2009-09-19T21:03:00.000-07:00

And here's Chapter three, containing the auspicious entrance of the final required bit of the Chaptor Mythos missing from the first couple chapters.

I probably won't post many more after this. Got to keep some air of mystery after all. Enjoy these and keep your eyes peeled.

---

3: The Subject of This Query is a Mr. Nickolas D. Chaptor
Or
You Have Rather a Knack for Asking All of the Right Questions
Or
Is This a Dagger I See Before Me?

On the journey to Chaptor's town house on Park Lane, I made several mental notes which I later transferred to paper for the purpose of my formal study; A Modern Dinosaur, by Charlemagne Fredrickson. I thought at the time that perhaps I should compose a monograph after I had presented my findings to the Paleontological society. My notes as I left them on the paper were discordant and messy, due to the swift nature of the adventure herein, but I was later able to compile them together into some semblance of usefulness, which I now copy down into this report for you, ready to peruse:

'The subject of this query is a Mr. Nickolas D. (unknown middle name, ask later?) Chaptor (Claims Welch origin on name). While he and everyone else who meets him seems to accept him as human, I have been blessed, or perhaps, cursed, with the ability to see him for what he is, a carnivorous dinosaur.

'About 2 meters tall, perhaps taller if drawn to full height. Rather longer from snout to tail. Dresses like a gentleman of some means (with the exception of trousers, which thankfully isn't a problem thanks to internal genitalia), indicating that he has such means at his disposal. Question: How did he come by those means? Family fortune? Are the other members of his family dinosaurs? Does he have living relatives?

'Species: Inconclusive. Certainly of the family Dromaeosaurid, perhaps of the Late Cretaceous period, although he seems much bigger than most species found within the fossil record. Perhaps something new or undiscovered? Perhaps the path of evolution has simply found Chaptor's ancestors the very same way it had found ours.

'Behavior: Perfect gentleman. Despite fearsome natural weaponry; Large, hooked claw on each foot as well as more normal claws on his other toes and the fingers of his hands and large collection of sharp serrated teeth; he behaves nearly exactly like a human male of the Queen's England, just like you or I. Even more so I daresay, for his every action speaks of a gentleman's duty to present himself with the utmost care. Speech pattern and accent seem to indicate a London native of high birth, or at least a very convincing replica.

'Despite inhabiting the body of a notorious predator, the subject's natural inclinations are either stunted, or have evolved out of the species over time. Instead of hunting prey for its meat, he seems to hunt mystery and adventure. As I met him he was in the midst of some intrigue involving a theater company and a murder soon occurred.'

As I gathered this information within my mind, the hansom we rode in had stopped in front of a rather fashionable townhouse, surrounded by verdant greenery on both sides. I half expected to see prehistoric palms and ferns growing up to frame his house, but as I stepped close I could see that they were merely the modest rosebushes so common around the houses of the neighborhood.

At Chaptor's behest, I was allowed to follow him inside. I thought for a moment that it might not be such a good idea to follow a carnivorous dinosaur into his own home, especially considering the rather late hour, but I resolved myself to enter. No other way would I be able to take this marvelous chance by the hand than by throwing caution to the wind.

As we entered, I looked around for a butler or housekeeper to take our coats, but no one presented himself. Chaptor looked around lightly, before sighing wistfully. He then turned and took my coat, hanging it upon a rack by the door before doing himself the same service. With a jaunty flourish, he tossed his top hat towards a hook upon the wall and it stuck, spinning upon the hook a single time before it was still.

His clawed hand gestured for me to follow before he began to walk out of the foyer and into the main hall, still walking with the cane and claw's alternating clicks upon the hard floor. It was then that I had my first glimpse of Chaptor's sense of taste and style, which spoke volumes of his soul.

The look of the main hall was that of a trophy room. Various antiques lined the walls and stood out upon short pedestals, or under clear cases to protect them from the elements. Decaying books stood under glass, tribal masks, spears, and fur-lined warrior's costumes hung upon a far wall, while on the opposite wall there hung pictures and paintings of exquisite quality. Chinese and Indian pottery was clustered about, holding well-kept green ferns in the larger ones and bouquets of fragrant flowers in the few smaller ones which stood out upon the end tables and shelves. The entire room was built with a large, curving grand staircase in the center, as a beautiful showpiece, but it could not compare with the enchanting display of history and art which surrounded it.

Suddenly, there was a joyous call from up above, on the second floor. My eyes swooped up to catch a glimpse of a small girl in a French-style maid's uniform, with her hair tied up demurely. She was sitting quite un-ladylike upon the banister of the staircase, facing up and away from us. As she cried out, she began to slide down the banister backwards quickly, firing French phrases which I did not understand to the open air. My eyes followed this strange sight all the way down the long, curved stairs until the girl reached the bottom. The banister resolved itself in a sharp ramp, which the girl came towards at high speeds. Her momentum launched her into the air, and I could suddenly see her frightened face. With a girlish sound of discomfort, the girl landed upon the plush carpet, before she began the process of standing herself back up.

"Jolly good form Agnes," said Chaptor, "Although the landing could use some work."

The girl, Agnes, I suppose, turned suddenly towards us, having been unaware of our presence. Her cheeks burned red in a violent blush. She froze there for a moment, staring straight at me, her hands covering her mouth in a silent, surprised gasp.

"Agnes," Chaptor said, to break the girl out of her paralysis, "Tea for our guest in the study please."

"Oui, sir!" she cried in a dear little voice, before she turned and half walked half ran towards the kitchens.

I began to ask, "Who...?"

"Agnes, my maidservant. Loyal to a fault, but still merely a girl I daresay. Keeps the place spotless, however, so I can't complain. Let the girl have her fun, I say, although I wish she wouldn't do so with guests. They usually get quite the wrong idea."

With another sweep of the lush great hall, which was spotless, I asked, "You have no other help?"

"No. Should I?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, in any case Charlemagne, welcome to my humble dwelling. Come along."

His wide gait began to pump along the hall towards a door set slightly behind the curved stairs. I followed along, my mission still fresh in my mind. My eyes scanned the environs for any hint of family lineage, perhaps portraiture or a volume chronicling the Chaptor family legacy. Between the Main hall and the study there were few personal items like that, as the owner of the house seemed to take more pleasure from items of historical or memorial significance, rather than familial. There was, however, a single family portrait in the hall, just before we entered the study.

A large painting it was, from floor to ceiling. It was, as far as I could tell, Nickolas D. Chaptor himself. He sat in a plush, leather armchair, surrounded on all sides by books and antiques. In the background there was a friendly, roaring fire, and in the foreground, a pot of tea. Behind the eminent gentleman raptor stood, strangely, his girlish maidservant, which seemed to indicate that the picture had been sat for quite recently, as the girl still seemed quite young. At the Raptor's left, oddly enough, was a strange curio, a to-scale replica of the city of London spread out on a round table.

"What are you dallying in the hall for?" asked the raptor's voice from the study, "I daresay, come in."

I hurried to enter the study, fearing that at any moment, the dinosaur could rescind on his gracious invitation to get to know him in person. I opened the door, and was frozen in an instant on the spot by what I saw there.

It wasn't a strange sight, per-se. Chaptor himself sat in a plush, leather armchair, surrounded on all sides by books and antiques, while behind a friendly fire roared. On a table in front, a pot of tea stood, and behind the armchair was the girlish maidservant, Agnes, acting as a sort of handmaiden to the dinosaur. Sure enough, at the raptor's side was the very same to-scale replica, identical to the one I had seen in the portrait. Doubting my vision, I took another peek to the likeness in the hall, then back to the scene of Chaptor.

"Sit, please. You are quite the nervous man, Charlemagne."

"I was simply, er, admiring your portrait."

"Yes. I sat for Manet after I helped him recover his entire body of work from a group of art thieves. I daresay it is rather a good likeness, isn't it?"

"Er. Yes." I sat, finally, in another leather chair opposite Chaptor's. Agnes took this as a cue to begin pouring out the tea. It was delicious.

As Agnes stood by, her tea duties fulfilled, Chaptor and I sat facing one another, saying nothing and sipping our hot drinks. I wanted for something to say to this strange creature that so greatly resembled a fellow countryman in manners genteel, but could not think of a question to raise that would not cause offense. After all, how would you ask about a fellow Gentleman's species?

Finally, Chaptor spoke, "The murder today, what is your take on it, Charlemagne?"

"I? What would I know of...?"

"I always like to have as many opinions as I can when in the midst of investigation. This is actually rather a simple case to figure out in my opinion. The difficulty comes in the practical solution."

I sipped at my tea to buy me some time, before saying, "I have nothing but questions. I'm afraid I've come in rather late to the inquiry."

"Ask them then. It may help clear my thoughts."

"Very well." I thought for a moment, before asking, "What were the 'incidents' the boy spoke of? The actors and stagehands seemed to understand, but I am sadly unaware."

"Wonderful opening question, Charlemagne. The other incidents are rather similar to this one, with only differences in date and execution."

"More murders?"

"Perhaps, although they weren't suspected to be so until recently. Simply put, over the past two years, at the opening nights of Shakespeare's greatest works, there have been grisly misfortunes coming over the various leading men."

"What sorts of accidents?"

"Rather like what you witnessed tonight, Charlemagne. Macbeth would trip and accidentally drive a dagger into his eye. Richard the Third failed to enter in his opening scene, only to be found later locked upon the roof, frozen to death. As Lear raged across the moors, a stage light detached from its mooring and swung across the stage, taking off his head in the process. Etc. Etc. Quite grisly stuff."

"And, what makes you doubt they are accidents?"

"Why, the pattern. Can't you see it?"

"See what?"

"It's all to do with the texts my lad."

I didn't want to admit my ignorance of most of Shakespeare's plays, but I was struck by a desire to learn about these murders. "Enlighten me."

"'Is this a daggar I see before me?'"

"I... I don't know. Is it?"

"You misunderstand. It is a line from Macbeth. In the throes of madness, Macbeth wanders about the castle, and has a fevered vision of a daggar in his hands. 'Is this a daggar I see before me?' he says." Chaptor took a sip. "It is also where our unlucky actor failed to see where someone had moved a low piece of scenery, so that as he ventured to cross the stage, he fumbled over. It is also the place in the play where someone, perhaps an inept fellow actor, perhaps a more sinister hand, had left a knife sticking up out of the stage. As Macbeth tripped and fell, in slid the knife, and before you knew it..."

"No more. Stop, I beg you, Chaptor. I see all too clearly what had occurred. What inquiries were made at the time?"

"None."

"None?"

"No one thought much of it. Passing resemblance to the text notwithstanding, it was simply an unfortunate accident. Macbeth already had its own superstitions surrounding it by the time our phantom got to it."

"I see. And... what was the next one?"

"King Richard III came to a slightly less gruesome end I daresay. The very first words in the play are 'Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this son of York.' These words were not uttered, for by that time, their Richard had been trapped up on the roof of the playhouse during a driving snowstorm. They figured that the lead man had flown the coop, and so an understudy went on for him. He was not discovered until a few days later." Chaptor finished his tea, placing his cup and saucer down upon an end-table. "And then, King Lear... His final scene came rather late in the play, when the king is walking across the moors, defying the storm that beat down upon him, and he screams..."

"'Blow wind, crack your cheeks!'"

"Ah! You are familiar?"

"Yes. I was in a student production at school."

"You played Lear?"

"N-no... You see, it was an all boy's school, so some of us had to dress as women in masks..."

"Ah. So you were... Regan? Goneril? Perhaps Cordelia?"

"Er... simply a handmaiden."

Agnes giggled girlishly, and I could feel the blush sneaking up to betray my cheek. Chaptor, however, did not bat an eye. "No shame in that, I daresay."

"Yes." I changed the subject. "And the swinging instrument came down from the flies and..."

"Perhaps not quite the crack on the cheek Lear had meant. After this one, this case had my attention. Three murders so far, targeting the male leads of some of Shakespeare's greatest plays and more were promised. Then there came tonight... 'What light through yonder window breaks...'"

"Quite the literal-minded chap, isn't he?"

"Quite." It was then Chaptor's yellow eyes, one hidden behind a monocle, focused hard upon me. "I had rather nearly settled the whole matter when you insisted on walking into my plans."

"What did I do?"

"You distracted me from my goal of perhaps leading the murderer away from his deadly aspirations. You jumped and fell backward into that costume rack, and then dominated the conversation in trying to get to know me."

"I said I was sorry. And anyway, if you knew there to be murder tonight on that line, why not post guard backstage, and make sure that scene went off without incident?"

"Because I did not know which line the murder would occur on. The killer doesn't announce himself until the very moment arrives. It was a mystery to me until it came, and by the time I realized, I was powerless to stop the ruthless machination Richard Henry had been trapped in."

"What of the ropes, and the false sandbags? You said before that the killer supplied them himself. What possible reason...?"

"You have rather a knack for asking all of the right questions, Charlemagne. If I didn't loathe the very sight of you I'd quite think you delightful company."

"Thank you?"

"You're welcome. Now, on the matter of the trap. The ropes were of a different weave and material, strong silk from the east that could easily hold much more than the rougher-hewn rope normally used by the theater crowd. The killer... this 'phantom' one supposes... needed the stronger rope to hoist up several men's weight in sandbags so that Romeo, his doublet subtly hooked by the rope as he waited in the wings, would be wrenched up with enough force to snap past the balcony and shatter the stained-glass window."

"When I wore it, I noticed that the doublet itself had a strong wire framework all around the inside of it. I thought nothing of it at the time, but it might have been added later so the doublet would not rip."

"Wonderful observance, Charlemagne, I shall take note of it."

"And the bags themselves? What significance lay there?"

"Only that there were seven of them, and they had been filled from a different source than most theatrical sandbags."

"But why? There is an embarrassment of bags of sand there ripe for the taking. Why couldn't he...?"

"Perhaps..." Chaptor's face ceased looking up at me and instead began looking slightly past mine, lost in thought. "Perhaps he did not want to chance the disruption of the play. Of course, he needed the play to perform the murder, that much is clear, but he couldn't do anything to disrupt any scene outside of the one in which the grisly thing was contained. The other incidents were plagued with similar habitual courtesies towards the play. Even in the Lear incident..."

I felt myself become sick as I thought of it, imagining the student Lear, a very good friend of mine from school, with his head flying across the stage.

"... on closer inspection, the killer had not used a lighting instrument from within the theater, but one he had provided himself. It must have been to preserve the production, while also killing the star performer."

"Extraordinary." I thought frantically for my next question, wishing to know more of these macabre affairs. "When shall he strike again?"

"This production of Romeo and Juliet was to be played in repertory with a production of Hamlet which opens in the coming weeks. Now that the romance has been extinguished, Hamlet will be next on the killer's list. Shakespeare's greatest hero is in danger."

"Why not cancel?"

"Unthinkable to the gypsies I'm afraid. They have a saying that 'the show must go on,' and like all other traditions and superstitions it is sacrilege to suggest otherwise."

"So, all that is left is sniffing out the identity of this phantom before the opening of Hamlet."

"Oh that much is quite simple."

"Really? You've figured him out already? Who?"

"I shan't tell you."

"What? Why?"

"Think of it as a small revenge for insinuating yourself upon me. You shall have to remain in suspense along with everyone else in London."

"But..." I gave a little frown and commenced to twist my small beard, "Is it Tobias Swift?"

"I shan't say."

"The girl, I shudder to think women capable of such acts, but Lady Covington?"

"I shan't say."

"Do you think...?" I was quickly running out of suspects. "Do you think it might have been Richard Henry himself faking or, God forbid, facilitating his own murder for some unknown reason?"

"Rather fanciful isn't it? In any case, I shan't say."

"Oh, damn it all!" I then noticed the girl, who hadn't flinched. "Pardon my language," I mumbled, penitently.

At this point, an upright clock behind me began to chime softly, ringing out eleven silvery bells.

"Good heavens, is that the time?" said Chaptor, "I have kept you so late, Charlemagne, you must think me beastly!"

I tried not to laugh. Beastly he says! "It is no trouble."

The two of us stood from our chairs and walked out into the hall towards the front room. I remained silent, and Chaptor obliged for the time being. It was not until we reached the foot of the great staircase that he stalled me from exiting into the vestibule.

"One moment Charlemagne."

"Yes?"

"I must say a few parting words. I was rather vindictive toward you earlier, but you must understand how grave the situation really is. My plans before... I can see the question forming, Chap, and I shan't answer, it is much too late... were delicate, perhaps perilously so, and your unexpected entrance into them was enough for a man to lose his life tonight. I laid the blame upon you while my own counter-machinations were at fault. I hope you shall forgive me."

This sudden apology came from nowhere, and it did make me feel a bit better about the part I played in the night's plot. "Of course, Chaptor."

"And I must ask, did my inviting you in sate your curiosity tonight? Please answer truthfully, for whatever interest you took in me seemed to come over you violently and with little warning, and I fear that it shall not go away as suddenly as it came. I want to know if I can expect you to follow me along more as I conduct this investigation. Can I?"

He stood upon the stairs as he spoke, the effect causing him to look down upon me ever so slightly. Aware of his species or not, he used his fearsome appearance to great effect. I was quite intimidated by the yellow gaze of the gentleman raptor, and felt that in him there was some uncanny ability to detect lies among truth. I would be lying if I didn't say that I broke out in beads of sweat as the predator looked down upon me, reared to his full height.

It was also then that I quite noticed just how amazing a specimen this Chaptor was. The nearest I could place him, as I have noted before, was a Dromaeosaurid of the late Cretaceous period of pre-history. In the flickering lamplight, I could see that his scales, which I took to be rigid before, were quite pliable, and took on an appearance not unlike green skin. His stance also caused me some unrest, for while he looked like a large lizard at first glance, his stance and bearing were closer to a large, flightless bird. I had heard all of the hypotheses on the evolutionary paths of dinosaurs, and now I could see my colleague's guesses at their heredity were absolutely spot-on. Dinosaurs, or at least raptors, were closer to birds than to crocodiles. It was in thinking these self-indulgent thoughts that I realized that my curiosity over this beautiful, terrible, brilliant creature were not in the least sated. I wanted to stand by this creature; no, this man, for his outward appearance concealed a truly genius mind; and study him.

"If it is all the same, I should like to observe you further, Chaptor."

He sighed. "Very well. I shan't stop you; Heaven knows I can't stop you, not with that fire within your eyes; but I can keep my eye on you. I bid you stay the night here. Agnes shall fix up my guest room. In the morning I shall continue my investigation and you may continue yours, and I sincerely hope the two do not come to loggerheads." He turned and began to walk up the stairs. "Agnes?"

The girl materialized beside me at the foot of the stair. "Oui, sir?"

"Please escort Charlemagne to his room for the night, and then turn in yourself. It is quite past your bedtime." With a single claw Chaptor stroked the girl beneath the chin with all the fondness of a kindly uncle to his favorite niece.

"Oui, sir." She said with a smile before turning to me and smiling brightly. Without another word she turned once again and walked up the stairs towards the bedrooms, and I followed. Chancing one last look towards my saurian host, I noticed he had the look of a man getting ready to make a bold chess move, and is confident that it shall work.

The Adventures of Chaptor: The Case of the Stratfordian Mattress - Chaptor 2

2009-09-19T20:39:00.001-07:00

Hi gang! Another preview for you all. I also plan to post the third chapter after this. The first three chapters pretty much set up the story, I think, and introduce all the major players, so

enjoy! As usual, be on the lookout for mistakes, typos, or stupid shit that doesn't work.

---

2: What We Have Here is a Man with a Grim Sense of Humor
Or;
The Frilled and Now Distressed Doublet
Or;
The Ridiculous Splendor of My Situation

Never in my whole life have I understood why they still insist upon the prologue. We bloody know what the play is about; we don't need the plot spelled out for us like a schoolchild's dissertation on a book he read for an assignment. It's a simple enough tale, honestly. Idiot boy meets idiot girl, idiot girl fakes suicide to be with idiot boy, idiot boy misunderstands and kills himself, idiot girl figures this to be a fairly good idea, all things considered, and the world is made a better place by being rid of them. Lovely play, I promise, but dear lord, it's been nearly two hundred years so far since it was written. Is there any real hope at this point that we, as a people, can move on?

"Shhh! I can't hear the prologue," said the Lady Covington with a reprimanding tone.

I covered my mouth in apology for the loud yawn I had issued, and Chaptor gave one of his little sideways glances. His words from the hall had dug into my mind fast, and I couldn't stop thinking of them. What was going to happen, I was forced to wonder, and what had this strange sentient dinosaur which no one but me could notice to do with it?

In the wake of the light smattering of applause covering the exit of the prologue, a man in Elizabethan garb who stood and declaimed with the best of them, there was a short passage of mood music which, I suppose, the lady felt was appropriate to fill with conversation.

"Mr. Chaptor."

"Chaptor, please, Lady."

"Chaptor, then. Richie said something strange about a curse, did he not?"

"He did, m'lady."

The girl shivered, perhaps struck by some presentiment about the night. "Please, explain. What is this curse?"

"Pure superstition, I assure you," he answered, with a smarting look towards me, as if the entire matter was somehow my fault. "Merely a string of unrelated accidents."

"Accidents?" I asked, perhaps beginning to piece together what Chaptor's stern reprimand had been about, "What kind of accidents?"

"Oh, nothing serious. Simply unfortunate happenstance with the curious trend of occurring during different opening night performances of Shakespeare's plays. Enough for those superstitious people of the theater, your suitor included m'lady, to have constructed quite the dogma."

"Oh, I feel simply anxious," she said, "I saw him before I was supposed to. Perhaps that exacerbated..."

"I shan't worry m'lady." Chaptor was quite calm as he spoke, even as his words before quite unnerved me. It struck me then that this raptor was quite in control of himself to a frightening degree. I wondered exactly what I had wrought, but, thankfully, Act one, Scene one had began and gave us all three an excuse to silence ourselves.

The play was competent, I shall be able to say that much. As I am not a habitual theater-goer there is much doubt in my mind as to whether any one play I see is really truly 'good' or not. I am, as a consequence of my lack of experience, usually quite distracted by the pomp and spectacle that frequently accompanies Shakespeare that is considered done well, and I have more than once lost the thread of the plot in admiring the amazing sets and costumes. If I was watching one of the lesser canon, I'm quite sure that I would have no inkling of what was actually occurring on stage at any one moment, but since it was Romeo and Juliet, my only real confusion was in deciphering the thick old-fashioned language, made difficult by layers of poetry and colloquialism, which blurred even this familiar plot. I tried not to yawn at the time, as my two companions were absolutely enthralled, the girl with love for the roguish Romeo that young Richard Henry had turned out to be, and the Raptor with a strange, drawn-forward apprehensiveness, as if at any moment something might go horribly wrong. I began to imprint upon this attitude partway through the party wherein the two lovers first meet, and by the end of the scene I was feeling quite stressful, fancying any shadow passing through the stage lights to be some prelude to disaster.

Eventually, after what seemed like rather a long time of anxiety, we reached the classic balcony scene. Romeo was dressed in his traditional hose and doublet and came upon the lady Juliet's balcony. Hiding in the bushes waxing poetic about the young girl, the youth, struck with love, was quite competently played. She, all in virginal white, was also fairly good. Together I suppose they had fairly fine chemistry. I'm not the person to ask about this.

The sets were fantastic. The balcony jutted out over the Capulet's orchard, which was dotted with realistic trees which somehow did not obscure the action. Beyond the balcony was a great, wide pair of French doors with panels of stained glass depicting a religious scene of Cain and Abel. (No one can say I was never one to appreciate a bit of symbolism) As the lady Juliet seemed to wake, perhaps sick of love, her lamp was lit, illuminating the previously dark stained scene and revealing to us the beautiful detail work. This window was lavish and, if the program were to be believed, rather expensive.

I heard a small noise from Chaptor, a choking resonance which sounded as if he had a sudden realization. I looked towards the raptor, and the sight of his wide, yellow eyes in a state of abject terror brought a thrill to my stomach. If such a creature that seemed to have such infinite foresight could be so unnerved, what hope had I?

Romeo had meanwhile been brought into fits of ecstasy by the lighting of the window, the sight of the two warring brothers lighting a beacon of amour, which led him down a narrow, dangerous path from which there was no escape.

"But soft!" said the youth, Shakespeare's quaint words alight in his mouth, "What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the s- aaauuuuHHHHhhhnnnng--!"

As we watched the boy's elucidations on the nature of his love, his speech was cut in twain suddenly by a scream, which then similarly was pinched off until no sounds were made at all. His hands flew up to clutch at his doublet.

"What's wrong?" I said, suddenly, "Why has he stopped?"

"M'lady, if I might borrow your opera glasses," said Chaptor, quite ignoring me.

"O-of course."

Replacing his monocle with the comically small implement, Chaptor viewed the scene closely. I, with my bare eye, tried to keep pace with the dinosaur's observations. I could see that the doublet moved slightly under its own power, although more than that I could not say.

As Chaptor viewed the situation I espied our fellows in the audience. There was a skeptical terror coming over the crowd in a slow ripple, radiating out from the stage. I, from my vantage point in the box high above, could very nearly see the progression of panic stirring among the sea of men and women, and was aware that I myself was beginning to mark upon this mood.

"Damn!" shouted Chaptor, suddenly. "Pardon my French," he then added for the lady's benefit.

As if in response to this, Richard Henry; for the fantasy of Romeo had been shed during his silent strangled cries for help; was suddenly hoisted off of his feet like an animal caught by a snare. The helpless audience gasped as he seemed to fly through the air for a moment, before slamming into the side of the balcony and bouncing up. The entire set began to shake, breaking the illusion of the Capulet house altogether. Like a horrible parody of flight, the man, limp, battered, and bloody, made a final zipping ascent, breaking sideways suddenly and crashing through the stained glass window depicting Cain. It shattered spectacularly, great shards of glass raining down upon the boy, and one did not need opera glasses to see the slashes of blood which splashed upon Lady Juliet's balcony, backlit by the bright stagelight which had been set just behind to cast illumination through the window. There was a scream beside me as the Lady Covington stood, crying the name of her beloved as he finally disappeared behind the false wall of the set and, presumably, up into the flies. A moment later, like a tasteless punchline, a heavy load of sandbags, perhaps seven of them, near three times the weight of a man I was assured later, plopped down onto the center of the stage revealing to all the modus operandi of this most grisly mishap.

All in the audience were suddenly alive with screams and cries. A murder had occurred, I suddenly realized with horror, and Chaptor had known what was going to occur. I stuck my gaze fast upon the Dinosaur, who was standing quickly, taking up his walking stick and hat and beginning to leave.

"Where are you off to?" I asked.

"Please, Charlemagne, console the lady. I must away."

"Wait one moment! You knew this would..."

"Not in front of Lady Covington."

She had not heard us, however, she had collapsed in sobs and screams, crying the name of Richie over and over again, reaching over the balcony to grab at the phantom of her love. My mind very quickly reminded me of the curse, but that was naught but superstitious rubbish, surely. Chaptor had begun to leave, and I bounded up to follow.

We exited the box, Chaptor arranging a cab for the Lady Covington with the Usher, and he began to walk resolutely towards the stage downstairs, his thick, hooked claws making alternating clicks on the floor with the wood tip of the walking stick. I followed incessantly.

"I thought I had told you to console the lady," he said.

"And I had asked you a question, Chaptor. What is going on? Where are you going?"

"To inspect the body, of course. I must get my own opinion on things before the Bobbies come and ruin the scene of the crime."

"You knew there was to be a crime," I said, "Why did you not say something?"

"Because, Charlemagne, I had run out of time. You had interrupted me in preventing the murder, and I let that fact fall upon your head rather than mine."

"Me?" I said, "How did I...?"

"Your spastic fright and damned curiosity did interrupt my discussion with Swift about the nature of the production's curse. If I could have gleaned more information, perhaps I might have..."

"It's not my fault, Chap!" I said, quite surprising myself in my rage, especially against one with teeth and claws so sharp, "You truly did frighten me. It's not often a Dromaeosaurid is simply seen waltzing around London town."
"What are you talking about?"

"Ohhh, nothing." I changed the subject, "So what of you? Are you some sort of detective?"

"At the moment, indeed, and you shall be quite in my way, Mr. Fredrickson." It was then that he rounded upon me. We stood in front of the door separating the backstage from the patron's area, Chaptor giving me the full brunt of his great yellow stare. "I bid you good night."

At this, he turned and entered the door. I jumped backwards to dodge the immense tail he brandished, and was stunned for a moment, watching him disappear through, rather in a hurry.

It was then that the full gravity of the situation had become clear. Not of the murder, for that was a trivial thing that would be quite solved by more competent hands than mine, but of this mysterious Gentleman raptor. Where had he come from? Where does he live? Has he always lived in London? Why does no man notice his species? Why is it I am able notice? How did his family manage to survive that mysterious end which took all dinosaurs several millions of years ago, in order to, now, here in England produce the gentleman Nickolas Chaptor?

With my honor as a member of the London Paleontological Society at stake, even if I hadn't attended a meeting in months, I opened up the door and followed along. This raptor was something new, something interesting, some mystery meant only for me to solve, and if I turned away back to the Lady Covington's box now I knew I should never forgive myself.

I had to hurry to catch up to the Raptor's wide, quick gate, and considering my less-than-strapping physical prowess, I think I did quite well. Once more I was plunged into that area where most theater patrons never venture, where black-painted stone walls push in at every angle, and multitudes of exposed ropes decorate all around, reaching up into the high darkness above, attaching at some heights to the ceiling, and holding up, through aid of pulley and counterweight, all of the various hanging pieces of set and curtain that contrasted sharply with the rough-hewn back areas with their impossible painted opulence.

As I entered the back stage proper, I noted the crowd gathered around, a street scene of Montagues and Capulets, brought together two hours too early by the tragedy of the night. Their heads were bent up, staring at a uniform angle, which I followed with my own gaze. The turn in my stomach nearly caused me to reconsider chasing after the well-spoken Dinosaur, but my resolve was set.

Richard Henry was dead, that was plain. As I watch him, he was being slowly lowered from his former place near the top of the flies. He hung by his neck, which was bent horribly at an unnatural slant, by the frilled and now distressed doublet. I clutched my own neck as I thought of the doublet I had worn quite by accident in Richard's dressing room. There was a steady dripping sound coming from the floor underneath the boy, which I could not see through the goggled crowd, but was surely a pool of the actor's blood, for along with the egregious neck injury there were deep lacerations all over the boy's body. As he descended closer, a few ladies made a show of fainting and a few men excused themselves, which allowed me to push in closer to the spectacle.

The boy's left arm, I could see, had been cut straight to the bone by the piercing glass he had flown through, and other stray bits had lent deep cuts nearly everywhere where there was exposed skin. Clothes were ripped as well, the red Montague tatters stained even deeper scarlet by their ill use.

However, the boy's face was the worst. Eyes were wide in frozen surprise, and the eyeballs themselves seemed to protrude from their sockets grotesquely, red veins showing clearly over the white expanses. His tongue lolled out, strangely frozen as rigor mortis settled into the body. It was in noting the bizarre expression of torment on the man's dead face that I could not force myself to watch any longer, and my gaze broke away.

I looked about, trying to find something to focus upon that was not the mangled body, and found Chaptor, inspecting the heavy sandbags that had been left. I was just about to walk up and attempt to gain a straight answer from him when Tobias Swift came running towards the eminent gentleraptor.

"What are you doing here?"

"Why, my old boy. I'm solving your little murder problem. Damn nuisance if you want my opinion. Right in the middle of your beautifully produced balcony scene." He took a nearby shard of stained glass in his claw and began to turn it round. "'What light through yonder window breaks,' indeed. What we have here is a man with a grim sense of humor."

"What? After our single halfway finished discussion in Richard's dressing room you think you can just walk onto my stage and..."

"Yes, my boy, I do believe I can. If you had thrown me out when you had the chance you would have never realized that these ropes are not of the same quality as the ropes which hold the rest of the sandbags above our heads."

"I... er... but..."

"And that the sand within these bags is not the kind usually found within the bags of sand you fellows keep around here."

"What can be so different about it? It's sand?"

"No. This..." He gestured to a hand - claw - clawful of sand from the seven sandbags laid out on the floor, "This is simply normal beach sand. The sand within professional bags is usually much cleaner. You shan't find butts of cigarettes and various dropped items of food within any other bags in this concert hall. Whoever your murderer is, of all the convenient weights they could have used to do the deed, they supplied their own. Why, I wonder?"

A small voice suddenly rang out. "It's the phantom!"Chaptor's gaze swept over the crowd, and I ducked behind a lavishly dressed woman's wide skirt to avoid being caught in his line of sight.

"Who said that?"

"I did, sire." A small boy had come forward, dressed in a similar costume to the other actors in the troupe, except child-sized, only ten or eleven by my judgment, who pronounced the word 'sir' as the more regal 'sire,' apparently completely by habit. "Me mam told me about a phantom!"

The woman behind whose petticoats I hid suddenly stepped forward, and I ducked behind yet another actor. "James Francis Pendleton you silence yourself this minute."

"Aw, Mam!"

"Wait! My good lady, please," said Chaptor, holding up his claws, "Anything will help at this point. Please, boy. What about a Phantom?"

There was a surreptitious look by the boy towards his disapproving mother, before he launched into his tirade, "Well, me mam says all these accidents they been havin' all over town must be because of a phantom, see? People getting' killed in strange ways."

"Indeed, I've been following the incidents, and I trust everyone here has as well." I wanted so at this point to stand and say I had not been following, but I did not dare. "Pray, continue."

"Well, it's obvious isn't it? Me mam tol' me the police ain't lookin' for the right man, on account a' the right man ain't human. He's a bleedin' ghost he is. Got something against Shakespeare, it does, so it keeps killin' every opening night. Everyone's right scared, even if they don't look it, and nobody wants to put on no more Shakespeare." The boy looked around, his brash nature suddenly receding as his actor friends and relations pierced him with their gaze, "'cept they gots to, see? It's for the sake of the craft. See?"

"I do, young James. Thank you. So the target of this ghastly deed was not, in point of fact, our friend Richard Henry, but Shakespeare himself, interesting."

"Rubbish is what I call it," said Tobias Swift, "Phantoms. Ghosts. Supernatural hogwash!"

"Perhaps so, my dear Mr. Swift, but you must understand that in every rumor there is a grain of truth and if you would care to come forwards Charlemagne I shan't be distracted by your obvious presence in the crowd any longer."

My back went rigid as Chaptor said these words and all eyes swiveled over to meet me. I could hear young James Francis Pendleton give a snickering laugh. I looked straight at the little dear, who gave me a frightful face. It took all of my gentlemanly airs not to reciprocate the ugly sneer. Finally, I stood forward, adjusting my jacket as I did, trying my best to be presentable in my modern garb among all of these Elizabethan noblemen and ladies.

"Hello, Chaptor."

Tobias was the first to speak, "This ninny again! Please say he did it."

"I'm afraid not Mr. Swift." With all of the condescension of a schoolmaster, Chaptor spoke to me, "Well, now, since you have decided to follow along with my investigation despite my sincere wish that you wouldn't, you might as well get over here so I can keep my eye on you."

"Er. Yes." Awkwardly, I sidled up beside Chaptor and Tobias Swift, entering the play area surrounded on all sides by the Montague and Capulet audience.

"There, now, Mr. Swift. I must ask, have you gotten any warning as to this incident? Any odd correspondence? A note perhaps, or some ransom?"

"None. Absolutely none. Our only warnings were the incidents which came before."

"What were these incidents?" I asked.

"Charlemagne, while I appreciate your curiosity, now is not the time," said the Raptor, before turning back to the impresario, "Now, Mr. Swift..."

However, my presence there had given Tobias Swift the excuse he needed, "Now there are two of you! The police will be here momentarily and I shan't have you two befouling the body with your independent investigations. Good day."

"But surely..." began Chaptor.

"Good day. Mr. Reynolds, please escort Mr. Chaptor and Mr. Scaredycat out of my theater if you please."

Soon, each of our shoulders were trapped in the strong grip of the watchman, Mr. Reynolds, whose thick build and callused hands we were little use in fighting against. Within moments, we had both been thrown bodily from the stage door, and settled in a little heap on the street.

"How rude!" said my reptilian companion, as he lifted himself up, "And just as I was about to inspect the body as well."

"Americans can be like that," said I.

The dinosaur stood quickly and gracefully, aided by his strong, thick legs meant for jumping upon and tearing into large prey. He used his smaller foreclaw to brush his frock coat off and inspect his person for any missing items. Hat, Watch, stick, glass, and spats were soon all there and all perfect. He then turned to look at myself, who had barely halfway crawled to my feet.

"Well? Come on then."

"What?"

"This is the second time you have interfered in my work and I daresay you shall be ready for a third by the time I find another lead. You had might as well come along."

I stood finally, and inspected myself. My hat had gone missing and I was quite dirty.

"Don't worry about all that, my maidservant will quite take care of you."

"You want me to come along?"

"No, I don't. I simply recognize when I see a man who will keep bothering me until his curiosity is sated. Come along."

I followed without another word. I didn't dare go back inside for my forgotten hat, so I stood on the street, feeling embarrassed about my bare head as we waited for a carriage.

I began to speak, "So, Chaptor, I might as well make plain my reasons for following you. You seem like a civil gentleman..."

"That makes one of us," was said vindictively.

"... but your... your appearance is quite striking. You know I am a bit learned in the science of Paleontology, and so dinosaurs... or at least their fossilized bones... are rather a hobby of mine. You seem to be a perfectly marvelous specimen, living and in the flesh. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to study you. Do you understand?"

"I understand that you are quite fond of non sequiters. You enjoy fossils, therefore you must study me. I'm not that old, Charlemagne."

"Er... no. I didn't mean it quite like that. I just meant you... You are... A marvelous specimen..."

"This much is true, I freely admit. I come from a long, distinguished line, and have honed my crafts, criminal detection being one such skill, to a razor's edge. Though I may have seemed alarming to you in the dressing room I assure you there is nothing else out-of-sorts about me."

There was a tone of finality in the raptor's speech, and I could not help but stay silent. He was either playing coy or was genuinely unaware of his own species; it was quite amazing. I resolved then and there that if I intended to present this new acquaintance to the Paleontological society, I would have to stay by him incessantly. It may be dangerous, It may be fantastic, It may cause me harm or vexation, but I had to follow this dinosaur wherever he went until my curiosity was sated.

Soon, Chaptor had hailed a hansom and we were well on our way to Park Lane, to revel in the ridiculous splendor of my situation.

The Adventures of Chaptor: The Case of the Stratfordian Mattress - Chaptor 1

2009-09-11T20:23:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone. Here we are, the first Chapter of the first Chaptor adventure. Keep in mind, this is an early draft and I don't think that I'm very... good at editing, I'm sure. This project is a fair bit different than the last one. For one thing it's a LOT more serious. As I release these Chapters, please don't hesitate to tell me if something isn't working, or doesn't ring true. Feedback is much appreciated (Even if just for minor stuff, like spelling errors).

Also, I probably won't post the whole thing here, since I have *plans* for this project.

Also, in a little bit of an aside and plug; If anyone lives in the Seattle area, you should head over to the Pilot Books in the Capitol Hill neighborhood on Broadway (219 Broadway E, Seattle WA 98102 to be specific). Besides being an awesome indy bookstore run by an awesome person, I've also placed the first three chapters of Stratfordian Mattress on the "Open Edit Wall" they have there, and attend the weekly writers workshops. Buy some books too. The woman who runs it is way too awesome to starve. If you happen to see me there, (I'm the nerdy one with glasses who comes in sometimes, I'll answer to "David.") don't hesitate to say hi. Ask and I'll probably print out the whole thing for you to peruse if you promise to edit it for me.

Also, Join in some Discussion here: http://plus4chan.org/boards/coc/res/17645.html

Anyway, enough of that. Story time.

---

Chapter 1:
Could they not see that there was a dangerous animal in their midst?
Or;;
A Pigeon in Trafalgar Square
Or;
He wore Immaculate White Spats.

Of the opulent nature of those who rest their heads Park Lane way I am quite familiar, having counted myself partially of their number even as my low birth erected a certain detachment between us. The state of their affairs has been a casual study of mine even in spite of, or perhaps because of, class-division being as it is. It was in this pursuit of camaraderie with those of minor nobility and those, like myself, who strive to count themselves a part of their number, where I was party to a curious misadventure and launched quite against my will into a friendship with the strangest acquaintance I have ever held.

At the time I had a rather small number of worthy men I would have considered 'friend' and a multitude of those whom I would rather refer to in the less lofty designation of 'acquaintance.' It was two of the latter category that I had the misfortune of appeasing by attending the theater that night, a man and woman in the midst of a long and tumultuous courtship which I had no say and little interest in, but was asked for my opinion more often than was entirely comfortable. Richard Henry was a sweet-faced boy of a mere one-and-twenty whose talent in matters theatrical more than made up for a dull personality and a shallow sense of social tact. He had, at a party by a mutual friend, invited me; or, rather, begged me to accompany his beloved, a Lady Christine Covington who was mad for love to allow courtship below her station; to attend his opening performance as Romeo in the fashionable West End production of the Bard's famous romance.

"Charles," the girl said to me, refusing to pronounce my name correctly as we wandered the lavish lobby of the theater, "Would you think me insufferably petty if I said that I loathed the poor young woman who is to play Juliet tonight?"

"For the final time, please, it is not 'Charles.' My name is Charlemagne. Like the king."

"Such a complex word for a name. Can't I just call you Charles?" she simpered, "And besides, you have quite ducked the question."

"Very well, I think it excessively petty, but in the florid passions of youth I would say it is a fair position to take." I admired the statuary for a moment, the carved gold cherubs and angels looking down upon the cream of London society, or at least that part of it which has taken an interest in exhuming the corpse of a classic. "Of course, my opinion on the matter is of little use in this case, Lady Covington. Lord knows I have had my trysts, but nothing of particular substance."

"Perhaps if you had more interest in women and society than in your brittle paleontocracy, you might discover the true passions of love. You are a very dear man for such an armchair scientist, and it is a shame to see one such as you waste away in bachelorhood."

"Paleontology, lady." I curled my finger round my trimmed thin beard so popular with the scientific community at the time. "And I am sorry if my chosen hobby has managed to destroy your conceptions of romantic love."

"Not so! I have known love as sweet as any other. I have exaggerated to you, dear Charles. I shall not hate the young Juliet tonight. I shall have a high indifference to her, and when she speaks it shall be with my voice, so that when he answers he will be speaking in tones meant only for me, professing his honest infatuation to the flies, so that even the stagehands will have no doubt at all. The girl up there will be as Rosaline, pined away for merely a moment before his star-crossed infatuation finds me. I will be alike to his..."

"Right, right, of course." I wanted her to shut up so. My interaction with young Richard had been marginally longer than his courtship with the lady, and as I am apparently one of Richard's dearest friends quite beyond my realization, the Lady insisted upon getting to know me as well. Needless to say, I had been privy to both sides of an ongoing amorous conversation for the better part of a year and a half, having heard both curses and coos passed back and forth between the two little dears, with an eager obliviousness to my actual interest in their inevitable marriage.

My own stake in attending this play was infinitesimal. I had already carved out a rather fine niche for myself in London society as a wonderful, if begrudging, listener. On the merits of a novelty name, courtesy of a historian father, and a light interest in the study of the excavation of prehistoric creatures, I had exactly two stories I was obliged to tell at any one social gathering before the curiosity of my listeners was sated, and I could thus sit back and listen, following the squabbles and feuds of my friends and neighbors from a safe distance and allowing myself to be privy to any number of sacred confidences.

One might think such an approach to polite society would cause one to become something of a social pariah. Au Contraire, for every party needs someone to appear the least interesting in the room without embarrassing himself or others. In this basic function I quite excel, and thus my place is assured at dinner tables and gentleman's clubs across the city. The downside, of course, is that my laissez-faire attitude towards the culture, letting myself get drawn through it as if in a waking dream, causes me to be saddled with some of the least desirable situations quite without meaning to, of which my current predicament ranked quite high.

As I distracted myself by once again admiring the architecture, the lady had once again begun expressing her exhausting platitudes towards her love to no significant notice of mine. My eyes busied themselves by scanning the crowd to note with whom I would be sharing an audience tonight. I saw the same faces as always, bushed moustaches upon the more experienced statesmen of the theater, clean, eager faces upon the younger up-and-comers, a fascinating cocktail of actors and musicians, who most likely grew up the sons and daughters of butchers and garbage men before entering their respectable professions, interacting quite openly with Lords and Gentlemen. I quite smirked at the easy grace of those artistic chameleons when compared to the stiff tromp of the common English aristocrat, and was certain that if one wasn't familiar with the names and ranks of those involved, one would quite mistake one group for the other.

As my eyes played over the sea of top-hats, however, I espied something peculiar. One hat, a magnificent black silk topper, seemed to nod up and down in the crowd like a buoy in a way quite unnatural to what I understood of human anatomy. The top hat seemed to weave through the crowd, bobbing along, and it reminded me of a pigeon in Trafalgar Square, whose head thrusts forward with every step taken. I fancied some sort of giant bird then, walking through the crowd in topper and spats, causing confusion among the aristocratic actors and their vulgar high-born patrons. I thought little of it at the time, since those gathered around the bobbing hat took little notice of the curious motion, and I only include it in this narrative as a sort of prelude of the incredible shock that was to come.

"Charles! You haven't listened to a word I've said!" the girl admonished.

"No! Of course I have m'lady." My eyes were distracted away from the fanciful silk hat towards the girl.

"Then what have I been talking about?"

"Why your man, of course."

Her face split into a sighing grin. One thing about young people in love is that they are quite predictable. Given a brief reprieve from the conversation due to my wonderful guess, I twisted my head round to try to find that bobbing silk hat, only to find nothing but a sea of utterly unremarkable ones. My head turned back to the lady.

"I say, Charles, it is one half hour yet to the curtain, shan't we sneak back and say hello to Richie?"

"M'lady, would that be proper?" I had the vague supposition that theatrics were rather like weddings, in that civilians viewing the actors in costume before their time was dreadful bad luck for both parties.

"I don't care a whiff about being proper. I want to see my Richie."

I smiled. I had to admit, when she wasn't waxing tedious about her love and all the ways in which she loved him in an ever so lovely way, this Lady Covington was quite a firecracker. I wished lightly that I might have gotten to know her without the haze of romance dulling her edges.

Silently, the two of us agreed, and strode our way out of the building quickly, and toward the back entrance, the very vulgarity of it causing the lady to thrill and clutch at my arm, wanting for Richard's.

We strode in through the alley door as if we belonged, and the guard let us by unknowingly, unable to stop us by virtue of the nap he took. I goggled at the display I viewed as we wandered the raw underworld of the theatrical. Women, actresses one supposes, when not in Elizabethan period costume thought nothing of running by in wide-hooped crinolines and bodices, covering up only the barest minimum for modesty's sake and leaving the rest, arms, shoulders and, in one shocking case, a bare ankle or two, quite out where anyone could glimpse. The men wore even less if possible, everyone wearing a sort of long underwear over which I assume any form of costume could be applied. I struggled to keep my mind on the task of finding the star's dressing room, but I needn't have bothered. Blinded to the display by the sweet, drunken fog of love, Lady Covington led me by the arm with single-minded focus. Eventually, with the emotion of a dove to her mate, but the persistence of a bloodhound on a scent, the lady found the dressing room bearing the name "Richard Henry." She bade me knock, which the boy answered within for us to enter.

I opened the door and noted first the boy, Richard, in full brooding Montague scarlet, before my companion broke away roughly from me and threw herself down upon him. Richard, sitting on a plush red pouf, and suddenly with his one true love on his lap, looked quite pleasantly surprised.

"M'lady Catherine? What are you doing here?"

"I simply couldn't wait, my love! I had to see you."

"But my sweet, 'tis bad luck, and in the face of the curse I shall need all the luck I can get."

"Luck! Pah! My dearest, if I can see you for the rest of my life I shall weather anything life cares to deliver me."

"Oh, my beauty!"

"My beloved!"

"My Prized!"

"My precious!"

"My darling!"

"My god!" whispered I, quietly as to preserve the syrupy atmosphere of the room. I looked around, and noticed there stood by in the room two other figures. One I recognized as the Impresario of the theater, Tobias Swift, a gaunt man of weary eyes, whose forehead seemed in a perpetual state of recession every time I happened to look upon him. I looked upon the other figure, intending to begin conversation while the two lovers were quite occupied. However I, suddenly struck by the terrible vision of the stranger, screamed and fell backwards, crashing into a rack of costumes, and raining hose and doublets down upon myself.

He was unlike any creature I had ever seen alive, the size of a man from tip of snout to cap of tail, but with features like a crocodile, and shape like a fierce bird of prey. It - or should I say he - was green all over, with brown stripes down his back and along the lengthy tail which he held erect parallel to the ground. He stood on two legs like a person, each of which ended in huge scythe-like claws which tapped upon the hard wood of the floor as he stood in the dressing room, staring right towards me with a pair of pus-yellow eyes with vertical pupils which contracted and relaxed to focus on my folly. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing was some form of the "terrible lizard," whose bones were daily excavated from the ground and cast in plaster for display in museums dedicated to the natural, rather than artistic, curiosities of the world.

"Good lord, man," said the dinosaur, "Are you all right?"

What next dawned upon me was that this curious beast, who had apparently spoken, was wearing - minus the trousers of course, as no pair could be worn over his thick tail - a frock coat over a blue silk waistcoat in a style cut much like my own but with obvious tailoring allowances made for his shape, with a black silk top hat upon his head. His cravat was frilled and attractive and he walked with the aid of a cane, obviously more for style than necessity. Over the wicked digits of his; for lack of a better term; feet, he wore immaculate white spats. The gilt chain of a watch and fob hung across his front and a monocle, in proportion to his enormous eyes, stood out upon his saurian face.

"Are you all right?" the creature repeated, standing over me, "Do you quite hear me old boy?"

I tried not to scream again, merely settling for pushing myself further into the rack of heavy costumes to escape the terrifying face of the dinosaur. It slowly dawned on me that both of the lovers had disengaged to stare at my fear-stricken face, along with Mr. Swift, who held his prodigious forehead in a white-gloved hand.

"Get a hold of yourself, man," said Swift admonishingly in what seemed to be a lazy American tone, "What's gotten into you?"

I could not speak. Could they not see that there was a dangerous animal in their midst? Could they not see him?

"It is quite all right Mr. Swift," said the dinosaur in my defense, "I take no offence from it. I was cursed with an inexplicable countenance, and the sight of it can be quite alarming at times." He held out a single small clawed hand for me to take. "Up we go, Mr...?"

By social instinct, I filled the pause with my name, "Charlemagne. Charlemagne Fredrickson," before I took his claw in my hand and allowed him to help me to my feet.

"Charlemagne. Like the Frank king? Well." He clapped me on the shoulder as if I were an old friend. I couldn't help but imagine those sharp black claws doing some violence to my shoulder, "Charlemagne, I assume you know these two lovers. This chap who looks upon you with such distain for accidentally wearing that very expensive doublet... Oh don't fret about it, Charlemagne it's very becoming... is Tobias Swift, the owner of the theater, producer of tonight's little masque, and American, although you would think him to be a native Briton to observe his direction of tonight's play. I've sat in on some rehearsals and I must say, it is quite fascinating."

"Right scare you gave us, Mr. Fredrickson," said Swift, his try at a jovial tone masking his obvious instant dislike for me. He reached over and lifted the round, frilly doublet from around my neck, obviously caring more for it than for any possible friendship with me. As it rose up past my nose, I could feel some sort of exposed metal wire framework within brush past and cause my nose to feel up to sneeze, although I was able to control it. Mr. Swift placed it carefully back on the rack behind me and continued on with his false tact, finally reaching out a hand for me to shake, "You should have alerted the watchman of your arrival, we could have concluded our business here before you arrived. As it stands our discussion will have to wait, Mr. Nickolas. It is almost curtain."

"Oh." I had the feeling that my outburst had interrupted something rather important considering the raptor's lightly disappointed expression. He mastered it however, just as I began to say, "I'm terribly sorry if..."

"Of course not!" said the Dinosaur, "I always revel in meeting new acquaintances, especially ones as... excitable... as our dear Charlemagne. Might I call you Charlemagne?"

His voice, in contrast to the rest of him, was deep and kindly, and I couldn't help but feel myself take a certain amount of comfort from it. "Er. Please." I answered.

"Wonderful. Mr. Swift and I were merely elucidating on an ancient text he is interested in acquiring. Antiques and other such curios are rather a hobby of mine. Are you interested in such things, Charlemagne?"

I felt the web of the conversation drawing around him. He was central to the room's dynamic, and I couldn't stop myself from answering truthfully everything he said, even as I could see directly through him. I marveled at whatever power I held which caused me and me alone to be able to see the dinosaur for what he really was, and I hoped that his gentleman's civility held out for the duration of our meeting.

I answered, "Less antiques and more pre-antiquity I'm afraid. My interests are more scientific in nature. I have taken quite an interest in... er... Paleontology."

"How interesting. You shall have to tell me all about it some other time. Now, Mr. Swift I believe we have just enough time to hammer out a..."

"Pardon me, I'm quite sorry, sir," I said, gaining the courage to interrupt the running mouth filled with such teeth as his. After all, how many chances does one get to speak with a real live dinosaur? " I don't feel we have been properly introduced."

He paused for a moment, then laughed, a jovial sound that made everyone feel the calmer for it, "Ah! I quite forget myself, sir." He produced a card, which I took and examined.

Nickolas D. Chaptor
Gentleman

"Chaptor?" I said, "Odd name. Is it... er..." I squelched the urge to suggest 'Late Cretaceous.'

"Welch, I think, though don't hold that against me." He gave his laugh once again before turning away and back towards the impresario. Just as he was about to speak, there was a chime which caused the Impresario and young star to jump in a light panic. Drawing the meaning from the theatrical's behavior, Chaptor spoke once more. "I think we shall discuss this at a later date, I think Mr. Henry needs his time to prepare, don't you, Lady?"

"I suppose so. Be wonderful, my charming!"

"I will my princess!"

It took the combined efforts of Chaptor and myself to tear the love-struck lady away from the equally smitten man, but we did it, and were soon hurrying back up towards the seating area. Chaptor was strangely silent as we walked, seemingly in deep thought. His yellow eyes sometimes happened to glance upon me, and I felt some kind of judgment radiate from them.

"Take my arm lady," said he, "We must hurry if we are to catch the opening scene."

"Mr. Chaptor, I simply insist you sit with Charles and I in my father's private box tonight as an apology for my companion's simply beastly behavior."

I cocked my brows towards her, intending to defend my position, but what would I ever say? I'm very sorry, m'lady, I thought he was going to set himself upon me like a tiger. I'm sorry you can't see it m'lady, but Gentleman Chaptor happens to be a member of the Dromaeosaurid family. I apologize profusely, but when I see a dangerous predator I tend to scream and jump like a ninny; bad habit, I know.

I settled on a sort of non-committal noise, with an apologetic glance towards the girl and raptor. Eventually, the three of us made it to the box just as the small orchestra began to play.

"We've made it," said she, "Come in, please, or we shall miss my Romeo!"

"You enter m'lady," said Chaptor, "I have a few words to say to dear Charlemagne."

She nodded. "You men always talk business. Hurry in, please." She then bade the usher open the door for her. She entered and soon took her seat, leaving the beast and I alone. I began the conversation.

"I must apologize again, my good ma-"

"Do you have any idea what you may have done this night?"

The sudden reprimand from the dinosaur nearly caused me to scream anew, but I mastered myself enough to answer, "I haven't... what are you talking about?"

"Nevermind. You shall know soon enough, and here I am, with no recourse to stop it."

"Stop what? Mr. Chaptor..."

"Simply Chaptor, please. Even if you are a blind fool, you are a man of science and thus I shall consider you my equal enough to call me by my preferred name."

"I am hardly..." I began to say, skeptical that my armchair interest in Paleontology qualified me for any kind of peerage, but I stopped. More important questions were at hand. "What is going to happen tonight?"

"We must inside. The lady will be quite waiting for us." Chaptor gave a large sigh as he waved off the usher and opened the door under his own power. "I hope you aren't too attached to the bard, Charlemagne, because it is going to be a quite literal slaughter in there."

NEW PROJECT ALERT

2009-09-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

I have no idea how many people still come here since D:20yl finished, but I think this interblag is an appropriate enough forum to announce to the hinternets at large that I have a new project forming. I've talked about it on +4, but I'll go into a little more detail here, since I think there might be some civilians in the audience.

So, a little while back, like, maybe a year or more, a man on the internet made a typo, and a legend was born. From one anonymous misspelling of the word Chapter to "Chaptor" an entire whirlwind of communal creativity erupted on an imageboard meant for the discussion of comics and cartoons. The basic gist was that there was a Victorian gentleman, who also happened to be a Raptor, and solved mysteries/had adventures with his french maidservant Agnes. Sometimes it would be during the modern age, and sometimes it would be cast in the past. It was all very confused and scattershot, with too many voices putting in a lot of conflicting little details. For a few precious weeks Chaptor fever had struck a small group of nerds with too much time on their hands.

Alas, such things pass. Chaptor has since faded away slightly, only remembered nostalgically as a cool thing that happened a while ago.

WELL NOT ANYMORE!

A few weeks ago, drunk on the relative success of that stupid Fanfic I did here, I began the process of exhuming the grain of the Chaptor story in order to take a solo tack on it. I have taken these bare bones characters and cherry-picked a few of the situations discussed in the past and added my own spin to them. It may win, it may fail, but all along the way it'll be super fun.

So here's the nitty gritty; I've planned three stories(so far) revolving around the adventures of Chaptor, the Gentleman Raptor, perhaps to be taken as standalone projects and presented separately, or perhaps to be collected together, I haven't explored all my options yet. The first of these three stories is a sort of "Origin story" of the partnership between Chaptor and his Watson-esc sidekick, Charlemagne, an armchair paleontologist who is for some strange reason is the only person who notices that there are dinosaurs running around London town. The two are sucked into an intrigue surrounding a series of weird "accidents" surrounding productions of Shakespearean plays. The second involves a secret society and a really obvious, overdone Chess theme (But perhaps with a twist?), and the third involves a mystery in which a shadowy figure from Chaptor's past comes back to menace him.

Of the three, so far I've written a first draft of the first one, and, like, half a chapter of the second one. The third exists only in my head. Unlike D:20yl I am actually planning on proofreading these.

So there. That's the project. The Adventures of Chaptor, or at least the Adventures of Chaptor according to me. I must say that if the other Chaptor project is running around, please PLEASE don't let this stop you. These characters are like G I Joes. What I'm doing it simply taking them out of the box and playing with them, and hopefully adding a few more to the box.

Anyway ladies and gentlemen. Stay frosty.

Hey. I have international appeal.

2009-07-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

According to the traffic breakdown on FF.net, one of you guys is polish, one is from Norway, and one is from the Netherlands Antilles. Also, 8 Americans, one of which is probably me.

So yeah. 10 readers. Pretty good for a final score.

Edit: And now someone from Mexico. Good show!

Fanfiction.net: Where Fanfics go to die

2009-07-21T01:09:00.000-07:00

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5235285/1/Ducktales_Twenty_Years_Later

It lives there, spell-checked, but still completely un-edited. Enjoy killing your eyes by reading black text on white background.

CONGRATURATION - Your a winner!

2009-07-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

GAME OVER
Final score:

Word count: 122,074
Character count (no spaces): 559,950
Page count: 267
Chapters: 23
Readers: At least four. Maybe more.
Time Frame: May, 29 '09 - July, 18 '09
Would you have won Nanowrimo?: Yes. Twice. Once for June and once for July.

THANKS FOR PLAYING

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 23

2009-07-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

BAM! There you go. For better or for worse Final Chapter ho! Make sure to drink your ovaltine.

Once again, a reminder, this is fresh, Grade A unabridged me writing here, no editor nor spellcheck darkening my Word document. If you see something that doesn't parse, be sure to inform me.

Watch Fanfiction.net for a full archive, and for god's sake someone make a page on TVtropes. I've been wanting to for the longest time, but how utterly tasteless would that be, to make a page about my own stupid fanfic? Someone else do it or it won't get done.

Anyway. It's over! Hooray! or boo. Whichever. Enjoy!

---

Episode 23:

Scrooge McDuck stood, young, healthy, strong, in tanned leather hides and with bandages wrapped 'round his webbed feet instead of shoes. He stood in the driving snow of the Yukon, saying nothing, just looking upon the sight he beheld. He held the Goose Egg nugget in his hands and held it up.

Two white-feathered hands appeared, and took the nugget from the man's hands. They were dressed in blue-accented khakis, topped with a pith helmet. He stood as he held the gift from his uncle, in the jungle of India, near the mountain range. As he stood, the giant gold nugget began to turn to dust in his hands, gold dust, and he smiled as the euphoria of discovery came upon him.

He looked up at his Uncle who was already disappearing over the horizon, off towards the pristine splendor of White Agony Creek, arm in arm with a gilt goddess with hair that was gold and jewels of gold and a dress that shone in the light like gold.

***

With a gasp, Dewey woke and tried to sit up. The pain in his chest, however, caused him to cry out, before he laid back, trying to will away the ache by staying perfectly still.

"Good. You're awake," said a familiar voice.

Dewey looked over and saw, in Sailor uniform, and with both eyes, although one was strangely inert, his Uncle Donald, who had bandages wrapped over his own stomach.

"Uncle Donald," Dewey said, his throat dry, "Wha-?"

"We're back in Duckburg. It's been two days since we were shot."

"Farid...?"

"Dead. S.H.U.S.H wasn't too pleased with that little stunt we pulled, but after hearing the recorded confession, well..."

"We're... They found us...?"

"Innocent. You've been reinstated as CEO of McDuck Enterprises, with apologies from the board of directors."

"But...?" Dewey's hand traveled up and hovered over his heart. He felt bandages underneath.

His head turned in response to a strange metallic clink. Donald had dropped on the hospital end-table a strange, gnarled metal object. It seemed to be a crumpled bullet, but flowered out strangely. It seemed almost to be comprised of two pieces.

"Th... the dime."

"Around your neck, yes. It caused the bullet to stop just short of your heart. If it hadn't been there the doctors said you would probably be dead."

Dewey looked towards the former number one dime, before looking up at the ceiling, breathing evenly. Memories from... was it really two days ago? Memories from then flooded back to him, and a feeling of triumph came over his face.

However. "The war. What about the war?"

"There is no war, Dewey."

"But... But Thembria..."

"...Has finally been absorbed into the Soviet Union. The Grand High Marshall was executed. Probably for trying to start Nuclear war over a magical dime. For the moment, we're safe, besides the conflict in Vietnam of course."

Dewey sighed, relieved. "I want a phone."

"No."

"No!?"

"No. Louie is acting CEO until you get better. I'm supposed to keep you honest."

"Louie! But... But...!"

"He's doing quite well so far, if you want to know. He reopened all the factories Farid closed, and aborted the plan for weapons manufacturing." Donald sat down at a chair by Dewey's bed. "Your goldmine has proved to be quite rich, by the way."

"My mine..." Dewey smiled, "My mine."

"And Uncle Scrooge's fortune is safe. All of your accounts have been unfrozen, and all the charges have been expunged. They even forgave Huey's draft dodging, though I think he's gotten to like life abroad."

Dewey nodded, "Good."

Donald seemed to look around, feeling a bit awkward after all those years away. "Well, uh. I should go. The docs say I should still be in bed like you." He began to walk out of the room.

"Wait. Uncle Donald."

He froze, before slowly turning around to face his nephew.

"Where did you go? You were gone for so long."

"There was..." Donald looked down, "There was an invasion. Aliens. Don't bother trying to make sense of it, you won't remember, but PK... I stopped it, but at the end I had spent so long behind the mask that I... it was difficult to give it up, see?"

"Are you going to settle down now?"

"I..."

Dewey's eyes were hard as he they swiveled to lock with Donald's. Donald's eye kept pace with Dewey's. Dewey then drew his gaze down to Donald's left hand, where a simple gold band still encircled the finger.

"Yes..." said Donald, once he saw the ring, "Yes, I think I'll settle down." He turned back towards the door and walked out without another word, but with the weight of the world finally off of his shoulders.

***

It was indeed one week later when Dewey and Donald Duck were released from the hospital. A crowd of people gathered around, taking photos of the pair, escorted by Dewey's two brothers and personal assistant. Dewey walked with a cane due to the injury in his leg sustained during the fight with Farid, and men in trenchcoats with tape recorders shouted at him for his story. His group wound their way through the crowd towards a long limosine. When Dewey caught sight of the long, opulent car, he gave a dirty look towards Louie.

Suddenly, A man vaulted through the crowd, firing off his camera wildly while asking a volley of questions; Where did they go? What were they doing? Is it true that McDuck Enterprises was going to sell weapons to the soviets.

A flashbulb was soon flying over the crowd, as the rest of the camera, minus a few parts, crashed to the floor with a shattering noise. Dewey then placed the cane back on the ground, with a small dent where the wood was nicked by the metal rim of the camera. He then ducked down and sat in the car, followed by the rest of his friends and family.

Louie was the last one in, and smiled brightly, waving his hat towards the crowd.

"Looks like Uncle Scrooge is back in town, boys!"

The crowd laughed as they jotted down Louie's; the witty brother's; jaunty little jab. He was the witty brother, the reader favorite who sold papers with a smile and an off-color remark, but Dewey was all business, and a businessman was exactly what McDuck Enterprises needed now.

***

The group was gathered on the docks, sitting and standing around the benches facing the water, where the Sea Duck was moored, repaired, refueled, and looking as good as the day she was first born.

Dewey and Webby sat in the middle, while Louie and Gosalyn, out of costume and still going by the name "Lorelei" around the Ducks, although she made no effort to hide her casual self, stood behind. Huey, with the three girls on either side of him and behind, sat on a second bench, while Doofus and Donald stood by.

"I suppose this is it," Said Huey, "That was the last party all together. From now on we're pretty much on our own."

"I don't suppose you could stay?" asked Webby.

"No. I gotta keep moving. I like working for Mr. Cloudkicker. Lets me go places, meet people."

Louie spoke up, "And we've got to be getting back to Saint Canard."

Goz placed a finger to her beak, "Hush-hush."

"And besides," continued Huey, "I've got to take these three lovely ladies back home."

They all gave sweet little sounds of disappointment, before Rosalina spoke, "Cannot we come with you Huey? We want to see the world."

Huey then began to sweat, "Well, girls, it's not like I don’t want you to come with. It's just... your Uncle..."

"Tio Carioca agrees with us," said Maria, whose English was improving.

"He think we should be with you," said Amalia, whose English finally existed.

"But..." He said, clearly wanting them to stick around, but afraid of what would happen if that came to pass, "...I mean, I'm all for it, but... You know how... how much I like you... all three of you... and I don't know if your Uncle would approve if I didn't... er..."

"Choose one?"

"And stick..."

"...Weeth her?"

"Uh..." Huey blushed and let himself slouch in the bench, "Yeah."

There was a moment, where the three girls had frozen around the dejected Huey, before all three burst into merry laughter.

"Is THAT why you were so nervous around us Huey?"

"Because you thought you had to choose..."

"...Just one?"

"Y- uh... What?" Huey said, perking up.

"We though you just weren't into group sex is why you only slept with us one at a time," said Rosalina with an innocent smile, "Why did you not say something?"

But Huey could not say anything, the thoughts and feelings he was experiencing at the moment were indescribable. Head, heart, and loins burned at once. "You mean I get... all three of you?"

"Yes!" They said.

"All at once?"

"Yes!"

"And Joe approves?"

"As long as you never look at anyone but us..."

"...But then you would have to worry..."

"...About us more."

A rumble in Huey's throat began to grow, becoming a cry, before morphing into a shout of pure victory. He stood quickly, anxious to be on his way. He shook each of his brother's hands in turn.

"Well fellas, It's been great, But I gotta fly. Take care. Don't let him work you too hard Webby. Remember to eat a really expensive meal once in a while. Don't take any wooden nickels. I'm..."

He then reached for Donald's hand and froze.

"Goodbye, Huey," said Donald, simply, "I'm sorry I couldn't have been a better father."

Louie and Dewey looked at each other quickly, wondering what Huey would do. His face was an unreadable mask as he stood before his Uncle, with the three girls placing their worried hands over their mouths.

But suddenly, Huey's arms reached out, encircling Donald in a warm embrace. Donald stood for a minute, basking in the tightness, before his own arms came up and hugged back. When they broke apart, Huey looked to be a better man, more energetic, happier, ready to love and be loved. He reached for the girls hands, wishing idly that he had three hands. The leftover girl, Amalia, not content being left out, simply hiked up her skirt and hopped up onto the back of her new shared lover, and Huey laughed, taking her light weight as he and the girls walked up the ramp of the Sea Duck, laughing and loving and lusting all the way.

As the plane began to take off, Gosalyn smirked, "Think it'll last?"

"I think that is entirely beside the point, 'Lorelai,'" said Louie, "The very fact that it has happened will make him proud to be a man for the rest of his life." Louie then sighed theatrically, stretching his arms before placing a hand on his Brother's shoulder, "Well, Dewey. That's it for me. McDuck is all yours. I kept the seat warm for you, got your affairs in order, and tried to leave everything as close as it was to how you left it. Hope you're ready for a hard core pain in the ass."

"I think after all this vacation, a little drudgery will be just what I need."

"I thought so." He took Gosalyn's arm and began to walk away. "By the way, I gave fifteen thousand dollars to 'Books without borders.'"

"you WHAT!?"

"I kept the receipt this time. Don't worry. It's tax-deductible." He waved his hand lazily, "Ciao."

Gosalyn laughed, grabbing him by the waist. He flinched away a bit.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

"Sorry," he whispered, not wanting to ruin his exit, "You're just still so young..."

"How old do you think I am?"

"I dunno... Seventeen?"

"Yeah, seventeen... When we FIRST met. That was over a year ago."

"Y-you mean...?"

Gosalyn nodded her head, with a smirk. Louie heaved a sigh of relief, turned her around and kissed her as passionately as he could muster. Used to outbursts like that, she let him, and even reciprocated.

"Idiot," she said as they disengaged and walked off, arm-in-arm, into the proverbial sunset.

"I should be going too, Dewey. Mr. Duck. W- Webby," said Doofus, wringing his hands, "Mr. Crackshell will be expecting me soon. I've got you-know-what to do tonight."

"Of course, Doofus," said Dewey, "As you were."

Doofus seemed poised to say something, He wanted so to take Webby with him, to make her his. He loved her so, he knew that now, and he regretted he had ever let her go. "Webby...?"

She looked up at him with a pleading look. A look that begged him not to say anything. Her arms encircled Dewey's as they both sat on the bench. In a terrible instant, Doofus knew that she was lost to him, and that for her to be truly happy, She needed Dewey, and not Doofus, in her life.

"Goodbye, Webby," he said finally, before turning and leaving.

After a moment of silence, where Dewey, Webby, and Donald all sat or stood by the dock, watching the Sea Duck begin is ascent and fly off over the horizon, Donald began to walk away.

"Uncle Donald?"

"I'm not saying goodbye," he called, "Not yet. I've got a wife to get home to. I'll probably be in the doghouse for this."

"Feel free to come back to the Money bin," Dewey called, "For your old job back. The position is still vacant."

"Is the pay any better?"

Dewey had a quick intake of breath, and had a few false starts, before Webby jumped in, "$5.00 an hour."

Dewey's head snapped to give her a look, "Ms. Vanderquack!"

"He's married, Dewey, thirty cents an hour isn't going to cut it."

Dewey grunted, before turning back to his uncle and saying, firmly, "Three dollars, and not a cent more, understand me?"

Donald smirked, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Welcome back, Dewey."

"Welcome Back, Uncle Donald."

The Duck walked on, finally content in the safety of Scrooge's legacy, towards the old house where he used to live with the little woman named Daisy who was sure to sock him square in the jaw before giving him the biggest kiss in the world for being away so long.

And so, Dewey and Webby sat, watching the sun slowly set over the horizon. The twilight air settled over them like a fog as the two bodies simply sat, feeling the other's presence through the contact of their arms.

After a moment, Webby said, "I have something to show you."

***

Blindfolded and pushed, Dewey stumbled forward through the halls of the money bin. He could tell where he was, as the smell of greenbacks still lingered there, but faded over time. He wondered what was up.

"Just a little more," Webby said, before she stopped and took off his blindfold. "Ta-da!" She was holding a long package.

"What's this?" said Dewey.

"A present, open it."

He looked up at her, slowly, before looking back down to the package. It was gaudily wrapped in holiday wrapping, each piece of which was tied with string so as to be entirely reusable. He smiled. She smiled. He began to open it, careful not to rip the wrapping too badly, and revealed a long box, which opened to reveal...

"A tie!"

"To replace the one that got ruined. I knew you weren't going to buy one yourself, so..."

"Oh. Webigail. It's... I love it." He wound it around his collared neck, and attempted to tie it on, once, twice. In their practiced dance, Webby reached forward and tied it on for him, with neither of them paying much attention to the fact.

He went to look at himself in the reflection in the window, and nodded, "It's nice. I like it."

"I'm glad."

He looked around the room, placing his hands on his hips as he surveyed his office, which, for once, he felt like he had earned the right to call 'his.' "What time does work start in the morning?"

"Six o'clock, sharp."

"Right. Another day, another million dollars." He began to hobble out of the office, "Come, Ms. Vanderquack. Lets go..."

"Wait... Dewey."

"Yes?"

"There's... one more surprise I wanted to show you."

He turned his head towards her. "Yes?"

She took his hand, gently, and led him towards the money bin's vault. She laid his hand on the locking mechanism, and allowed him to input the code. The bolts came undone with a loud, hollow noise, and the vault door swung open.

Inside there seemed to be nothing, as usual, the money of years redistributed among the three brothers. However, as Dewey got closer.

"Webby! You didn't!"

"It's all yours, Dewey!" she cried pointing out the shallow pool of money that had formed at the bottom of the bin, "Every single cent!"

With her help, and wincing from his lame leg, he began to climb down the long ladder. It took the two of them a long time to reach the bottom, where the load, predominantly made of coin with a few small greenbacks around to fluff it out, laid like a silver sea.

"But... but..."

"It's all of the profit to date from the Gold mine," she said, before pointing out a small, charred strongbox, "Plus what you saved from the B&B."

He hobbled over to the strongbox and opened it. The absurdly high amount of Brazilian money, amounting to barely any American, laid in the box. Dewey smiled as he mentally counted it. His.

A wild thought came over him, "How deep it is?"

"About five feet. We made sure to use a lot of small change at this point, to fill it out, you know?"

"Perfect. Perfect!" He stood, taking her by the hand, "Do you still remember how?"

"Remember how to..." her eyes blinked and she looked at the sea of cash that felt so hard under her feet, "You don't mean. With your leg?"

"Uncle Scrooge did it well into his 90s, I think I can do it with a bum leg. Come on." He veritably dragged her to the end of the wall, his eyes shining brightly, "And I was thinking when we get home, I'm thirsty for some of that good nutmeg tea you make. Have I ever told you I like your tea?"

"No, Dewey."

"Well, I do. I was just never thirsty for it before. I'm parched now. Hungry too. Where can we get some cheap Chinese or something?"

"There's the take-out place on the corner."

"Perfect. I could just go for some Chop suey and rice, with all the free soy sauce and fortune cookies I can pocket. Ready?"

"It's been years, but... I think so."

"Let's jump... together then..."

"Y-yes. I... I'd like that, Dewey."

Silently, Dewey counted, one, two, three, before he dove, headfirst towards the money, followed closely by Webby. Defying all physics, the two bodies sliced through the coins like water, old instincts coming back to them like the art of the bicycle, allowing them to dive through the coins like porpoises, burrowing through the greenbacks like two gophers, before popping to the surface, tossing the fruits of Dewey's labor up and letting it hit them on the head.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 22

2009-07-18T04:47:00.000-07:00

After this ONE MORE! Sorry to post it at such a funny time. I'll probably post the last one either later today or tomorrow. Enjoy this lovely Episode about a man eating a bran muffin.

Pic related. My only regret so far is that I only got to use the WHORES WHORES WHORES tag once.

---

Episode 22:

The sun had come up over the Bombay horizon but one half-hour before, and the haze of night still clung to the city like a jacket. The clear sky and the spectacular rising of the sun had gone unnoticed and unheeded by the occupant of the top floor penthouse office of the Khan building. He was not especially pleased or displeased with any of the news that had come to his office about everything that had occurred. The investigations into his affairs. The war that had blocked that investigation. The SIL's custodial responsibility over the Duck family keeping them out of his hair. It was simply news and interesting tidbits to add to the pile. The business plan had already gone through, after all, and would soon start to effect the bottom line.

He took a bran muffin from a small bag on his desk. He peeled off the paper film surrounding the rutted edge of the stump, and licked it, his rough tongue stripping bits of the pastry that had stuck to the paper off and into his mouth. He then discarded the film in a small wastebasket by his desk without really thinking about it, before reaching for a formerly warm cup of tea which had been left on his desk slightly too soon. It was still enjoyable; one sugar, lots of milk; but it could have done with a little more heat. If it happened like that again, he would have words with the woman outside.

He drank and ate in silence, allowing himself the briefest of indulgences before he dived into the meat of the day's activities. The official declaration was supposed to be announced later today, the papers had predicted, and he had to be ready for McDuck Enterprises to receive the various orders for weapons for every army in the world. Such things will be time consuming, therefore he needed his strength.

He popped the last of the muffin into his mouth. It was quite good, from a little privately-owned store around the corner from the Khan building. He enjoyed the irony of it.

Sipping down the last of his tea, he began to look over the work he had left the night before, as well as the work that had piled up over the night. He found, at the top of the stack, an envelope unmarked. He smiled and reached into a drawer, pulling out a pair of steel pliers, before picking up the blank, unmarked envelope, and clicking a small, hidden button under his desk. A hole opened up near his wastebasket, which he dropped the letter down, letting it flutter into the dark, before calling his receptionist.

"I've sent a blank letter down the chute," he said in Hindi, "Have it diffused and traced, and have whoever sent it killed."

He cut the connection from the receptionist's office and took a final sip of tea. It was good tea, he had to admit, even if it was a bit on the cold side.

The large, plate glass window behind him and slightly to the left suddenly exploded into the room showering glass all over the carpet. His head whipped around as he ducked to the right, just avoiding catching a small, red two-seater convertible with the back of his neck, and a lot of broken shards of glass besides. He fell to the floor and crawled away from the still settling wreckage that was being made of his office by the car. He cleared the desk just as the front fender clipped the corner and caused the whole great oak thing to spin around, nearly missing striking him in the leg as he crawled towards the bookcase. Once there, he tapped a hidden button to call for security.

While still hunched over on the floor, he then proceeded to pull book after book out of the bookcase, before he found what he was looking for, a copy of a motivational book called "Your greatest attributes," which he opened to reveal a hollowed out chamber with a revolver inside. He grasped the gun and pointed towards the wreckage which had finally crashed into the far wall, not quite hard enough to break through the thick wood paneling. He then pointed towards the now open window, where a small parade of ducks was entering in from the nose of a purple, duck-shaped plane that hovered in the air near the window.

He fired the gun once towards the first hint of blue he saw, Dewey Duck, but the bullet was quickly deflected by Gizmoduck, stepping in front of the bullet.

The Steel duck bore down on him quickly, and he prepared to fire again, aiming for the duck's uncovered mouth and neck. The gun was knocked out of his hand by a large boxing glove that struck the silver firearm. However, the door to Farid's office opened and a crowd of Beagle boys dressed as security guards poured in.

"C'mon Gizmo!" yelled Darkwing Duck, jumping into the room from the Thunderquack, firing arrow after arrow at the swarming beagles. The Green Phantom, wielding a long, leather whip, managed to hold off and disarm the Beagles, while Darkwing knocked them out with sleepy arrows. Gizmoduck turned away from Farid Kagan to join the fight, succeeding in pushing the security guards out of he office and into the reception area.

Suddenly safe, Farid began to crawl towards the downed revolver, and had almost reached it when the sound of a cocking musket made itself apparent.

"Stop it Farid," said Dewey duck, cooly, holding the gun squarely at Farid Kagan's impassive face, and flanked by Huey and PK like two muscled bouncers. "No more getting your way. For now, we chat."

***

Out in the hall, Gizmo, GP, and DW were making quick work of the Beagle boys. The artless thieves and cutpurses were unused to fighting superheroes in any case, and fighting three at once was nearly impossible.

The Green Phantom laughed gaily as he hit his stride, the long whip he wielded at once a lash, a bind, and a long prehensile limb. To one Beagle about to fire a gun he gave a quick flip of his wrists and a red, bloody gash appeared on the sensitive skin on the back of his hand, causing him to drop the gun in surpise. To another, he flipped the leather cord around, wrapping it up around a beagle's head and pulling sharply, causing the man to fall into a group of his allies, scattering them like tenpins. Swipe, whip, spin, the new cape he had procured before the adventure whirled around him, obscuring his form from bullets wanting for purchase in flesh, and causing the dancing whip to become even more deadly unpredictable.

Gizmoduck was much more direct. Boxing gloves to KO incoming beagles. Rockets to scatter large groups. Oil slicks or marbles to trip up pursuers. The Steel duck's power was nearly unlimited as he destroyed wide swaths of enemies, leaving stragglers desperate to escape his wrath to flee, and fall within the range of one of his two allies.

Darkwing did not move so much, preferring to hang back, covered quite well by the two boys fighting gallantly and flamboyantly. She stayed behind and fired her bow upon the encroaching dogs with a near endless supply of arrows dipped in chlorophorm. At her behest, many Beagle boys simply died away, and some, carelessly shot through the heart or head, simply died.

Eventually, the three of them had finished off the last of the troops. However...

Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta! Machine gun noises, thankfully from a terrible shot, caused The Phantom and Darkwing to dive behind Gizmoduck. Gizmo extended a body-length shield, with a convenient eyehole, through which he saw Ballast beagle, fat and stupid, firing blindly upon the room, hitting his downed allies more often than he hit the Duck's shield, and the walls more often than both. Thinking fast, The Green Phantom pulled an arrow from Darkwing's quiver, ignoring her silent protest, before breaking off the tip and placing it in a sling recovered from his utility belt. Counting his blessings, he reached around the shield, swinging the bulbous head of the arrow towards the Gun-toting Beagle boy.

The bulb flew through the air as if in slow motion, before, by chance, it was struck out of the air by a bullet. Ballast, who was laughing like a baby with a bundle of noisy keys, caught the full brunt of the explosion of Darkwing's explosive-tipped arrows with his face and chest, his lower regions rendered safe by the bulky gun. His upper regions, however, were blown clear off, the red meat of his cheeks and chest revealed in a moment of terrible heat and fire as the firing slowed down and suddenly stopped. With his eyes ripped open, never to close again, he fell forward to the floor, gun first, dying propped up by the giant heavy weapon with a grotesque childish rictus painted on his face.

"Ballast!" cried a voice behind, as Braincase Beagle reached around the corpse of his fat brother and fired wildly with his small pistol, which was much more accurate than the huge gun from before. "I'll kill you."

However, Gizmoduck, covered by his shield, was able to roll towards Braincase. A huge, white-gloved hand popped out of Gismo's chest and grasped the Beagle by the head, picking him up bodily. The gun dropped to the floor, clattering as it knocked against the hard floor. With a whip-crack, the Beagle was tossed casually against the wall, knocked out by the concussion, before falling upon a pile of bodies of his brothers.

The three heroes gathered in the center of the room, surrounded by the grisly fruits of their effots. Darkwing knocked an arrow, Green Phantom readied his whip, and Gizmo's hand hovered over his gizmo.

"Going up!" Yelled a voice from up above, before a rope, tied in a noose, came down to encircle Darkwing's throat. She was lifted suddenly, her cry cut off in mid-choke, and disappeared up above through a hole in the stucco ceiling.

"Goz!" cried The Green Phantom as he rushed forward to grab her, before stopping, realizing that would strangle her faster.

GP and Gizmo stood, dumbfounded, as they heard laughing and scuffling up above. A mad cackle, that seemed to drip with sweat and oil, and took on a tone of impure intentions. The sounds of the scuffle took on a lecherous tone as the rustle of clothes replaced the laugh. Gizmo was about to aim a gizmo up above, when the sound suddenly stopped.

Crash! Through the thin ceiling material a body came down. It was Boner Beagle, half-undressed, pants unbuttoned, with his arousal plain to see, standing as erect as the arrow which had been thrust into him, creating a bloody wound right through his right eye and into his brain. He twitched pathetically, going soft in his death rattle, before he breathed out and was silenced.

Soon after, Darkwing jumped down from the crawlspace above the ceiling, landing atop the dead man's chest, certainly cracking a still-warm rib. She was breathing hard, and had blood on her purple glove and the noose still around her neck.

Louie ran up to her, pulling the noose away from over her head, and reached down to kiss her roughly. She protested for a moment, she had nearly been raped after all, this did not seem an appropriate time for romance, but the moment overtook her, and she embraced the Green clad hero tightly, letting her beak mesh with his, fireworks going off behind her eyes, either from the kiss or from the temporary loss of oxygen.

Soon, they broke apart, and noticed that Gizmoduck had politely looked away. They looked back to each other and blushed, before they all three rushed back towards the office to give the all clear.

***

Meanwhile.

"It's over Farid. We know all about the plan," Said Dewey, his eyes hot coals of hate aiming down the sight of the McDuck musket.

"Of course you do," said Farid, the sounds of the rumpus out in the hall not going at all positively for him, "what do you know, pray tell? Merely good business sense put to work. You said yourself that a business is merely a machine to make more money."

"But it's a fair machine, Farid. It's driven by the needs of people on the consumer end, and the profit comes from the guy who can provide the best products."

"Men like us create markets for things all the time."

"Not for war. Not to trade people's lives for profit, Farid. What you're doing..."

"What I'm doing would have made your Uncle proud."

"...It would have made him sick to his stomach, Farid Kagan. He would never stoop to what you did." Dewey looked down over his beak at Farid Kagan, who was slowly standing from his place on the ground. "You started a war for the express purpose to... to what? To make for a better profit margin? McDuck Enterprises was doing just fine before you decided to screw with it!"

"I must admit..." began Farid, as he stood, getting his dignity back as he brushed himself off, "There is a bit more to it than that."

Dewey's gun followed, and it was clear he was waiting for the tiger to give his reasons.

"Imagine, you were the nephew of a great man. Not so hard. Imagine that that great man's company, that he built from the ground up with his own blood and sweat was bought out by someone else, apparently a greater man, and was made a peon, a lowly executive while the CEO who stole his seat sat up on an ivory tower somewhere in the United States, with so much money that he could swim in it."

"So you took over McDuck Enterprises for revenge? You laid siege to Duckburg for revenge? You started a war between the US and Soviet Union... A war that could spiral out of control into nuclear holocaust... for revenge?"

"That's only part of it," said Farid, adjusting his tie, "Getting back at McDuck is strickly beside the point. Mostly it was to do what my own uncle taught me. To seek the bottom line. At all costs." As he stood, Farid crossed his arms. "So what now? Are you going to shoot me? Beat me up? They'll still label you a terrorist and I a martyr. I don't see what the point is to this little visit, Mr. Duck. I've already won."

"Not where I'm standing," said Huey, as he reached within his jacket and pulled out a small recording device, courtesy of Gearloose Magazine's 'Moonligh Vigilante' line. He switched off the running recorder. "Courtesy of one Green Phantom."

The play button was pushed, and Farid's voice mocked back at him, "...don't see what the point is to this little visit, Mr. Duck. I've already won."

Farid's eyes went wide. He backed up into the bookshelf, "N-no! You..."

"You lose, Farid," said Dewey, "Now are you going to come with us to S.H.U.S.H HQ quietly?"

"I think not."

Another hidden button was pressed, and the bookshelf he leaned on twisted around quickly revealing nothing but the bookcase, with no Farid anywhere in sight. Dewey swore loudly and rushed forward, pressing the same button to follow Farid just as the three superheroes ran back into the office.

"Dewey!" cried PK, slipping in just as the Bookcase swiveled closed, jamming itself on a book that had fallen from the shelf and wedged between the book case and frame, unable to be opened by the others.

***

The emergency roof access door burst open as Farid Kagan ran at top speed across the wide helipad towards the private helicopter he kept on the roof. As he neared the vessel, he could hear the door open again and cursed loudly.

"Farid!" cried Dewey, running after the tiger, musket in hand.

Farid made it to the helicopter and reached inside. A pistol found its way into his hands, firing its payload towards the duck with a loud snap, which Dewey was able to dive away from just in time. On his stomach then, Dewey took aim with his musket and fired.

CRACK went the gun, and in a terrible instantaneous moment, the gun in Farid's hand, as well as the hand itself, had simply disappeared. Blood spurted from Farid's wrist as he screamed, falling away from the helicopter, clenching his wrist hole closed to stymie the flow of blood.

Dewey stood and, still wielding the unarmed musket, ran up to Farid Kagan, who was struggling to his feet to get away from the Duck.

"Nobody!" Cried Dewey, as the butt of the musket found purchase on Farid's face.

"Fucks!" He continued, planting a foot in Farid, causing him to roll further away from the helicopter.

"With!" The butt of the gun was once again used.

"My!" Stomp! Dewey's webbed foot crushed against the man's chest.

"Family's!" A fist shot out cracking against the man's jaw.

"MONEY!" With this, the butt of the gun was once again applied to the man's face as he tried to stand to get away from the rage of the Duck family, combined with the pragmatism and vengefulness of the McDuck clan. The blow sent him tumbling backwards, landing with a thump on his back.

As Dewey approached, concussed blood dripping from the butt of the rifle, Farid's face looked around desperately for something to use. He saw, still clenched in his dead, detached hand, the gun. With his off hand, he pried the still pliable fingers off of the gun and snatched it up, pointing it towards the oncoming duck.

"Dewey!" cried a voice. "Look out!"

Farid, panicking, altered his shot towards the voice and fired.

Dewey turned. His eyes went wide as he saw PK standing near the doorway, frozen in an expression of surprise. As he was watched, he crumpled to the floor silently.

That something within Dewey stirred, and he couldn't help but run over as Farid lay dazed on the far edge of the rooftop. He knelt beside PK and rolled him over to face up to the sky, supporting his head.

"PK. Are you alright?"

"Get... Farid..."

"You're hurt. You need help."

"I'm not... I'm not important. It's you, you and your brothers, you're the future. I... I'm just an old... so-and-so..."

Not understanding the profound feelings within him, Dewey couldn't help but feel overcome by emotion as this masked man lay bleeding in his arms. Quickly, telling himself it's to give him much needed air, Dewey ripped away the mask to reveal the face behind. He gasped.

"U... Uncle Donald!" He cried.

The white, lined face of the duck, Donald Duck, were plain. A single eye, the other lost in some unknowable conflict since his disappearance was the only feature Dewey couldn't place on the otherwise painfully familiar face.

"I... I didn't want you to know..."

"Uncle Donald. You've been watching over us this whole time?"

"Yes... I wanted... I used Joe and Panchito... to tell me where you would be. I wanted to see..."

"Don't talk, Uncle Donald," insisted Dewey, taking off his jacket and laying it over the Duck's wound to stop the blood from flowing.

"You were..." He had begun to sweat, surprise at the sudden wound being taken over by pain, "You were always a good kid, Dewey. You... you all were. I'm glad... I'm glad Uncle Scrooge's legacy is..."

"Please, Uncle Donald. Shhh. You're too weak."

The roof access door opened yet again, and this time Huey and Louie appeared. Huey all but screamed as he saw Donald Duck stretched out, bullet in him, and ran over, kneeling.

"Uncle Donald! No!"

"Huey?"

A sudden, wracking sob tore the air, rending Dewey and Louie's souls to the core. Their brother, Huey, the strong, unbreakable pillar of the three Duck boys, had tears on his cheeks as he looked into the one-eyed face of Donald Duck.

"Don't die, Uncle Donald!" cried Huey, "Don't die! I couldn't go on! Don't leave us alone. Not again!"

Louie walked up and inspected the wound, "We need to get him downstairs, to a doctor. Where's Farid?"

Dewey looked over and saw that Farid was not where he had been left. He stood quickly and took up his musket.

"Take care of Uncle Donald," he said, as Louie's impassive face and Huey's tear-stained one looked up at him, "Get him somewhere safe. I've got unfinished business."

Without looking back to see his two brothers carefully move the injured, half-costumed PK down off the roof. Dewey crept along the room, cognizant of the fact that Farid, one-handed though he might be, still had a loaded gun.

He ran up to the Helicopter and used it as cover, finally giving himself the chance to pour the measure of powder into the musket, before tamping it down with the Ramrod, before loading the shot and once again giving it a tamp. Now armed, he once again began to creep along the roof, looking all around himself.

BANG! Went a shot behind him, near the edge of the roof. Farid Kagan was there, his handsome face marred and bloody from Dewey's working-over of him earlier. He fired again, and Dewey felt a pain in his leg.

He yelled and looked down. His leg had been struck, but it was only nicked. It was a fleshwound that he could still walk on. He did, walking with purpose towards Farid, whose face was contorted in a sudden expression of sublime fear.

BANG! A shot from the pistol missed. Dewey got closer.

BANG! The shot veered off course as Farid's hand shook uncontrollably.

"Get away from me!" Farid screamed, wanting so to steady the gun with both hands.

Saying nothing, Dewey merely raised his musket and fired.

Farid was struck. He looked down and saw the spreading blood staining his immaculate shirt, and knew in a moment that it was the end. He looked up at Dewey, his face cold and calculating, and in a wild flash of pure hate, found the strength, even without the ability to breathe fully, to raise his gun one more time and fire.

Dewey, for a moment, did not feel anything, and merely continued to walk towards Farid Kagan, unaware of any injury he had sustained.

"I...Impossible!" said Farid, in the emotion of a cry, but with only the ability of a whisper, "I... Impossible!"

With a single punch from Dewey Duck, Farid found himself flying, watching the still rising sun over the upside-down cityscape of Bombay grow down from above his vision, the sun seeming to set upwards behind the jagged outlines of the square towers. He found that he was screaming as he fell from the Khan Building, but no sound came out. Instead, blood was gushing from his windpipe, and he slowly blacked out, wondering idly why.

Back up on the roof. Dewey sighed. It was over at last. The recording would clear his name. Even if there was to be a war, it would get no help from Dewey Duck.

That's when the adrenaline wore off and the pain in his chest became apparent. Before five seconds of panicked realization had occurred, loss of blood and exhaustion caused Dewey duck to pass out, placing a hand over the gnarled hole that had been drilled directly over his heart.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 21

2009-07-16T15:30:00.001-07:00

TWO MORE! As we draw the story to a close, I invite you to re-read over it, and revel in how mistake-ridden it is, but also to see if It holds together as a cohesive whole as much as I think it does. Watch out for blatant hints I dropped to future events. I don't remember what hints I dropped, but I'm pretty sure I dropped them.

Enjoy the MSpaint, especially how kinda retarded Louie looks.

Here's to a non-disappointing final two chapters!

---

Episode 21:

In 1951, years after the Sky Pirate menace had long since disappeared from the air over the Indies and Caribbean, the Pirate hideout was discovered, or, perhaps, simply revealed, by a young pilot and adventurer based in Cape Suzette named Kit Cloudkicker. Soon after, the UN, in the process of forming a new international police organization for squelching world-wide crime, claimed the small volcanic island off the coast of Africa as a neutral territory and set up the secret headquarters of the Sky Inspection League, set up to police the problem of smuggling and piracy that still plagued the region.

Carved out of a Volcanic mountain and with enough space to store a small army, the island, still referred to as "Pirate Island" even when formally renamed after the Director of S.H.U.S.H at the time as "Hooter Isle," was a perfect place to police the corrupt Asiatic skies.

It was hot inside, the fire within the earth felt plainly through the thick natural stone walls, with added structural supports and safety railing added only later, after a few unfortunate lava-pool-related fatalities were reported.

As the Sea Duck was towed out of the Iron Vulture and into the small Lagoon used as a dock, The boys watched from a few empty seats near a guardhouse beside the lagoon at all of the people.

They ran around, exclaiming to one another, whispering rumors and half-remembered truths. Almost as soon as the Vulture had landed, the surviving crew had spread the story of the attack by Thembria, and was answered by murmurs of war. Dewey shrank back in his seat slightly as more than one accusatory eye came his way.

"World War Three," said Louie in civilian garb, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked off across the lagoon to the patch of sky he could see through the far-off opening, "It's really coming. World War Three."

"That's what they said," noted Dewey, "Thembria are allied with the USSR, who are allied with China, North Korea, North Vietnam, East Germany and whatever other communist nations I'm forgetting. Thembria has picked a fight with the SIL which is an arm of S.H.U.S.H, which, although a neutral peacekeeping organization, is essentially American."

"With how much the Russians and Americans seem to like throwing around how many bombs they have, I wouldn't be surprised if we're all glowing in a half a year," said Huey, bitterly.

Louie shivered, "You think they would really do it? Bombs?"

"Honestly, I think the US will probably give it to them first, but we won't know until it happens."

"Where's your patriotism, Huey? It'll be the Russians who'll do it, I just know it."

"It flew out the door once we started this war with 'nam." He gave a sidelong glance to Louie. "I would think you and I would see closer on this sort of thing, considering..."

"Considering what?"

"Well, you always seemed to be the... I dunno... Rebellious one. At least where Uncle Scrooge was concerned." Huey leaned back, thankful for the shift in subject. "Spending money like water and going in for total selflessness and all that. Scrooge would have turned over in his grave if he heard about your adventures in Saint Canard."

Dewey spoke up, "Uncle Scrooge was only one of our guardians, if you'll remember, Huey, and even then only for a few years." His eyes swiveled over as he scratched his cheeks which had grown some serious whiskers since that fateful day in Duckburg. "When you think about Uncle Donald, Louie was absolutely devoted to him."

Huey frowned and turned away. "I suppose that's right."

"Listen," Louie said suddenly, turning his face from one brother to the other, "It's not like I'm pro-war or anything. It just scares the shit out of me, y'know." He smiled, but with a note of a sigh, "You never know when us Superheroes are going to get called in by S.H.U.S.H to go... I dunno... help out behind enemy lines. Who knows? Someday I might be like Super Snooper and go punch out Hitler. Or in this case Stalin, I guess. Maybe a little patriotism is what we heroes need just to do our jobs."

"I don't like it."

"You're allowed not to like it. That's the cool thing about the stupid country."

Dewey was back to watching the crewmen walk back and forth. "I suppose with all the commotion, there's no hope for the investigation into Farid to go through. With any luck they'll just forget all about us." He sighed. "Of course that just leaves us right back where we started."

"It can't end here," said Louie, resolute, "It just can't."

"And if it does?" asked Huey.

"I won't let it. These hands could potentially be punching out Stalin in a few years, so some punk wannabe kingpin should be no problem."

"You say that now..." smirked out Huey, "But how tough could you be if some fifty year old duck put you in a stretcher for two weeks?"

"Ha-ha."

***

"Here you go, Doofus," said Webby as she unwrapped the bandages from around the formerly stricken shoulder, "You're well enough to move, I think."

Doofus sat up, placing a hand to his shoulder and moving it experimentally, working out the stiffness from not moving it for so long. The small sick-bay they sat in was brightly lit and sterile, and had a comfortable air conditioning system that protected the infirm from the heat of the cave it was located in.

Doofus smiled sheepishly. "Thanks Webby. You're a lifesaver."

"It's just my job here, I guess. Team nurse, team den mother, teacher, shoulder to cry on. You know. Usual stuff for the token girl on these kinds of adventures."

Dewey's spectacled face homed in on Webby suddenly, their strong gaze burning a hole in her soul. "Why do you let Dewey jerk you around like he does, Webby? It can't be good for you. It makes me so sad to see..."

"It's not as bad as all that, Doofus. He's my boss, and I'll stick by him." she laughed. "I haven't been paid yet anyway. I have to stick by him until then at least."

"Don't joke about that, Webby. He's... he's not good for you."

Doofus's hand flew over to lay itself over Webby's resting on the hard hospital bed. Webby stood suddenly, jerking her arm away.

"Don't do this, Doofus. We... We both decided we weren't right for one another a long time ago. Don't reopen old wounds."

"But Webby..." He began to stand. "...I know we grew apart. You had your career and I had... mine. I'm sorry. Both of our lives conspired to break us apart, but." He walked towards her, slowly. "But we've both changed. I don't have to hide who I am anymore, and you..."

"No. Doofus, stop! It wasn't just how... how unavailable you were. I know now why you were the way you were and that makes me feel better, but..."

"How is it any different from how Dewey is? He doesn't love you. He sees you as a tool for making money. You're just his secretary."

Webby rounded on Doofus and held up an admonishing finger, "Don't you dare, Doofus. Dewey is a good man and he is going through a lot right now. He can't be thinking about anything like that."

"But Webby..."

"Doofus. I'm warning you. Don't. Just don't. We had our chance together and you blew it. You broke my heart when you left..."

"For your own safety."

"I didn't know that at the time. Even though I know now I feel like... You could have told me."

"No... No I couldn't have. I couldn't have subjected you to..."

"What? I couldn't have taken the truth?" She shook her head, "Doofus, I grew up for a long time in McDuck Mansion. Even after the boys moved back in with Donald, Grammy and I stayed in the Mansion as staff. I was raised on adventure just as much as the Duck brothers were. I think I could have taken knowing why the man I used to love disappeared, and when he came back, grew so distant so suddenly. I would have understood."

"I... I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. It was all just so... so new and exciting. But I've changed. I know what I'm doing now. Mr. Crackshell is back, and I can stop all of those horrible things I did in Saint Canard." His hand was on her shoulder, gentle. "Please, Webby. Give me another chance."

They were silent for a long time, with Webby's shoulder feeling the warmth of her former love's hand on her shoulder. She felt the old stir she used to feel around Doofus. Her memories drifted back to before the disappearance, when he was just a normal boy, so different from the fantastic figures that surrounded her from day to day.

"No." She shrugged his hand off of her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Doofus. Maybe... Perhaps..." She began to walk out of the door, leaving Doofus in the sterile office, "Perhaps in another future."

She walked out, her arms twined around herself as she looked down, tracing the path of her feet along the ground. Doofus stayed in the room for a moment, before closing his eyes and sighing, sitting down at the doctor's table and burying his face in his hands.

***

A day went past, and then two, and finally three. War brewed over the horizon and there they were, right at the thick of it. The entire group was roundly ignored by most of the SIL, with only occasional friction between them and the Commodore, who still, on some level, believed that they did it, and this belief tore him apart inside.

With every day that passed, news from the outside got grimmer and grimmer. USSR and US peace talks were breaking down left and right, and it seemed that Thembria's attack would not go unpunished. For its part, the country remained unapologetic, although rumors of them starting the war to seek some occult amulet were popular, if disbelieved, bits of apocryphal wisdom, at least to those without knowledge of the ultimate goal of their former state sorceress.

Dewey was hunched over at a long table the group used as a sort of meeting place away from the prying eyes of the SIL. The room was adjacent to the hastily put together sleeping quarters they had been given, which were much less nice than the ones aboard the Iron Vulture. On the other end of the table, Huey and the girls were chatting low, teaching and learning bits of each other's languages, while Louie discussed the Superhero trade with Doofus. Webby sat at Dewey's side, reading the only thing she could, a silly romance novel that had been donated by the Iron Vulture's crew for her use.

From a small stack of the past few day's newspapers delivered from Bombay, Dewey was reading an article in an Indian newspaper, using his knowledge of the Hindi language to keep tabs on the business dealings of McDuck Enterprises. To his annoyance, stock prices under Farid Kagan were rising, even as he delivered some truly baffling changes to the structure of the company.

Several industries that were formerly the very center of McDuck's revenue base, for example, Mining, Banking, Agriculture, and others, were being closed out, or reduced.

"I don't get it." Said Dewey out loud, wrinkling his forehead at the latest news from yesterday's paper, "I just don't get it. What is he planning to do?"

Webby looked up from her novel, finding conversation potentially more interesting, "More news from the front?"

"Farid's just closed down several factories for automobile parts. He's literally robbing people of their jobs, but he's such a slick talker he's getting away with it. I can't see the profit in it."

Louie spoke up, his conversation with Doofus having come to a bit of a snag regarding the correct procedure for chasing down a mugger, "Maybe he's got a backup plan. Close down some factories, open them up later to big ole' fanfare or something."

"Maybe they weren't up to code," posited Webby, "You know how Uncle Scrooge would cut corners."

"Or maybe..." began Dewey, before shaking his head, "I wish we could actually do something. I feel so useless here."

"We all do, Dewey," said Doofus who was itching to put on the suit, but couldn't risk being seen by the SIL.

"No kidding," said Louie, "What I wouldn't give to just fly in there and bust some heads."

"It would never work," answered Dewey, shaking his head as he turned the page, moving from the business section into the arts, and throwing the paper onto the table, "It wouldn't accomplish anything but making us look more suspect."

"I know. But it would make me feel better. Right Huey?"

"¡Foda Sim!"

The girls nodded their heads in triumph.

"Maybe it will say something in today's paper," said Webby, reasonably. She reached into the stack and pulled out the new news, opening it right to the business section with a practiced unconscious motion, before passing it over to Dewey and looking back down to her book.

Webby's heart skipped a beat when he heard her boss say "Thank you."

"Y- you're welcome, Dewey."

Dewey was too engrossed in the business section to hear her however, and began reading the fascinating writing of the Hindi language. In a moment, everyone went back to their individual conversations and tasks.

Suddenly, Dewey slammed the paper down on the ground, "That double-crossing son of a bitch!"

"What's wrong?" said Webby, startled away from Lady Argyle receiving a ripped bodice from Duke Iverson of Glen, disguised as the pirate and robber-baron Gregor the Cut-throat, who was at this moment on his way to claim the Lady as his own forced bride.

"That... That bastard! He... He wouldn't!" Dewey quickly took the paper back up and re-read the passage, before, throwing the paper towards the wall with a growl.

"What? What? What?" yelled Louie, "Don't leave us in suspense!"

"He... The factories he closed down... All of those mines and industries..." Dewey stood quickly, causing his chair to clatter to the floor, "He...!" He turned away, beginning to pace.

"What did he do?"

"Weapons manufacturing! Bombs! Guns! Battleships! He's shifting McDuck Enterprises to a pure weapons manufacturer. He's... he's closing down all other non-essential wartime industries to focus on weapons."

"My god," said Huey.

"This... this is..." Suddenly, a light came on behind Dewey's eyes. He ceased the nervous pacing he had taken up and looked up at the wall, a terrible expression lighting up his face. A cruel mixture of fear and loathing and anger all coming together to form an evil concoction upon his face. His eyes were wide and wild, his mouth bent down at a brutal angle, and his forehead creased as his brows rose up to meet the heavens. His body went rigid and his hands flexed outwards, keeping that position for as long as he held the face that had come of his greatest betrayal. "This was his plan all along."

Huey stood quietly, saying, slowly, "What do you mean?"

Dewey snapped at Huey, "I mean, Huey, that Farid planned this, all of it. The siege on Duckburg was his plot to take over the company, using us to tie up the SIL and S.H.U.S.H so they wouldn't catch wise of the plot. He used Gizmoduck to lock down the superhero contingent in Saint Canard so they couldn't raise a finger to stop him even if they did figure him out. I'll bet..." He grunted and turned, leaning on the wall with one elbow and looking with his tortured expression down towards the ground, "...I'll bet he's somehow behind this new war as well. He used you, Huey, and Higher-for-hire to get us mixed up with the Thembrians when they attacked. He must have heard about Magica's need for that dime, and knew I never gave it up, so he threw us together, and counted on... on war. If we lost the dime they would declare war on the world and he wins. If we kept the dime they would tear the world apart trying to get it, and he wins!"

"Why would he do all that?" called Doofus, his hackles raising at the thought of being used to such an end, "What possible reason..."

Dewey laughed, a horrible, sardonic noise that resonated with all of them, "Money! Money! Money money money! World War Three is declared, he uses McDuck Enterprises to sell the Allies guns, rockets, bombs, and makes a killing. He turns around, and uses Khan Industries to sell the Soviets guns, rockets, bombs... He uses our birthright to fleece both sides of the conflict!"

Everyone looked at Dewey, shocked. Louie stood up slowly.

"My... my god. We've got to stop him!"

"Louie's right," said Doofus, standing up gallantly, "Starting a war to make money. That’s diabolical!"

"But what can we do?" said Webby, who stood as well, "We can't just go in and..."

"But we must," Said Dewey, cutting her off, "We can't fight him the way we have been. We need desperate measures. He's covered his tracks too well. Governments are eating out of his hand and the population is on his side thanks to the sympathy vote from taking over McDuck when we were implicated in the raid on Duckburg. S.H.U.S.H is too busy preparing for WWIII to do anything about him. We can't expose him. We have to stop him."

Louie's face had begun to smile a bit, "You mean it?"

Dewey nodded, "By force."

"The SIL," said Webby, her heart saying 'yes yes!' but her mind saying 'be careful,' "They'll never let us go."

"Who needs their permission?" smirked out Huey, his fist finding purchase in the palm of his hand.

***

Two SIL crewmen were rushing by the door to the conference room the guests were using when they heard two unfortunate words.

"Blathering Blatherskite!"

Soon enough, the entire wall blew open as rockets, fists, giant hammers, and various chainsaws and power tools sliced and knocked away. The crewmen tried to run, but were buried under the rubble from the near instantaneous explosion of plaster and iron. Soon, a small stampede of footsteps echoed through the hall as the group ran out. The Carioca girls, carrying the meager luggage of the small crew, crowded up behind Huey who ran joyousely through the hall. Doofus, in his armor, lead the charge along with Louie, in full costume including drawn-on mask. Dewey pounded along the hall at a secure clip, hand-in-hand with Webby, who carried a suitcase full of Dewey's few business papers and petty cash he insisted on bringing along.

Soon, a ringing alarm blared out, and the entire group was being chased from the halls, but with Gizmoduck's brute strength at the charge, and Louie's skill with ropes and bindings on backup, the group went completely unmolested as they ran towards the hangar, and beyond, the lagoon where the Sea Duck was being moored.

"Get them!" yelled a familiar voice, before a gunshot rang out, only to be deflected by a quick shield from Gizmoduck, "They are escaping!"

Huey looked over and saw the Commodore, jumping up and down from rage. He smiled inside as he ran.

They were soon in the wide cavern containing the Lagoon, and were on their way to the Sea Duck. Suddenly, however, there was a loud snapping noise and several of the lights went out.

There was a wild laughing as a strange figure came flying towards them. The red emergency lights came on just in time for the group to see the Commodore, brandishing his sword and swinging from an electrical wire. He slammed the wire against Gizmoduck, who began to vibrate as the sizzling energy shorted out his suit.

"R-R-R-R-R-Run!" Said Doofus, pointing towards the Sea Duck.

"Gizmoduck!" cried Webby, before she was jerked on by Dewey.

Louie complied, herding the rest of the group on, taking up the bulk of the defense of the group. Soon, Dewey, Webby, and the girls had ran up the back ramp of the Sea Duck. Louie followed them up and did a quick head count, before exclaiming, "Where's Huey?"

All eyes pointed out over an encroaching crowd of SIL, where Huey had tarried by the stunned Gizmoduck, and was squaring off against Perry Kid, a sword in his hand.

"That idiot!" cried Louie, before it became apparent that the approaching SIL crewmen would keep him and the others too busy to go collect his brother. The crack of Scrooge's musket resounded, and the firefight inside the Sea Duck had begun, with the girls ducking inside the Pilot's cabin to keep themselves safe from stray bullets.

***

Back over towards where Gizmoduck lay, stunned, Huey and the Commodore squared off towards each other, Huey keeping one nervous eye towards the Sea Duck, which was being swarmed by SIL.

"Pay attention to your opponent when you fight him!" cried the Commodore," You insult me!"

"Of heaven forfend I insult you, Junior."

"Your friends are probably already dead now. I knew you weren't to be trusted. The Guilty always run."

"Everyone runs, Junior, if they're being chased."

"Because everyone is guilty, perhaps?"

"Because it's better than being caught."

"You and your brothers have been the thorn in my side long enough, yes no? I am glad to finally be rid of you. To attack in the midst of war..."

"Because of the war, Junior. We've got to stop it!"

"Preposterous. You have no chance to stop it. You're just three men and some women, how could you...?"

"We'll find a way. We'll find some way to stop Farid Kagan... You could help us..."

"This is not how things are done!" screamed the Commodore at the top of his voice, "You do not escape from me! It cannot be for something so noble, swine!"

"Fine, Be that way. Looks like the tides may be turning my way after all." His eyes looked off to the side briefely.

The Commodore followed his gaze, and saw the crowd of SIL suddenly thinning out, with a single black and yellow blur jumping and punching through the crowd, too fast or heavily armored for the men to get a bead on with their guns. PK took down the crowd, helped, soon, by The Green Phantom and Dewey Duck.

"No! No! I cannot be defeated by the likes of you! Enemies of Justice and right!"

"Junior, quiet. You've lost."

"You insist on calling me Junior, because your mentor calls me Junior. Do you know why they call me Junior, do you?" He began to sweat, this confrontation not going as planned, "They say I am the son of Don Karnage, the pirate. They say my whore of a mother conceived of me as he visited and pillaged a Spanish village, his home town. THEY ARE WRONG!" He screamed, brandishing his sword as his speech became more and more unhinged, "A man who would sack his own home town could never be a father to me, who loves Justice and right! The Law is my father, and fair Justice is my mother, and I am it's proud servant! You are an enemy to that end, and for that I will strike you down! Putup your sword, yes?"

Huey looked at the Commodore's sweating, wild-eyed face with a cold smirk, before he dropped the sword to the ground, dropping down into the accepted position of fisticuffs.

"A-ha. You are different. You follow your blood like a sheep. Your anger-addled Uncle has given you a dishonorable preference of combat."

"honor or not. I'm still kicking your ass."

Screaming, the two men came at each other. Kid struck first, swiping his sword. Huey dodged to the right and fired a punch, which struck kid's ribs, but allowed him to try a stab with his cutlass. Circling round, Huey strafed out of the way, peppering the wild, angry man with punches, before finally laying a kick squarely into his ankle. The Commodore cried out, going down to one knee, and trying a wild slice, his mannered, rigid style bedazzled by rules and regulations going out the window in the face of Huey's fists made hard by visits to cities around the globe before he settled in Cape Suzette. He punched, Face, shoulder, face, stomach, each time his face taking on a little bit more of the joy of the fight, and the enthusiasm that comes from knowing he's fighting someone with a measure of skill and still winning.

Finally, The Commodore stood and gave a bellow, letting everything he hated about Huey come out through his voice. His nose began to gush blood into his perfectly white teeth, as he slashed down.

Huey stepped backwards, used to fighting men addled by rage, and waited until the sword was once again raised to the familiar fencing position. He then gave a strong right cross, and aimed for the broad side of the sword.

Snap! Huey punched the sword, and the blade snapped in half near the base from the sheer force of his strike, tested against the steel grip of Perry Kid.

Deprived of a useful weapon, the Commodore dropped the hopeless hilt of the former sword, and raised his own hands to defend himself, before he was struck out with an uppercut to the jaw. He landed a few feet back, and struggled to stay awake, but unconsciousness overtook him all the same.

By this time, Gizmoduck's systems had rebooted, and he was getting up, "What... What happened?"

"Nothing much," said Huey, "Come on!"

The two ran on towards the crowd of SIL, who were dispersing, scared off by the loss of their leader, as well as from the demon who fights them so harshly.

***

Huey and Gizmoduck ran in, Huey with a big ole smile on his face. His brothers called their frantic salutations to him, but his face was focused on PK, who was finishing up one last SIL goon. It may have been the angle of the punch, or perhaps the stance he displayed while throwing it, but somehow, Huey felt that PK, at this moment, was a familiar, comforting presence, especially considering how similar the way he took care of the goon was to the way he just took care of Junior.

He was mesmerized by PK suddenly, his shape matching up with his memories, calling up someone, One of the most influential people to his personality, and he felt a strange mixture of joy and disgust. He finally knew who PK was, and he couldn't help but feel elated by the knowledge.

"Hey, Huey," said a voice, breaking out of his reverie. Suddenly the rest of the cargo hold registered. The back had been closed and everyone had gathered together around him.

"Wha?"

"Get your ass in gear, Kid," said PK, "You've got a plane to fly."

Looking directly into PK's single eye, he blinked, before, in a moment of unbridled happiness, giving him a giant shit-eating grin. "Groovy."

***

The Sea Duck was soon winding its way through the lagoon, towards the exit. The parcel of sky getting larger and larger as Huey approached it, until it filled the vision beyond the windshield of the plane. Soon, with a bounce, the plane was in the air and the group was off to face their final foe.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 20

2009-07-15T16:17:00.000-07:00

We have reached the Twenties! Hooray!

Lets see. If I stay on track (And don't run chapters together or break them apart or what have you) There are... three more to go. Wow. We've gotten far. It's the FINAL COUNTDOWN.

Thanks for reading this silly fanon-wank story. I'm sure I'll say it many times over the next three chapters, but I do mean it. If you want, spread the word, start a page on TVtropes or something.

Anyway, the most important part: Enjoy yourself.

---

Episode 20:

The Iron Vulture had, in its Port side near the top, a guest quarter of some luxury. Florid tapestries and curtains hung around the room, gilt with inlays of silver and gold in flowering vine patterns that warmed the room when in the presence of natural lighting. Urns and pots from china and India were laid about and kept fresh with flowers and plants to keep the room friendly. The walls were burgundy, and each of the three rooms available had a huge four-poster bed which matched the walls impeccably. Everything in the rooms had the feeling of some age and history, but was well-taken care of.

Louie had taken the rich red curtains down from the top crossbar of the four-poster, and had begun doing chin-ups. Dewey was sitting at a stained Oak drawing table with carved patterns on the sides and drawers, and was doing some calculations on a sheet of stationary that was provided with the room. Huey paced the gold-threaded carpet, looking utterly perturbed.

Dewey, without looking up from his calculations of how much money they have spent on this little excursion, with little lumps in his throat forming when he looked at how much they have spent on gas for the sea duck so far, said, annoyed, "Huey, You're making me nervous. Sit down."

"I don't like it," was the reply.

"You can dislike it while standing in one place... or sitting. Sitting is wonderful."

"Here we are, after running for our lives for over a year and now we've just given ourselves to the guys chasing us..."

"ONE of the guys chasing us. They guys who, if they had caught us, wouldn't have killed us." Dewey looked up. "And what's the big deal? They said they're investigating Farid. They'll find us innocent and we can go on with our..."

"IF they find us innocent. It is still very possible they might not find what they're looking for, or Farid covered his tracks too well."

"You worry too much, Huey."

"I think I'm entitled to some worry, frankly. We're prisoners here..."

"It's a lovely room," said Dewey, "Commodore Kid said it's for statesmen and other guests who come through. We're lucky we're not back in the brig."

"It's a cage all the same," Huey rebuked as he flung himself into a wine-colored armchair, "And we walked right into it."

Louie landed on the ground with a thump, sweat beading on his forehead. He took a sodden towel from the nightstand and wiped himself down. "For what it's worth, Huey's got a point."

"Not you too!"

"It is a cage. It's a very nice cage, but we're still trapped with the SIL. However," He turned towards Huey and smiled, "You shouldn't worry like that."

"And why not?"

"Darkwing, of course. I trust Darkwing to come through for us." He nodded with some finality. "End of story." After speaking this he laid himself out on the bed, stretching the burn out of his muscles, "So, Dewey, what's the damage?"

"Huh?"

Huey picked up the meaning. "How much have we spent?"

"Oh! Er." He turned back towards his figures and furrowed his brow. "About ten thousand for airplane fuel, Nearly five hundred thousand in losses from the Bed and Breakfast..."

"You've still got the money from the till, right?" asked Louie, "How much was that?"

"About two million cruzeiro."

"And in American?"

"About ten bucks, and falling." He sighed and continued, "Food for the little revolving door crew... Including that steak dinner AND the bottle of scotch... came to about fifteen thousand dollars. Clothes, repairs for the sea duck, miscellaneous expenses (including gifts and other such luxuries from you to those silly girls, Huey)... This all comes to..."

"Skip it," said Huey, "I don't want to know."

"We're very grateful that you're footing the bill for this little expedition, Huey," said Louie, "It's very nice of you."

"Aw, quiet. I know I've still got close to a septuplepillion thousand centrifugillion left, but still... You should know how losing a chunk that big can affect someone."

" Dewey, maybe, but not you Huey. I thought you were cooler about money."

"I am! I mean... at least... Well, I think it's just a lot of money to lose at once, y'know?"

Louie smiled. Dewey smiled. Neither one could ever comprehend the reason for the other's amusement.

Huey threw his hands up, "Moving along. I still think we should be careful around that Kid guy. I don't trust a guy who is that much into the law."

"Huey. I'm a superhero."

"And illegal superhero, remember. I'm just saying anyone who is that way creepily into the law won't hesitate to turn on us if things don't go our wa..."

But before he could finish speaking, the entire room shook violently. Dewey's chair turned over, spilling him and his money notes on the floor, while Huey and Louie threw themselves to the floor as a simple safety precaution. When the shaking subsided, Louie nearly screamed.

"What was that?"

Huey, however, was already up on his feet, "Come on!" he yelled, before he slammed the door to their room open and ran out. Very soon, he was followed by Dewey and Louie, who didn't bother getting into costume.

***

Through the air in flew, in defiance of gravity and sense, a giant, bulbous iron balloon, a Zeppelin, which ran at the top, the scarlet tones of the Thembrian flag.

The Bridge of the Iron vulture was in an uproar. Perry Kid sat in the center, a rock among tangled white rapids, as his men ran about, operating consoles and relaying information about the Iron Vulture, the Thembrians, their current strength, their opponent's strength, and the specs of the giant balloon in front of them.

The Commodore held a handheld up to his mouth and began to speak in authoritative tones, his eyes frozen on the quickly approaching Thembrian airship, "Thembrians. You have opened fire upon an SIL craft, and by extension, a S.H.U.S.H-sponsored craft in international air. This could be considered an act of war. I will give you a moment to explain yourselves or surrender. If you do not comply we will blow you out of the sky."

He then listened for some answering noise over the radio, willing them to respond. Soon enough, a Thembrian answered.

"Our fearless leader requires that you surrender Dewey Duck and his entourage. If you do not comply, we will be forced to take them from you by force."

"I order the compliances here, bub. Dewey Duck is in S.H.U.S.H custody. You cannot have him, yes?"

"And he is what we were ordered to collect. Submit or die." There was a rough clicking noise and the line went dead.

The Commodore placed a hand on his forehead, "Oy. These Iron curtain jockeys vex me so. Why is it they cannot act like sane people?"

"It's their society," said a voice behind him, "They believe we're inferior thanks to our different ideologies. Things like that don't fit neatly into that little thing called international law."

A hundred guns were trained on Huey and his brothers as they entered the bridge.

"What are you doing here?" cried Kid, "Get back to your quarters."

"And miss all the action? I think not. We're on this ship, There are women and wounded upstairs, and my employer's potentially very expensive vintage plane is in the hangar. I think we have a right to make sure it gets through this little incident all right."

Pointing a wild finger towards the exit, Perry Kid was about to scream for his men to run them out of the bridge, when a voice lanced through his radio.

"Time is up, dogs! Do you comply or do we take them by force?"

Perry kid looked at the radio with an unhinged look in his eyes, before picking the reciever up in one hand while gesturing for the boys to sit in the corner. "We do no such thing." He slammed the receiver down before screaming, "Aim all guns for the Red Thunder. Fire at will!"

A gunshot rang out, before a man in an SIL uniform ran out of the room screaming, being chased by the thick Rand, holding a musket. The Commodore sighed, and wondered if the sky pirates ever had to deal with idiot crewmen. Huey couldn't help but smirk.

***

The Zeppelin, the Red Thunder, was a vehicle of East German design which had become widely used in the ever important sky by soviet and soviet-allied military. The modern touch of the vehicle, including new bits added on since the 1940s, made for a terror of the sky. A maneuverable fortress of the sky to rival the airships of the sky pirates used back in the golden day, and for a fraction of the fuel and resources.

The two giants of engineering triumph met in the sky over the Atlantic Ocean a little past noon. The first shot was fired from the great cannons attached to the Red Thunder's side and struck the hull of the Iron Vulture. From there, the two titans entered into a dogfight of legend, the bodies of the two airships circling 'round each other, over and under, trying to gain the superior position. Meanwhile, around their heads buzzed flocks of fighter jets spinning and whirling around their mother ships like lazy flies, firing at one another, and trying to wrest the advantage away from their opponent.

War over the Atlantic raged on well into the day. Wrecks ignited in the air, and fell to the sea like confused fireworks, exploding as they neared the green and blue sea, or smashing into the waves, the force of the blast contributing height and impact to the splash.

Within, the two commanders screamed orders at their men, ordering more, less, forwards, up, down, thinking in a million directions at once for the good of their survival, ideals and ideas and demands flying out the window as the two forces tried to repel and destroy the other.

Eventually, the limited manpower of the Iron Vulture, meant for skirmishes with smugglers and not formal war, began to give out. The jets that were left had to do more with less power, luring the Thembrian airplanes into the paths of the Vulture or Red Thunder's guns, or leading them to ruin by smashing into the sides of one of their parent ships. They fought valiantly, but struggled against the fully armed might of a strong military might wielded efficiently.

***

The hours had flown by, and the boys were worried. They looked on from their corner of the bridge, looking helpless as the Thembrian contingent bore down, trying to get at them.

"What do they want?" asked Louie.

"They probably heard about your little stunt with Magica Despell," said Huey, smirking, to Dewey, "I wouldn't put it past them."

"Ugh," shivered Dewey, remembering the event. He quickly changed the subject, "What if...? What if they get in?"

"Then..." Huey stretch his arms lightly, and Louie unconsciously adjusted the belt he wore under his clothes. "...We fight them off."

In a frenzy, Perry Kid was standing on his captain's chair and railing at him men. Rage had made him forget his own head and he spoke in mannered, but still angry, Spanish. Huey walked up purposefully.

"You're getting slaughtered out there, Junior."

"And what would you know you Infamous ingrate? I oughta throw you three in the brig just for lookin' at me funny, yes no?"

"I know the air. You're playing right into their hands. Those new zeppelins rely on their large capacity for fighters to protect them while they bombard their targets. You can't fight off their numbers by yourself, not with this disorganized crew."

"My crew is being none of your business Duck!"

"You have to retreat. Cut your losses. Keep us out of danger."

"I will do no such thing! The SIL does not bow to terrorists!"

Their faces had gotten closer and closer as the two men yelled at each other, until another impact on the stern of the Iron Vulture caused Perry Kid to fall over on top of Huey. Interpreting this as a threat, Huey began to fight the wildly flailing coyote, until both were a rolling dust cloud of fists and legs. Soon, the crewmen known as Ein had grabbed his Commodore, sporting a burning black eye, while Louie and Dewey had grabbed Huey, whose face was simply burning red.

"Attack ME will you? Fine!" Huey screamed, "I'll show you. I'll show you how a real man fights off an enemy."

He shrugged off his two brothers - quite hard as well, causing them to fall over on their behinds- and walked out of the bridge.

"Where are you going you silly duck?" Kid yelled.

"You're see!"

After a few moments, and a couple more impacts, the Commodore got his mind right. "Damage report!"

"20% damage. One engine disabled."

He nodded, extricating himself from Ein's grip, "Fine. If that rage-blind idiot can show such initiative, then someone with the full force of right should have no problem..."

"Commodore!" yelled a small Chihuahua dog with a pronounced lisp, "There's a commotion in the hangar!"

"WHAT?"

Dewey and Louie sighed.

***

"Final Squadrons, ten and eleven, prepare for take-off!"

The Scottie dog with an eyepatch yelled towards the two three-man teams of fighter planes lining up to take off. With his limited peripheral vision, he wasn't able to see the whit fist coming at him from the red-faced duck. He fell to the ground a yard away, knocked out.

There was a commotion as several men opened fire on the duck, who ran towards the closest Jet, painted like a many-toothed monster. The men were ordered to stop firing, not wanting to damage the precious planes. The pilot, however, hadn't heard he order.

Huey climbed up to look at the helmeted pilot , who threw his canopy open and drew a service pistol. Thinking quick, Huey kicked the man's hand, before punching him soundly in the face. Soon, the man's body, stripped of his breathing apparatus and helmet seated firmly on Huey's head, was tossed over the side of the plane like so many bags of potatoes.

"Alright you!" cried Huey into the radio, "Watch and learn!"

"Listen y- URK!" said the voice of the Commodore, cut off.

Louie's voice cut in, "Huey. Do you even know how to pilot one of those things?"

"Uncle Sam wanted me to. Let's see if he was right." He then started it up, ignoring plainly many of the instruments, and relying on his own instincts. The engines roared to life, and his jet sped forward towards the wide open mouth of the Iron Vulture, and into the bright blue of the sky, stained black by clouds of smoke. Huey's back sank into the seat of the jet as his hands kept a steady grip on the control stick. He screamed at the G-forces, not out of weakness, but from sheer willfulness.

Faster than the eye could see the jet was out of the airship's dock and in the air, whirring around, pulling loops around the other, saner planes. There seemed to be some kind of spirit in the plane that caused it to move with almost presentimental grace. It approached the encroaching hoard of Thembrian planes, similar, but so slightly different from it. They fired, which the plane corked and twisted around in the air to avoid, before returning fire. A plane burst into flames from the precise shot, and the rest of the swarm turned away at once, creating a ripple of airplanes out from the exploding one.

Huey gave a yell, not hearing the Commodore scream back at him to turn his radio off to spare them all the fruits of his rage, and chased after the nearest plane. The Tightly packed thembrians seemed like clumsy beetles to his graceful dragonfly. He pulled a loop, firing on several too-slow airplanes, which flared up and fell like stars.

Then they were upon him. A group of aces, three, flying in tight formation. They surrounded him, revolving around him like the orbits of an atom, and firing all the time. Huey had just enough presence of mind to ungulate his plane out of the way and cut a swath out from between the tight teamwork of the three Thembrians.

He was chased through the battle, and the consequences of his wild flying were felt throughout the battle. He swerved across groups of thembrians menacing his temporary allies with the SIL, causing the unaware aces to perforate their own kin. As the three on his tail tried to use their numbers to trap him, he would fly among a group of allies. The aces were chased off by the firing of the few SIL left, and one of them took one right in the canopy, spraying through the air a sprits of blood and glass.

Wary and wise now, the two aces followed behind Huey's plane at a safe distance, trying to outlast him while staying out of the path of his wild guns. Unmolested, Huey was able to take out several more Thembrian jets, and under his actions, the tide of battle had begun to switch.

Desperate now, one of the aces drew close to Huey, intending to end this. Huey clenched his teeth, before pulling up sharp, revealing one of the Iron Vulture's guns. The cannon fired, and the plane, in mid pull-up, was torn right in half by the harsh shell. It looped around lazily, spinning as it fell to the sea, before exploding spectacularly.

Now, one-on-one, Huey looped around behind the last remaining ace who menaced him, firing on the unlucky Thembrian. The two pilots circled 'round, trying to line each other up in their sights. The dogfight dragged on and on, circling and barreling through the air, catching lesser pilots off guard and to an early, watery grave.

Huey gave a yell, the frustration of the fight causing a vein in his forehead to fill to bursting. With a sudden burst of skill, he tipped his plane in an odd maneuver, flying on his side just enough to pass the Thembrian, who panicked and pulled downwards. Huey then pulled up sharply, looping up and around, until the plane was facing downward again, and was lined up right behind the ace. With a single burst of his guns, he sent the last of his ammo into the jet engines of the Thembrian plane, and the entire thing combusted. Huey pulled up before his own nose could be caught in the leaping flames.

He then turned his sights towards the huge, momentarily unprotected Red Thunder zeppelin. He fired, but found that he had exhausted his ammo during the fight. FINE!

He hit the boosters, the throttles, the retros, the whatever-they-were-calleds, and speeded on towards the huge airship. He aimed for the panels in the Iron casing of the balloon that held the monster up, and braced himself for impact.

***

Boom!

Watching from the open mouth of the Iron Vulture, the girls, Huey's brothers, Webby and Doofus, and the Commodore watched the jet fly into the oblong target and explode. All at once, the volatile gasses inside combusted, and in a moment, the panels of the balloon were expelled out, dropping into the sea. The Red Thunder was, for a moment, alight in fire, before it was merely an empty, falling frame of its former shape. The cabins and hangar, now unsupported in the air, fell to the ground like a dull rock and broke in half with the impact of the water. They could not see beyond the lip of the Vulture without falling out of the ship, but imagining the drowning crew of the airship was terrible.

The three girls were sobbing, and calling Huey's name.

"He... he couldn't..." said Louie.

"H...Huey..." said Dewey.

Their eyes were wide in shock, looking up towards the spot on the stripped zeppelin where the Jet had crashed and exploded, until the whole skeletal thing sunk out of sight.

After a moment of stunned silence, The Commodore spoke, "Fool."

"Say that again!" Screamed Louie, grabbing the Commodore's fancy coat, "He's not the only one with anger management issues, you know."

"Such common reactions. He has given his life for mine, and I think him for that, yes? But there was certainly a better way."

"Shut up, Commodore," said Dewey, darkly, his right-hand trigger finger twitching unconsciously.

"For example, what about the Parachute?" The Commodore allowed two of his goons to pull Louie roughly off of his jacket, "He did not deploy it, yes? That could have..."

"...Saved my life?" said a voice from the radio, still breathing hard in anger.

"HUEY!" everyone yelled, crowding around the receiver of the radio, trampling the commodore underfoot, before all talking at once.

"Quiet everyone," he said, and they were silent, "I'm coming in, and I need to do something to feel better. Come to the mouth of the vulture and make sure I land safely."

With uplifted spirits, the group ran over as close to the open hangar as they could and lo-and-behold, saw the orange and blue colored SIL parachute holding up the duck, who had his arms crossed. They cheered as the Commodore walked up.

Huey caught sight of the group then, and began to clench his fists. His face was still a mask of rage, the dogfight with an entire airforce platoon not enough to sate his need. As he got closer, those who beheld him began to feel a bit like taking a few steps back.

As Huey was about a yard from the ground, he disengaged the parachute and began to fall. He drew back his fist as he flew to the group. The SIL Men, figuring him to go for the Commodore, pushed him out of the way.

With a final scream, Huey fell towards the ground.

POW!

With a single punch, Louie was laid out flat on the ground and skidded over the floor. Dazed, he rubbed his face and groaned, not understanding for a moment what had happened. It wasn't until he was picked up bodily by Huey that he remembered the events of two seconds ago.

"H... Hu..."

"Paul isn't dead! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of! Understand?"

"Y... Yeah..."

Louie was then dropped unceremoniously on the ground. The Commodore, still buried under a small pile of protective sky-sailors, began to rail at him.

"Where do you get off? I did not give permission to fly off like that! If you hadn't shot down the Red Thunder I would have you under a court martial right now! I would be breaking you under my knee right now, yes no?"

Huey breathed out, his blood pressure returning to normal. He turned towards the commodore, saying, "You're welcome," before walking back upstairs to his quarters.

There was a long silence, before the three girls gave a shout of joy and followed Huey off towards the upper decks. Dewey blinked, before shrugging and beginning to make conversation with the Commodore, now waving the overzealous crewmen off of himself.

"Well now, Commodore. What was that all about?"

"You three taking your sibling rivalry so seriously. Sheesh."

"No, no. I mean the Thembrians. What was that?"

"That, Mr. Duck," began the Commodore, looking at the blue clad Duck with eyes full of a dull hopelessness, "Was an act of world war, and you appear to be right in the middle of it."

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 19

2009-07-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

I have this horrible feeling that the picture for this chapter and the picture for the last chapter should be switched around, considering this one features Jose and the last one featured Jose, Panchito, and PK all together. But oh well. You can play a game of pretend, and suddenly JoseCariocaHirschfeld.png can go here while 3Caballeros.png went in the last chapter.

Also, is it weird that I basically copied down PK and Jose's usual costumes (Minus PK's hat, of course, that makes guessing his identity way too easy and makes the characters look like idiots, and not in a funny way), but I decided to take liberties with Panchito's? His usual costume looks a bit too fancy for honest ranchwork, so I gave him some leathers instead.

Anyway, this chapter and the next chapter were going to be a single chapter, until I actually got to the end of this one and I felt it appropriate to end it there. Enjoy!

---

Episode 19:

In the fields, among grazing cows and surly ranch hands on horseback, the Sea Duck stood inert, tamping down the grass where its landing gear met the turf. Spread out beside the great yellow bird was a rough brown blanket, with sets of old but well-loved tools laid out. The front engine block of the Sea Duck in the nose was open, and Huey, having stripped off his leather jacket and undershirt and tied them off around his waist, was covered in sweat from the hot day and oil from the plane he was taking care of. Nearby, down to his shirt-front and holding his jacket in his arms while fanning himself with his hat, stood Louie in civilian garb. The extent of his injuries seemed to be healed, with nothing but a lingering ache in the ribs, and even then only when jumping from building to building.

The shirtless Huey stood up straight. While his upper body had seemed larger to Louie when they had first met after all these years, he understandably had had few chances to pay any real attention to things like that since the days of the Baiano pousada. Louie was a little irked, frankly, that Huey had been able to bulk up so much by flying planes and getting into fistfights, while he, who did exercises every morning after work, and was supremely active during the night besides, had still retained the lithe form natural to Ducks and their ilk.

Huey went on with their conversation, "He's still alive, Louie. That's just stupid."

"Paul McCartney is dead, Huey, you can't argue with the evidence," said Louie, annoyed at his brother's ignorance, "Cover of Abbey Road, the backwards messages in 'Strawberry Fields' and 'Revolution 9.'" He whispered low, with the timber of a conspirator, "'I buried Paul.' 'Turn me on, dead man.' How do you argue that?"

"He's still putting out Records, Louie. Why would this... what's the imposter's name supposed to be again?"

Louie tapped his head, as if imparting some crucial clue, "William Shears Campbell, Huey. Billy Shears."

Huey rolled his eyes, "Right, so if that band broke up last year, why would... Billy, want to continue the charade?"

Louie shrugged, "To use Paul's good name to launch a solo career I guess. He's going to do it too." Louie nodded, satisfied that his point had been made, "Paul was killed in a car crash during Sergeant Pepper, I can't see how anyone can see it differently."

"See, this is why I liked the Stones better," said Huey, "Beatles fans are so pretentious."

Louie growled, his brow creasing in frustration. "Philistine."

"I know what I like, and I don't like having to see stupid little messages in everything I listen to. What's the point? Can't you just enjoy the music?"

"Of course I enjoy...!" Louie stopped, sighing, "I don't even know why I try. It's always like this when we talk about the Beatles."

"When you talk about the Beatles," said Huey, diving into the engine block wielding a wrench, "you always bring it up. They broke up, they're gone, live with it."

"They might make a comeback!" Louie said, "anyway, Lennon is keeping the flame alive, even if he is with that woman. I wish I wasn't stuck in the middle of nowhere. I hear he put out a new album. There probably isn't a record store for a few thousand miles in any direction."

"I always found Lennon too... I dunno... spiteful," said Huey, "Like he would look at his fans and thing, 'They're so stupid.'"

"Not spiteful!" Louie sneered, "Above it all. Anyway, what do you know? You don't even listen to them."

"Of course I listened to them. You wore out three copies of Sergeant Pepper making everyone in the house listen to them. Everyone was sick of it by the time the third one died."

"You have to agree that after that, all bets were off. It was the first truly new thing to happen in music in years!"

"Yes, maybe the first three thousand times. After that it starts to get old."

"Pah!" called Louie, falling silent as Huey turned back towards the engine. Finally, his eyes lit up. A rebuttal so perfect, so cutting, that it comes only once in a lifetime!

"Huey, I..."

"Huey!" Cried the Carioca girls as they ran up. "Huey!"

"...Oh, shit," said Louie, letting the epic burn fade away.

"Oh. Hi girls," said Huey, his smile and grace attaining a bit of masculine posturing, although with the slightest bit of confusion as to which of the girls he should direct his charm towards, "What's up?"

With rehearsed perfection, all three girls, with bright smiles, pointed towards the sky.

"Ha-ha," Louie said, thinking it so cute he might just kill himself, "There's no talking to you about some things, Huey. I'm out of here."

"You'll be back," Huey smirked, "I'm all you got. Farmhands wouldn't know 'Hey Jude' from a hole in the wall, and Dewey hasn't listened to music since 1959."

Louie had already started off, however, "Whatever." And he was gone.

Huey laughed, and turned back towards the girls, who each echoed his jolly smile as they swarmed over him, twining their arms in his.

"So. Uh. What did you girls want, exactly?"

Amalia smiled and looked to Maria. Maria took the smile, amplified it with a giggle, and passed her gaze along to Rosalina. Rosalina gave them both a smirking look, before turning back towards Huey.

"Nothing."

"Ah. Well," said Huey, their strange wordless communication reminding him of how he and his brothers used to be, and marveling that three girls who had grown up apart from one another could learn the trick, "I'm, er, almost done tuning up the Sea Duck. Would any of you like to join me for some supper?"

A hand, he wasn't quite sure whose, rubbed its hand through his bare chest.

"We would like that," said Rosalina.

Huey smiled, wondering which one it was who touched him, wondering if the girls were aware of the fact that since Bahia they had gone to bed with Huey at least twice, each, and wondered how angry they would be at him and each other if they ever found out. He then thought of their Uncle-slash-father. He then thought of his own corpse, with Panchito standing over it, whooping and hollering.

The thought caused him to laugh quickly and break away from the three amorous girls and bend over the engine block to hide his sudden fear, "I'll, er, meet you kids at the tavern. Okay?"

"Okay, Huey," they all said, before each blowing a kiss, causing Huey to panic once again. Which one should I do something cute with?

Thankfully, they were gone before the imaginary kisses flying through the air could land on their marks, and Huey breathed a sigh of relief. As utterly exciting as this situation was, it couldn't be good for his blood pressure.

He finished up the tune up on the engine, just a few tightened, ancient components, and he was free to join the girls at the Tavern, where there was sure to be some lovely stew or other waiting for them.

He turned as a cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun. He looked up on a whim, and found that clouds have gotten a lot darker and closer to the earth since he was a kid.

***

A young woman with a bright red pattern of feathers placed two mugs of cool, frothing beer on the table, before placing between them a small glass of water.

"Thanks," said Dewey, sitting at a table with José and Panchito, looking perfectly miserable, "Now tell me, you two, where did PK run off to?"

"Why do you think we would know?" said José, after a puff of his thick cigar, "He is as an enigma to us as much as he is to you, Dewey."

"As you went into the fire to chase the Weetch, he seemed to just vanish away."

Dewey closed his eyes and fingered his water glass. His other hand seemed to hover over the center of his chest. "Huey and Louie said as much. I was hoping you two..." He shook his head, "Nevermind. I just wish I could get a bead on that guy. First he beats up Louie, then he helps us find Fenton Crackshell, and then helps us against Magica DeSpell. Even if he is on our side, all the same, Panchito, I'd like your men to be on the lookout for him. He's probably still around."

"Si, amigo."

The three drank in silence, Panchito with relish, José with a mind full of wistful remembrance of cachaça, and Dewey with annoyance at the apparent ignorance of his allies, when he was so sure he remembered them and PK acting almost like old friends.

"By the way, Dewey," asked Panchito, innocently, "Where is Webby? She and you are nearly never seen apart for so long."

"She..." He looked down into his water, "She, uh. She's taking care of Doofus."

"The big guy?" said José, his face expressing the distaste of someone watching a soap opera where his favorite characters do not end up together, "That is... nice of her."

"They... We used to be old friends before we grew apart. Apparently, Webby was friends with him a little longer than we were."

"Of course," Said José, "Panchito, I regret to ask, but could you leave us alone for just a moment?"

Panchito looked towards the sullen Duck and the concerned parrot and understood, "Say no more, amigo." He then stood, taking his drink and walking over to a burly crow who led the guard patrols.

"What's this about, José?"

"I would like to speak of matters of love, Dewey."

Dewey started, blinking as his head rose quickly. He turned towards José's smirking, knowing face, before he darted his eyes away, afraid looking at the green parrot might reveal something untoward. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Some men drink, some men write poetry, some men sulk. Alcohol and paper cost money, so I made a nice guess." José placed a hand on Dewey's shoulder, "You are in love my frien'."

"I... It's not... she's my personal assistant, I just miss her... uh... organization."

"I did not mention Webby. I only mentioned love."

"Oh! Oh..." he crossed his arms, "Well that's ridiculous."

"This new Doofus fellow is getting you down."

"He... Well... They seem to act... Together they seem... I don't know. I don't want to talk about it."

"Of course."

He and Dewey sat for another moment, drinking.

Dewey spoke up, filling the trap of silence José had left, "I know they were friends and all, but... they act like they have... a past together or something."

"Perhaps they do."

"Yes, but... Webby is..." He sighed, "How do I...?"

"Courage, Dewey. You can fight back. You and she hev' been together too long now and through too much..."

"I..." He tried to look positive, "I guess so."

"The only thing holding you back from her is yourself, not that Doofus fellow."

"I... You're... José, I..."

But suddenly, the door to the tavern swung open, letting the bright sunshine into the bar. The shadow that stood in the frame was of a duck. Dewey stood.

Huey Duck spoke, "Don't get up on my account." He began to walk forward, his hands up in the air. He was being followed by another figure, "We've got company."

The glint of the sword pointed towards the duck's back caused every gun in the tavern to be drawn.

"Ah-ah-ah!" said this new man's voice, "One wrong step and I am running him through, yes?"

Panchito raised his hand and gave a signal, and every man, woman, and child in the tavern lowered his or her pistol.

"Thank you very much for your co-operation," said the voice, stepping into the light of the tavern.

Dewey yelled, "Commodore...!"

"So glad you remember me, Mr. Dewey Duck, fugitive. We have been tracking you for quite some time."

"No!" Dewey cried, "No. Not now."

Perry Kid rolled his eyes, "Aw don't get all upset. I'm not here to arrest you." He planted a fancy boot in Huey's back and pushed, sending him to the ground. He then sheathed his sword, "I am here with my crew on behalf of S.H.U.S.H. The investigation on Mr. Farid Kagan is underway."

Huey and Dewey perked up suddenly. Huey crawled away slightly before standing to his feet and turning. "Why didn't you say so? You didn't have to...!"

"Because I still do not like you, and it was well within my legal options. Yes no?" He smiled deviously.

"What are you doing here then?" said a voice from behind Perry Kid. Kid looked behind to see The Green Phantom standing behind him, face painted mask obscuring his face, hands hovering over his utility belt.

"It seems I am surrounded," the coyote said with a smile, raising his arms, "It is all right, yes? S.H.U.S.H merely wants you all taken into custody..." a twitch of guns and gadgets, "No! No! It's not like that. You have been... partially absolved."

"You mean...?" said Dewey.

"They think we're innocent?" finished Huey.

"Maybe! In any case, I am required to take you in peacefully. I do not get to start shooting unless you refuse." He looked to Dewey. "Please refuse."

All eyes turned to Dewey. He crossed his arms slowly, before nodding. "If it will help S.H.U.S.H's investigation, we will be happy to cooperate." He looked up, "But only us three. The others have nothing to do with it."

"No!" said a voice at the top of the stairs. Webby ran down, followed by Doofus, "If you're taking Dewey, I'm coming too."

"Webby?" said Dewey, "Webby. Don't..."

"No. I'm coming, and that's final."

"Me too!" said Doofus, his shoulder appearing to be nearly fully healed.

"And Us!"

Seemingly from nowhere, the three Carioca girls had appeared from somewhere, and had latched onto Huey.

"G-girls?"

José smiled, but with a note of pain beyond the jolly façade, "Ahh. Youth."

"Well. Such a big family," scoffed the Commodore, "Very well. Within the hour Dewey Duck." He then came face to face with the Green Phantom, "To one side, yes no?"

Louie moved out of his way, letting him out the door.

All members of the group gathered in the middle of the room wordlessly. Hope sprang among them. This was their chance to finally stop running. Their chance to be safe and secure for once. Louie thought of Saint Canard, and of climbing and swinging among tall buildings. Huey thought of the sky, and the Cape, and the world. Dewey thought of his business, and what he would do once it was once again his.

Nodding their heads in agreement, they each dispersed their separate ways to pack up and prepare for the long trip to the SIL home base.

***

Chattering among themselves, the three girls packed three small bags filled with as many supplies as they could fit. Their conversation meandered on about nothing, pointedly ignoring the big move they were about to take. The closet of their small room in the tavern, filled with nothing much but a few extra dresses, was stripped bare and each color dress was shuffled off to the bag to the appropriate girl.

There came a knock at the door, and the girls smiled. They ran towards their places. Amalia draped herself over the small chair like a duvet, pulling a strap off of her shoulder and letting his hang. Maria sat on the floor, to read a book, her legs curved out under her. Rosalina took the bed, lying on her stomach in such a way that the cavernous canyon formed by her breasts was accentuated by being squished between her body and the mattress. The three girls nodded towards each other, before they each said, "Come in!"

The door opened, and the girls looked their sexiest, and were momentarily disappointed when it turned out to be their Uncle Carioca and not Huey Duck. The three of them switched their language to Portuguese.

"Hello Tio Carioca," they said, easing into more comfortable, less sexy positions.

"Hello girls," said José as he walked in supported by his umbrella, cigar between his fingers, "I'd like to speak with you."

Amalia stood up from the chair, allowing José to sit. The girls surrounded their uncle, looking up at him with familial adoration.

"What about, Tio Carioca?" asked Rosalina.

José began to look a bit uncomfortable. "You see, girls. It... You all are going away from me, and I don't know if I shall ever see you again." The girls began to speak all at once, and José raised a kindly hand to silence them, "I don't wish to lie to you girls any longer. I think you are old enough to know of the truth."

"What is this about, Tio Carioca?" asked Rosalina, laying her hands on José's arm.

To stall for time, José let out a sigh of smoke from his cigar, "It is... about your parents. Your mothers, all of them, are beautiful, wonderful women, and your fathers are... are good, honorable men that I do not deserve to call my cousins." His hand was trembling suddenly, and he grabbed the arms of the chair tightly to try to stifle the motion. "I... I knew them all well and... and I'm sorry to say that I have done your father's a great disservice. I... I am somewhat of a lecherous man, I think. I always have been. That is why I never married, you see. Too many women, even in my advanced age, I cannot stop myself." He looked at the girls and shook a finger, "You must never fall in love with a man like me, my little ones. He will break your heart."

"Yes, Tio Carioca," said the girls dutifully.

"Is that what you wanted to say?" asked Rosalina, "Is this about Huey?"

"No! No no. Huey is a good man to be sure. I talk about... I talk about myself. You see..." beads of sweat appeared at his brow, "You see, girls, I... I am... Your Mothers were very dear to me, and I, well, I..."

He stopped as he felt three dainty hands lay themselves over his own wrinkled hand gently. He looked into the faces of each of his daughters, so alike to him, and yet with their basic feminity making them so different. Each of them smiled kindly.

They each spoke in turn, "Our mothers" "Told us" "Tio Carioca."

"Then... you already know?" his eyebrows raised up and crinkled in remorse, "That I am...?"

They nodded.

José stood suddenly, taking a pained drag on his ever-present cigar, "Then... Then you must think I'm..." He leaned on the wall to the room, laying a hand on his him. "I... I feel terrible about what I did to them. Your mothers and fathers. I can't help but... You must hate me for what I have done to you."

Running up to José, Amalia was the first to speak in the beautiful excesses of language, "No! Tio Carioca, we all love you. We will always love you. Your visits to our homes were some of the best memories of our lives. When our mothers told us about you, they did not tell us in regret or rage. They said so in the wistful remembrance of a love long past. They love our fathers, but they adored you, who gave them their greatest nights of romance and passion. And we owe you a debt of gratitude. We three grew up apart as cousins and dear friends and pen pals, but when we were told we were suddenly all daughters of José Carioca, and while we will always love our fathers as fathers, we will always love you for tying us together as sisters."

The three parrot girls gave their uncle a great hug, all together. As they embraced, José could feel his eyes mist over from a swell in his chest, an overflow of gorgeous emotion that he had never felt before. A feeling of fatherly love, rather than mere affection as he had felt before, had come over him, and he couldn't help but wipe away his rapidly forming tears.

"Rosalina," he said, touching her face, "Maria," and hers, "Amalia," and hers, "I... thank you. I cannot believe I have never been as happy as I am at this moment." He encircled the three girls in a strong embrace, which they reciprocated, wrapping their arms around him and each other. "I... I only wish I had more time..."

A knock at the door. Webby's voice called, "Almost time to go, girls. Get ready."

"Must you?" asked José, "Must you leave now?"

Rosalina nodded. "If we don't follow Huey now, Tio..."

Maria continued, "...We'll regret it..."

"..For the rest of our lives," finished Amalia.

José, a great believer in life, and taking advantage to it to the fullest, understood his three daughters perfectly. It was too late for him to be their father, and too late for the three blossoms in spring to stay cooped up with him until he was ready to let them go. They had to chase after their love, by any means necessary, just as he had in his turbulent, amorous, fantastic youth.

"Then... I give my blessing. I may not be able to speak for your own parents, but I can speak for myself," he loosened his grip and looked at the girls, noting that their cheeks and beaks were stained with tears as well, "Go. Go to him. Chase after him. Have the time of your lives. And I only have one request."

"What is it..." "...Tio..." "...Carioca?"

"When you are ready, you come back to me, and tell me all of your adventures." He nodded, wiping his eyes, satisfied at what had occurred here today, "Now go. Don't let me see you again until you have lived."

With a kiss, each girl left the green parrot alone in the room, taking her bag and departing without as much as a second look. Amalia was the last to leave, and she gave a strained, "Goodbye" as she exited into the hall and towards life.

José watched the empty doorframe for a long time after that, hoping perhaps, that somehow they would have a change of heart. He waited, even as he heard the distant sounds of the Sea Duck's engines roaring to life and taking off to meet the Iron vulture in mid-air. Eventually, however, he sat down, his eyes dry and strong. He took his cigar, which had burnt down to nothing but a stubby roach, and put it out on an ashtray on a table by the chair.

He knew that his part in this adventure was over, somehow, and that the part he had played for the Duck boys and PK, and all the rest was over. He could go back to Bahia, try to rebuild the bed and breakfast there, or perhaps go back to the hotel in Rio if it is still there. He had some money squirreled away, perhaps he should finally rest on his laurels. Retire, perhaps, live somewhere and await the return of his girls with the stories of their youth. He was too old to marry, and soon would be too old for the alternative, so perhaps he should just stop.

But then he thought of his time with the Sea Duck; His time in Bahia, dealing with the personalities of the three boys, each so full of life and regrets and futures in their own way. He thought back on Panchito, doing what he loved to do, and still ready and able to at an even higher age than himself. He thought of his friend Donald...

No. Never retire, He thought, When the girls come back to me, they will bring me stories of their adventures, and I will pay them right back with stories of mine!

He smiled to himself, reaching into the pocket of his coat for another cigar. He thought dimly that he might need to give that up soon, with thoughts of his health looming over his head. However, he lit it up anyway. If he was to live life as his girls were, he would live all of it. Good and bad. He stood quietly and walked out the door, down towards the front room of the tavern. Soon he would go back to Rio and use what he has learned from Dewey to remake his hotel as a successful venture. Perhaps he will build a stage and give floorshows every now and again. In the meantime, however, a dear friend was downstairs, waiting to be entertained in the here and now. He could not disappoint, not as long as he was alive.

***

"Alright Junior, open up. We're coming in," said Huey into the CB.

"What is the magic word?" Asked that Spanish inflected voice.

" Alright Junior, open up. We're coming in, Motherfucker," answered Huey dryly.

There was a momentary growl that was cut off mid-tone as Kid began to speak, "You will watch your step around me, Mr. Duck, yes no? Remember how soundly you were thrashed the last time we came face to face, remember. Do not tempt me."

"You first."

After a pause, the CB went dead, and the Iron Vulture began to open up. Huey smiled and pointed the nose into the large airship. This was the home stretch, it had to be.

And even if it's not, what a ride!

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 18

2009-07-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

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.

"Where...?"

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.

"N-no!"

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

"NooOOOOOOOOO!"

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!"

"D...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!"

"But..."

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."

"What?"

"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."

"Oh."

"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.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 17

2009-07-09T13:23:00.000-07:00

Super short one today, but Hooray! Something has happened in the A-plot. Enjoy Dewey up above there. I even remembered the scars on his hand from that little broken glass stunt, although it does appear that Scrooge's musket is growing out of his shoulder. Oh well. I ain't Rembrant or anything.

Anyway, Enjoy!

---

Episode 17:

Within a shaft of light, surrounded by darkness, a simple oak desk sat. Behind the chair sat a simple, solid-looking wooden chair stained to match the exact shade of the plain, unpretentious desk. Atop the desk was a poker hand of files arranged in a rainbow pattern, color-coded with small stickers in the corner for quicker indexing; Blue, Red, Green, Pink, White, Purple.

With loud sound, like the turning of a circuit breaker switch, another shaft of light thrust through the darkness of the hall, revealing a checkerboard pattern of tile which held, like a King standing high on white, Dewey Duck, head held proudly erect. Soon more loud light switches sounded and more shafts opened; Louie standing on a Black space in full costume, using what appeared to be some kind of face paint to dye the feathers of his face in a domino mask pattern to replace his destroyed mask, utility belt confiscated; Huey standing on a white space, the deadly weapons known as his hands bound up with thick manacles; Webby standing slightly behind Dewey's space, hugging the binder to herself, looking down towards the floor and trembling lightly; Fenton Crackshell, standing next to Webby, still looking gaunt and unfed, but with trimmed whiskers and cleaned appearance; And, of course, Darkwing Duck, unbound and allowed to retain her weapons as an honor-bound ally of S.H.U.S.H, their representation

As the five figures stood, awaiting their judge, they said nothing, making not a sound as they lingered. Soon, footsteps echoing off of the unseen breadth of the hall began to make themselves known, hard-soled shoes on tile getting closer to the chair behind the desk. Soon, a body appeared, in a simple grey business suit. A brown furred hand protruded from beyond bleached white shirt cuffs to grab and pull the chair out from under the Oak. Soon, the figure was sitting, a thick brown bear, in the process of trading the muscles of his youth for a proud plumpness in the beginning of his twilight years.

"Darkwing Duck," he said, his voice heavily accented in, to most everyone's surprise, a Russian dialect, "Dewey Duck and allies. I am Vladimir Goudenov Grizzlikof, director of S.H.U.S.H. I am here because an ally of mine... or at least one that takes the name of an ally of mine... has asked me to reconsider the case against you."

"Thank you Director Grizzlikof," said Darkwing, more businesslike than usual, "I appreciate it."

"It helps that we are getting rather suspicious of McDuck Enterprises under Farid Kagan, or at least some of the circumstances surrounding his rise to power." He turned his head towards Dewey. "Dewey Duck," he said, opening up the blue folder, "The charges made against you by this organization are dire. If you can refute them, then you may begin. What have you to show me?"

Dewey nodded slowly. He held out his hand, allowing Webby to place the binder in it. He slowly walked, binder in hand, towards the desk. As he did, the shaft of light followed him. He placed the book on the Oak desk and began to speak, "We have attained the records of Farid Kagan's business practices for two years, including the time during the siege and a small part of his time as CEO."

"We have combed the records ourselves."

"Yes, but we went over them with a fine-tooth comb. You should meet him. Fenton?"

Fenton Crackshell stepped forward, "Hiya."

Grizzlikof picked up the white-accented folder slowly, and began to leaf through it, "Fenton Crackshell, yes? Former accountant with Scrooge McDuck. Have you found something we have missed?"

"You bet!" He walked forward, opening the binder on Grizzlikof's desk, and pulling from the back a sheet of notes he had taken on a pad of yellow paper, "Here's my take on things, Grizz. Those books were put together in a way that would have had your best men scratching their heads for years."

"And you have... deciphered them?"

"Well sure. Mr. McDuck would only hire the best!"

As Crackshell said this, everyone who knew McDuck had to restrain themselves of saying that the actual fact of the matter was that Fenton was hired because he worked for peanuts.

Grizzlikof took the page of notes, an interlocking page of numerical wizardry, totally indecipherable to a pedestrian, but for the accusation made at the bottom of a hole worth six hundred thousand dollars and more.

"Six hundred... That is a large hole."

Dewey scowled, "You're telling me."

"But what does this prove? Many businesses, though I am loath to admit it, launder and cheat on these matters. This hardly proves your innocence."

"Excuse me, Director," said Louie, "But I think this is where I come in."

Grizzlikof looked towards the hero, before taking up the green folder, "A mister Green Phantom. We are aware of your secret identity, although if you so wish we shall keep it hidden during these proceedings."

Louie rolled his eyes, "Might as well just say it. It's not like I'm fooling anybody."

"Very well, Mr. Duck. What have you found?"

"This!" he then stormed the desk and slapped down a sheet of ripped paper. On one side there was a list of names; names of known criminals and supervillains; and on the other a list of figures, with lines drawn to indicate where the money was flowing to and from. The chart was topped by a large question mark where all of the arrows came from and where they also ended up.

"Explain."

"For the two years before the siege Saint Canard's underworld has been funded by money coming from a mysterious source. This money funded everything. Larceney, Murder, Cape and mask activity, drugs. Just about everything bad happening in Saind Canard can be traced back somehow to this pile of free-floating cash. Darkwing and I were able to track the source of the money to McDuck Enterprises, and eventually, the subsidiary Khan Industries."

"And the proof?"

"In the pudding," he pointed towards the bottom, where the figure matched the figure Fenton had written on his yellow pad, "Six hundred thou, running from the top, all the way to the bottom, and back, pouring money right back into the private coffers of Farid Kagan."

"And what does this have to do with the Siege on Duckburg. That is the main meat of the accusation posited against your brother, Mr. Duck."

"Well, just take a look," He pointed once again towards the arrow of money, following down its path through the underworld, "It goes down, gaining interest as it passes through the various industries. Gainding A couple thousand back investing in pimps, Paying thugs and Mob bosses to collect protection money from various small neighborhood, another hundred thousand buying cocaine from Colombia and sending it out all over the world..."

"...hidden in melons..." added Huey.

"Right! It's a machine for making money, like clockwork. If it wasn't rotten to the core Uncle Scrooge would be proud."

"And your point?"

"Farid Kagan never saw that much profit from this venture, Mr. Grizzlikof. He took home a tidy sum to be sure, but look, the last of it was skimmed off and placed here," Louie pointed to one more arrow, leading down to the last name at the bottom of the page, 'Beagle Boys Inc.' "This money directly paid the Beagle Boys for the raid on Duckburg!"

"Ah." Said Grizzlikof, "I thank you for this information, Mr. Duck, but I once again fail to see your point." He placed the two sheets back on the desk. "If I remember correctly, Dewey Duck was CEO of the company while this was going on."

"Well... er..."

Dewey rolled his eyes.

"Wait." Said a voice from behind Dewey, "I can explain."

Dewey looked behind him, "Webby?"

"Webigail Vanderquack. Daughter of a McDuck-employed governess, and current personal assistant to Dewey Duck. What is it?"

"I..." she gulped. "I'm an eye witness to Dewey Duck's business dealings."

"A suspect witness to be sure, considering the... personal nature of your relationship with the Duck family. I seem to have a record here..." He reached for the pink file, and pulled out a sheet. "That you were like a surrogate niece to the late Mr. McDuck."

"It's true," she said, "But still, I'd like to give what I've seen."

"Speak then. We shall determine its usefulness later."

She nodded her head and stepped forward, twining her hands together in front of herself. "Dewey was... Dewey was obsessed with making money."

"And that makes him innocent... how?"

"Because... because he was also obsessed with making money the way his Uncle made his money. He used to have a saying, about how he made his money by being... 'Tougher than the toughies, and Sharper than the Sharpies, and making it square.'" She raised her head up, looking Director Grizzlikof directly in the eyes, "I'm convinced Dewey would never use his uncle's money for anything dishonest like this, not when he had the claim on the goldmine to make money on, fair and square."

"A goldmine in this day and age does not make as much money as it would have in Scrooge McDuck's day."

"Even so, Dewey wanted to make his own fortune. He minimized using his Uncle's money so he could truly claim the gold as his own." She raised a single finger in the air as she made this next point, "More importantly, while he was working on the gold mine project, he became less involved in the company's affairs. He handed more and more responsibilities off to Mr. Kagan in Bombay."

"At the time I thought he was the only trustworthy man in the company. He and I seemed like we understood each other." Dewey crossed his arms. "Perhaps a little too well on his part."

"Can you corroborate this story somehow?" asked Grizzlikof.

"Well... er..."

Fenton spoke up, "Well now, I think I can!" He reopened the binder to a page of figures from a year and a half before the siege. "See here? Dewey Duck's signature is all over these records." He then turned a page, letting a few months pass. "And here you see money beginning to be funneled into the Goldmine project."

"Yes? And?"

"And here," he turned a couple more pages, "See? Farid Kagan begins to sign more and more of these records as he is given more truck in the company." He finally turned the page to the month before the siege. "Here we are! At this point, Kagan is running a good chunk of the business beyond his Bombay offices. More than enough to let something slip past Dewey."

The six who stood in the shafts of light looked up at Vladimir Grizzlikof. For his part, Grizzlikof seemed to look a bit more attentively at the binders and pages that had been set before him.

"It is very suspicious for Mr. Kagan. This is true. I thank you for this."

Smiles split the beaks of all those gathered. "Does this mean...?" Huey began.

"I'm afraid," answered Grizzlikof, before Huey could finish, "That no, it is not quite enough. It is certainly enough to cast suspicion on Farid Kagan, and is exactly the push we needed to open up an investigation. However," he picked up the blue folder and began to wave it, "It is not enough to entirely life suspicion from you, Mr. Dewey Duck."

"I... I understand."

"If you would please, I would like to keep these documents, and take Mr. Crackshell into protective custody, if you do not mind."

"As long as you feed me."

"As for you, Duck brothers, you are still internationally wanted criminals."

Huey and Louie began to tense up, sensing approaching bodies in the dark. However, the man approaching Huey unlocked his bonds, and the man approaching Louie threw the yellow utility belt in front of them. Their invisible presence was soon gone.

"However, in light of your help this day, you have a single hour to vacate these premises before my agents will take you in." He stared at the purple-clad hero, "Including you, Darkwing Duck. As an honorary field agent, you are on our side as long as you are on S.H.U.S.H property."

"Wha-? But..."

"Just go!" Said Dewey, before the entire group, minus Darkwing and Fenton, turned towards the exit and ran, followed the whole way by the shafts of light.

Louie turned and yelled back to Darkwing, smiling, "No hard feelings DW. We'll see you later."

"You know it, Gadgets. You better not get hurt again or I swear for every broken bone I'll give you two more!"

The group then disappeared into the hallway, a small victory achieved, but made hollow by the fact that they must keep running.

***

"Huey!" yelled the three girls, tending to Doofus's rapidly healing wound.

"What happened?" said Doofus, "Where's Mr. Crackshell."

"Hi Gals. Hi Doofus. No time," said Huey, before he ran into the cockpit, "Gotta hurry."

Webby waved off the girls and took her place by Doofus's side, to tend to the bullet hole. "I think we did well today," she said, "They're going to investigate Farid Kagan."

"But no luck on clearing our names," said Louie, wiping the improvised facemask off with a damp washcloth, leaving a black residue on the white fabric, "We're still on the run."

As if in answer, the engines buzzed to life, and the plane began its rise into the air.

"Where to now, Dewey?" asked Louie, "As if I don't know already."

"Chihuahua. We wait, and hopefully nothing else... happens. I've had about as many plot twists as I can handle here."

"I really doubt it," said Louie, "Think Chihuahua is safe?"

"No, but it's our best option at the moment. Panchito and José are our best bets as far as allies are concerned."

"Panchito and José aren't who I'm worried about," said Louie, his hand travelling up to touch his still aching ribs.

"You think that PK guy will still be around, huh?"

"If I had any eye-teeth after he knocked them all out I'd bet them on it." Louie sat slowly in a chair, "Who knows? Maybe now that me and his fists are more well-aquainted, we can skip the introductions."

Dewey walked over to sit by Louie. "I still have a question about that, if you please. If he beat you up so bad, why did you tell us to trust him?"

"It worked, didn't it? Fenton was right where he said he would be."

"That's not what I asked. Why did we trust him in the first place."

"I..." Louie looked out the window, "I can't say. Sorry."

"We're keeping things from each other. I thought we had enough of that after that roof in Mouseton... and that bottle of scotch..."

"Trying to guilt it out of me, eh?" Louie said with a smirk, "You weren't kidding when you said you don't spend money unless you plan on getting something back for it."

"It was a forty dollar bottle!"

"You've got one third of umpteen squntillion dollars. They named a mathematical concept after us and our predicament, did you know that?"

"What?"

"Yes, Fenton told me about it. A Dewey, a Huey, and a Louie are the names for each of the three thirds of an impossibly high number, collectively known as the 'Nephew Numerals.'"

"What's your point?"

"My point is that I have a little something neither you nor Uncle Scrooge ever had; Perspective. I can understand the fact that in the face of all of that money, forty bucks for a bottle of great scotch is a drop in the bucket."

"And are you trying to make me angry to duck the question of why we trusted this PK guy?"

"Pretty much."

He looked towards Louie's smug face with a fair bit on contempt, before he gave a great heaving sigh. "Fine. Don't tell me. I don't know if I can trust him, but I can certainly trust you to know what you're doing."

Louie simply smiled and leaned back, intending to sleep away the time between Saint Canard and the middle of nowhere, Mexico. It was less painful that way.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 16

2009-07-08T17:57:00.000-07:00

Here you go. Lots of superhero action in this one, and getting a little use out of minor Darkwing Duck characters that only got one or two episodes. I thought the badass little Green Phantom doodle up there might be appropriate to be the header on this Chapter, though he's a little less wrapped up than I imagined him. Oh well.

Enjoy!

---

Episode 16:

The chair he had finally crashed in the night before just as the dawn began to peek over the horizon seemed much more comfortable than it actually was as Doofus, the bits of his armor lying around him, began to wake. The rolling chair in the small room in front of a desk full of model planes and boats creaked as his bulk turned, his back beginning to protest the treatment.

Suddenly, the alarm built into the headpiece of his armor, laying out on the unused bed, fired off its horrible noise. Doofus, used to his rigid schedule, nearly immediately stood, trying to trick himself into believing he was wide awake. He leaned over his desk and looked out of the window of the tiny apartment.

The Duckburg skyline, or at least the couple of inches of it that he could see over the brick wall built facing his window, answered him back, still sleeping in the dusty dawn air. As many times as he went over to clean up Saint Canard and the outlying cities, Gizmoduck would always have a soft spot for Duckburg before the nine-to-five crowd appeared to clog its streets.

A hollow ringing noise interrupted his viewing, and he dug through the large pile of armor for the forearm piece, which was vibrating and making the pervasive noise. With a clumsy grace unused to the natural strength of his body, he manipulated the fingers of the armored hand into a 'phone' position and pulled an antennae from the thumb, before placing it to his ear and putting on his "hero" voice.

"Yes?"

"There is an altercation downtown, please quell it."

"Mr. Crackshell?" he said, his voice slipping, "Wait, what...?"

But it was too late, his mentor, Fenton Crackshell, had hung up. Doofus sighed. He was bound to following him, just for the debt of saving his life all those years ago, but lately... Something must have happened within the past few years.

No matter however, Doofus' petty quibbles were not needed anymore. Gizmoduck had to be in charge now. He stood in the center of the room, making sure none of his furniture was in the way of the inert armor.

"Blathering Blatherskite!"

***

In the aftermath of the siege on Duckburg, the town had bounced back admirably, even as the surrounding towns and cities locked down their borders and tightened their laws to prevent the same thing from happening to them, Duckburg flourished, used to and nostalgic for such disaster as part and parcel for living in the shadow of a giant cube of money in the center of town for near its entire history.

Nearby, Saint Canard had not been so lucky. Alarmists and opportunists had pounced upon the disaster of its sister city, and used it as a springboard for political and ideological gain. One of the largest proponents of the stricter laws was the hero residing in Duckburg, Gizmoduck, who became attached to a bit of folk knowledge that a hero associating with the hated Dewey Duck, A relatively new cape named "The Green Phantom" had been the orchestrating force behind the siege on Dewey's orders. Gizmo had never even hinted at this little fun fact, but nevertheless, is was often attributed to him.

As Saint Canard locked down further and further, and the heroes within were treated with more and more contempt and suspicion, the people and politicians had turned to Farid Kagan's private bodyguard (although how much sense did it make for a hero living in Calisota to be the bodyguard for a man living in Bombay, India?) as the last trustworthy man in the cape and mask crowd. He was asked to head up several groups, charities, and rallies meant to pass a bit of legislation limiting the freedoms of the vigilante set. "Too long," they would say, "Have we let just anyone take up a mantle for our protection when we should have been more discerning. This disaster in Duckburg is a object lesson in this fact." In a whirlwind political, the bill was passed in the state congress, and just like that unlicensed vigilantism was prohibited within the state of Calisota.

Of course, not all heroes went quietly into the night, never to be seen again. Some heroes were like the Green Phantom, or Darkwing, or Gizmoduck, mere mortals putting up a mask or a suit and vowing to protect the world any way they could, out of some feeling of need or guilt or duty. Some heroes, however had no choice.

When Saint Canard was essentially locked down to super-powered activity, several of the former good guys fled the town altogether, heading for other cities where their powers and freedoms would be respected. Duckburg was a frequent stop on this mass pilgrimage of the costumed vigilante, and in particular, the League of Mutants.

Sirens pierced the air as the spinning lights cast everything in tones of red and blue. Police cars and vans were set in a wagon train, surrounding four figures standing back-to-back-to-back. At the head of the group and ultimately in control of them was an aging rooster in a red and blue costume. He had a long, thin body that appeared to wobble with every slight move he made. Surrounding him were three others, mere babes when compared to their venerable leader. They were mutants, exposed to certain stimuli in the womb and born with incredible powers.

"Masked Vigilantes," said a voice in a megaphone coming from Captain O'hara, at the head of his SWAT team, ready to jump in at a moment's notice, "You are under arrest for practicing vigilante justice within the state of Calisota. Please give yourselves up without a fight. Throw down your weapons and masks and come with us. If you do not fight, perhaps you may register yourselves with the city of Duckburg and..."

"Register! Pah!" Yelled one of the young mutants. He was a cat, barely a teenager, but with a fire in his eyes and a revolutionary spirit in his voice. His costume consisted of a blue jumpsuit and a pair of paw-print boxer shorts on his head, with two eye-holes cut out so he could see. "Reveal our real names to the public? Unmask and live in fear for our families and friends? Never!"

A girl-duck, just a little older than her underpantsed ally, stood by, trying to calm him down. She did not look kindly upon Captain O'hara's team however. She wore a more subdued outfit, in earth tones, and with a billowing brown cape. Over her eyes she wore a domino mask turned up at either end in sharp points that extended out and up like a pair of cats eye glasses.

To Her side, trying his best to hide behind the girl-duck's cape, stood a terrier about the same age, but slightly shorter. His clothes were plain, a simple jacket, pants, and a bowler hat, but with a running watch built into the hat.

The Rooster at the lead held up his arm, "Be still, Wedge."

"Rubber chicken," said the duck, "We're trapped. This many people... and they're police, we can't hurt police, can we?"

"If they stand in our way, I can give it a shot," said the one called 'Wedge.'

The terrier and duck looked towards their leader for advice, as Wedge stood ready to attack at a moment's notice like a loaded gun.

The rooster crossed his pliable arms for a moment, before he began to speak, "Wedge may be right..."

The dog spoke up, "But RC...!"

"You have thirty seconds to comply!" called O'hara.

Each of the young mutants in turn looked towards their mentor and leader, the Rubber Chicken, victim of his father's accidental dip in a molten rubber bath just before his conception. After a moment, as O'hara counted down the seconds on his watch, the rooster let his hardened gaze rise up.

"Let them come."

"Attack!" Yelled Captain O'hara, signaling the vans to open up, spilling forth the armored civilian army at his command. Each man was dressed in Kevlar and visored helmet, wielding a police baton and Plexiglas shield.

"Dusty! Now!" Yelled the Rubber Chicken.

Jumping at the call to action, the duck hopped forward, breathing in deep. Her chest expanded greatly to accommodate all of the excess air she took in, until her rib cage was grown impossibly large. As the approaching wall of men approached the duck, holding her breath, on all sides, she waved her arms to her companions, giving the signal. The three of them threw themselves to the ground quickly, and the duck let her breath go.

It wasn't air anymore, but could be described more like the dust or sand that is kicked up as a car drives by on a dry day, or what is sent towards your eyes as the bully kicks his sand castle in your direction. The dusty air was expelled from her lungs, seemingly secreted from her own body, and the wind, now with a mind of its own, began to home in on individual men in the lineup.

Between gaps in visors and helmets the individual grains of dust flew, unerringly finding sensitive eyes to irritate. The uncanny power to breathe out eye-homing sand was the amazing forte of the Dusty Duck, the windy wonder, whose fate was decided when her mother, a chemist at a cat litter factory, caught the experimental grits in her eyes while pregnant with her daughter. Under her powers, most of the encroaching men paused, grunting, trying to blink away the irritation of sand in their eyes, causing the ever encroaching circle of humanity to stall for just a moment.

A moment was all that was needed. The Wedge was off like a shot. The cat's tail gave a whip crack as he jumped towards the wall of armored bodies, still rubbing and blinking back their sandy eyes. He pointed his arms towards them, and as if in a wave, each man gave a yelp as there came a tightness in his drawers.

The Wedge could have been a normal boy had it not been for his father, an inspector at an underwear factory which began to use a new type of stitching process without telling the workers. Finding himself suddenly sewn permanently into a pair of briefs, the inspector soon after conceived a son, who had the amazing power of telekinesis over underwear, which he used to violently fight crime after his parents were murdered before his eyes by a crook in an alley.

The men screamed as their nether regions were assaulted by the ever tightening shorts they wore, the thick Kevlar trousers and body armor useless to protect them from their own clothes. Several of the weaker men fell to the ground, already drained from the assault upon their most sensitive parts. However, many still came, the few commandos among them holding the line as their downed allies writhed in pain.

Suddenly, long arms shot out from the center of the circle. The Rubber Chicken's stretch, the former really really really long arm of the law, extended out to wrap around the group, tangling them up in a net of rubber limbs.

As the Rubber Chicken stood his ground, cleaning up the men Dusty Duck and The Wedge could not deal with, he turned to the last of the group, the terrier, who was looking a little sheepish as he held the clock-themed bowler in his head.

"What time is it?" asked the Rubber Chicken.

"Nine-forty-five AM and five seconds Duckburg Standard Time... Now. We've been running for ten hours. The nice policeman actually gave us forty-three seconds before he attacked. It took you fellas eighteen seconds to fight off the SWAT team. It is a Tuesday..."

"Thank you, Watchdog."

YES! Watchdog, son of a clockmaker who was exposed to a strange radioactive quartz. He now has the unbeatable ability to know the exact time wherever he is, whenever he is. Don't knock it too hard. We can't all have good superpowers.

"We're winning, fellas!" yelled Dusty as she prepared to breath in again, "Keep it up!"

"If we can just make it out of the city limits," said Rubber Chicken.

"NO! We stay and fight the bastards," screamed The Wedge as he raised his arms, pulling a pair of briefs through their wearer's colon, "Don't you understand? If we run now we'll be running forever."

"Even so..."

"There is no more 'Even so,' Chicken! This is it. We go down fighting."

And there was nothing more that need be said. The unending stream of riot police swarmed in, only to be taken out by the teamwork of the four mutants. However, eventually, painfully, inevitably, the heroes were worn down to the nub as the last wave approached, climbing on the backs of their comerades.

"They've taken off their underwear!" yelled The Wedge as he flailed ineffectively towards the approaching guard, "I can't effect them!"

"And they've started wearing goggles. I can't get anything in their eyes."

"And it is two minutes to ten-o'clock!"

"I hear you guys! Stand back!" Yelled the older man as he jumped up into the air on spring legs. He expanded his body suddenly, becoming a wide red sheet falling over the group of policemen, trapping them in himself. With a few well-controlled manipulations of his body, the entire group was crushed, not enough to kill, but hard enough to be knocked out and hurting for a while. The Rubber Chicken soon shrank back to his normal size.

"Did we win?"asked The Wedge, "Did we get them?"

There was a moment of silence as the four mutants were surrounded on all sides by the writhing or, in some cases, unmoving bodies of the Riot police, with Captain O'hara standing by, megaphone in hand trying to blink dust out of his eyes. Dusty Duck gave a yell of triumph.

"We did it!"

"Not yet!" called the Rubber Chicken, pointing his hand up towards the sky, "We've got company!"

The hum of a single propeller gave the four a chill of dred. Gizmoduck!

"Stop! You four are under citizen's arrest for unregistered vigilantism and assaulting an officer... ALL of the officers."

"You'll never take us alive!" railed The Wedge against the metal duck, shining in the morning sunlight. He raised his hands up high, screaming as he took hold of the approaching hero's underwear with his mind. However, after a horrid second, there was a look of pain on his face as his arms began to wobble. "No... It can't be... My one weakness!" He fell back wards, holding his head in his hands, debilitated by the piercing feeling in his mind.

"I knew I picked a good day to wear my boxer-briefs," said Gizmoduck.

The Wedge was a puddle on the floor, "Are they boxers... or are they briefs... I... can't... I..."

A long arm, followed by a dusty wind flew up towards Gizmoduck. The wind outraced the stretching hand, only to beat helplessly against the Metal Duck's tight visor. The hand had more luck, wrapping around the hero's hanging wheel and pulling sharply, sending Gizmoduck down to the ground with a crash.

"Stand back Dusty. This is my fight," Said the Rubber Chicken, trembling a bit, but staying firm, having no room for his former cowardice on the battlefield while his students, the outcast dregs of a society that won't accept them, needed his guidance. If he loses here, and these poor kids have no guidence, he might as well just send the rage-fueled villains-in-training overseas to F.O.W.L right now and get it over with.

"Be... Be careful Rubber Chicken," Said Dusty, helping Watchdog drag the strained Wedge away from the fight.

Gizmoduck rose from the dust cloud that had been kicked up by baing slammed into the ground, and stood, still shining. The two heroes faced each other down, on one side the light of Duckburg; The unbreakable paragon of order and justice; Gizmoduck. On the other side, a scrappy c-lister with kids in tow who was kicked out of Saint Canard by a law that repressed his kind, mutant kind. At ideological loggerheads, these two heroes drew their lines in the sand and prepared themselves.

They screamed as they ran towards each other. The wildly, artlessly flailing limbs of the Rubber Chicken beating and grappling the robot duck to the ground, using his pliability and invulnerability to make up for what he lacked in sheer strength. However, his lack of mastery over his powers proved to be his downfall. Using his gift of speed, not strength, Gizmoduck was able to duck around the flailing arms and legs, going through them, leading them in knots and loops that would take a moment to untangle. After a few moments, he had succeeded in creating a jumble out of the Chicken, and while he tried to recover, fired a net out of his chest coated with an adhesive substance. The gooey netting stuck fast to the mutant, rendering him immobile.

As their master struggled to untangle himself while also stuck to a net, Dusty Duck had the foresight to begin the retreat. Wordlessly, she indicated for Watchdog to run, and he soon disappeared down an alley, ripping off his mask and hat to take refuge in his secret identity. Dusty took the still weakened Wedge by the shoulder, trying to help him limp away as their master kept Gizmo busy. However, having dispatched the Rubber Chicken, Gizmoduck was able to move on, moving towards the two fleeing mutants quickly.

"Come on Wedge. Get up. You've got to move!" she grunted, bearing the weight of her ally with her whole body, "Go!"

But it was no use, his mind had been blown by the presence of Boxer-briefs and would not be back in shape until he had time to recover. She looked back, seeing the unicycled hero approaching rapidly. She screamed incoherent curses at her ally to move, but soon collapsed under his dead weight.

Rolling out from under The Wedge, Dusty Duck turned her head and saw Gizmoduck standing over her, before he placed a pair of heavy handcuffs on the two of them, connecting them to each other.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you do not have an attorney, one will be provided to you by the state of Calisota."

"P-please..."

"Come with me, please."

"Step away from the girl, Gizmo!" yelled a voice coming from behind.

Gizmoduck turned quickly, recognizing the voice. He fired a rocket out of a launcher that popped out of his back, which screamed towards its target, a certain flash of a green costume. The rocket pierced through the fabric, burning a hole clean through. Too late, he realized that what he thought was the Green Phantom was merely a sheet in the hero's chosen color that was billowing through the air.

A heavy impact on his back, and suddenly, Huey Duck was clinging to him, tearing at his exposed beak and neck with his hands. As he raised his arms to try to pry the red-clad duck off of him, he heard a loud gunshot, followed by a pop, and his tire was flat.

"Now, Louie!" yelled the voice of his quarry, before he noticed that he was up on the second floor of a building. He looked around for the green-clad hero, but was too late. Huey jumped from the back of the Duck of Steel, just before a rope lasso closed around his exposed neck. With a deft tug, Gizmoduck was on his back, unable to get the traction required to stand on his flat tire, and with his windpipe only partially open.

He saw Louie hobble out of an ally, fully costumed but for the lack of his destroyed mask. In places, the form-hugging costumed was lumpy from the bandages.

"Did we get him?"

"Don't relax yet," said Huey, his voice a smile, "Gyro Gearloose invented that thing. It could do anything."

"You two!" yelled Louie as he approached the two mutants. He knelt painfully as he pulled a simple hairpin from his utility belt, forgoing the $700 lockpicking system that he never took out of the little box, and undid their shackles. "Run, and don't stop until you hit the state line. We'll send Rubber Chicken after you."

"Who are you?" asked Dusty.

"No time. Just go!" And with that, Dusty was able to force her ally up, having had some time to recover from the Boxer-brief rampage, and the two of them hobbled away from the scene of reverse police brutality.

"So... You've got me on my back now, villains?" Said Gizmoduck, ripping the rope around his neck apart, allowing him to speak, "I never thought you would have the nerve to come back to Duckburg, Dewey Duck. Captain O'hara!" he yelled, "Place these men under arrest!"

But no voice answered him. The megaphone lay abandoned. Captain O'hara had wisely gone for backup.

"We're gonna make this quick, Gizmo..." said Dewey.

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" He then pressed a button on his chest. Instantly, his tire began to spin. The old, dead pieces flew off in all directions and a new one seemed to grow in its place. The three boys drew back as Gizmoduck righted himself, reaching for one of his gizmos.

"Manual Override, User: Crackshell: Codeword: Blatherskite! Armor Off!" yelled a voice. Instantly, the armor began to fall away from Gizmoduck, from the tire, right up to the chest, to the arms and helmet. Eventually, there he stood, looking stunned squinting from the sudden blindness caused by the loss of the vision-correcting helmet.

"Wh-what?" He said, as he looked around, the world a blur, he reached for his glasses, but found his arms caught in a crushing grip.

"It really is Doofus!" said Huey as he held the large blue-sweatered man by the arms, using the ample strength hidden in his smaller frame to subdue the physically weaker Doofus.

"You... But... How? How do you?"

"I'm sorry Doofus," said a voice, THE voice, "It's over."

"M-Mr. Crackshell?" He wanted so to put on his glasses.

"Yes, Doofus. It's me."

"But... Mr. Crackshell, I did everything you wanted me to do. Why are you...? Why are you working with these terrorists?"

"You're confused, Doofus. I've been away for a long time. Give him his glasses, Dewey."

Dewey bent down and retrieved the specs from Doofus' front pocket, and suddenly, Doofus could see clearly. He saw, standing before him, Fenton Crackshell, wearing only a simple white shirt, standing on both of his feet.

"You... you're walking..."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Fenton... Mr. Crackshell was in an accident. He has to sit in a chair..."

"I'm right here, Doofus. Who are you...?"

"You can't be Mr. Crackshell! He would never associate with... with Terrorists! I've done everything he's told me to do. All the... All the horrible... hunting down all of those rogue heroes." He began to struggle against Huey, pure righteous fury giving his arms newfound strength. "Let go of me! Let go!"

Dewey and Louie ran in to grab hold, but Fenton saw just in time, the glint in Doofus's eye. He whipped his head around, throwing his glasses off of his face.

"Boys! Get away from him!"

Huey let go just in time, and Dewey and Louie were able to back away just as Doofus called out, "Blathering Blatherskite." The reactivated armor flew Towards Doofus, creating a small tornado, before there stood Gizmoduck. The Duck of steel looked as if he might stand and fight, but soon turned on his wheel and started away, rolling over the prone bodies of the SWAT team.

"He's getting away!" cried Dewey.

"I know exactly where he's going. We have time for one more thing," said Fenton, kneeling beside the bound Rubber Chicken, pulling out a swiss army knife, "Sorry about that, Chicken. I Hope my student didn't hurt yours too bad."

The Chicken sighed as he was eventually freed from the gooey and gradually hardening threads of the net, "Don't worry, I'm used to things like this by now."

***

Down the elevator under 'Ma's' trailer, past the trophy room and into the main hall, Gizmoduck rolled, before saying the codeword and tearing his armor away from himself.

"Mr. Crackshell!"

"What have I told you...?"

"It's important! There's... there..." But the seed of doubt had entered Doofus's mind. What if... No! impossible. It can't be. "There's another Fenton Crackshell. An imposter!"

Fenton, sitting in his wheelchair before his large computer array, turned slowly towards Doofus. "And did you take care of him?"

"I... It... I couldn't. They... He was with Dewey Duck and his brothers. I had to get away."

"You have the suit, and you couldn't hold off the three Duck brothers?"

"They... I'm sorry... but..."

"You useless, braindead child. I should kick you out on the street righ now. After everything I've done for you!"

"No! Mr. Crackshell, please! Give me another chance!"

"No more chances, Doof..."

"Don't listen to her Doofus!"

"WHAT?" cried the wheelchair ridden Fenton, his head perking up towards the entrance through the trophy room, where the unkempt-looking Fenton stood, flanked by the three Duck brothers. "Doofus! Suit up and get them!"

"B-but... But..." He was too gone. Doofus, seeing two Fentons side by side, couldn't take the pressure and simply shut down.

"Useless!" Shouted Wheelchair Fenton, reaching down into the cusion, pulling out an automatic pistol and pointing it towards Doofus. He pulled the trigger and with a bang, Doofus fell to the ground in a heap.

"Doofus!" cried Fenton and the Duck brothers, stepping towards the bleeding out former Junior Woodchuck. The click of the gun stopped them.

"Not another sssssstep," Said the voice of the fake Fenton, decidedly more reptilian and feminine than before, "Or you'll join him."

"I thought there was something phony about what the boys told me about Doofus. That sweet kid could never think of doing anything like what he did."

"Very good, Fenton Cracksssssshell. But how do you intend to ssssstop me?" He stood, lifting himself out of the chair effortlessly, letting the long, reptilian tail unfurl behind him.

"Wha?" said Louie, as the false Fenton seemed to melt away, being replaced by another Duck entirely, one that was older, and with decidedly reptilian features.

"Who are you?" asked Huey.

"Camille Chameleon," answered Fenton, his arms crossed, "An enemy of Darkwing's from way back. I see you've recovered from your stay in Bedlam."

"Funny." She began to touch herself, "Oh! It feels ssssssso good to be back in my own body, with my own voicssssse. Keeping up your form to sssssso long wasss difficult even with your genetic material helping me along."

"So that's why you needed me alive," said Fenton, "You needed my blood so you could act like me, and control poor Doofus."

"Farid Kagan paid very well for this gig, and hell if you're going to stop me."

She began to pull the trigger, but a small sling had flown from Louie's hands, knocking the bullet off course and the gun out of her hands.

"What!?"

"Give up?"

She looked stunned, for a moment, before smiling, "Of course not, Fenton. I can defeat you with a taste of your own medicine," She then began to yell, "Blathering Bl-"

"Blatheskite!" cried Fenton before she could finish. The whirlwind surrounded him for a moment, before Gizmoduck the first was suddenly there, rolling quickly towards Camille. Not even bothering with a gizmo, Gizmoduck simply punched her in the chest, sending her flying backwards into her own computer console. The three boys looked on in morbid fascination as the supervillain screamed, sparks arcing around her body as she was fried by the electrical current running through the powerful computer causing her shape-changing to go wild. A Large, burly man, a stool, a little girl, Darkwing Duck the first, Fenton Crackshell, Huey, Doofus, Farid Kagan. Soon, she was still, reverting back to her original form.

The boys were silent for a while, before Gizmoduck wordlessly picked up Doofus, looking at the misguided man.

"He's still breathing. The bullet went straight through." He smiled, trying to joke away the guilt, "It's a good thing she wasn't me. I'm a much better shot."

***

"He's waking up!" cried a girl's voice. A very familiar voice.

"W-webby?"

"Yes, Doofus, it's me."

Doofus was lying, stretched out in the back of an airplane, the boy's plane, the Sea Duck. He looked around, seeing everyone around him, including...

"Mr. Crackshell, what happened?"

"We were being used, Doofus," he said, sitting, holding his young protégé's hand as he looked up at all the concerned faces weakly.

"Oh. Oh, Mr. Crackshell! I've done some terrible things for... for that fake! I'm a disgrace! I don't deserve the title of Gizmoduck! I... I..."

"Shhh. My boy. You don't have to feel guilty. It wasn't your fault."

"But I..."

"Be quiet. Sleep," insisted Webby. "We'll talk more after you rest." She waved off all of the concerned faces, leaving only Webby in his vision.

"Webby. It's been years since we..."

"...yes, I know, Doofus." She wet a cold compress and applied it to his head. As she did this, he reached up with his hand, placing it over hers.

This was all Dewey could stand to watch before he drowned out the fresh memory with business, "Fenton. Now that we've cleaned up your loose end, I'd like us to get down to business. Are you game?"

"Sure thing my boy," he said, letting himself be lead towards the binder. Letting his numerical juices flow after years of atrophy, Fenton rubbed his hands together and took up the Binder and a pencil, going page by page, adding, subtracting, winding his way through the mathematical maze set up by Farid Kagan's best men. "This won't take any time at all."

"Where to, Dewey?" asked Huey.

Dewey nodded, his resolve steeling his face even as the memory of Doofus stealing a touch from Webby crowded in on his mind. "S.H.U.S.H central command. Saint Canard."

Louie smiled, his injuries, though still aching, allowing him to get around enough to be useful, "I can feel it, men! We're home free. This is it. We're finally going to stick it to that bastard!"

"I hope you're right," said Dewey, as the Sea Duck flew on towards Audubon Bay and Saint Canard.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 15

2009-07-04T22:12:00.000-07:00

Happy "Day we gave the middle finger to those Limey bastards" day. And what could be more patriotic than the identical tits of three original characters based on the Disney Universe's over sexualized vision of Brazilian hospitality?

Enjoy!

---

Episode 15:

"Urg..."

Bandages and tender loving care had made a mummy out of Louie Duck. For the foreseeable future, his heroing days were on hold. Louie tried to move an arm, to scratch an itch, but the sudden pain in his chest caused him to go right back to a more neutral position.

"You shouldn't move, Louie," said Webby, who was sitting over the superhero with a first aid kit in her lap. The hero, for his part, was at the moment strapped into a fully reclined seat on the Sea Duck, in sore agony.

"He's awake?"

"Yes, Dewey, but... Be gentle. He's in a lot of pain."

Dewey walked up into Louie's vision. Louie noted for a moment the vibrations underneath and the steady buzz of the propellers that told him they were in the air. Louie tried to speak, but his ribs protested every breath.

"Where...?"

Dewey answered quickly, "Heading towards Bombay. The note you told us to trust says there's an accountant being held at the Khan building."

"Is... that so?"

"Despite it being the silliest thing I ever heard of, and being too convenient for my taste, you told us to trust it, and here we are."

Louie wanted to nod and look content, but pain set his features.

"I want to know what happened to you. Who is this 'PK.' Did he beat you up?"

"Y-yes."

"Then why should we trust whatever he says?"

"Just... I can't say..."

"Why not?"

"I..."

Webby snapped at her employer, "Dewey. He's had enough. Let him rest."

Looking from Webby to Louie, Dewey scowled, "I still don't like this one bit."

Louie wasn't finished, however, his eyes scanned the amount of cabin he could see, "Where is... José?"

Webby answered as she pulled out a roll of bandages, before gently unwrapping the old ones, revealing the ugly wounds underneath, "He stayed behind in Chihuahua. He said he wanted to stay out of our way, and catch up with Panchito."

"That’s... for the... best," struggled Louie, "The girls... too?"

"W-well..." Said Webby, as she gave a glace towards the closed door leading to the pilot's cabin.

***

Huey was trying his very best to keep his eyes on the sky, but when you have three Brazilian girls who don't know enough English to talk your ears off orbiting around you looking more stacked than a pile of thousand dollar bills, it's sometimes difficult to concentrate.

"So. Girls," He began, trying to make conversation, "Your Uncle said you could come along with us?"

"Sim!" said Rosalina, "We asked to come with you Huey."

"We wan'ned to help as much as we can," said Maria.

Amalia spoke something in Portuguese Huey couldn't quite parse, and all three girls giggled.

"Well, that's great!" he said, "Your Uncle had some words with me before we left."

"Really?" "What did..." "...disse?"

Huey paused, his eyes rolling up into his head, soaking up the memory from a few hours before.

***

"Huey, I have something to say."

"Yes, Joe?"

"You keep my girls safe."

"Can do!"

"Even if they do not see me so, they are my daughters, and I love them very much."

"I know, Joe."

"Keep them happy and content for as long as you know them."

"I will."

"And if you break any of their hearts keep in mind even if I am a pleasant, non-violent ol' man I am friends with a gun-crazy cowboy who is in the habit of shooting first, asking questions never."

"Yes, Jo... oh?"

"Have a pleasant trip."

***

Huey tried not to sweat as three pairs of hands clamored to touch his arms and shoulders as subtly as they could manage. Three girls! That's a man's dream. Three girls clamoring for his attention and if he picks any one girl over the others he will have to worry about taking care of the brand new hole in his head.

"Huey? You haven't answered the question. What did he say?"

"Oh! Er..." He laughed, "That he loves all three of you very much. And he'll miss you."

The three girls smiled at each other, and Huey couldn't help but feel the triplet smiles as looking a bit smirky.

***

Webby looked away from the cabin and back to Louie, "Yes, they asked to come."

Louie looked like he wanted to laugh, but no sound came out. "Ugh, funny hurts..."

"Enough nonsense," said Dewey, "Now that you're awake we need to make a plan. We certainly won't be able to pull that janitor trick twice. We need to find a way in to save whoever is in there."

"Don't... look at... me..." said Louie as Webby changed out his bandages, "I'm out of the game... for a while..."

Dewey scratched his chin, "But how?"

"A single... A single man... could get in, stealthy-like."

Webby's head shook wildly, "Oh no! Don't you even think about it!"

"I'm not...! I'm not...! Don't... don't worry. Just... tell Huey..." His less-bruised arm began to move towards his utility belt, to Webby's concerned look. "Take this... use the Sea Duck's radio..." he said, pulling out a piece of paper with a string of numbers on it, "Call this Radio wavelength... Say... Say, 'Gadgets... MacQuack over Bombay. Requesting help...'"

Webby took the paper and nodded, before walking over and into the pilot's cabin.

"What will that do?"

"You'll see. She'll meet us... in Bombay." He finally managed a smile. "We've got nothing to worry about."

***

From the Sea, to the land, two planes converged on a hidden position, one, a well-preserved antique, another, a science fiction dream living through years of neglect from being owned by a non-pilot. The Thunderquack had pulled ahead of the Sea Duck through sheer speed, and was waiting for about thirty minutes before the yellow Conwing L-16 came down from its flight. Soon, the passengers of the plane began to pour out.

Before anyone could say a word, Darkwing had surveyed the group. "Where's GP?"

Dewey, at the fore, pointed towards the door he had come through to exit the plane. Darkwing rushed through with a rustle of her cape, and gasped at what she saw inside.

"Gadgets! What happened?"

"Oh. Hi DW..." Said Louie, his mummified remains smiling weakly, "...how's tricks?"

"What happened?" She repeated, before turning around and rounding on the nearest of Louie's companions, who happened to be Webby, "What happened?"

"He, er," She shrank back from the masked woman's piercing gaze and bellowing voice before answering. "He got in a fight, with someone named 'PK.'"

"...PK?" her face had frozen into a strange expression of surprise and worry.

"Yes. That's what he called himself," said Dewey, stepping between Webby and Darkwing subtly, "We met him once before, when he helped us escape from the Iron Vulture."

Huey smiled. "And beat you up in the process if I recall."

"Er... yes. Well, we met him again and Louie suffered for it. Do you... does he run in your circles?"

Darkwing shook her head, "He is a superhero if that's what you mean, but no, he's generally not my ally, or anyone else's for that matter. He's not very well-known outside of the community, but in the community he's... well, he's sort of a legend, y'know?"

"Do tell."

"Well, you remember that alien invasion we had a few years back?"

Huey, Dewey, Webby, and the three Carioca girls all looked blank. Huey was the one who got it together enough to say, "No."

"Exactly, because he did his job, and well. I don't even want to know how you fellas got onto his bad side, but... hoo boy!"

"Believe me," said Dewey, rubbing his beak, "I know."

"Anyway," Darkwing said after a tense little pause. She turned back towards Louie's reclined state and knelt down next to him. "What do you guys need from me?"

Huey climbed onto the plane and began to speak for the weakened Louie, "We need you to airdrop into the Khan building. There's apparently someone being held there."

"And how did you hear about this?"

Louie spoke up, "The son of a bitch... that caved... my head in."

Darkwing looked into his face for a moment before giving a little 'huh.' "I thought you guys were on his bad side."

"Well we're... not exactly... friends."

There was another pause as Darkwing considered this. She stood up from Louie's side and walked up to Huey, "You'll be my pilot, right?"

"If you'll have me, Ma'am."

She nodded, "Alright then. We'll wait until tonight, and we'll take the Thunderquack. It's stealthier. You drop me off and I'll get your man out of there within two hours..."

***

"Launchpad MacQuack was here."

"How the hell do you know that?"

Huey and Darkwing were sitting, side-by-side, in the Thunderquack, Darkwing looking bewildered at the various buttons and switches she's never bothered to use, simply content to use the simpler remote control setting when she needed to fly, Huey looking nostalgic as he pressed those same switches and buttons now in preparation for their trip. The sky above was dark, and getting darker.

"It's just a hunch. He had a... peculiar way of taking care of his instruments."

"Let me guess."

"Guess away."

"It's the chewing gum and band-aids, isn't it?"

"Got it in one." He smiled as he picked a particularly nasty piece of pink goo out from within the control machinery. "Makes me a little nostalgic for the good old days, y'know?"

"I guess," She looked over the control panel and took stock of her supplies: Parachute. Bow and quiver. Costume on straight. Check. She had a thought. "Whatever happened to Lunchpad, anyway?"

"I'm sure he's still kicking. After I left to go learn from Mr. Cloudkicker, last I heard he'd joined the circus as a stunt pilot."

"How is he not dead yet?"

"Beats me. I looked him up once, and his world record for survived crash landings is so high that it is expected to stand for the next fifty years or more, and if the experts are right, it will claim the lives of hundreds of pilots trying to break it."

"That's a little dismal, Huey."

"You asked." He looked at his watch. "One Half-hour until takeoff. Got everything Dee-Doubleya'?"

"Oh god, don't YOU start call me that."

"Huh?"

"That's what Launchpad used to call my... used to call Darkwing Duck the first. It's weird."

Huey smiled as his eyes looked up towards the sky, "believe it or not, I think I know how you feel."

The two looked at each other, seeing in the other the child trying desperately to live up to the parent in one way or another. They exchanged a sly smile and Darkwing held out her hand.

"Darkwing is fine for now."

Huey shook it, "Alright Darkwing. Whatever you say."

Suddenly, their heads were turned by a commotion outside, along with a loud cry.

"No! Louie!"

At this, The canopy of the Thunderquack was open and Darkwing had jumped out, her cape billowing out behind her. Like a shambling corpse, there he was, ambling down from the Sea Duck on stiff legs, stiff arms, and stiff everything.

"What the hell are you doing, Gadgets?" she yelled at him, before turning to Webby, who was standing by, afraid to touch him, "What is he doing?"

"I... Louie! Let me help you back into the plane."

"S-stop! I... I have to... Darkwing, I want to talk to you." He turned slowly, and nearly fell. Darkwing placed her hands over his shoulders, supporting him

"What are you doing, you idiot. You need rest."

"You... You don't have to do this for us..."

"Oh boy. I've never seen this scene before. Get back to your seat, Gadgets. You're hurt bad."

"No. Really. You've done so... so much for us already... I feel bad for... for dragging you into... my family's problems."

"You're welcome, now please..."

"You don't have to... It's not your fight."

"Gadgets..." She said, before she plunged her head forward towards his. Their beaks met suddenly, and Gosalyn closed her eyes. Louie was too stiff and weak to move or resist, so he simply went wide-eyed as he was kissed by the young goose. Then his eyes closed as the fluttering feeling in his stomach settled into a warm contentment that overshadowed the pain in his chest and limbs. Soon, too soon, Gosalyn broke away from Louie's beak. "...Shut up."

"O... okay..." said Louie, before he let himself be led back aboard the Sea Duck by Webby.

Darkwing turned back towards the Thunderquack, and could see Huey sitting in the pilot's seat, with a shit-eating grin, and both thumbs extended high in the air. Darkwing blushed underneath her mask as she walked back to her place in the passenger's seat, and was forced to give Louie's brother a high-five, since he was at the moment unable.

Soon, the Thunderquack was high in the air, screaming towards the Khan building.

***

The Khan building was lit up like the Fourth of July. Four spotlights searched the skies as an endless parade of guards patrolled the roof and viewing balconies of the tall building. In the cloudy skies, the dark Thunderquack circled overhead, concealed and silent. Unseen by anyone, the canopy opened, and a small figure jumped. The jet was soon off, disappearing over the horizon, ready to come back in two hours or at the call of the violet-clad goose whose small parachute blew open, letting her billow towards the top of the roof, directing herself nimbly between the exposing beams of the searchlights.

Soon, she was close enough that she could let the parachute go. It detached from her, and billowed up, suddenly free from the weight. Before it could stumble into the path of a searchlight, Darkwing pressed a device in her sleeve as she fell the short distance to the flat surface of the top viewing deck, just behind one of the Beagle Boy guards. There was a bright flash as the Parachute immolated suddenly. Every eye on the roof turned towards the flash, and every set of feet went off to investigate, leaving the nondescript patch of shadow containing Darkwing Duck alone.

With the guards busy with the distraction of the burning parachute, Darkwing was able to easily sneak towards the roof access door, and inside.

***

First order of business, She thought, Is finding out where this guy is.

To facilitate this, her first stop was the first floor, where the main guard hour was located. Forcing the Elevator shafts open was easy enough, and using the cables and a few trick arrows to slow the descent to get up and down in the building was as easy as falling off a really tall log. The tricky part was avoiding getting yourself crushed by the elevator itself as it went its merry way.

She had been lucky on this first trip. She's come into the shaft underneath the elevator, so she wouldn't have to try to go down through the car, but on the other hand, she would have to work fast and go down before someone below tried to call the elevator.

She had been travelling for a long time, and she had counted the floors as she went. Eventually, counting gave way to another way of passing the time.

Hi Dad, she began to think, How are you? I'm sorry I haven't called, but I've been sort of busy. We followed that Steelbeak lead, remember? It led all the way back to McDuck Enterprises. Actually, I guess it's more Khan Industries than McDuck, but Khan is a subsidiary. The new CEO Farid Kagan as the baddie this time. It sounds so white collar, I know, and it is, but Louie... The Duck family needs me. They have... extreme ideas about money.

I, er, hope that kiss wasn't too forward. Having a mom to ask for advice would have been awesome for times like this. Like I said before, you'll like him. He and his family is good people, They're the closest I've ever come to meeting an entire family of legacy heroes without actually having a masked hero involved. I suppose their Great Uncle Scrooge is probably who counts as 'the hero' of this outfit, but there's also murmurs about their other Uncle Donald, who actually raised them.

Right now I'm in an elevator shaft hoping to high heaven nobody tries to use the elevator. I need to find an accountant so they can scan some cooked books before presenting them to S.H.U.S.H. Like I said, white collar. Barf. At least there's shades of someone being held hostage. I wonder why. He probably -knows too much.-

DING! The sudden noise chilled Darkwing's heart to the core. She was nearly to the bottom hanging on the elevator cables with a grapple arrow, but she could feel something starting to move through the cables. She looked up.

Like a freight train, there it was heading down towards her position. The elevator car, one of the high-speed models used in especially tall buildings, was rocketing to the ground, and she was in the way.

She gave a yell before she let go of the cable, letting herself fall towards the nearest elevator door, the entrance to the third floor. Drawing a thick arrow from her quiver, she began to pry at the door quickly, trying desperately to outrun the speeding car. There was a little give, but not enough, not for how fast this elevator was coming. Her arms burned with the effort, trying to wedge the arrow in more and more, trying to outrun certain death.

Suddenly, the arrow went deep, triggering the automatic mechanism in the door. It began to open by itself, and even before it was open all the way, Darkwing was through it and on the floor.

There was a sudden tug at her neck that caused her to choke for just a moment, before she was free again. She looked back and noticed that a piece of her cape had been sliced clean off by the fast-moving elevator, leaving a clean rip as if from a pair of scissors. She gulped, keeping in mind that being a little cheap with the cape material saved her life this day.

But enough standing around, she needed to get out of the open. She looked back into the open elevator shaft, and saw the car had stopped on the first floor. She jumped down, figuring she only had a moment before it would start moving again. She landed with a thump, and instantly opened the top emergency hatch, jumping inside.

"What the!"

The Beagle Boy security guard inside had his jaw broken and his head concussed before he could alert any of his friends and relations about what was going on. As he laid out on the ground of the elevator, the dark shadow that had assaulted him flitted out and into the first floor.

She came out in the bright entrance hall, towards the back. Quickly, she found a door marked "Employee Only" in English, Hindi, and a multitude of other languages, before stepping inside.

The hall she stepped into was starkly lit by fluorescent light and was quite bare, unlike the warmly decorated front hall. On either side were several blank doors that each held the promise of opening up suddenly and exposing her, if her little stunt in the elevator didn't do that first. She rushed down the hall, searching for a sign, which she soon found. It said "Security Room."

She counted to three, and then went in.

There were three of them, Beagle boys all. One was sleeping and the other two were passing a cat's cradle back and forth. There was the overwhelming stench of prunes in the air. The first beagle, his back to Darkwing, went down with a single strike to the head. The second, who had stared wide-eyed at DW as she did so, tried to reach for his gun too late. Her webbed foot found his head, dazing him long enough for the sleeping third to be taken out quietly, Jolting awake from the shock of the Chloroform-tipped arrow, before going back to sleep, and for good this time. With all three splayed on the floor, Darkwing spent a moment to look around, making sure no silent alarms were going off. She noted all of the cameras she must have appeared on and, just for a moment, thanked the BBs for being so obligingly incompetent.

Back to business. She pushed the sleeping Beagle off of his seat and sat down, rolling the chair around to manipulate the consoles and check the various cameras around the building.

She began to ponder, If I was a Megalomaniacal CEO of a famous corporation, where would I hide someone I've kidnapped in my high rise office building without anyone finding out?

Click. Click. Click. She flipped the channels, checking through each view one by one, trying to see what they felt what was worth looking at. Multitudes of static images paraded by, some filled with scenes of patrolling guards or the odd office peon putting in a late night. She kept on with the check, going through each floor one by one, until she got to something that caught her eye.

The screen was dark. Not dark as in the room was dark, but dark as in 'this camera has been tampered with' dark. It was working, to be sure. There was no static or interference, but at the same time the room wasn't being projected, as if someone had placed something in front of the lens. Noting down the room, she stood to investigate. An office, midway up the building, smart place to put a hostage to be sure. Most evil millionaires can't resist hiding the victims on the top floor somewhere conspicuous when locking them up in a random office behind a mountain of 'do not enter' tape would probably be smarter.

Giving each Beagle Boy another dose of sleepy medicine from her quiver, Darkwing Duck swooped out of the room, confident that with the guards asleep, she would not have to worry about cameras.

***

How long had he been there? A year? Two? Five? A hundred? In the parade of days, in the just enough food to survive, in the wondering when or if he would ever see the sun again, the man wrapped in the rough brown blanket had lost himself. Why are they keeping him alive? There must be some reason.

He did as he had done for however long it's been. He sat, and waited. Eventually his jailer, Farid Kagan, would come in, taunt him, bring him stale bread to live on. He would be powerless to stop him, or his plans.

The light came on in the crack under the door, and the shrouded man tensed all over. He could hear the sound of something being inserted into the lock. It wasn't a key, however, and he found himself furrowing his brow at this breach of tradition.

Suddenly, a light snapping explosion occurred towards the door. His eyes fixated on the afterimage the slight flash had left in the corner of his vision, and he felt his eyes trying to follow beyond their capacity to track the quickly fading patch. Soon he was able to blink it away, and he found that the room was bathed in light from the door, the long shadow of a figure in a wide hat being cast from the doorframe.

A memory stirred, from before all this, He recognized that shadow.

"Darkwing Duck?" he said, the first words he's said in an age.

The figure stepped into the room and tried the light switch, noting that it was completely dead. "Someone in here? I can't see you."

Darkwing had to suppress her startle as she saw the shrouded figure lurch into the light from the hall, holding up white feathered arms to protect his sensitive eyes. After that, another instinct came to the fore, one without some degree of which becoming a superhero would be a futile exercise. With a look of compassion, she approached the stranger.

"My God. What did they do to you here?" She asked, her arms slinging over his shoulder to support the taller duck. She noticed that underneath his blanket he was completely naked.

"Darkwing Duck. It's... Been a long time."

"You knew... You know me?"

He looked closer, his unaccustomed eyes slowly readjusting to the concept of light, "You're different. You're..."

"I get that a lot." She raised his arm, so frail and thin, over her own shoulder and began to help him towards the door, "Come on now, We're going to get you to safety."

With her support, the tall duck was led out into the hall. It was as if someone had taken a normal sized duck and stretched him lengthwise to the breaking point. His face was quite unkempt and unshaven, and his feathers grew wildly around his entire body. His eyes were sunken in, and squinted at even the meager night time illumination left in the building after hours.

"It can't be... Little... The little girl? Gosalyn?"

She blinked hard, before turning her face to look at him, "How do you...? Who are you?"

"There she is! Get her!" yelled a voice suddenly. That's when Darkwing noticed the platoon of Beagle Boys coming around the corner.

"Oops!" was all she said as she turned, helping the frail prisoner hobble along in the opposite direction, where another platoon of Beagles appeared.

"Blathering Blatherskite..." said the stranger, with all the weight of an expletive.

"Excuse me?" she said, before remembering the threat. She looked out of the windows of the hall, large floor-to-ceiling picture windows that did not open and needed one hell of an impact to break.

As the twin walls of Beagle security guards approached, an explosive-tipped arrow provided just such an impact.

"Come on!" Darkwing yelled, grabbing the thin man by the waist and jumping out of the shattered window.

The two figures fell for a moment, before Darkwing pulled out a grappling arrow, not even bothering to knock it, instead merely throwing it towards the building, hoping it will stick. For his part, the man hanging from her arms by his waist seemed to be taking the excitement well. In a stroke of luck, the grappling arrow was able to grab onto a viewing balcony, and the two figures clutching to each other were jerked to a stop by the strong cord.

Gripping the other body to herself, Darkwing dared to open her eyes, looking up at the caged viewing balcony that had saved her's and her companion's lives.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"I'm fine," he answered.

"Lovely. Grab on tight."

She then began the labor of climbing up the strong cord, the surprisingly light man clutching to her back.

"Where... Where do we get picked up?"

"The roof. If I'm right, he should be there by now. We need to find some way to get up th... oh!"

"Hello Girly! Miss me?" called the lecherous voice of Boner Beagle, dressed in his best greasey security guard uniform. He had poked his head over the balcony, and was stroking the cord holding them up in the air like a lover.

"Boner Beagle!" she yelled as her arms screamed from the effort of hanging from the rope, "What are you doing here?"

"What all of my Beagle Brothers and Cousins are doing, guarding Mr. Kagan. And... oh-ho! I see you've got Mr. Kagan's little project strapped to your back there." He twanged the rope like a guitar string, and Darkwing could feel the vibration through her hands. "I still need to pay you back for that broken nose you gave me back in Duckburg."

"Don't you dare!"

"I'm sure Mr. Kagan will be six kinds o' sad when he learns his little pet is dead and gone, but he'll be very happy once he knows The Darkwing is dead."

"I'm warning you..."

"Not to mention," He laughed wildly in the middle of the sentence, his greasy hair flinging every which way, "Not to mention I still have to pay you back for the fork in the fancy-pants restaurant. I know it was you, chicky. I never forget a dame."

Looking around wildly for anything she could use, she ultimately came up short, her fate ultimately up to the maniac above.

"O'course, I could see clear to let you up..." He smiled the wide toothy smile of his kin, along with the requisite gold tooth. "...if..."

Getting his insinuation, Darkwing Duck grimaced, "Go to hell!"

"You first. Bye bye baby."

With that a quickly drawn switchblade began to slice through the rope holding them up.

"Darkwing, I'm getting a little worried," said the stranger at her back.

"I know. I... I..."

Just then, the rope gave, and the two hangers on were soon fallers down.

Listening to the sounds of their screams dying away, Boner Beagle smiled, letting the sound record into his audio library. Nothing gets a guy off like cold blooded murder.

"So long toots," He said finally, turning around, "And thanks for the memories."

Then there were the sounds of jet engines behind him. "You're welcome, slimeball!" said a girl's voice behind him. He turned slowly, coming face-to-face with the face of a giant duck, draped in purple and flying. On top of the gigantic beak, Darkwing and the former prisoner were there, Darkwing surefooted and strong, with cape flapping in the breeze. Her arms were pulling her bow and arrow taught, right towards him.

"YIPE!" he yelled, before he turned and went back into the building before the arrow could get him. Instead, it bounced off the bulletproof glass precisely where his sweating face stared up at the jet.

Darkwing nodded, and stomped on the Jet, "Take us home, Huey."

The canopy opened, and the strange man was helped inside by the terror that flaps in the night. With all passengers' seatbelts fastened and ready to go, Huey gunned the instruments, intending to be back on the Sea Duck within the hour.

***

"Here he is," said Darkwing, "Take good care of him." She then turned back towards the Thunderquack and walked away.

"Wait!" Louie tried yelling from his position sitting on the edge of the door frame leading into the Sea Duck's passenger cabin, only getting a little bit of the volume he intended, "You're not staying?"

"You guys'll be all right without me," she said, looking towards the frail man sitting down, being tended to by Webby, "Don't you worry about that."

"But..."

"Are you arguing with me just to get me to kiss you again?" she said with a smirk, "Because that was a one-time thing. I like you boys and all, but I got my own shit to do. Gizmoduck's little police state in Saint Canard was getting out of hand when you guys called."

"G-gizmoduck?" asked the man.

"And that's my cue," said Darkwing, "I already figured this part out, so have fun you guys." And with that, she walked on towards the Thundequack, activating and opening it up by remote control. It lifted into the air on powerful jets before it rocketed off into the sky back towards America.

They watched her go, before Webby gave the man a glass of water. Dewey stood over him, "What did she mean? You said 'gizmoduck.' Do you know Gizmoduck?"

"First things first," said Huey, "Introductions."

Each of the ducks and parrots were in their turn introduced to their new companion, who merely quaffed food and water as fast as Webby could bring it.

"It's... been so long since I've seen you boys..."

"What?" asked Louie, "You seem to know everybody."

"You don't recognize me?"

Huey and Louie were clueless, and Webby shrugged her shoulders. It was Dewey, however, that had his memory stroked. It was a memory of something from long ago, of someone they used to know. Memories that had to do with money.

Dewey suddenly bent down and picked up a small handful of dirt.

"Count the grains."

"Seven thousand, eight hundred forty nine."

Everyone else blinked, clearly impressed at such a talent as counting the individual specks in a handful of dirt.

"You're the bean counter," Dewey said, clapping the dirt off of his hands, "Uncle Scrooge's accountant. Fenton Crackshell."

Fenton Crackshell finally allowed himself a weak smile. "I see a lot has happened to you boys since I saw you last. Same here."

Webby's face brightened, "My god! Mr. Crackshell. I didn't even recognize you." She placed a hand on his thin shoulder. "What happened?"

"I got too close to Farid Kagan is what happened. I found a book-keeping mistake, and he almost killed me for it."

"Almost?" asked Dewey, "Why didn't he kill you? It seems that would..."

"I think it's because..." He paused and breathed a sigh, "...Because I was Gizmoduck until a few years ago."

All three boys threw their hands in the air, all yelling at once, "Fuck! YOU were Gizmoduck!?"

"I could have sworn it was Launchpad!" yelled Huey.

"I always kind of thought it might be Uncle Donald," said Louie.

"It was obviously Duckworth," said Dewey.

"That makes no sense, Dewey," said Louie, "Duckworth wasn't even a duck. And he was too tall in any case."

"So? It was a super-futuristic mechanical suit, It could do whatever the hell it wanted."

Webby cleared her throat, "Guys?"

All three caught themselves in mid-argument, and slumped.

"But wait," said Louie, "If you're Gizmoduck, then who's that guy running around Saint Canard?"

Fenton took a slow sip of water before he continued, "He came upon me one day after my Ma passed on, rest her soul. I was a little unhinged at that point. I was getting past my prime, and my Gizmoduck days were soon over. I wasn't looking where I was when I was changing, and he saw me." He rolled his eyes, looking a little annoyed towards Huey, "He seemed to be disappointed about me not turning out to be Launchpad McQuack as well."

"Well, he was the best guess we all had to go on."

"I tried to get away from him, tried to hide my face, but it was too late. He was a teenager, be about you fellas ages now, and wore a coonskin cap."

"He was a Junior Woodchuck?" asked Louie.

"Yessir. Not a particularly good one, but good enough. He followed me to a crime in progress, and... well..." He took another sip of water, guilt beginning to well up inside, "He was shot.

"I rushed him back to my hideout. I'd dug a cave out from underneath the trailer park, and hidden away there between my life as Fenton Crackshell and my life as Gizmoduck. I operated on him. He lived.

"He tells me I saved his life, but it was me who got him into that in the first place. He idolized me even more after that. When it came time for me to retire, he took up the suit and the name, almost without my permission. Almost."

"But who is he?" asked Huey, "If he was a Junior Woodchuck in our year we should know him."

"You're right. I don't know if this was his real name or if it was just what he liked to be called, but he went by 'Doofus.'"

Like a calm before the storm, all four ducks stared at Fenton for a moment. Suddenly, each Duck had their own way of coping with the bombshell. Huey Laughed merrily; Louie merely looked confused, or as confused as he could while still wrapped up; Dewey looked a bit angry at the betrayal of one of their childhood friends; Webby began to blush. All four of them, at the same time, said the same thing at precisely the same instant:

"What?"

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 14

2009-07-02T20:05:00.000-07:00

Okay. New chapter. I'm starting to suspect that I am hopelessly in love with those long meandering character monologues I do. I do it again here, and after I finished up I realized that I might already have basically said everything in that monologue already during the end of the chapter in Salvador, Bahia. I added some stuff in, and changed a few things(Including revealing my take on a long-running Disney MYSTERY). Hopefully it feels good man.

I think it's because of my background in Theater and, yes, comics, so I fucking LOVE people talking to each other and at each other. That's what you get when you make the conscious decision not to edit anything you write and then proceed to write the whole thing in one sitting.

Anyway, Enjoy.

---

Episode 14:

Another day, another town. With cooked book in hand the Sea Duck gang flew South, over the border. Their search for one humdinger of an accountant to fix up that binder would have to wait until the coast was clear, and in the meantime, José had the perfect place to hide out.

Huey had nearly passed it right by when he first flew over it, a dinky spot of a village in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a cattle range where a herd of Long horned bulls grazed under the dutiful eyes of the horse backed ranch hands.

José pointed out a primitive landing strip outside of town, essentially just a wide, flat dirt patch far from the town where no unfortunate plane accidents could occur. The plane bounced to a stop, the rough dirt jiggling the passengers around in their seats until they slowed down, and eventually stopped altogether. Louie, now wisely out of costume for the warm, dry southern weather, looked out the windows at the three unpaved streets knitted together in a pair of twin intersection by a slew of brown and grey buildings that were too small to be considered houses and too large to be considered huts.

"This just keeps getting better and better," he said, his nightly habit crying out for a building to climb that was higher than five stories.

"There are no worries Louie," said José, as stood and walked back into the cargo hold, followed by the rest of the group. He pressed the button to open up the cargo hold of the Sea Duck, and continued, "Perhaps it will do us good to live for a while in a place where nothing much happens."

As if on cue, there was a large chorus of clicks and cocks of six-irons and boomsticks of all shapes and sizes arming themselves for action. José, his face showing the slightest modicum of worry, twisted his head from its position looking towards Louie and the rest, who for their part were quite wide-eyed and shocked, to where the sea of metallic sound had come from.

A gang of dirty, angry-looking men, a motly crew of dogs and various common birds, some on horseback, and all in tough leathers, ponchos, and wide sombreros, stood, pointing their various guns up into the cargo hold. Dewey raised his hands in the air and motioned for the rest of them to do the same.

The ringleader yelled at them in barking Spanish, and José translated, "Please, they want us to come with them."

And so it was that the crew of the Sea Duck was lead off of the plane, and marched out towards the tiny excuse for a village.

***

There was an impact on the center of Dewey's back, which forced the duck painfully to his knees. The group had been lead, with jeers and laughs better left untranslated by those among them who knew the language. The door slammed shut as they were forced into the small barred cell, and the three duck brothers each found themselves at the bars, looking out over the room. It was, probably at one point, a simple police station or Sherriff's office, but had been taken over by the flamboyantly dressed cowboys.

Huey looked to the single man who had stayed behind, who had a sombrero over his face, obviously sleeping. He began to speak to the man in Spanish, a language he had a much better command over than Protuguese. He asked why they were being held, that they were simple tourists lost on the way to Mexico City. The sleeper said nothing as he was too busy sleeping.

With no answer to their circumstances in sight, the three boys put their heads together and entered a hushed huddle.

"Do you think it's the VPR? You think they followed us up from Brazil?" asked Dewey.

"Can't be," answered Louie, "These are grade-A rough riding Muchacho Banditos or whatever. They're so Mexican they shit Piñatas."

"Real politically correct, Louie," commented Huey, "They might be taking us ransom. Maybe they think we're just tourists?"

"Tourists, Señor?" The sudden voice, a booming, smiling voice coming from a figure suddenly by the open door, began to speak, "On a beautiful vintage bird filled to the brim with no luggage, no supplies, no camping equipment? I think that is unlikely."

The entire group looked towards the entrance, where there was a silhouette backlit by the bright sun outside. He obviously wore a sombrero, but beyond that, he was too overpowered by the sun to make out any details. Judging by the shape of his feet, he must have been some kind of bird. As he walked, they could hear spurs clinking against the ground. Dewey noted the twin guns at his side as he approached, well within reach, and just one quick draw away from giving them a few leaks.

"Well, well, well. A pretty strange group If I say so," said the voice, thickly accented, "I tell a joke, A businessman, a pilot, and a playboy fly into a cattle range. They scare away a prize Texas longhorn and cause three of the rancher's best men to rush out to wrangle it back up." The shadowy man reached for his twin pistols slowly, and the three Ducks could see the silvery sheen, "What do you think the rancher said to the three men, Pilot, businessman, and playboy?" He cocked back the hammer of one of the guns and pointed it lazily towards the barred cell. "Guess. Is more fun to guess."

"That is enough, Panchito," said a voice from the back of the cell.

"Tio Ca-?" asked Maria, before the green feathered hand rose up to silence her.

"Panchito. Put the gun down."

"Ah-ha! So you have heard of the great Panchito Romero Miguel Junipero Francisco Quintero Gonzalez, eh, stranger?" He took off his large hat and threw it away off to the side and it landed perfectly to stack on top of the hat of the sleeping guard. Now with head uncovered, the boys could see the outline of a rooster's comb atop his head. "Or perhaps you know me better by the name known to my enemies." Both guns were out now and spinning on his two forefingers. "Panchito Pistolas."

"I know you, Panchito," said José, standing slowly and surely, using his umbrella to hobble on, "I only hope that you remember me now that I am an ol' man."

The two men approached the bars, closer, letting themselves be revealed by the light, José with his gracefully aging face and quaint manner, and the rooster, Panchito, with deep, sun-worn wrinkles and crags around his face, his eyes in a perpetual squint from working too long in the sunlight. He wore ranch gear, with chaps over jeans on his legs ending in spurs, and a worn, tanned leather jacket.

"It has been a long time, My frien'" said José.

"YEEEAAAAAAAAHHHOOOOOOOO!!" Cried Panchito suddenly, causing everyone in the room, with the sole exceptions of José and the sleeping guard, to jump in fright. Three shots were fired into the air and Dewey couldn't help but notice the three little shafts of light lancing through the dingy air of the building from three little holes in the ceiling. Suddenly, the jingle of keys, and the merry peals of laughter, and the entire group was free.

"José?" He cried out as soon as the cell door was open. In a moment the two old men were embracing, letting the squeeze of their arms say all that language could not, "Son of a gun! I cannot believe it! What brings you to Chihuahua?"

"I come a penitent ol' man, Panchito," said José, "I regret that I come because we are desperate for a place to hide, Myself and my family, and my frien's."

"Do not speak like that, José! You are always welcome in any house of mine." He then turned and began to bounce around the room, shaking the hands of everyone who had them, extracting their names. "You three mus' be José's leetle Neesies. He writes of you much."

The three girls smiled and each gave a little curtsey.

"And you four I do not recognize. Please, Señorita?" He said, puffing out his chest, still full and strong from his honest work in the range, for Webby's benefit.

She managed a smile, "Er, yes. I'm Webigail Vanderquack. Webby, please." She extended a hand towards the three Duck boys, "And these are my friends."

"Huey," He said, extending a hand with a beaming smile, forgetting already their short stay behind bars.

"Dewey," He said as he looked directly into Panchito's face, a grim resolve setting his features in response to the fear he had been dealt earlier.

"Er, Louie," He said, looking from Panchito to José, his mind connecting the two up to a single distant memory of their time with Uncle Donald.

After shaking, or, more accurately, ripping the arms off, all three boys, he repeated, "Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Where have I heard this Hueydeweyanlouie?"

"Look closer," said José with a wink, "Especially at the one in red. Does he remind you of someone?"

Panchito placed a hand on the underside of his beak and gave Huey a good, long look. As his eyes travelled up and down the pilot, they widened, and his wrinkled face rearranged itself in a warm, amazed smile.

"You! You three are Donald's boys!" Suddenly, all three were entrapped and encircled in a back-breaking hug, with the loud laughing voice pressing into their ears, "Donald's leetle Nephews! Hooey Dooley, and Loobie! How wonderful! José, Why did you not write me to tell of this?"

"I had not the time, my frien'. We are in big trouble."

"Well! You can tell me about it on the way! We must go to my Ranch house! We will throw a fiesta in honor of my friend coming back to me, and my other friend sending his love through his nephews! You will see everything I do here, how your Oncle made it possible for me to begin my cattle ranch, as was my dream. Come! Come! There is much daylight to burn!"

***

Of the many men who only an hour before had had malicious intent on their minds, all of them were now drinking and laughing to the health and longevity of José, to the three Brazilian nieces, to the lovely Webby, and, most of all, to the three Duck brothers. Everyone, it seems, had been told of their adventures so far, and each brother, in his own way, was soaking up the sudden attention.

Huey, yet another mug of frosty beer in his hands and the three Carioca girls surrounding him, was telling a small parade of children, several of them Red-colored hens and roosters, for the third time of the attack of Cape Suzette by the Thembrians and Magica DeSpell, of course, with embellishment.

"So, it was just me and Dewey there against an entire ship full of burly Thembrians. Some kind of a hex had been put on the island, and I was the only one who could stop it," He said animatedly in Spanish to the awestruck audience, "Dewey was cowering in the corner when I slap him and say to him, 'put yourself together!' I says, 'your dime is the only thing keeping us from becoming just like them...!"

As the Raconteur soldiered on, Louie sat nearby, sitting among the adults, who had been full of apologies moments before, but were now full of games and mischief. Darts was the name of the game, and Louie tried not to beat them too badly.

"Triple 18! I guess I win."

The laughs were a little less frequent on this side of the room as the men betting against the plainly-dressed American gringo shelled out their meager pocket change to the Zillionaire. Louie, for his part, laughed heartily and walked straight up to the bar with his winnings, paying for a round of drinks for all of his new friends around the dartboard. With a cheer, the board was set up again and the new bets were made. After all, it must have been beginner's luck that allowed the friendly American to beat their best player so badly.

Elsewhere, at a smaller table by the wall, Dewey sat away from the raucous party he did not feel comfortable in, between José and Panchito as they spoke of the past and of the present. Webby sat next to him, her arms yearning to encircle her boss's.

"This town seems to love you very much," said José, looking out over the festive tavern with an appreciative eye, "You seem to have done well."

"Si! You can thank your Oncle Donald for that, Dewey," He quaffed his beer, before wiping his beak on his sleeve and continuing, "The open range has always been my dream, even if the business is being taken over by all those new devices and machines, I know I can get by with just horses, fences, and open farm country, and of course my wonderful town!"

In answer, every man, woman and child in the bar answered with a bright yell of happiness, which Panchito in turn answered with a bright, beaming smile.

Dewey held back his opinions on this very un-economical way of thinking about things, figuring he should not insult the man who had threatened to shoot him only moments before.

"Mr... er... Panchito..."

"Please Señorita! Simply Panchito is nice."

"Yes. Panchito. You weren't really going to shoot us, were you?" asked Webby, with a pleasant smile.

"You? Of course not miss. These... what do you say? Peas-shooters are only for to show my emotions! I never use them on friends... I..."

"Panchito," said a grim-sounding voice, before he launched into some Spanish. José seemed to lose his ever present smirk, and Panchito all but grimaced at the news.

The voice had come from a short crow, holding a shotgun up to the back of a masked man, a dog, wearing a brightly-colored poncho with a string of numbers on the front. Dewey felt a thrill as he recognized the surefire signs.

"A Beagle Boy!" He called, "Here?"

"They live all over, Dewey, and breed like rabbits." Panchito nodded towards José. "Please. I must deal with this." He then stood and grabbed the Beagle roughly by the shoulder, "Well, Bandito Beagle, I'm sorry to say, but you've rustled my herd for long enough. Sooner or later we shall have your whole gang."

The Beagle's eyes went wide as he was lead out the door of the bar by the rooster. The room, Webby noticed, had gotten a little quieter, as everyone seemed to listen out for their patriarch. As soon as the two had disappeared into the dark outside, the room seemed to pick up again.

BANG!

Dewey and Webby looked at each other, then back to the door. Panchito walked back inside, blowing smoke from his revolver. He holstered it before jerking a thumb out the door, signaling for the crow to clean up the mess outside.

"Anyway! Where were we?" He thought for a moment, not letting Dewey and Webby's stunned reactions get him down, "Ah yes! I would never turn my gun on you fellows. You are like my family."

Dewey couldn't help but think about the fact that Panchito did not know they were family until José spoke up. He just couldn't stop thinking about it, nor could he stop thinking about himself in place of the Beagle Boy outside. He couldn't stop thinking about both facts. He couldn't stop.

Webby placed a hand on his arm, "Panchito, José, We've had a long day, and I think we need to get to bed."

"Oh! Are you sure Señorita? The night is still young!"

"Oh, you can't imagine the jet lag we all have after all that travelling. Come along, Dewey. We'll get you turned in first."

"Er... Yes. Goodnight José. Goodnight Panchito. And thank you once again."

"Don' mention it at all! I'm sure your Oncle would have done the same for my little ones," He said, with a light look towards his little grandchildren gathered around the storytelling Huey.

"An' mine, I'm sure," parroted José, giving a sly look towards his three little girls still fawning over the same storyteller, and smirking at Huey's predicament.

After Dewey and Webby said their goodnights and began up the stairs towards their room, Dewey heard José and Panchito begin to speak. It sounded like Spanish one minute, but like Portuguese the next, and all throughout English words would rear up their heads. The effect was almost entirely unintelligible to the outside listener. Dewey spent a moment as he walked up the stairs trying to discern what the speech was, before realizing what it must be.

They're speaking Caballero, he thought, before giving a single look back towards their table. Both had stopped speaking and were staring quite openly at Louie, who was too busy with games to notice their attentions.

***

It had taken much drinking and many more, different game before his new Mexican best friends had let him finally crawl up to bed, trying his best to act as drunk as they obviously were. He idly wished he could have actually drunk the beer he had pretended to quaff, like his brother Huey did as he continued spinning fish stories for the village kids, but he wanted to explore the town, such as it is, and it would be dangerous to roof-hop even these puny dwarfs with alcohol in his system. Better to abstain until another night, when he was sure there was nothing in the town that could go wrong like there usually happened to be when they visited, well, anywhere.

He adjusted his mask. His costume supplies were running low, including his sad little bottle of spirit gum. He knew he was going to have to either find some other way to cover his face, or start using the kind of mask with the little string.

But no matter, those are trifles for another day, for another person. In the warm embrace of the southern night, the Green Phantom listened to the dead heat of the night, to the vestiges of the party still raging within the tavern, and too the distant sounds of cows, being utterly fascinating.

It is a single, unchallenging jump from one roof to the next, But with the roofs too low to swing over the dirt-lined streets without his legs touching the ground. Instead, he made do with jumping down into the gaps between the buildings before looking out the alley for a clear coast. He then rushed out, exposing himself to the bright moonlight for only a second before disappearing back into the alley across and back up to the roof.

The Green Phantom's patrol went on like this for several minutes, until he had surveyed the entire town. As he began his second lap around, he began to feel a little pang of disappointment.

To relieve it, he stopped rushing about so fast, a pace meant for large towns, or considered a leisurely stroll in large cities. He tried to notice his surroundings, looking out for the signs of people; a dusty footprint; laundry left out to dry; Children's toys lying around in front of porches. He noticed something as he oversaw the town from atop the tavern like a dark gargoyle, or, more accurately, he noticed the lack of something.

From watching Panchito, and how he operated his town, he would have thought that there would be a nightly guard at the edges of the streets where the village ended and the ranch began. At the moment there was nobody.

Perhaps they're all still at the party, he thought idly, but then he remembered the crow who had produced the Mexican Beagle Boy, how he hadn't seen him at the celebration, or any other blackbirds for that matter, even though there were a fair few who had captured them in the first place. Perhaps I simply can't see them, he then thought, It's quite dark.

But no. The best defense for a town like this is to have someone sitting high and visible, to let bandits and rustlers know that this area is being protected. That doesn't fit with having stealth guards. Once he had realized this fact, he began to tread a little more carefully.

He found the tallest place in the village, a bell tower, and jumped inside, being careful not to disturb the bell. He looked out over the entire town from there, and began to sigh. This is what he had to look forward to for the foreseeable future; the exact center of nowhere, Mexico, Population in the double digits, where everybody knows your name and there's some pretty nice beer but nowhere to get a decent hot doughnut at four in the morning, or anything else for that matter. He began to pine a bit. This adventure had led him down a downward urban spiral, until he had finally found stability, joy of joys, surrounded by walking leather jackets and steaks. Against his better judgment, he began to wish that something would happen here, to spin the wheel and sent them living somewhere else again, preferably somewhere with indoor plumbing.

Just as he had thought this, he heard a loud, disorienting noise from behind him. His ears rang, resonating with the churchbell that had detonated behind him, and he turned around quickly, holding his hands to his ears. His eyes went wide as he saw the giant brass monster enter a downswing coming right towards him. Just before the extended lip of the bell could smash into him, he fell backwards off of the tower, chancing a couple cracked ribs over an entire crushed ribcage, reaching for his grappling hook. He was too slow, however, to outrun the church roof a mere single story down from his perch, and he struck the thin boards and shingles hard, breaking a hole clean through.

He struck a rotted old rafter as he descended, breaking it clean apart with a loud crack, before landing, finally, in the pews, cracking one of the long church benches right in half.

He gave a lurching groan as he tried to stand, something on the side paining him. A cracked rib, like he predicted. He was still alert, even hunched over a bench in pain, and noticed a sound, a horribly familiar sound, behind him. He turned quickly, trying to stand up through the stabbing pain in his chest bones, and managed to give a convincing imitation of a stand-at-attention.

The black cape and costume tipped him off first, the single-eyed mask last. Somewhere in between came the lined face and usual duck features.

"Yo-" It hurt to speak. He had a small thrill of terror at what this might mean, before he went on, forcing himself through the pain, "You again."

The man said nothing, instead letting his wide cape billow behind him as he leapt towards the Green Phantom, tackling him to the ground. He applied pressure to the offending rib, causing GP to scream out in pain, before swiping out with his hands.

There they were, two costumed vigilantes, rolling around the dirt floor of a village church, wrestling, trying to wrest control of the situation from the other. Grunts and yells were voiced, lost in the night air. Every so often someone's hand would strike out, trying to find purchase in a face or gut, or a foot would swing around, trying to connect with something soft and vulnerable. The Green Phantom had fire in his eyes as he used his strong arms to push and pull his opponent off of him, away from him, towards him, trying to get him into a useful position where the advantage would go to the Phantom. However, The Green Phantom could feel the years his opponent had on him, the subtle maneuvers that gave him the advantage, the not so subtle abuse of GP's wounds for his own sake. It was all he could do keep his head above water, with nothing to say of winning.

Finally, GP found an opening, using both legs to push the black clad hero off of himself, and scrambling to his feet, not even noticing the pain in his ribs anymore.

"Who are you!" he yelled, "Why are you following us! I demand to know who you are!"

The one eyed vigilante slowly stood to his feet, before saying, "I am known by many names, in many places."

"Just one will do, buddy."

The figure paused, his single eye unmoving as he sized up the Phantom. He straightened out, spreading his shoulders apart and puffing his chest out.

"You may call me... PK."

"PK. What's that stand for?"

But the one known as PK avoided the question, "I've been watching you all for some time."

"That goes without saying."

"You in particular, Louie. You have assigned yourself as a protector, one who defends the rights and freedoms of others, and yet you are unfocussed. Your skills, though many, are ill-used or downright ignored."

"Cry me a (ow) god damn river. I'm doing the best that I can."

"Which is exactly why you are not worthy of your position," PK said, "All three of you have had to learn your own way, Huey using the easy way he fits in most places, Dewey using his knowledge of money. Both of them respected the gift Scrooge left you all."

"Is this...? Are you talking about the inheritance?"

PK continued, "Instead of relying on yourself, on the training you had received by virtue of your past, you chose to buy things, to try to use Scrooge's money as a crutch."

Louie's eyes broke, and began to look away, "I... So? It's my money now. I used it for useful... for supplies. You don't really expect me to be like... like Dewey do you? I couldn't live like that."

"I expect you to use what you have. You already had everything you needed to be a hero by the time you had grown, and yet..."

"Fine! Fine! The toys were a bad idea. I'll never do it again, boo hoo. (urg, boo-hoos hurt) But who are you? Really?"

"You don't remember...?"

At this, Louie strained his memory, trying to find who this strange rogue would represent. After a moment, he blinked.

"There... In Duckburg there was a masked man like you once..."

"Yes?"

"Just for awhile, after Uncle Donald had come back from the war and Gizmoduck had moved to Saint Canard. He... That was you, wasn't it? God, I can't even remember your hero name."

PK said nothing.

"So you're trying to tell me you're some... some ghost from our past who chose now, in our darkest hour, to come in and beat us up? Some hero."

"I've come to test you, to make you all better. You are the one that needs the most improvement."

Breathing hard, the Green Phantom lowered down, to a more useful position, like a coiled spring. PK did similarly, reading the intent for a fight on the younger Duck's face and body language.

"I'll show you a test (ow dammit) you'll never forget."

After a moment of silence, the two masked figures exploded, leaping towards each other like two wildcats, screaming with ragged duck voices on their approaches.

***

José was up early, sitting next to a window by the tavern, a cup of tea warming his throat as he glanced nervously out the window. The drawn curtain over the window let none of the dawn light in, except for the moments where he moved the rough cloth out of the way to let in a bit of light, and let himself see out into the grey morning.

"You're up early," said a voice, Dewey, "why...?"

José looked up at Dewey's face, kindly, with a weary smile, "I suppose I'm so used to rising early to make breakfast for guests. Even with last night's festivities, I cannot break a habit." He lowered his eyelids and gave Dewey a strange, smirking glance, "What is your excuse? I hope you slept well."

Dewey's eyes looked away, even as his face rose up to meet José's, "I... slept fine."

"That is good."

"Yes."

"Sleep gives you strength for the next day."

"Y-yes."

"So it is a very good thing you had a good night's sleep..."

"Right."

"And haven't simply stayed up all night fretting or some such."

"I..."

But José had finished the conversation, and had moved on, speaking as he looked out the window, "I'm worried about our Phantom friend."

Dewey breathed out, letting the hot stone of guilt settle back down in his stomach for later, "Green Phantom? Did he go out?"

"Louie left the party early. He was clearly drunk while going up the stairs and yet was sober as a grave in the hall. This of course has nothing to do with the Green Phantom..."

"...right. And he hasn't come back?"

"I worry about him. I worry about all three of you. Before you came to me in Rio I only remembered you as sweet leetle boy scouts, and now I know you as... I hate to say it... You have grown into men and I never even got to meet you in between. I worry."

Dewey nodded and sat, taking a teacup from the tray and measuring himself out a cup, "You don't have to worry, José. We can take care of ourselves."

José didn't seem to listen, and went on, "I worry about you, Huey, an' how much he seems to hate poor Donal' for leaving you all. I can't begin to understan' it, but I cannot judge. I worry about Louie, and whatever is driving him out into the street when he should be in bed sleeping."

"We..." Dewey began to speak, "Our parents..."

José seemed interested, but deferred to his better judgement, "You do not have to tell me if you do not wish to. I cannot pry where I do not belong."

"No! I... It's just that our... father died when we were very young."

"I am sorry."

"It was... It wasn't really any of our faults. It was just a silly prank that went out of hand. We'd gotten our hands on some fireworks, and wanted to give our father a scare, and... Well..."

"I see. And your mother?"

Dewey sighed and took a sip, feeling the weight of the information lifting off of him, "We've never really... We never talk about this, even with each other, but I just know how much it affects Huey... affects all of us in a way. Our Mother had a nervous breakdown after Father died, and she sent us to live with our Uncle Donald before she jumped off of the roof of the tallest building she could find in Duckburg." He closed his eyes and gulped. "Nobody even let us know she was dead until we were teenagers. We all thought she was in a home somewhere. When they finally let us know she was dead, we went searching for her obituary, but couldn't find it. It was finally Louie who went searching the records at the library, and found out we and been lied to for ten years.

"Of course, even before that, Huey... Huey suffered without a mother, you know? Louie and I, I think we turned out just fine. Donald and Uncle Scrooge were the best parents we could have ever had, but Huey felt like he had been betrayed or something. When Uncle Donald re-upped with the Navy during Korea, well, none of us were ever the same. Huey was the first to move out, and you know how he gets when anyone ever talks about Uncle Donald. Louie, on the other hand, clung to Donald like a leech or something. I... Well... I thought I would try to follow in Uncle Scrooge's footsteps."

Leaning back, José added, "Just three leetle boys who want to be loved, eh?"

"I... suppose."

"You are much more observant than I give you credit for, Dewey." José took a final sip of his tea before putting the cup down. "Or at least you used to be."

Sensing the conversation taking a nasty turn, Dewey looked down into his tea, trying to lose himself in it.

"Of the three of you, I worry about you most of all. You know? I watch you. You do not eat, you do not sleep. You barely notice the people around you except when they are talking to you or talking about money." He held up his hand. "The other two, they love Oncle Donald. They learned from Oncle Donald. They were raised by Oncle Donald." He held up his other. "You however..."

"I know, Oncle... I mean, Uncle Scrooge. I admire him. Is that wrong?"

"Of course not, and if you are happy, he will be happy, but you have to do what you want, not what you think he wants from you." Before Dewey could protest, José went on. "Do you want to be a businessman?"

"Yes, of course!"

"A good strong answer. I believe you. So why are you miserable?"

"I... I'm not..."

"You are and there is no use denying it. You were happy when you were running my Pousada, even if it was a funny sort of happy, and you were held back by the need to stay small, but when you are at the head of McDuck, or even THINK about being at the head of McDuck, you break out in ulcers and you do not eat. It is because you wish to make your own business, yes?"

"No! I've still got to run McDuck Enterprises."

"You will never be Scrooge McDuck, Dewey."

"But I can try, dammit. The company can still grow and change, and become mine..."

"You still carrying around your Oncle's dime?"

"Er... yes..."

"Louie told me about it, about how Scrooge's will say's that the Dime be used."

"Yes, I know."

"That he wanted you to let go of it. Let go of him. Be free to make your own choices and fortunes."

"I know."

"And yet..."

"I..." Dewey stood, his brow creasing. "I can't believe I'm talking about this. Thanks for the tea."

"I can make you some breakfast if you would like."

"No, thank you!" said Dewey curtly, before something large wrapped in a blue tarp with twine came crashing through the window, sending broken glass and the rough curtain billowing to the floor.

Both men cried out for a moment, José standing up, dropping the teacup to the dirt floor with a crash. For a moment, the two men and the tarp-wrapped thing were motionless, waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, the tarp twitched.

Dewey's eyes were wide.

"José! Go get Huey and the others," He said, dropping to his knees and whipping off his jacket to brush off the shards of glass on the tarp, "And Panchito as well. I think he should see this."

"Si! S- Si!" And he was gone, up the stairs to alert Huey and Webby of the event. He resolved, however, to let his daughters sleep.

Dewey's hands found the knot on the twine, and hacked at it with a butterknife from the tea tray. If finally gave out just as Huey came down, bleary-eyed and still in dreamland, followed by Webby, same.

"Wha' happened?" asked Huey.

But Dewey didn't answer, he merely pulled apart the tarp, revealing what was inside.

There, laying near motionless except for the natural movement of breath, was Louie Duck, his mask ripped from his face and torn in half. His body was blue and purple from welts and bruises, and in a few places blood drained from open wounds.

"Louie!" cried Webby.

"What happened?"

Dewey reached over to a piece of ripped up paper stuck to the 'GP' on his brother's costume with a pin, and pulled it closer to read it.

An accountant is being held in the Khan Building.
-PK, A friend.

"PK?" asked Huey, looking over Dewey's shoulder at the brief note. "We can't trust this, can we? Look what... He massacred Louie!"

"You're right. We can't... AH!" He called out in surprise as Louie's bloodied knuckles rose up and grasped Dewey's wrist in a crushing grip.

"T... t...."

Webby was on her knees at Louie's side, already using a towel soaked in strong spirits retrieved from behind the bar to clean the blood and disinfect the wound, "Please, Louie. Don't talk. You're going to be all right."

"Y... you... have... to..." He had a sharp intake of breath, his eyes blinking away the pain, "Trust... him..."

He then passed out completely, leaving the three ducks to ponder the message.

Notes on Episode 13

2009-06-29T21:48:00.000-07:00

Because I'm not sure if I've written the relationships of the family shown early in the chapter in a coherent way, or maybe haven't presented them in a way that readers will be able to get, I'm going to explain it here, behind spoiler tags in case you want to try to figure it out yourself and then check your work against what I had.

Read Chapter 13 first, although that should go without saying.

Okay, so, Goofy is Goofy. This is the Goofy that is close friends with Mickey and Donald, and the most visible Goofy in most material. This is also the Goofy that is shown in Cartoon shorts married, with a kid named, variously, Junior, Buster, or George. He is also the first Super Goof. In this story, he is the one shown briefly reading the newspaper.

Junior is another Goofy. This is the first Goofy's little boy from the shorts where he was married. I went with calling him "George Goof Jr." and relegated "Buster" to just one of those things parents say. I also decided that since "George" is the closest thing to an official name we have for the kid in the shorts, and he is also known as Junior, we can assume that the original Goofy's name is actually George, and Goofy is a nickname. I tried to call him "Junior" mostly to keep that from getting confusing or too controversial. When he was grown, this Goofy went off to Saint Canard with the super-goobers to inherit the title of "Super Goof." Later on, he married, and had a child. Then I guess the Fridge lanterns got to her, because there is hide nor hair of her in Goof Troop. Not long after, the events of this story occurred and he was forced to move in with his father, Goofy, in Spoonerville. This is the Goofy that we know from Goof Troop. If you don't know, this is Junior, who Gizmoduck tried to interrogate.

Max, is, of course, the baby. Goof Troop happens chronologically after this story, in about nine or ten years, after the original Goofy, Max's Grandfather, passes away.

Hope that made sense.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 13

2009-06-29T21:42:00.001-07:00

Howdy, everybody. Episode 13 here, coming atcha. And also watch out for a little extra bit I'm going to post a little later. Nothing to do with the story, just another unimportant little notation about this chapter

Lazy Drawfaggery today. I enjoyed writing for Horace and Clarabell yesterday, and Horace Horsecollar is such a seldom-used character, so I drew some Horace being old, homophobic, and crotchety, but was too lazy to color it. Oh well.

Speaking of Homophobia, I didn't even realize that I posted the last chapter, Homer-sexuals and all during Gay Pride weekend. Nothing important, but I lol'd when I realized.

Anyway, as usual, enjoy.
---

Episode 13

The telephone receiver was placed on the cradle smoothly, but with enough force to cause the bell inside to give a small, pathetic chime. The orange, striped hand then moved from over the phone to grab a very expensive black steel pen from its cradle, before reading through a contract in front of him. There was a knock at the door.

"Enter." Said Farid Kagan, not quite an order, but not quite a request either.

The door opened up and there was a sound like a bicycle on carpet. Farid looked up to see the chrome-plated Duck of Steel, Gizmoduck, standing sheepishly with his hands behind his back.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Gizmo. Can you sit in that suit?"

"It's very difficult to stand afterwards sir, I'd rather stay on my wheel."

"Very well." Farid then opened a drawer. His face was perfectly neutral throughout all of this. He reached into the drawer and placed the file he obtained on the table, opening it up. "Dewey Duck has disappeared from my information network."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Quite. They have been missing ever since my... agents in Brazil tried to flush them out. Unfortunately, they escaped."

Gizmoduck nodded, wondering where his boss was going with this.

"However, I have recently gotten a whiff of one of the group's allies." He then reached into the file and threw a stack of photos out on the table. At first glance there seemed to be nothing there, but upon closer inspection there seemed to be something moving too fast for the camera to see without blurring. Something purple.

"D- Darkwing Duck?"

"Yes, your old friend Darkwing is in league with the terrorists."

"H- he's no friend of mine, sir," Insisted Gizmo, "Just another dangerous vigilante. Where were these pictures taken?"

"This one," He pointed it out, "Duckburg, but I doubt the hens would roost so close to the fox's den. These two," He pointed, "Were taken in Spoonerville and Mouseton respectively. One of those two places is most likely where they would be holing up. I want you to fly out to Calisota and search for them."

Gizmoduck rolled forward and looked at the pictures, allowing his suit's Heads Up Display to automatically scan the photos for any recognizable signs. There was no doubt that the purple blur was Darkwing Duck.

"I'll search Spoonerville first, sir. It's further away, but it's larger, and there's a lead there I've been meaning to try."

"Very well. You may go." Farid then lowered his face down to his papers and that was the end of that.

After a pause, during which Gizmo stared at the photos, he turned on his wheel and left the room.

***

Using those resources available to only the most high-tech of heroes, Gizmoduck found himself searching Spoonerville the next day. The Noon sun beat down on the scene of Gizmoduck rolling out in the open paved sidewalk, as people watering their lawns and pruning their bushes stared at the metal man rolling past. Looking around, Gizmo opened up a compartment on his chest, and made a ringing buzz as a photo printed quickly out of it.

He inspected the photo, the last publicly available picture of Dewey Duck, taken shortly after he and his brother had taken over the family business. He was shown standing next to his brother in nearly identical business suits, with a determined scowl directly at the cameraman on his face the only thing setting him apart from his brother's easygoing smirk and slightly wandering eyes. They are walking down Killmotor Hill together, standing next to a sign that said "Intruders will be met with siege weaponry," and approaching a large crowd of paparazzi in the foreground, held back by a set of guards standing at the opening of the barbed wire fence. If Gizmoduck remembered the news of the day, the picture was taken days after Dewey and Louie had taken over the business, and a couple months after Huey had disappeared.

Looking up from the photo, Gizmoduck began to scan the area around him. It was a small suburb of low, almost identical houses standing side by side on a wide street, with every modern convenience. Gizmo focused in on a car stopping nearby. He had already searched he town quite thoroughly, but for this area, and was content to give up the search and head out to Mouseton after asking just one more person who was likely to know. As the young man, a dog with a long face ending in a pair of gapped buck-teeth, stepped out of his car, Gizmo hailed him.

"Just a moment, citizen!" said Gizmoduck, "I'd like a word."

The man turned and started for a moment, before answering back, sullenly, "You're that... Gizmo-guy, from Duckburg."

"Gizmoduck. And I have a few questions."

"Uh..."

Gizmo held up the photo and pointed towards the scowling Dewey, "Have you seen this man?"

After an uncomfortable pause, the young man took up the picture, scratching his chin as he stared at it. His eyebrows raised as his eyes swiveled up to meet Gizmoduck's visor. "Aren't these those bazillionaire Duck brothers?"

"Yes."

His brows rose even further as he looked at the picture with newfound interest, "I haven't really seen them. I don't know why they would be around here."

"I've been asking around the city for any possible leads or connections. You and your father are the last connection I must investigate before I leave."

"Me?" asked the dog, his floppy ears twitching as his drew back slightly, "Why would...?"

"Your father had a connection to their Uncle. Both lived in Mouseton before World War 2, and were quite close. They apparently worked together along with a third friend, a Mr. Mouse..."

"Listen, buddy, I barely know anything about any of that."

"Your father never told you about his friend in Duckburg, or about his nephews?"

"Of course he did, but they were just stories. Donald Duck was a minor celebrity thanks to that rich uncle of his, and whenever he would appear in the papers or whatever, Dad would point him out and tell him they used to solve mysteries in Mouseton or whatever. After the war he and that Duck guy only saw each other a few times." The Dog crossed his arms, "I never even met him, and now you want to know if I'm hiding his terrorist nephews, is that it?"

Gizmoduck did not flinch at the Dog's accusatory tone, "More or less." He then moved his head over to the house in front of which the young man had stopped, "Is your father in?"

The dog's eyebrows came together as he gave a sideways glance towards the house. He turned his eyes back towards the hero, "He's not home. He'll be gone for the whole weekend. I'm watering his plants."

"May I search...?"

"No. No you may not, not unless you come back with a warrant or whatever it is you hero-types need to poke around other people's property."

"I assure you, I mean no harm or offense." Gizmo nodded. "If he is not at home, I can come back another time."

"Good, you do th-"

However, before the dog could finish speaking, they both heard a baby's cry coming from the house. The Dog's expression was one of worry, before he realized what that meant for Gizmoduck.

"The baby is all alone?" asked the Duck, "In his grandfather's house?"

"N-no. Of course not," said the dog, "There's a babysitter."

"Why can the babysitter not water the plants?"

"Look, You're not welcome here, tinman. Just go back to the city and leave us alone." The dog then turned up the drive and began to walk towards the house.

"There... IS one more connection between you and the others."

The young man stopped, and looked over his shoulder, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hero, Super-Goof. Apparently a legacy hero, who has roots in Mouseton while your father lived there. He appeared in Saint Canard at about the same time that you moved there with your wife and disappeared recently, after he was nearly caught for violating the Hero registration act. You moved to Spoonerville from Saint Canard at the same time that he disappeared, didn't you?"

"Don't do this, Gizmo."

"Known allies: Darkwing Duck, a dangerous rogue hero in league with the terrorists Huey, Dewey, and Louie Duck. Now, tell me, Mr. Goof. Is this a coincidence?"

"Leave us alone. We don't know anything."

"Junior! Junior, is that you?"

"Damn! I'll be there in a minute, Dad!" He then rounded on Gizmoduck, "And you, stay away from us, or..."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Goof?"

"N-No. I'm... We don't know anything. G'bye." He turned back around and quickly walked towards the house.

Gizmo approached, regret in his voice, "I was hoping you could make this easy Mr. Goof, but I'm afraid we're going to have to do this the hard way."

As the dog walked up the drive, he began to reach for a small bag in his pocket. A bag of addictive little peanuts that he promised himself he had given up. "Y'don't want to do this Gizmo. You know you're way out of my league."

As Gizmoduck approached, readying an appropriate gadget for the situation, Junior pulled out the bag and was about to reach for one of the little super goobers, when the bag was suddenly wrenched from his hands by a whistling arrow with a boxing glove attached instead of an arrowhead. His head twisted around to see a purple-clad figure crouching up on top of the roof.

"I wouldn't do that, Junior," Said Darkwing Duck, "Not if you want to live."

"Darkwing!" cried Junior, before he continued on, "You said If I drove 'im off you'd leave my family alone! You promised!"

"I lied. It's the kind of person I am." She knocked another arrow, a sharp one, and pointed squarely at the dog, before letting it fly.

A large mechanical arm erupted from behind the dog and shielded his body from the arrow.

"Darkwing Duck!" cried Gizmo, sprouting a helicopter and chasing after Darkwing, who began to run across the suburban rooftops, occasionally covering her trail with smoke, "Darkwing!"

As the two heroes chased off into the distance, the dog surreptitiously retrieved his bag, before stepping calmly into the house. He was greeted by his father sitting on an easy-chair, reading a paper, having not been paying attention to anything happening outside.

"What was all that commotion, Junior?"

"Nothin' Dad," he said, "Is little Maxie...?"

"He's a-sleepin'," said the older Dog with a smile.

George "Goofy" Goof Jr. nodded with a smile, and went to see his son in the nursery. He stepped into the room quietly, careful not to disturb the small resting bundle. He bent over the baby's crib and gingerly picked the child up, cradling him in his strong arms.

They simply stood for a moment like that, Junior supporting little Max in his arms, trying his best to match his breathing to the slow inhales and exhales of the sleeping angel. He thought of Max's mother, who died in the city, a victim of his dangerous former profession, and tightened his hold on the baby briefly, before relaxing once again and resuming the relaxed stance of a father cradling his only child. Their moment of bonding was interrupted, however, by a small noise by the window.

"After I came home I promised I would stay out of the game for good, newbie," said Goofy Junior, quietly, "My little son's already lost his mother. He doesn't need to lose a father as well. This is the very last thing I do 'afore I retire. Understand?"

The Green Phantom sat in the windowsill, nodding. "Where's Darkwing?"

"Keepin' Gizmoduck busy." Carefully, Junior disengaged one of his arms from the baby and reached underneath the mattress of the crib, "I just hope he bought Darkwing taking my family hostage. She gave me this to give you. Better hurry. She can't keep him away for long. I want this out of my father's house before he gets back."

It was a thick binder with the McDuck Enterprises logo on the side. He placed it on a small table on one side of the room before he resumed supporting the baby with both arms. Soundlessly, the Green Phantom shuffled through the room like a ghost, before picking it up and opening it.

"Perfect. Thank you."

"Just go," he said, "And don't come back."

And so, Green Phantom was gone just as quietly and quickly as he left, leaving Junior holding the baby close to his chest.

"That was that, Max," said Junior, "That was that. No more danger. I left you alone for too long and for too many nights already. I'll never leave you again. I'm your father, and I'll always be by your side."

***

"Come back here!" called Gizmoduck, his voice amplified by his suit, "You are under citizen's arrest."

"Give it a rest Gizmo!" cried Darkwing, confident his metallic ears could hear her, "You'll never catch up!"

She then gave a big jolly laugh as she jumped along the roofs, double backing and using tricks of smoke and light to cover her trail. Gizmo, still following by the air, lost track of her as she disappeared in a puff of smoke. He circled around, switching his visor to Infared vision to try to pick up Darkwing's heat signature.

There, along the sunbaked roofs, he could see a small bit of raised body temperature beyond the smoke. He went into a dive towards it, cutting the power to his helicopter, before pointing himself head down with arms outstretched in a dive. He struck the lit-up object, rolling as he tackled it, before switching off his thermal vision.

"Wha-?" he cried, before the space heater, turned up all the way and attached to another smoke bomb, exploded in his face. He was knocked back, but unharmed, except for the strange irritation in his nose.

He sneezed at the pink powder. He sneezed again, trying to roll away from the irritant. He sneezed again, the vibrations of his whole-body convulsion causing him to lose his balance and fall from the roof he was standing on, landing in a flower patch and macking up someone's prize rose bushes.

As he laid out over the bushes, he flailed his arms in anger, his metallic fists shaking with righteous fury, "That was a dirty trick!"

"There's no fair play in this game, Gizmo. You should realize that," said the voice of Darkwing, from a fair distance away.

Suddenly, a screaming woman with a broom came flying out of the house, giving Gizmoduck several wallops. Gizmo held up his arms to shield himself from the blows as he rolled back into the street and began to try triangulating where Darkwing's voice was coming from.

"Spoken like a true hoodlum," said Gizmoduck in answer, while picking straw from the broom out of his joints, "Your kind of darkness isn't needed in my town or anyone else's, Darkwing!"

"It ain't your town," said Darkwing, from elsewhere. Gizmoduck looked around wildly, his triangulation instruments confused by the rapidly moving Darkwing. "Saint Canard was never your town before you jumped into Farid Kagan's pocket, and it isn't yours now."

"And I suppose it was yours?"

"Of course not," She said, "It's not about owning anything. It's about respect. Something you have a surprisingly low amount of."

Gizmoduck rolled up, a sly smile before he said, "Is that what you call protecting dangerous terrorist masterminds? Respect? Well I call that..." He suddenly twisted around and extended his arm. A giant solid Steel boxing glove on a spring popped out, blasting up against a fence and blowing a hole through it and what was behind it, "...EVIL!"

He rolled quickly to check the damage, expecting to find Darkwing's dazed body. However, he merely found a warm speaker with a conspicuous hole through it where the boxing glove passed right through. He turned his head around, to look across the street, down the street, and up in the air.

"You don't have all the fact, Gizmo. You're going off half-cocked, as usual," taunted Darkwing, "If I'm right, you must have known the Duck brothers when they were just kids. What makes you so sure they would do something like hire the beagle boys to attack Duckburg?"

"Whether or not I think they're guilty is immaterial! They are wanted by the law." Gizmo continued to roll along as he searched and kept Darkwing talking. "If they are innocent I believe the power of the due process of the law will find them so. If they are guilty then so be it."

"It must be wonderful to be so naïve, Gizmo," said Darkwing's voice, much closer than last time, "You should know that your boss can throw as much money as he can at keeping those Ducks framed for just as long as it takes for the jury to declare a guilty verdict."

"Mr. Kagan is not the enemy here. My... My mentor trusts him, and I always trust what my mentor says."

"Well, isn't that just dandy."

Suddenly, an arrow struck Gizmoduck right in the face. The gas-chamber on the tip exploded, sending a grey colored gas spraying into his nostrils.

"Hey! Why... I... Ooog.." said Gizmo, as his arms and head went limp, while the balancers in his wheel kept him sleeping upright. Darkwing swooped in from his hiding place and with a determined expression on her face.

That will only last for a few minutes, She thought, and I only have a few of them. Hopefully I can keep him busy long enough for Louie to get out of town with that binder. It may be our only chance at clearing Dewey's name.

***

Domestic life, such as it is, had taken over the Mouseton homestead while Louie was away. The single room was alive with the three girls, lead by the intrepid organizer Webigail Vanderquack, making sure every surface was spotless and tidy, as the three men, lead by José Carioca wielding a hot plate and some cheap pots and pans, put together a modest dinner on their shoestring budget. Dewey was in the process of peeling a potato with a swiss army knife, while His brother sliced them up into small chunks. They both worked quickly and efficiently.

José smiled broadly as he stood over the hot broth, "Now where do two city-slicker trillionaires learn to peel potatoes like champien's?"

"Junior Woodchucks, Duckburg branch," answered Huey, dropping the sliced potato chunks in a bowl with a flourish, "And lots and lots of practice."

"Uncle Scrooge was always taking us on expeditions and treasure hunts," Dewey said, "We got used to using our Woodchuck training nearly all the time, although..." He put down his knife and shook out his hand, "...Louie was always the better woodchuck out of us. I kind of wish he was here."

"An' what did your Oncle Donal' do on these trips? I remember the last time I saw him he told us about your Oncle Scrooge, an' finding all those treasures an' secret places."

Huey seemed to mentally cool, and so Dewey spoke up, "He, er, He helped. He was a big help."

"Yeah, somebody's got to do all the unskilled labor," sniped Huey.

Dewey gave Huey a sidelong glance, but didn't dispute what his brother said. "Essentially, Uncle Donald was the, er, Muscle."

"You mean like an enforcer?"

"Er, yeah. Sure. Uncle Scrooge was a firecracker when you got between him and his money, but he was an old man by the time we knew him, and we were no slouches, but you just couldn't beat our Uncle Donald when he got wound up about something."

Huey said nothing, as loudly as possible. José couldn't help but notice Huey's cool relationship with his Uncle, and decided to skip it.

"And tell me more of these Janitor Woodchives. I believe we have them in Brazil."

"You probably do," said a voice behind them, "We're like resourceful, well-informed rats. We're everywhere."

"Louie!" cried Huey and Dewey happily as they saw their brother enter the room from the windowsill. The beaming happiness on Dewey's face caused Webby to pause in mid-order to the three girls and smile.

"You miss me?" said Louie as he reached behind himself to retrieve the binder, "I brought you a present, Dewey, to pay you back for that beautiful scotch we had the other night."

"And that hangover you had the nex' morning," volunteered José.

Dewey stood quickly and snatched the binder out of Louie's hands. In a moment it was open on his lap as he sat on the couch, kicking up a large cloud of dust. Webby gave a dirty look to Amalia, who had the good graces to look sheepish.

"This... This is great." He flipped ahead a few pages, reading them over quickly. "The entire last two years of McDuck Enterprises records, along with accounts, money, and all the little iffy business dealings that went nowhere." He looked up, "With Farid's name all over it. Darkwing...?"

"Yup. She left it with an agent in Spoonerville before giving Gizmo the slip." He gave a glance out the window, looking off into the distant direction of Spoonerville. "I hope she's all right."

As Dewey flipped through the binder, he retained the big smile on his face. As he continued to flip, the smile seemed to shrink more and more. By the time he hit the back cover, he had gained a full-on frown.

"What's wrong?" asked Huey.

"It's these records. They're cooked to perfection."

José raised up his boater to scratch his head, "Cooked? As in the potatoes?"

"No. This accounting. It's locked up tight. I thought there were holes in the accounts, but there's so much misdirection I couldn't tell you where anything went, let alone the money being filtered down through criminals in Saint Canard."

"Great. So it's useless?" asked Huey.

"'fraid so," answered Dewey, "Unless we can figure it out this binder isn't worth the paper it's printed on."

Huey and Dewey seemed to droop, but Louie refused to give up hope. As he sat on the window sill, he gave a sly smirk. "How would Farid have figured out how to work this accounting magic?"

"He'd have to use one hell of an accountant," said Dewey.

Louie pounded his palm with a fist, "So that's it! We need a bean counter to help us unravel the number knots, right?"

"But where do we find an accountant that can deal with this mess?" asked Dewey, sullenly.

"Well," began Huey, a bit unsure of his answer, "Remember that accountant Uncle Scrooge hired for a while when we were living with him?"

"Yeah!" cried Louie, "Of course! What was his name?"

However, for a moment, Louie was lit from behind by a great big spotlight. Everyone in the room shaded their eyes from the glare as Louie dived out of the way of the light, hoping his hadn't been seen.

However, "Dewey Duck and company," said an artificially amplified voice, "You and your companions should come out with your hands up, and I won't be forced to hurt any of you."

"What's happening!" cried Rosalina as she huddled with her cousins.

Louie yelled, "It's Gizmoduck! He's found us, but how?"

"He must have followed you, you dummy!" cried Huey, "Suit up everyone, and get ready for a scrap!"

***

"I will count to ten!" cried Gizmoduck as he stood out in the evening twilight, shining the spotlight from a device on his head and drawing a crowd of gawkers around him, "If you have not surrendered yourself by then I will be forced to go in and get you!"

Huey was at the window, looking out over the street and shading his eyes from the shine of the spotlight, "Gizmoduck! It's us! Don't you remember us?" he yelled, "We were friends. You used to work for our Uncle!"

"Regardless of our past, you are wanted by the authorities. I cannot stand idly by while you go free after what happened in Duckburg."

"One second, while we think this over, chum!" yelled Louie, "we always decide on things together, you see."

"All right, you three. You've got fifteen seconds, but no more!"

"Thanks!" And with that the three heads ducked down into the room and began to whisper.

Gizmoduck began to count. On one, he was confident and proud, as he was on two through eight. Once he got to nine, the whispers were still going on, and he began to strain to hear them, but they were still too low for his instruments to pick up. On ten, eleven, and twelve, he began to sweat under his armor, wondering if he gave them too much time to think. Finally, he went slightly faster on twelve through fifteen, and finally shouted, "That's it! I'm coming up," before sprouting his helicopter and coming up to the room to break up that incessant whispering.

His propeller beat the air over his head, raising his body quickly up towards the window. He got closer, keeping the spotlight, now sprouting from the side of his head while the propeller took up the top, focused hard on the window. After a moment he had a clear view of the inside, or at least clear enough without all that smoke in the way.

Smoke!?

Within, there was a huge, pervasive fire set up all around the room. Everything was ablaze, curtains, couch, tables, everything. Gizmo's eyes goggled underneath his visor as he cried out, retreating as the fire licked up out of the window. The whispers, which had been going during all of this, suddenly died out with a buzzing metallic noise, and was silent.

Resisting the urge to swear loudly, Gizmoduck ran back down to the curb, to the nearest fire Hydrant, and retrieved a long fire hose from his chest, which he unspooled and attached with swift accuracy. He then grabbed the valve with his fingers and turned it hard, pointing the hose towards the fire with his other hand. The torrent of water shot out at high pressure, and Gizmo aimed towards the blazing room. To get a better vantage point, he got out his helicopter and flew up to fight the fire on its own terms, and soon all there was left was smoke and damp steam.

He landed on the ground and turned off the water before he was suddenly surrounded by the cheering crowd of gawkers, which he couldn't escape for a minute or two.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry. I must apprehend... thank you ma'am. No sir, please. Thank you, but..."

***

"Did we lose him?" asked Dewey as the lor of them ran down an alley.

"I feel terrible about setting that fire," protested Webby, "we could have..."

"No time for looking back, Senhorita!" called out José with a big smile on his face and slightly singed hot plate in his hands.

"Ay, Tio Carioca!" cried the three girls.

"Don't relax yet in any case," said Louie as they ran out of an alley and across the street to the next one, "Gizmoduck is top-tier as far as powers are concerned. He can seriously beat feet, or, er, Wheel, when he wants to."

"But how did he find us?" said Dewey.

"I'd rather like to know if Darkwing is okay," muttered Louie with a concerned expression.

"I'd rather we stop gabbing and start running," cried Huey, "He's right behind us!"

Everyone looked over their shoulders before their legs started pumping faster.

Behind them, quickly gaining by the sky, Gizmoduck followed along, filling the air with the cliché "Come out with your hands up" retreads they had all heard a hundred times before.

"Split up!" Louie yelled as they came to the exit of the alley they were in, "Meet back at the Sea Duck!"

The group did just that. Huey and Louie broke right quickly, planning to go around and, possibly, fight their way through to the plane. José and family linked hands with each other and continued straight on towards the next alleyway.

"Dewey!" cried Webby as she grabbed his hand and pulled him along to the right.

As Gizmo came to the mouth of the alley, he was stunned for a moment as he felt the urge to chase each small group. He began to go towards the superhero's team, before getting curious about those girls he had never seen before. However, the last group, containing the ringleader, Dewey, seemed like both the easiest group to pick off and the one with the largest quarry. He landed on the ground and retracted his helicopter before rolling to the right and following Dewey and his assistant down the sidewalk.

"Stop! You are under citizen's arrest!"

Dewey and Webby ran even faster at this, sweat rolling down their brows. The binder Webby held close to her chest dug into the sides of her upper arms as she squeezed it to herself.

"What (huff puff) Can we do, Dewey?"

"Just (huff) Keep running (puff)."

They ran on, dodging around street signs and hydrants, trying to figure out the way to the Sea Duck without tipping off their pursuer to its location. Everything seemed hopeless, but they couldn't stop now, not with the evidence in their hands, and victory so close.

"Wak!" cried Webby. She had looked over her shoulder to watch the rapidly gaining hero, and hadn't even seen the fruit stand she ran straight into, flipping over the apply trays and sending herself to land painfully on the pavement behind. The binder flopped open on the ground, sliding away slightly.

"Webigail!"

"Dewey! Take the binder and go! Go!"

But he froze, staring at the binder, then at her, then at the mechanical duck. He ran to Webby without a second though and helped her up.

"No! You idiot! Not me, The book! The-"

"You two are under citizen's arrest," said Gizmoduck as his shadow loomed over the two ducks, who grasped each other for support and cowered.

Webby spoke, "Gizmoduck. It's us. Please..."

Gizmo was just about to pull out a set of his built-in handcuffs, when he finally got a good look at Webigail's face. His automatic facial recognition software began to analyze her face, bringing up a small pop-up in the corner of his vision, telling him what was known about Dewey Duck's personal assistant.

"W-webby?" said Gizmo, who was suddenly trembling, "Is... is that Webby?"

"Yes! Please! Don't turn us in!"

"B-But..." He was rooted to the spot, the hands holding the handcuffs hovering in the air, "I... I must... Webby..."

Suddenly, there was a snap, followed by a buzzing hum, and a great cry floating through the air towards them. Dewey noted that several of the lights around the block had suddenly gone out. Webby noted that behind Gizmoduck another shadowy figure was looming.

Wham! Darkwing Duck, holding in her rubber-gloved hand a cable that sparked and flashed from the exposed wires at the end, landed behind Gizmoduck. Before he could turn around, she gave a primal scream as she drove the end of the wire into Gizmo's back, sending sparks and bolts crackling up and down the Duck of Steel. Darkwing dropped the severed powerline after a moment, being careful not to touch the end with her bare foot, and yelled at Dewey and Webby.

"Get out of here!"

"Darkwing Duck!" screamed Webby.

"GO!"

Bolstered by her voice, and by the vision of Gizmoduck seizing up and falling over backwards, straight as a log, Webby and Dewey picked themselves up, each pulling desperately at the other's clothes, before Webby took the binder back up and continued to run on behind her boss. Darkwing watched them go off for a moment, before she turned back towards the immobile Gizmoduck.

"I-I can't move."

"Your suit can take it. You'll probably boot back up in a little while. Meanwhile I'm going to be elsewhere." She began to stroll off, "See you later, tinman. Have a nice life in Farid Kagan's pocket."

"Come back here! You criminal! Terrorist! Traitor! I'll get you yet Darkwing Duck! I'll get you!"

But she was already gone, back up onto the roofs and off to her many safe houses set up wherever she goes.

***

Breathing hard and ragged, Dewey and Webby ran towards the Sea Duck, whose propellers were already spinning. They forced themselves to hurry on towards the passenger side door, where Louie was waiting, waving them in. Webby threw the binder roughly inside, before clambering inside helped up by Dewey, before being followed in by Dewey himself.

Louie closed the door, and Huey started to move the plane forward through the long field they were using for a runway.

The door that connected the pilot's cabin to the passenger area suddenly slammed open, revealing Rosalina, "Behind us Huey!"

"I'm on it!"

Dewey stared out the window, seeing the chrome Duck off in the distance. He wiped the copious sweat from his brow. "Can't this cart go any faster?"

"Almost in the air, Dewey. Patience."

There were no more words after that. The plane bounced once, twice, and suddenly they cleared the trees off in the distance, with Gizmoduck following fast behind.

"Could he still follow us into the air?"

"I'd like to see him try!" called Huey.

But he did not try. Instead, as he watched the yellow plane disappear off into the distance with his quarry aboard, he slowed down, until he had stopped altogether. His hands rose up, trying to pry the helmet off of his head, forgetting for a moment that it was stuck tight until he uttered the codeword.

"B-Blathering... B-Blatherskite..."

Piece by piece, the armor began to peel off. The orange legs were revealed, stepping out of their housings within the single tire. His torso piece and arms fell away from him next, sliding over his legs and tripping him up. He fell on the soft grass, next to the marks made by the landing gear of the SeaDuck, before he crawled out of his chest plate, revealing his strong upper body and thick arms with a simple blue sweater over it.

As he sat up on his knees, his beak quivered. He reached up with his now bare hands and grasped the loosened helmet, lifting it up, revealing a pair of beady, squinting eyes on a slightly chubby face which looked as if it had been much fatter once upon a time. Dropping the helmet on the ground, he began to pat himself down, trying to find the pair of glasses he had to take off before summoning the armor, which naturally corrected his vision. He lifted them out of a pocket before replacing them on his beak and looking up and off into the distance.

"Webby. It's really you. It's been years since... since..."

Doofus Drake sat in the field, surrounded by the various pieces of the armor that made up his whole responsibility. He made no sounds and no moves, but merely moved his eyes, searching the horizon for some sign of his quarry, and for the woman he used to know riding on it with the man he swore to catch.

Ducktales: Twenty Years Later - Episode 12

2009-06-27T16:37:00.000-07:00

Kind of a shortie, but hopefully a goodie. This was one of those chapters where I just sorta blanked out for about six hours while alternating between 4chan, references on Wikipedia, and the Microsoft Word document containing the story, and when I woke up there was a chapter and I had an overwhelming urge to call my older brother who lives on the other side of the country. Pic related. Expect WORDS WORDS WORDS today.

As usual, Enjoy.

---

Episode 12:

"What a dump," said Louie, as he searched the low skylines and wide residential streets of the sleepy town below for any sign of either the modern majesty of Saint Canard, or the earnest bustle of Duckburg.

The plane came in for a discrete landing outside of town near a forest, before the group disembarked. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, Webigail, José Carioca and his three nieces all stood at the edge of the woods, looking at the distant vision of houses and low, blocky buildings.

Huey smiled and waved his hands off into the distance. "Welcome," he said, "To Mouseton, Calisota."

"Why?" asked Louie, his obvious disdain for such a town showing through his face, "Why are we here?"

Huey smirked and began to give the penny tour, "Well, Louie, Mouseton is a small, mostly suburban and rural city of middling population a few hundred miles outside of Duckburg. Despite its former rank as the capitol of Calisota near the turn of the century, it never had nearly the growth potential that Duckburg or Saint Canard did. Indeed, once Uncle Scrooge turned Duckburg into an industry town, it very quickly left Mouseton in the dust. Today it's mostly known for some famous crime that happened here about fifty years ago."

Rosalina, coming up behind Huey and batting her eyelashes, asked, "What happened?"

Huey blushed, and his eyes swung around to look at the girl's uncle-slash-father as apologetically as possible. For his part, José wore only an amused expression.

"Well, er, It was this case, see? This mysterious masked man, called 'The Blot,' operated a crime wave here that extended all the way out into Duckburg. He was apparently some kind of crazy hypnotist or something." Huey began to walk and talk towards the edge of the town. "Some Private detective working with the police finally took him down. Something like... Mortimer? Morey? Something like that."

Darking, passing the meandering Huey, took up the slack of the story, "We're here because it’s the last place anyone will look. Mouston is just one of those towns where nobody goes and everyone is from." She looked over her shoulder and towards Louie. "Perfect for our purposes."

Webby smiled and breathed in. "Well, the air is much cleaner than I'm used to. It's a nice place. Didn’t your Uncle Donald live here for a while?"

Huey grunted, "Who cares about that?"

Webby opened her mouth to answer, but Louie shook his head towards her. She took the hint and quieted down, walking alongside Dewey, who was looking around seriously.

"Where is this office you got for us, Huey?"

Huey perked up, " It's an old office right near the center of town, in the historic district. I think you'll really like it, Dewey."

***

The door creaked open, spreading a small yet bodacious wave of dust to cascade across the floor. In the frame, the large group stood, with Huey, Dewey, and Louie at the front.

"What a dump," said Louie, raising a single eyebrow.

The room was dark and dry with a grey haze that seemed to settle over everything. Huey tried the light switch, and a single, bare bulk blinked off and on, before burning right back out. From what they could see, there was a single desk, a ratty old couch, and a big empty shelf.

"Good a place as any," said Darkwing, blowing past the three brothers and stepping into the room, kicking up small clouds as she walked.

"I'll really like it, huh?" said Dewey, with a sideways glace towards Huey.

"Of course," Huey said with a smirk, before making his own way into the room, "It was cheap."

"Oh." Dewey looked around once again, this time with a much more appreciative light. "A fixer-upper."

Louie stomped in after Darkwing and sat on the couch, followed by the rest of the group. "So what now?"

Darkwing placed her hands on her hips, and said, "Now, I'm gone."

Dewey nodded, sitting on the wooden chair behind the desk, and searching the drawers for errant office supplies. "Right, You go into Duckburg to search for proof of Farid's guilt. We'll stay here and-" Crack! The chair collapsed underneath him and Dewey seemed to disappear behind the desk. After a moment, he continued his speech, as if he had never stopped. "We'll stay here and lay low."

With a sly look towards Louie, Huey said, "And what about that Green Phantom guy? Do we know what he's doing?"

"I don't know and I don't care," answered Dewey, climbing back up from where he had fallen, before Louie could speak, "I still don't altogether trust The Phantom."

"I'm sure the feeling's mutual," muttered Louie.

"Regardless," continued Darkwing, "You stay here. I'll be back as soon as I get something useful." She walked over to the window and opened it, scurrying out without another word.

The rest of the gang then slowly made themselves comfortable in the dusty room. As the Duck boys, Webby and José sat around and waited, The three girls killed time by digging through the closets, finding, thankfully, a broom and dustpan, as well as a few other interesting items.

"Anybody like to play Monopoly?" said Rosalina, holding up the box.

***

That night, with the room swept up clean enough to sleep in without sneezing, the entire group slept. After discovering that the couch folded out, Huey, ever the gentleman, suggested the four women take it, while the men slept on the floor. José admired Huey's spirit of chivalry, but Dewey and Louie, or at least their mental chiropractors, didn't quite appreciate the sentiment. Curled up around the floor using their respective coats and jackets for pillows and blankets, were the three boys, while José took the hard-yet-clean desk as well as one of the sofa cushions. The remains of the game, a close affair ending with a sheer battle of wills between Dewey and Louie for control of the board, sat near the corner of the room, a monument to Dewey's sense of business if the stack of multicolored money on his side of the board had anything to say about it.

The room was dark, and all that could be heard was the light snoring of the sleepers. A small movement in the dark, a sound, and a shaded shape began to move through the room, towards the window, being careful not to step on anything or anyone. The window opened with a moan of old wood sliding against old wood, and the shape moved out, backlit by the moon high in the sky, before he disappeared up to the roof.

However, a single pair of eyes were open enough to catch this, before narrowing in suspicion and anger. Dewey Duck tried to drift off to sleep, but with visions of the Green Phantom sneaking out playing over and over in his head.

***

Mouseton, so different from the other towns and cities he's gotten used to over the past year or so. At night, it truly sleeps. Unlike Duckburg, where Men work straight through to the dawn, or Saint Canard, where the unscrupulous stay up late to plot and scheme, or even Rio or Salvador, where good times are the order of the night life, Mouseton had nothing. The entire town shut down promptly at nine O'clock and awoke the next morning at six. No wonder the Phantom Blot was able to set up his business here where there were no rivals and no suspicion as he pulled the strings of his puppets from half a world away. The pulse of this city, faint, but existant, began to flow through Louie as he sat out on the roof, breathing the clean air. He thought of the Blot, and what he must have felt being the only one awake to appreciate the quiet and dark, and what kind of man the detective who took him down must have been. A Mouseton man, and yet aware enough of the night to defeat someone who operated in the dark.

"What a dump."

That was that, Louie was gone, and the Green Phantom had come out to play, bolstered by the silent whispers of the night. He pulled out the grappling hook he had, still made from spare parts salvaged from the Sea Duck, and figured out the shorter length needed to swing across such low buildings. He threw the iron hook towards the nearest building, a square, four story midget, and prepared to take a trip across the street.

He jumped from the roof, preparing to shift his weight in a swing, raising his legs so the soles of his boots wouldn't scrape across the pavement. He aimed for the roof of a house, a quaint two story vision of Norman Rockwell fantasy with dog house and white picket fence. He had reached the low apex of his swing and was about to clear the white spikes of the fence on his way to the slanted roof above.

BANG! Suddenly, there was a great deal of slack on the rope. The Green Phantom tried not to scream as he suddenly fell through the air. In a low arc, he cleared the fence, just barely, and came down hard on the leafy bushes on the other side, grunting from the impact. Wasting no time, the hero was back up on his feet, and bent low behind the fence for cover, just in case that loud cracking noise was what he thought it was.

BANG! Suddenly, one of the planks of the fence disturbingly close to GP came free and split in half due to the force of a mid-sized object moving at high velocity. Following the planks, he spotted a raised patch of dirt, where the missile had dug into the poor homeowner's lawn. A musket ball.

"Come out you son of a bitch!" Cried Dewey, waving Scrooge's musket wildly, "I know you're back here!"

The Phantom swore quietly, eyes wide. He looked through the hole in the fence and saw his brother, wide-eyed with rage, holding the musket steady at his hip. With another bang and a puff of white smoke, another section of fence near his head came loose and flew away, showering him in splinters.

"Stop shooting you maniac!" yelled the Green Phantom, standing up and waving his arms while Dewey took the time to tamp more powder into the antique gun, "What the hell are you doing?"

Dewey dropped another musket ball into the gun and continued to tamp it down, before dropping his rod and leveling the rifle towards the masked hero, "You followed us to Mouseton. Why? Where do you keep disappearing to?"

With sweat on his brow, Louie's shoulders drooped, "Oh, come on... you... you know I'm buddies with Darkwing. She sent me to keep an eye on you guys."

"That wasn't part of the plan. We don't need the likes of you hanging around here."

"Come on, man! I saved your asses in South America, and Duckburg, and..."

"...And wherever you seem to show up, trouble follows. I knew you snuck into the hostel in Salvador every night. I kept asking José to close it at night, but you always managed to find a way in. Not long after the VPR found us." He cocked back the gun and looked down the sight towards the Green Phantom, "How do I know you're not the one who tipped off Farid Kagan? How do I know you haven't been working for him the whole time? How do I know you won't go and tell him where we are right now so he can send someone else after us to burn down half of Mouseton?"

"You got it all wrong, you blind idiot!"

"Prove it! You're hiding something."

"Of course I am! I'm a superhero. I'm supposed to have a secret identity!"

"Why?"

"I don't know! That's just how it works! Get that thing out of my face."

"Not until you take off that mask."

"I wasn't going to say anything, but damn, how do you not know who I am?" Louie waved his arms around his face, "It's not even that big a mask."

"Take it off!"

"Literally everyone knows already! I think even Amalia has figured it out, and she doesn't even speak English."

"Shut up and take it off!"

"Hey you hooligans! Stop that shouting!" railed a crotchety voice from the house with the picket fence, "I got work in the morning!"

Surprised, Dewey fired towards the sound, burying the musket ball in the wall of the house as the elderly black and white horse shook his fist, unaware of his close scrape with death. With the Musket suddenly unarmed, Louie jumped over the fence and yelled as he grasped the barrel with both gloved hands and pulled, wrenching it out of Dewey's grasp before dropping it behind him. He then pushed the blue-clad duck to the ground and jumped on top of him, raising his fists up to knock some sense into his deluded brother.

"Horace! Horace! What's going on?" Said a lady's voice from within, "Lord have mercy, what is all that noise."

"The neighborhood's going to shit Clarabell. Kids brawling in the streets, setting off fireworks at God knows how late in the morning!"

Louie's fist made a meaty impact with Dewey's beak, but he refused to stay down. His scarred hand pushed the masked man's beak up, and his other hand aimed a punch, while both legs thrashed to try to strike someplace sensitive. Louie's own free hand grasped Dewey's punching hand before he could strike, however, and he wrenched his beak free of Dewey's grasp.

"Is it Mrs. Cluck's grandkids? Always making such a fuss. Let me see."

"Woman! Go back to bed." He turned back towards the fight. "And you! Quit that horsin' around and go back home to your mammas before I give you a whipping like they should have!"

Dewey wrenched his entire weight sideways, and the two ducks found themselves rolling around in the empty streets, tearing and thrashing at each other with their limbs. Eventually, Dewey found himself on top, and, without thinking, he sent his forehead to strike into the Green Phantom's causing GP's head to bounce painfully off the hard pavement.

"Let me see, Horace!"

"Clarabell! Get back to bed! This isn't for your eyes!"

"Ohh! Wait'll Clara gets an earful of this. Who are they, Horace?"

"Hell if I know, Woman!" The horse began to look around, "Get me something to throw!"

Dewey, breathing hard, leaned over on top of the dazed Green Phantom, and reached for the mask, his bloodied knuckles shaking as he wrapped his fingers around the surprisingly chinsy spirit-gummed plastic. He began to pull, ripping the mask up from the feathers of the Phantom's face until...

BONK! CRASH!

"Horace! That was my best china! Shame on you!"

"Desperate measures, Clarabell! They'll think twice before making trouble in our neighborhood!"

Dewey fell over from the shock of the china plate slamming into the back of his head, and his hand tightened. As he fell to the ground, his vision clouded over with spots. He felt another impact on his face before his vision seemed to clear. He noted that his hand was filled by the crumpled up mask before he got a good look at the formerly masked man.

"You?"

Louie froze, with his arm cocked back in preparation for another wallop. He felt his face, and suddenly realized that his mask had come undone. "W-where is it?"

"Louie? You're the Green Phantom?"

"If I say yes will you stop trying to kill me?"

"I reserve the right to change my mind." Dewey tried to push Louie off of him, but Louie had him pinned to the ground by his hand, and was sitting on his waist out of reach of his legs.

"Ah-ah-ah. No getting up until your little baby fit is over."

"What the hell are you doing playing superhero?"

"I'm not playing Dewey. I am a superhero."

"What is this? This is why you ran off to Saint Canard? This is where all of that money has been going?" Dewey looked angrier than ever, and tried to thrash even harder against Louie's hands. "You've been wasting your inheritance on... toys?"

"You've been spying on my accounts?"

"And why not? You used to be my business partner. I had to know where your money was going." Dewey suddenly spat off to his side, leaving a small pool of bloody spit on the curb. "And now I find out you were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to become a superhero? And not even a very good one!"

"Better than just letting it all sit somewhere in a bank with nothing happening to it."

"I'm just following in Uncle Scrooge's example!"

"Uncle Scrooge saved up all of that money and treasure so he could swim in it, and remember all the stories from when he earned it. What's your excuse?" Louie yelled at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his beak as long-dormant feelings came flooding out, "You've never had a worthwhile memory in your life!"

"That's not true!"

"It is! If you had your way you'd sit up in that empty bin on Killmotor hill all day and waste away staring at the pennies at the bottom nobody can reach."

"I manage McDuck Enterprises, A responsibility you ran away from!"

"McDuck Enterprises can take care of itself!"

"That's why Uncle Scrooge didn't trust you!"

Louie drew back, before he slammed the trapped wrists into the pavement, "Bastard! Scrooge taught me more than he ever taught you!"

"You learned silly ropetricks. I learned the business! If you had your way you'd give the entire business away to some charity!"

"I learned to have principles! I learned that even if nobody likes you or what you stand for you still keep going, and damn what they think! You would realize that if you tried to be yourself instead of some carbon-copy of our Uncle!"

"And you should remember how he felt about what happened to his money! He worked for every last red cent of this..."

"HA! As if you can tell me about work! You went off gallivanting in India. I stayed behind! I stayed and worked so Uncle Donald could feed us, and so he could go through with his proposal to Aunt Daisy. I stayed behind to help take care of the man before he went and got himself killed chasing after more money and treasure all alone. I worked and I worked for the shit that man gave us for money while you and Huey went out and had lives, and I worked after he was killed to make sure the business could run after he was gone. After all that I think I was entitled to start having a life with my own money that I earned by being the good nephew!" Drops of water fell on Dewey's face as Louie spoke, his speech getting warbly as he struggled with his emotion.

"Good nephew? GOOD Nephew!" Dewey's own face took on a red hue as he shouted back, "I was the good nephew! I was prospecting for gold in India, you idiot! I was trying to make my own fortune! I didn't want to fall back on Uncle Scrooge's money for some empty security! I wanted to make my own way in the world!" He pushed on Louie's hands, succeeding in raising up the stronger arms slightly. "I took all of the money out of the bin because I wanted to start over! That was his money, not mine. It will always be his money, full of memories of the Klondike, and Panama, The Mississipi, Transvaal, Glasgow... I couldn't just keep hoarding all of those memories that weren't mine! I was... I was going to fill the bin with my own money that I made myself. I wanted to catch up to him. Surpass him. But... but then he died and you left me alone to run the business, and I couldn't just abandon it to find my fortune. My claims just sat in India, gathering dust, and I... I couldn't..." His own rage-filled eyes began to water. "It made me miss him so much. I thought he would stay with us forever."

"He always loved you more. He always talked about your expedition."

"Who cares! You got to spend the last year with him. I wanted to see him one more time before he..."

"Oh, Dewey!"

"Louie!"

Finally giving into their mutual sobs, the two brothers embraced tightly in the street, wailing each other's names along with half-pronounced apologies to one another, and to Uncle Scrooge, and Huey, and Webby, Gosalyn, Uncle Donald, and anyone else they could think of. Aching hands and faces were forgotten in the wracking weeps as the two brothers melted together, letting five or more years of rivalry and antagonism dissolve away in so many tears.

"What are they doing NOW Horace?"

"My god! I think they might be a couple o' them Homer-sexuals from the city!"

"Land sakes! I'll get more china! Get 'em Horace!"

***

The next morning, Huey was the first one up, even before the sun, and the first thing he noticed was that Dewey and Louie were both nowhere to be found. His brows creased, and he got up, stretching the cricks out of his back from lying out on the hard floor, and putting his leather jacket on over his red undershirt.

Quietly, he walked towards the door to their little Mouseton office and stepped into the hall, figuring his brother's might be somewhere planning something.

That's when he heard the singing, faint at first, coming from further along the corridor, where there was a simple staircase leading up to the roof. As Huey got closer to the roof access door, the sounds of song and laughter got louder, as well as the sounds of clinking. He placed a hand gingerly on the door and twisted the handle, listening to the two voices beyond sing in a sloppy round.

"Show me the way to-"

"SHOW me the way to go ho... you stopped."

"You started too early."

A laugh, "You started too LATE!"

"That makes no sense!" Another laugh.

Huey peeked through the crack in the door, and saw, sitting on the ground near the end of the room, a half-drunk bottle between them, and two glasses in each of their hands, Louie and Dewey. Their clothes were disheveled, and Louie's costume was only half on, with his crumpled mask stuck clumsily to his forehead with the remainder of the spirit gum.

"About as much sense as you paying for the most expensive stuff in the store, Dewey."

"Issa Special occasion, Green Ghost."

"Phantom! Phantom! I'm the Green Phantom! Not Ghost. Allitarala... Alliteram... Alliter... Starting your name with The same letters is such a hokey device. I wanted something with flam!"

"Flam?"

"Flim-flam! Razmatazz! Jazz! Gumption!"

"Ga... right."

"Okay. You start this time."

"I started last time."

"Well start again!"

Huey walked out onto the roof right then, and before Dewey could get half of the first note out, both brothers were on their feet and rushing towards their brother. "HUEY!" Both yelled in unison.

"We're sorry..." "...For everything!" "We were..." "...Jerks!" said Dewey and Louie in an alternating rhythm.

"You guys have been drinking up here?"

"We had a fight," said Dewey.

"But then I punched him and now we're brothers again."

"An' we got these nice dishes to show for it." Dewey then reached into his pocket and retrieved shards of blue-painted ceramic that had been shattered.

"An' we need you," yelled Louie suddenly, grabbing Huey's arm and pulling him, "We're not drunk. We just can't seem to get this round robin down."

Huey let himself be positioned to the edge of the building and sat down next to the bottle, as he said, "Now wait a minute. Dewey, you know that Louie is the Green Phantom?"

"Yeah."

"And Louie, you're not mad at Dewey anymore?"

"Nope."

"And Dewey bought..." He looked down at the bottle and goggled at the label, "21 year old Scotch?"

"The GOOD shit!" said both brothers in unison.

Huey looked from one brother, to the other, then to the other again, their disconcerting idiot grins, framed by a pair of very conspicuous black eyes on Dewey, somehow cause Huey's heart to melt. And the only cure for a melted heart?

He took a swig of the scotch straight from the bottle, raggedly gasping at the beautiful sting.

"Well, boys? I don't know what happened between you two, but this is probably the best breakfast I've ever had." He then held up a finger like a conductor's baton as the hard liquor began to play tricks on his empty stomach, "A one and a two and..."

The three then began to sing their song, overlapping their voices in three parts, occasionally skipping beats and warping the rhythm, but often blending in three parts, falling perfectly in step behind each other to turn one song into three sung in sequence. They faced out towards the East face of the building, where they watched the sun rise, arms around each other, brothers, once again, at last.