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galoots · 5 years

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Caught in a life-threatening escapade, drugged, and facing a possible deranged foe, Scrooge does what anyone else would in this situation: Talk about how much he loves his nephew, duh.

The day had been a day like any other: Scrooge and Donald at the Money Bin, going about their daily business. Donald had been filing taxes for his uncle like he had promised prior. The task was fairly mundane, lulling Donald into a meditative trance. His focus had been so absorbed, in fact, that he failed to notice that the nigh constant hum of Scrooge’s security system had ceased. The eerie quiet was broken by the dull, heavy sound of a solid object striking a surface. Fearing the worst, Donald burst into his uncle’s office to find Scrooge face-down on his desk. For a brief, terrifying moment, Donald thought that his uncle had all of a sudden dropped dead. The panic that had gripped his heart in an icy clutch subsided when he saw the gentle rise and fall of Scrooge’s chest. Still breathing. Relieved but concerned, Donald moved closer to examine him. The last thing he could remember was the sight of a dart sticking out of his uncle’s neck when a brawny hand clamped over his beak. Briefly, he struggled wildly against that hand until he felt the sharp prick of a needle in his flesh. Everything after that was blank.

When Donald finally came to, he was bound to a pillar by thick, hemp rope around his wrists. He took stock of his situation. In dire straits, one should only worry about the immediate circumstances one could control. Nothing else mattered. Everything else were details. He tested the strength of his bindings. Tight. Competent knots tied by a skilled hand. Not much he could do there. He was unhurt, but his movement was constrained. His feet, however, had been left free. He turned his attention to his surroundings. The room he was in was unadorned, sparse with no windows, cement floors, and stucco walls. A warehouse perhaps?

A steel operating table, bolted to the floor, with a prone figure upon it. A second look revealed the figure being held in place by leather restraints. Closer examination revealed this figure to be his Uncle Scrooge, awake and similarly confused.

They’d clearly been abducted by one of the old man’s enemies. Not flashy enough for Rockerduck, too cruel for Glomgold. The criminal quality of the situation spoke to the Beagle boys, but they were far too bumbling to pull off such a flawless ambush. Magica? Seemed unlikely, witchery and deceit were her calling cards, but she’d been known to hire third-parties in the past.

The door to the room opened and in walked a man carrying a vintage-styled medical bag. He was tall and stocky, nondescript looking but threatening all the same. Placing his bag upon the ground, he clapped his hands together once and rubbed them together eagerly. “Good afternoon, gentleman.”

Oh good, Donald thought, a monologuer. He despised a villain who like to monologue.

Regardless of his disdain, the man continued his well-rehearsed introduction. “You do not know me yet, but I intimately know you. I am Dr. Hogel. You are in quite the predicament gentlemen, as I am sure you are aware, but give me your full cooperation and I assure you your time spent here will not be overly unpleasant.”

The harsh, clinical light shining down from the fixtures above cast a sinister shadow over the self-proclaimed Doctor Hogel. Opening his satchel, Dr. Hogel extracted a vial of clear liquid and a hypodermic needle. He filled the syringe, plunging the needle into the bottle, and removing it after he’d double-checked the dosage. The needle, held high, glinted sickeningly in the light. With a practiced flick, Dr. Hogel dispelled any air bubbles possibly within.

Scrooge, bound and gagged on the table, felt a cold trickle of fear spread through him. He could hear Donald, in the corner of the room, straining against his ropes, attempting to break free and save him.

“Do you know what Sodium Pentathol is?” Dr. Hogel asked, before reciting didactically. “Medically speaking, it’s a rapid-onset short-acting barbiturate, often used for anesthetic purposes. By those more inclined to fanciful worldviews, it’s often referred to as truth serum.” The doctor swabbed Scrooge’s arm, readying the needle for insertion. “Of course, there is no such thing as a drug that can force one to tell the truth. Such things belong solely to the realm of spy novels and other dime store pulp.” The doctor carefully emptied the contents of the syringe into Scrooge’s vein. “However, the drug has been found to make a subject of interrogation more… loquacious. Lowers his guard. Boosts his willingness to comply.” The doctor strolled over to his bag, pulling a thick towel from it to wrap the used needle in. He placed it to the side, turning back to Scrooge, leaving the black bag hanging open.

Craning his neck, Donald could see a host of other tools within. The bag’s handle faced towards him and while his hands were tied, his feet were not. He wasn’t exactly overly dexterous with his feet, but with some effort, he could manage to grab the handle and spill the bag’s contents. There had to be something useful within to enable his escape. A scalpel to cut his ropes, a communication device to call for help, anything at all. His course of action was clear. This Dr. Hogel was methodical, but not methodical enough.

The doctor examined Scrooge’s muscles untense, his eyelids droop, and his respiration slow to a relaxed rhythm. He began to loosen the restraints holding Scrooge and removed his gag. “I see no reason for you to suffer any discomfort during this little chat of ours. And I doubt you’ll be in a sporting mood to put up a fight after the dose I gave you.” Scrooge’s head lolled on his shoulders as he was released.

“Let’s begin the interrogation, shall we?” The doctor smiled a wolfish, predatory grin. “Mr. McDuck, I’d like you to tell me the location of your most precious possession.”

Scrooge smiled a hazy, lopsided grin before he answered in a voice thickly garbled by sedation. “He’s right over there!”

“He?” Dr. Hogel repeated incredulously.

“Him.” Scrooge pointed limply to Donald in the corner, who hastily pulled back his extended leg.

The doctor turned to look at him. “Your nephew has your number one dime?”

“No, silly.” Scrooge laughed blithely. “He is my most precious possession.” His face looked dazed and loopy.

With the deadly speed of a guillotine’s blade, the doctor’s smile dropped into a scowl. Donald affected a sheepish grin in return, hoping to pacify the man. He couldn’t risk his head being chopped off.

Dr. Hogel’s affected charm had been dropped as soon as he met resistance. He’d been courteous to his guest, up front, forthright, even attentive to his comfort, yet it seemed Scrooge McDuck would rather obfuscate and play games. “I’m not talking about your witless, slow-minded nephew, Mr. McDuck. I am referring to the first dime you ever made.”

Scrooge stared at the doctor with a glazed expression.

“The foundational artifact of your financial empire?”

Not a smidgeon of recognition in the old codger’s expression.

“The single most important physical possession you own. The coin that made you the man you are today!” The doctor’s voice dropped to a threatening growl, clearly losing his patience with this noncompliance.

“Dimes?” Scrooge slurred, “I got loads of them. Stacked to the tippy-top of my Money Bin. Donald polishes them for me. Isn’t that sweet? Working for his old unkie-dunkie when he could be out there doing whatever he’d please. Such a good boy.”

“U-uncle Scrooge,” Donald warned in a hushed tone; he needed time to enact his plan, but the old man had to stay on topic enough not to make the Doctor blow his lid.

“Shut up.” The doctor pinned him with a furious glare, spinning back to his uncle to continue his line of questioning. “I’m not looking for just any dime, McDuck.” He gripped Scrooge’s face in a punishing vise. “Focus. Listen to me carefully. I need to know the exact whereabouts of your so-called lucky dime.”

Donald started to sweat nervously as he slowly extended his foot towards the bag. Scrooge’s drugged mind sluggishly processed the request. “I used to keep it on a velvet pillow in a special pedestal in the Money Bin.”

“Good.” The doctor relaxed his grip slightly. “’Used to’ meaning you moved it at some point. Where to?”

“Well one day, back when Donnie was still a babe, I let him wade through the Money Bin. I loved a daily dip so much, I thought, heck, why not let the boy experience his first swim. A formative experience! I love to dive in it like a dolphin, burrow through it like a gopher, and toss it up and let it hit me on the head!” Scrooge drawled with a dreamy air, trying to scratch his beak against his shoulder to relieve an itch.

Scrooge cleared his throat with difficulty. “’Course you can’t be that rough with an infant. So, I outfitted him in little floaties just in case and let him wade in like it were a kiddie pool. I suppose his McDuck genes kicked in because phew!” Scrooge whistled a descending tune, “he took off like a shot from my arms. Paddled right over to the pedestal.” He mimed a look of shocked panic, effecting the expression he’d warn during the event.

“I was immediately terrified, instant panic, because what if he drowned? Or hurt himself? You can get some nasty papercuts from the greenbacks. And a baby’s head! Bit like a mushy melon, you know? One solid knock from a diamond to that soft spot babies have… er, what are they called?”

“A fontanelle.” The doctor supplied, hoping it’d lead the rambling old man to his point.

“Yes, that’s right. A frontapelle.” Scrooge nodded with a sage manner, as if he’d known the answer all along. “Well one solid knock to his frapachelle, and I thought he’d be a goner! So, I’m rushing towards him, trying to coax him back into my arms, when WHAM!” Scrooge slammed a hand against the table. “The little dickens knocked over the pedestal! He waddled right over to the pillow with the dime and—you’ll never guess what he did next.”

Scrooge waited for his captive host wager his best guess. He smiled with eager expectation like he was a comedian about to drop a killer punchline rather than a hostage in a dangerous situation. The doctor’s knuckles were clenched tight, growing frustrated with McDuck’s rambling. “What.”

“He popped it into his mouth,” Scrooge clicked his tongue, “and swallowed it.”

A vein on the doctor’s forehead pulsed, looking fit to burst.

“Then. What.”

“Let’s see…” Scrooge narrowed his eyes as he tried to recall the details under the fog of medication. “I picked him up. He was giggling like nothing had happened. I was relieved at first to see him hale and hearty, then I was furious when I realized what he’d done. Ach! I couldn’t be made at the wee bonny thing for very long though. I took one look at those sweet baby blue eyes of his and the anger melted away. He was an infant after all, he didn’t know what he was doing. I certainly learned my lesson alright! Spending the next few days sifting through an infant’s diapers was no fun t’all, I assure you. After that… well, I moved it!”

The doctor took a measured break, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Where to.”

Donald soaked with sweat, making it difficult to get a solid grasp on the doctor’s bag. His foot kept slipping off as he tried to grip the handle with his toes. He hoped his uncle’s drugged prattle would keep him occupied long enough for him to secure some handy little tool that’d allow him to break free.

“Where did I move it to? Let’s see.” Scrooge pondered the question for a moment. “I started keeping it on a chain around my neck. But—”

The doctor pulled the collar of Scrooge’s coat open with a sharp, hasty motion but found nothing underneath.

“Rude.” Scrooge huffed.

“Rude? I’m being rude?” The doctor was yelling now, inches away from Scrooge’s face. “Listen to me, you pathetic, pedantic old man. The witch did not contract me to listen to your blithering inane patter! I have a job to carry out, and I did not ensure a professional reputation of brutal efficiency by babysitting escapees from the old home. I do not care about how much you love your nephew, or the ‘darling’ little anecdotes you have about his childhood, or whatever other nonsense you’d care to spout. All I want to know is where do you keep your di—"

The doctor, wearing a look of utter confusion, reached up to his neck to pull the dart that had just struck him. He drunkenly swung around towards his other hostage who’d he had forgotten about in his agitation. The old man’s nephew was grinning back at him, the contents of his bag spilled out on the floor next to him, and the ballistic dart gun he’d used to initially abduct them underneath his foot. It had taken a good deal of fumbling for Donald to drag the device towards him and accurately aim it at the doctor. But once he did, all it took was a press of a button to fire a shot which Donald had done with his big toe. Dr. Hogel stumbled, then fell to the floor, unconscious, his head hitting the concrete with a nasty thwack upon impact. He cheered himself for saving the day, especially under duress and with less than ideal limitations.

Scrooge pulled out from his loosened restraints and slide off the operating table. “Pity,” he mumbled, “I was just getting to the good part.” Stumbling over the doctor’s prostrate body, wobbling to and fro, Scrooge made his unsteady way over to Donald.

Donald leaned against his bonds in anticipation of being freed. “Great job distracting him, Uncle Scrooge! You played the part of a doting old man perfectly. It was genius! Now untie me and let’s get out of here!”

Scrooge plopped down next to him. Donald waited for him to pull apart the ropes that bound him, but he felt no tug to set him free.

“Uncle Scrooge?”

Scrooge let loose a yawn. “I’m rather tired, sweetie… I think I’ll take a little nap first.”

“No, no, no!” Donald struggled against the ropes. “Uncle Scrooge, don’t go gentle into that good night, alright?”

Scrooge got down on all fours and crawled closer to Donald. He placed his head in Donald’s lap and, with a contented smack of his beak, nestled into a cozy position and promptly fell asleep. The drugs in the old boy’s system must have finally caught up with him for he was happily snoozing away in his nephew’s lap. The familiar feeling of embarrassment settled in Donald’s stomach as he belatedly realized that his uncle’s spiel hadn’t been the clever machination of a man accustomed to escaping harrowing situations, but the drugged prattle of a nostalgic old man. Which meant, everything he had said had been genuine, not part of some ruse. The anecdote, the compliments, his uncle’s adoration, even his misidentification of his nephew as his most precious object—all true. Donald blushed, feeling self-aware despite the fact he was the only one still conscious in this room.

He jostled Scrooge with his knees, trying to wake him up from his slumber, but the duck barely stirred. Before he’d wanted to escape from the dangerous and seemingly criminally insane man who’d trapped them. Now? Now he just wanted to run away before he had to face the utter mortification of being found like this. It wouldn’t take long for someone to realize they were missing or to locate their current position. He couldn’t bear having to tell the newspapers the tale of how they escaped, broadcasting Scrooge’s nostalgia to the entire city. He wiggled futilely against his bonds before slumping forward in defeat. In his mind, he could see the front page of the Duckburg Daily—a large photo, front and center, of Donald ducking his head, trying to hide his face while surrounded by rescue workers. All while a softly snoozing Scrooge cuddled up with him in his lap.

He’d never live it down. Surely, he’d have to skip town.

Christ, couldn’t this doctor have just killed him instead and saved him the embarrassment?

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[HR] TOMMY.

We met on a dreary Sunday morning, the clouds hung low blending in with the heavy fog, the winds howled sending chills through my knitted cap. Our Sunday School teacher Mr Manston let us out of class early, as he often did and while the other children chose not to brave the harsh conditions outside, I foolishly did. I trudged out and down the familiar muddy pathway, past the small graveyard and out to the lifeless playground by the property’s edge. That’s where I saw him, sitting on the rusted swing set letting the wind rock him back and forth, seemingly unfazed by the horrid weather. His eyes met mine and mine his; he was a strange boy, dressed in stained clothing that I had never seen worn by anyone else before or since. He had an otherworldly glow about him, his skin looked as if it were made of porcelain and even in the harsh winds his neatly combed hair refused to move. In truth I was frightened when I first saw him, he’d never attended the church before and I’d never seen him in school but when he spoke I suddenly felt great sympathy for him. There was a sadness, a vulnerability in his voice, it almost trembled as if he were too afraid to speak aloud. “Who are you?” I asked, taking the swing beside his.

“Tommy.” He replied.

“I’m Maddie.” I smiled back.

Conversation was slow, we spent more of our time staring at our feet that day then we did talking but we got on well. We took turns leaping from the swings, trying to jump clear of the barked area around the play equipment. We ran up and down slides and attempted flips and somersaults over the monkey bars. As I saw the congregation filing out of the church I said my goodbyes and asked where he lived, “Maybe our parents can organise a play date?” I suggested.

“I don’t think so.” He said, “I stay over there.” He pointed to the graveyard.

“The graveyard?” I asked, thinking he was pulling a prank on me.

“Yes, the graveyard.” He sighed; he was telling the truth.

I’d never met anyone who lived in a graveyard and the idea filled my young mind with all sorts of excitement. “That’s so cool!” I cried; this bought a smile to his face.

“Most people think it’s weird.” He said.

“It is.” I replied, “But weird things are the most fun.”

In the coming months we became best friends. I’d often met him at the playground after school and we’d run around playing and talking until the streetlights came on. One night, caught up in laughter with Tommy I lost track of the time and arrived home well after dark. My parents alternated between shouting at me and smothering me with hugs and kisses, after that I was forbidden from roaming around after school and made to come directly home. “Your friends came play at our house!” My father would say; but Tommy couldn’t. No one understood him, no one else gave him a chance like I did. Tommy always said that he frightened people, that I was the only one who wasn’t afraid of him.

After my parents enforced the new curfew I didn’t have much time to see Tommy anymore, and when I did we didn’t get to spend long together. Months passed by where we only shared fleeting moments with one another.

Until, one afternoon when we were let out of school early before a long weekend. I conveniently forgot to tell my parents about the early home time and used the extra hour to go see Tommy. We spent the time swinging together, as we did when we first met. We shared jokes and laughed so hard I thought the priest back at the church would hear us and come shoo us away; but something was the matter. Tommy was being quiet, and not like he had been before. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I never see you anymore.” He said.

“You’re seeing me now.”

“I know but… I miss you.” He said, “I wish we could spend every day together.”

“Me too.” I foolishly replied.

“Really?” He asked.

“Of course.” I nodded back.

“There’s a way you know… A way we can be together forever.”

“What is it?” I asked. He reached into his pockets and removed a pocket knife with a chipped wooden handle, “This.” He smiled, “They used it on me and now we just have to use it on you.”

I eased of the swing, “Tommy…” I paused, “What are you doing?”

He flipped out the blade, “Don’t you want to be together forever? This is how we do it. The pain doesn’t last long I promise you!” A wound began to appear around his neck, it stretched from ear to ear. It began dripping crimson down his chest; I screamed as loud as I could and ran out of the playground. I left my helmet and school bag behind on the ground as I leapt onto my bike. “Maddie!” He cried out behind me, “Maddie!”

My tyres hit the mud path already spinning, flying down the narrow track my heart skipped a beat with each stone I passed over. I remember being terrified that my wheels would buckle beneath a misplaced stone or stick and I’d be left injured and unable to run away from the deranged boy chasing me. He seemed to give up as I passed the church, “You don’t know what you’re missing Maddie!” The words he yelled as I escaped replayed in my head all night. When asked where my helmet and bag went to I lied and told my parents I’d forgotten them on the playground. Despite my protests my Dad went out after dinner to retrieve them. He returned home fine with my things and I thought that perhaps the entire incident was behind me. I laid in bed that night reading one of my favourite books, my mind put at ease as I lost myself in a magical fantasy world. I fell asleep with the book still open in my lap.

I awoke in the middle of the night at about four o’clock to see Tommy standing out by my bedroom window staring in at me, watching me sleep. He flipped his pocket knife open then shut, then open and then shut again, “Come outside Maddie.” He said with a sinister grin on his face, “Let’s go home together.”

I screamed and both my parents rushed in to comfort me; he vanished before they got to me. I told them what happened but they said it was only a nightmare and to pay it no mind. For the rest of the week whenever I would lay down for bed he’d be there, I’d scream every time and every time my parents would rush in to settle me down. I eventually told them the story of Tommy over and over but they never believed me. “Just your imagination.” My Mum would say as she wrapped me in her arms and stroked my hair.

Finally, after weeks of tears and screaming they took me to see my first therapist, he didn’t believe me either. He came to all the same conclusions as my parents had, “Just a child’s vivid imagination.” He’d say. Months passed, then years. His visits became less and less frequent until finally he stopped coming all together.

I’m now in my senior year of high school and still tormented by the memory of Tommy, I must be the only teenager who gets a talking to for returning home before curfew. I won’t go out after dark, I won’t go around town alone and I won’t sleep over at a friend’s house or anywhere that I can’t be sure all of the windows and doors are locked. Tommy’s been gone for years now but sometimes when I’m alone in my room at night, I swear I can see him out of the corner of my eye. Against the darkened glass I see his reflection and no matter how fast I turn I can never get a good look at him, but I know. I know he’s still out there watching me, waiting to take me home.

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