Mickey Mouse HCs for the Chip and Dale Universe

Cause I have a few

Full actual name Michael Elias Mouse

Stands at 2 feet 5 in,

High Pitched voice is just for the Public like Chip and Dales, his normal voice sounds like a mix of Walt Disney and Ub Iwerks.

Is married to Minnie since 1973, the company again is the reason they're still depicted as gf/bf.

Power fricking couple, when the two are on the same page there's not really any way to stop these two Minnie is just as whip smart as Mickey.

Wears a suit that looks like the Grey one Walt in his later years wore,

He's like Walt in multiple ways, many dub him the toon son of the man, in their world Disney isn't as bad because Mickeys keeping them in check wherever he can,

He refuses to be paid like a Co owner of the Disney company.

If they try to give him the money, he gives it to other Family Charity causes like The Ronald McDonald House.

He also works with one of Oswalds kids, who is a travel agent, handing over exclusive discounts and donating to a fund to take families to the various Disney properties that may otherwise have not been able to. As he puts it

"Less money going into those greedy humans hands,"

All this is done anonymously, nobody ever knows it's him as he does it out of kindness and wanting to carrying on Walts Legacy of Disney being about Families,

People think he'd be this larger than life figure, but he's actually quite humble and gentle, he can be firm though when needed he's one that you don't under assume.

He smokes, yes I dare but he only does so when stressed. This came from Walts Era,

Is actually great friends with Bugs and Daffy of the Looney Tunes despite what people say,

After a marital spat due to issues with burnout and miscommunication in 2023 in which they reconciled, Mickey and Minnie do have a couple of kids like Gadget and Zip, they though keep the children out of the spotlight. If their children wish to join them in the Disney legacy, they can when they are old enough to make that decision.

UwU What would you do if I was blowing cooly into your ear the way you like it with that slight whistle and all of a sudden you feel a warm wet sensation around your feet...you look down and its Mickey Mouse and he's sucking ur toes, like he's really getting in there- it's sensual, somewhat menacing but the look in his oversized animated eyes are saying he means no harm as long as you give him what he wants and all he seems to want is your toe jam. He nibbles a lil bit and you yelp, turning to me "babe are you seeing this?", but I'm not there. There's just Goofy blowing cooly into your slowly turning face.

"We have company hyuk hyuk", he says directing his eyes past you straight ahead. You slowly turn forward to see a beaten yellow figure tied to a chair in the distance at the end of this poorly lit hallway you find yourself in. You can hear it humming a familiar tune between grunts of pain but you can't place it given the situation and the fact Mickey won't stop nibbling at the dead skin of your feet. You curl your feet trying to let Mickey know playtime is over but Mickey doesn't take too kindly to being told no. He grabs you by the ankle opens wide, so wide you can hear his jaw unhinging in three distinct clicks. There's a moment where you could swear time is at a standstill and you can see all five rows of teeth, only molars all the way back to the nested mouth that looked like a little Mickey made of flesh and you could swear it's grinning at you. You shut your eyes, grit your teeth and prepare yourself for unimaginable pain.

*fwish*

You feel a wave of air hit you in the face like a wall for a moment.

"This was NOT the plan!", you hear Mickey scream in his usual demonic screeching voice. What was weird was that the voice was coming from behind you, not by your feet. You open your eyes and Goofy has you pulled into a hug further along the cryptic hallway.

"how di-", you start your ask but Goofy presses a finger against your lip shushing you.

"hyuk hyuk", he said and smiled but there was something about the tone of it that told you he was hurting inside. "Save the sponge and get out of here, I'll handle the rat", he patted you on the head and flashed that boyish smile one last time before heading off to fight Mickey and in your heart you knew he didn't plan to escape with you.

"The sponge?", but by the time the words had left your mouth Goofy had unobscured the figure you had barely seen before. The humming now clearly a melodic muttering "I'm...a goo..fy..goober...YEGH". It was SpongeBob battered and bruised, jumper cables crocodile clipped to his nipples. Butt naked, head bowed down but every few seconds he'd raise it and jerk to either side punctuated by a grunt where he'd yelp. He was still a long ways away but you knew you had to save him for Goofy's sake.

"I'm coming for you Squarepants!", you belt out trying as hard as you can to hide your fear and sound heroic. You run as fast as your trembling legs will carry you but you miss your step and land face first a mere 2-3 metres from SpongeBob's feet. You're too close to stop now, you push yourself up to your knees.

"DON'T YOU DO IT RONAL-", Goofy's voice rang through the corridor but was cut short by his grunting you whipped around just in time to see Mickey bite a chunk out out of Goofy's left shoulder- so deep his arm was hanging by a mere few tendons.

"GOOFYYYY!!", you bellow emptying your lungs in a single breathe.

Once again time stood still, tears welled up in your eyes. Goofy stood there head hung low, slowly swaying back and forth delirious. Victorious, Mickey turned to you ,"he always thought himself big dawg around here but in the end he was just a lil bitch"

*fwish*

Blood sprayed out of Mickey's chest and in the midst of it you could just about make out Goofy's fist at the centre of it.

"Whelp you are what you eat hyuk hyuk", the second hyuk came with a mouthful of blood.

Goofy stumbled towards you step by excruciating step you watched as blood gushed down and out of his left side. Even in this state he still boomed that smile like everything was going to be fine even though you knew no part of this was alright. You frantically crawled towards him but he shook his head ,"Save the sponge and watch out for Ronald hyuk hy-". Goofy froze.

"Goof-"

"Shh, he's here"

"What do you mean? Who's here?"

"Shh"

"It's over Goofy, the formula is as good as mine", a voice that was neither yours, Goofy's or SpongeBob's perpetual muttering spoke up. You look around haphazardly trying to find the source of the voice but see nothing.

"You leave her out of this, they don't know anything"

"I'd very much like to confirm that myself"

"I'm afraid I can't just stand by and let you do that Ronald"

"You should be very afraid, mutt", the man, Ronald appeared holding a red metal bat in front of Goofy mid swing,"and its Mr McDonald to traitors like you" When the swing made contact there was no standstill this time- there was just the crack of Goofy's skull against the bat then the squelch of his carcass flung to the wall. There it stuck for a moment like how raindrops trailing down a window pause for a moment before continuing down. Was the rain hesitant to go down that path? Did it know it was to return to the whole and want to hold onto its individuality? Did Goofy know some part of him would return to a whole? Your mind racing to uncomfortably wishful places. There was no one left to save you now- no one but yourself.

"we..re...all..goo..fy...goo...bers...YEA", the refrain continued in the silence that ensued after Goofy slumped to the floor. It startled you even though the refrain had never stopped. Why was he still singing? If it was to signal Goofy there was no point now?

Mr McDonald turned to you, squatted so you were as close to eye level as he could get with his disproportionately lanky figure. His eyes were far from anything in this universe, a deep purple hue with shifting black and silver shapes in a rhythmic flux. He smiled, "Tell me the secret ingredient to the krabby patty formula"

"I d-don't know"

McDonald stretched his swinging arm back. The way he moved was like a slapstick animation, at odds with reality. The way rules of depth didn't seem to apply to him so when he swung it sort of looked like he was still stretching further back. By the time I realised the bat was coming for me it was too late. There was red then there was black...

Losers at Hawkins and the Death of Will Byers

A little long but that’s because I had to put two different stories in only one chapter. Hope you enjoy.

Words: 4260

IN DERRY

The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years -if it ever did end- began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain. The boat was of a twelve year old boy and his big brother done it and gave him as a gift. Jonathan was not a much loved guy, and he certainly did not have many friends, but he loved his little brother, and he was not ashamed to spend time with him. That day he would come out with Will, really, if only he had not been sick. He could not go out and risk worsening the situation: he could not lose other days at school. Jonathan did not have good grades, but not because he was not smart. He was bored at school. He dreamed of studying photography, and going out with the beautiful and intelligent Nancy, one of his classmates. From time to time it happened that he went to dinner at her house, because his brother and the youngest of the Wheelers were good friends. He had never had the courage to talk to her. This was what Jonathan Byers thought while his little boat  bobbed, listed, righted itself again, dived bravely through treacherous whirlpools, and continued on its way down Witcham Street toward the traffic light which marked the intersection of Witcham and Jackson, followed by his brother, wrapped in a yellow wax and with red rain boots on his feet. About three-quarters of the way down the block as one headed toward the intersection and the dead traffic light, Witcham Street was blocked to motor traffic by smudge pots and four orange sawhorses. Stencilled across each of the horses was DERRY DEPT. OF PUBLIC WORKS. Beyond them, the rain had spilled out of gutters clogged with branches and rocks and big sticky piles of autumn leaves. The water had first pried finger holds in the paving and then snatched whole greedy handfuls-all of this by the third day of the rains. By noon of the fourth day, big chunks of the street’s surface were boating through the intersection of Jackson and Witcham like miniature white-water rafts. By that time, many people in Derry had begun to make nervous jokes about arks. The Public Works Department had managed to keep Jackson Street open, but Witcham was impassable from the sawhorses all the way to the center of town. But, everyone agreed, the worst was over. The Kenduskeag Stream had crested just below its banks in the Barrens and bare inches below the concrete sides of the Canal which channeled it tightly as it passed through downtown. Right now a gang of men - captained however by a woman - were removing the sandbags they had thrown up the day before with such panicky haste. Yesterday overflow and expensive flood damage had seemed almost inevitable. God knew it had happened before -the flooding in 1931 had been a disaster which had cost millions of dollars and almost two dozen lives. That was a long time ago, but there were still enough people around who remembered it to scare the rest. One of the flood victims had been found twenty-five miles east, in Bucksport. The fish had eaten this unfortunate gentleman’s eyes, three of his fingers, his penis, and most of his left foot. Clutched in what remained of his hands had been a Ford steering wheel. Now, though, the river was receding, and when the new Bangor Hydro dam went in upstream, the river would cease to be a threat. Or so said Ted Wheeler, who worked for Bangor Hydroelectric. As for the rest-well, future floods could take care of themselves. The thing was to get through this one, to get the power back on, and then to forget it. In Derry such forgetting of tragedy and disaster was almost an art, as Jonathan Byers would come to discover in the course of time. Will paused just beyond the sawhorses at the edge of a deep ravine that had been cut through the tar surface of Witcham Street. This ravine ran on an almost exact diagonal. It ended on the far side of the street, roughly forty feet farther down the hill from where he now stood, on the right. He laughed aloud -the sound of solitary, childish glee, a bright runner in that gray afternoon- as a vagary of the flowing water took his paper boat into a scale-model rapid which had been formed by the break in the tar. The urgent water had cut a channel which ran along the diagonal, and so his boat travelled from one side of Witcham Street to the other, the current carrying it so fast that Will had to sprint to keep up with it. No twelve-year-old boy, raised in a normal family, behaved that way, but Derry knew that the Byers were not all normal, so none of the neighbors noticed the lonely kid chasing a paper boat, therefore, the water that sprayed out from beneath his galoshes in muddy sheets went unnoticed and so his strange death who arrived because of two disquieting yellow eyes locked inside the storm drain. Or at least, this was what Will thought. He saw them by accident, when his little boat ran straight into the storm drain, and he cursed in hopes that a dirty word would help him to take it back. When even the owner of those eyes, a clown resembling a cross between Ronald McDonald and Bozo, saw him, greeted him by calling his name. The clown was holding a bunch of balloons, all colors, like gorgeous ripe fruit, in one hand, and in the other he had Will’s paper boat.

“Want you boat, Will?” the clown asked, smiling. If only Will had been older, or if only his brother had not been sick and could have accompanied him, the boy would never have responded to that smile. Perhaps, but it is only a hypothesis, his boat would never have ended up in storm drain and Pennywise the clown would not have brought further suffering to that family. But Will was just a naive boy, and his brother was not there with him, so he smiled at the clown, as if he had met him at the annual fair in Derry and not in a storm drain. 

“I sure do,” he said.

The clown laughed. “I sure do. That’s good! That’s very good! And how about a balloon? “

"Well… sure!” He reached forward… and then drew his hand reluctantly back. “I’m not supposed to take stuff from strangers. My brother said so.”

“Very wise of your brother. How old is he?” asked the clown, interested. 

“Sixteen.” replied Will, but he was looking at the boat.

“Did you brother made this for you?” asked Pennywise, kindly. Will nodded.

“And why he’s not out there, playing with you?”insisted the clown.

“He’s sick. But he promised that we’ll go out to play together again when he will be better.” replied Will, proud. He loved his mother, but he loved his brother more, because when his dad left he also left so much love to give to a male figure, and Will decided to give it all to Jonathan. For the greater of the Byers it was the same, although it held a grudge for the father. He remembered well, that disturbed man and how he had managed to treat both his sons and his devoted wife badly.

"So I guess you want it even more!” the clown exclaimed. “But if you cannot take anything from strangers, we must first introduce ourselves.” Will liked how that clown solved problems simply. 

“I, Will, am Mr. Bob Gray, also known as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Pennywise, meet Will Byers. Will, meet Pennywise. And now we know each other. I’m not a stranger to you, and you’re not a stranger to me. Kee-rect? “ 

Will giggled. "I guess so.” He reached forward again… and drew his hand back again. “How did you get down there?”

“Storm just bleeeew me away,” Pennywise the Dancing Clown said. “It blew the whole circus away. Can you smell the circus, Will?" 

Will loved the circus. He had only been there once, when he was a child, but he still remembered the scent of hot roasted peanuts and fries with white vinegar, even if his favorite thing was the cotton candy, but it did not have a perfume so intense as to overcome the others. His mother had even taken him a cotton candy bubble bath, and it was all blue and made him smell like candy. 

In the storm drain, however, he only felt the scent of frying doughboys and the faint but thunderous odor of wild-animal shit. He could smell the cheery aroma of midway sawdust. And yet, under it all, the smell of flood and decomposing leaves and dark storm drain shadows. That smell was wet and rotten. The stink he had smelled a couple hours before, when he went down in his house’s cellar. But the other smells were stronger, so he said he could smell the circus scent. 

"Want your boat, Will?” Pennywise asked. “I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.” He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore.

“Yes, sure” Will repeated, feeling a little guilty for letting the circus thought distract him from recovering his brother’s present. 

“And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue…”

“Do they float?” asked Will, interrupting the clown. 

“Float?” The clown’s grin widened. “Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy…”

George reached. And Pennywise knew he had hit the right button, so he seized the boy’s arm. And that was the moment when Will Byers knew he had signed his own death sentence. 

MEANWHILE, IN HAWKINS

To be autumn, it was a particularly serene night, in Hawkins, with the sky full of stars and not even the trace of a cloud. The four kids, well hidden in the Tozier cellar, could hardly imagine that something so awful was happening at such a beautiful evening at the Hawkins National Laboratory U.S. Department of Energy, not when the thing that most troubled them was the noise of sprinklers in the garden. Anyway, the guys heard those damn irrigators for the whole time, but Richie would not have told his parents it was time to change them. He was just a kid and they would never listen to him. They never did it.

“Something’s coming, something who’s th-thirsty of blood.” said Bill. They were playing Richie’s new fantasy war-game. It was about Middle Earth, Tolkien’s world, and Bill was advantaged, he had read The Lord of The Ring, so he already knew which characters were more powerful and which were not, so they decided to make him a moderator. Richie was a little sorry, but the friend seemed to be having fun. Despite his stuttering, he was a good reader, and when he was very involved in reading he could almost not stutter. 

“A shadow grows on the wall behind you; it swallows you into the dark.” Bill went on, and Eddie leaned a little closer on the table, careful. After the moderator’s intervention, it would be his turn. 

“It will be there soon.” he ended, and Richie started making supposition on what could that be with Eddie. Stan also entered the speech, and Bill waited until they came to a standstill.

“An O-orcs Army attacks th-th-the shelter!” Bill exclaimed, moving the toy army. The other boys laughed. It was something easy to defy. 

“Just a moment.” spoke again Bill, making all the other guys shut. “That sound. B-boom, boom, and boom!” he nearly yelled, banging open palms on the table. He was a good actor. Richie had been the one who taught him, otherwise the other guys wanted to exclude him completely from the game. Richie would never have allowed it: Bill, despite his oddities, was his best friend, and he would always be close to him, ready to help him. 

“That sound d-didn’t came from the Orcs, that sound ca-came from something else.” he said, leaving the three players a moment to concentrate, the he slammed on the table the infamous black monster. “The Demororgon!”

The other kids cursed, already thinking about the next move. 

“Eddie, your turn.” ended Bill. 

“I don’t know!” exclaimed the other guy.

“Use the fireball! “ Richie suggested. 

“But…” started Eddie, but he was interrupted by Stan.

“Too risky, use a preservation spell!”

“Don’t be girly, use a fireball!” repeated Richie. 

“Use the spell!” insisted Stan. 

Bill slammed his palms against the table, but not harder as the first time:” The Demogorgon is tired of your silly arg-arguing. He’s coming for you, boom!”

“The fireball Eddie!” exclaimed, hurried, Richie.

“The spell!” yelled Stan, but his voice was covered by another one of Bill’s boom. 

“Fireball!” exclaimed Eddie. He wanted to make Richie proud. He was like a mentor to him. Someday, he wanted to be like him. Maybe less foul-mouthed. So he threw the dices and they dropped on the floor. Eddie’s ears started to be hotter, and he knew they were all re, but he jumped up with his friends, trying to be the first to see them. 

“Where are them?” asked Bill, searching them under the table. 

“I don’t know!” replied Richie.

“I’m sure it was a thirteen” added Stan.

“How could you know?” asked Bill, crawling between the chairs.

“Oh my God, oh my God.” he began to chant Eddie. He was having a headache. 

And then the door opened, and Richie knew it was his mother. 

“We are in full military campaign!” tried Richie, but he knew the night ended.

"Just finished.” the woman corrected him. “It’s already … a quarter past eight!” she exclaimed, looking at her wristwatch. Richie did not understand why his mother could not be careless like that of Bill, a failed pianist who spent her time dusting the shelves and washing dishes, or like Stan’s, that the only rule that gave him was to pray three times a day. No, he had the career-woman mother, who made his son live following a rigid regime of rules that she was the first to not respect. Hypocritical.

“Come on, wait another twenty minutes!” Richie begged. “At half past eight your friends must be at home, tomorrow you have school and you have to rest, you will end next weekend.” Richie knew that he really just wanted to drive the other three kids off to stick to the bottle of some cheap liquor. He was no longer a child; he realized that his parents’ marriage was not working and that his mother was too stressed out of work. Besides, his father did not care much about what the woman did or didn’t, so Richie had been in vain for some years that they stayed together just to keep the respectable family façade, which Hawkins seemed to rely on above all. He looked at his mother, her brown curls, the pink shirt that screamed as advertising, and realized that it would be useless to say that in that way they would interrupt the rhythm, that the game would not be equally beautiful, the following week . She would simply limit herself to pointing out that they had been playing for ten hours, and that for a week it was more than enough. “Dad!” he tried, but his father replied, from the living room, where he was supposed to be sitting in front of the TV, that he would have to listen to his mother. Always the same answer. Richie rolled his eyes and turned to his friends. "You heard." he said, surrendered. "Do not worry, your mother is right, you know how my mother becomes if I do not come home on time.” Eddie answered. It was hard to forget it. Once he was back at 8.35 p.m. and she was furious, even threatening to call Mrs. Tozier. It would not have been a bad scene, and finally someone would have told that woman she was definitely not a good mother, but then Richie would not have been able to bring friends home, and they would have to find another place to meet. 

“I found a dice.” said Bill, handing it to Richie. 

The other kids had already finished dressing, while Bill was still without a jacket. “Hey guys.” Stan said, picking up a pizza carton “does anyone want it?” “How long have it been there?” Eddie asked, with a hint of disgust. “Ten hours?” Richie asked, but he already knew the answer. “How disgusting!” exclaimed Eddie. “Do you know how many germs could have been there?” “Do you never keep leftovers?” asked Stan, stunned. “Sure, but we’ll put them in the fridge as soon as we’re done eating, and mom knows how long it takes for all the different ingredients to deteriorate, so we do not risk taking any sickness.” the boy explained. “Diseases lurk in the disorder that reigns in your home.” Richie joked, while his friend passed him on the stairs that separated the cellar from the upper floor. Eddie punched him in the ribs, but not too hard to make him feel bad. The three boys politely greeted Richie’s parents, who barely seemed to notice their presence. Mrs. Tozier must have already started drinking and her husband was enchanted by the TV screen, which could have always transmitted the same program all day, but it would have fascinated him anyway. Richie led his friends out, where they kept the bicycles with they had arrived that morning. They were all brand new, with even a beacon, so that if they had met any cars during the night, they would not risk getting hurt. It was an idea of Mrs. Karspbak but in the end everyone had adopted that solution, a bit to not making feel Eddie alone,  a little because it could really come in handy, especially to Bill, who did not live right next to the other guys and had a piece of road to do by himself.

“See you tomorrow!” Eddie and Stan greeted him, and they left faster than Bill. 

“See you tomorrow.” he repeated, and started ride to reach his friends.

Richie, distracted by the flickering light of the driveway, could not reply.

As for the three kids it might seem dark, and although the days had already visibly shortened, and the sky was pitch-black, on the way back they met some schoolmates, who had probably just gone out to join their friends. After all, they had just entered the Junior High School while their older mates were adults. 

Like that madman of Henry Bowers, or his hateful friend, whom everyone called Vic. Bill hated them, and perhaps even for that reason he did not care much who passed through the streets at that time of night. The first to leave was Stan. He was the one who lived closest to Richie’s house, and wished them goodnight, though a little in his own way. Richie had infected him with his trash mouth, even if at home he never spoke badly: he was too afraid that his mother would go crazy.

“Let’s d-do a r-ra-race!” proposed Bill. 

“Is the prize a comic book?” Eddie asked. He liked comics a lot, and it was a pastime that his mother did not think was dangerous. Bill also read many comics, but recently he had gone to books, those without figures or anything else, just words written neatly on white and delicate pages. He just nodded in response, ready to win the comic number 66 of the X-Men. He liked that story, and often he felt like an integral part of that group of outsiders. Bill knew he was different from his friends. Not really different, only perceived differently. He also knew he was strange. Although he did not like to speak often, partly because of his situation, he was a master at observing and understanding. He started pedaling faster. Although his words often failed him, his body did not do the same. “Hey!” Eddie shouted behind him. It was an unfair thing, focusing on his friend’s obsession with security and loyalty, but also a good way to pay him back for what he had told Richie. Although the Tozier’s only child was his best friend and tried to protect him from everything, Bill knew that the other kids had confided to him. They did not want him in the group, and it was understandable, because even the teachers teased him at school when they thought he did not hear them. But to point it out to Richie, the only one that had always been there for him, was a low blow. Too much to not deserve a little spite.

Bill knew he had the victory in his hand when he reached the descent. It was the only one in the whole city, and a difficult climb to take, especially in the summer. He took speed, and barely heard his friend scream at him that he had not yet told go, that the race was not valid. Bill did not really care about the comic, even if, one way or another, he would get it. At that moment he did not care about anything, with the wind in his too long hair and little desire to brake before the intersection. 

“Come back!” Eddie shouted, though he was sure his friend would not. He felt a little guilty for having said those things to Richie. But Stanley had gone down a lot heavier. The two boys split like that, without even saying a goodbye, and even if the next day they would meet again at school, nothing would ever be the same. 

Bill came home with a smile. It had not been the happiest day of his life, but not even the worst. Also that bicycle ride had served to clear his mind. He entered the house while his mother seemed desperately looking for something among her scores. She must have lost one. It was disturbing, sometimes, to hear her play at night. “Hi boys,” she said, without even looking up, when she heard someone had opened the door. Bill had hardly made his own copy of the house keys, but now, with the fact that he had started junior high school and that he was going back and forth from school alone, weather permitting, it seemed right to both of his parents to give him this gift.

“Boys?” asked Bill. “I’m alone, tomorrow I have school an-and I’ve b-been w-with t-th-the b-bo-boys all day.”

“Bill, where’s Georgie?” asked his mother, and he looked at her perplexed.

“I don’t know, I was at Richie’s.” he repeated.

“He said he wanted to meet you before you arrived at home, you didn’t saw him?” asked his mother, worried. Bill barely managed to shake his head.

The next morning only three bicycles were parked in front of the school. No other student was doing that drudgery when he could still ask for a ride to his parents and the older ones already had their own cars. Or at least a scooter. Richie and his friends wondered why the most problematic member of their group was not present that day, but none dared to ask it out loud. They had other things to think about. Henry and Vic, in fact, were not the only bullies of the school, and that day a reduced and approximate version of the Losers Club discovered it. They weren’t the most loved kids in town. Bill, on the other hand, had accompanied his mother to the police station. She looked crazy, with disheveled hair and eyes out of their sockets. She did not want Bill out of her field of vision, for any reason in the world, and almost did not allow him to go to the bathroom, even if he tried to hold back for an hour. When he returned, he found his mother lighting up what was supposed to be the third or fourth cigarette of the morning. The sheriff had not yet arrived, though his secretary must have called him at least a dozen times. “Mrs. Denbrough, I promise you this time will be the good one.” Florence said. The sheriff amazed everyone with a dramatic entrance. He greeted his colleagues and barely noticed the intruders, at least until his secretary pointed them out as neatly as possible with a nod. He led them gently but firmly into his office, and Bill’s mother immediately started accusing him of not being able to do his job well, making them wait too long, losing sight of the main problem.

“My brother’s missing.” said Bill, without stuttering. It was the first sentence he had managed to say clearly since his mother had told him that his brother had disappeared. 

“Could not he just have skipped school?” the sheriff asked. “But you do not read the reports of your men? We were here tonight and …” Bill stopped listening to his mother’s ramblings, focused on what the sheriff was writing with his typewriter. George Denbrough had officially joined the long list of missing children in America.