Archive of Our Own

The 20 foot tall giraffe outside my window looks disappointed to see me, which isn't very surprising, as I'm usually not the one people come here for.

I can't help but feel a little annoyed every time; It's my place too, after all.

"Dreadfully sorry." The giraffe apologizes sheepishly. "I was told this room belonged to Samantha-"

"Sam's, yeah." I rub my eyes, glancing back at the bed behind me. "You got the right place. I'll get her, just hold on."

Leaving the giraffe to shift nervously between his hooves outside, I rouse Sam from her sleep.

"Business, Sam. Scooch back over, we're switching."

The two of us aren't romantically related, but neither of us mind the bed situation- it's the cheapest option in this motel, and a bit of warmth at night is appreciated anyway.

Sam stretches as she gets up, exposing her long snout to the moonlight. To any other Toon, such a situation provided ample opportunity for the most basic of gags- stretch your back, raise your nose to the ceiling, and howl. Or start panting, chase your tail- Something doggish. She was a coyote, of course, but most people didn't bother to make that distinction.

It's a versatile gag, is the point. So trademark, it's practically cliche.

Probably why she chose not to do it. Sam acted more human than I did most days, which was likely what led her into the line of work she chose, the line of work she had been in from the day I moved in with her.

Sam rose from bed and began her day. I tried to resume sleep to stave mine off.

The next morning, at our kitchen table, I finished a bowl of cereal and watched her peruse her notebook over at her desk, chewing on the dull end of her pencil.

"Do you want to rubber ducky it?" I ask.

Samantha glances over at me, still facing the notebook in her paw. She's leaning back in her chair on her side of the room- or more accurately, what she superficially deemed her side, as her belongings and case files tended to encroach towards me more and more each day I lived with her. On a good day, the two of us waded through papers to get where we needed.

"...Pardon?"

I toss a baseball between my hands. Old souvenier, signed. Remnant of a time when I thought I knew what I'd be doing with my life.

"Rubber ducky." I repeated. "In programming, when you're writing a code, you explain it to a rubber duck. Hearing it out loud tends to make certain things click that may not have been obvious before. Except, I guess, in this case I'll be talking back."

Sam shook out her notebook as if dust had had any time to accumulate on it, and turned her sharp eyes back towards the text.

"...Constance Rabbit, reporting the disappearance of her husband, Richard." She began.

She doesn't react as I scooch up next to her, peering at the pictures she's drawn- Naturally, photorealistic.

"They look identical. Except for the lashes and clothes, I guess." I point out.

"Probably drawn as a pair. Missing for one week before she sent her friend to get us."

I recall my rude awakening. "The giraffe?"

"Right. No leads on the disappearance, but she claims to have found evidence he was having an affair; love hearts shoved callously under the bed, and letters back and forth."

"You got the letters, too? Anything of note?"

Sam reached into her desk, pulling out a rubber band wad of letters sloppily shoved together.

"Usual sappy stuff. No plans to run away together or anything." Sam frowned sympathetically. "Poor Constance. It's one thing to know your husband's cheating on you, but to find out he was deeply, genuinely in love with someone else? Wonder when the last time she saw love hearts above his head was."

I tapped her shoulder roughly, making her snap her teeth. "Keep going. Who was the other partner?"

"Beverly Beaver, also disappeared. Best case scenario is he couldn't take it anymore, skipped town with her, and Constance is in denial. But he left no note or any indication of the such."

"Worst case scenario?"

"Erased. But I don't know who would do something like that."

Sam and I have a very clearly defined relation when it comes to her work. I'm no detective, and as far as any of her clients tend to be concerned, there is no team; they hire Sam, and Sam does the work. I didn't want the attention, and Sam appreciated the reputation it gave her locally; Win-win for both of us. Under our roof, though, I help out wherever I can, and our system is one of those ways.

Sam throws her theories at me, and I shoot back that they're the stupidest things I've ever heard. Or, in a case like this where she's short on ideas, I use my vague memory of crime shows I've seen in my youth to present the moust outlandish option for her to shoot down.

In this case, "You kidding me? Constance."

She rolled her eyes, and enacts the second part of her ritual, where she tells me that my ideas are dumb and so am I. "Yeah, obviously I thought that too. But would she then report it?"

And thus the cycle continues, and sometimes even gets us somewhere.

I pressed on, shooting shit without much regard for how it sounded past my lips. "You said it took a week, and even then it was only her friend who reported it for her. Toons don't often go to the cops, do they? That's how people like you get work. What was she doing during that week, eh? Politely waiting, after she found proof he was cheating on her?"

I realized I had made a good point, another rarer plus of our system. Sam chewed on her pencil. "It's an idea. I wouldn't tell her that hunch, but I agree it's worth looking into. Start from the bottom, start at her home, go out from there."

"Is that where you're taking me, then? Am I gonna be... y'know, welcome?"

"If I say you are." She stood up, snapping her notebook shut. "Come on. Burning daylight."

Mr. and Mrs. Rabbit's abode wasn't nearly as erratically decorated as one would expect of a toon family; Despite the well known reputation of toon rabbits as wily tricksters, the couple seemed keen to follow in the tradition of other woodlanders, carving out a cozy burrow with antique furnishings and just the right amount of room to eventually fill with kits. When we stepped in, I bore witness to a rare stage of preparation for a visual gag not yet pulled off; Had Constance and Richard bore young, the place would have been comically stuffed beyond its meager capacity with rabbits in each and every cubbyhole. As it currently stood, it felt eerily empty for that reason.

Constance allowed us access to their bedroom, fidgeting and watching as they checked it over. All stashed letters from the deceased had already been vacated by Sam's earlier visit, so by the end I had began to feel the investigation was more of professionalism than anything else, and left the premises with an awkward apologies and a vow to not rest until the case was finished.

Any dismalness from this lack of results vanished in the truck, when Sam jerked her arm forward in the driver's seat, chucking a small shape that bounced on the dashboard.

"No leads, then. Nothing ne- Holy shit, Sam, your finger-!" The motion caught me by surprise, turned shock when I noticed the tip of Sam's pointer was completely missing. Even her black outline ended suddenly, the color filling hitting a dead stop at the same point with only a meager gradient of fade.

"Occupational hazard." Sam hissed, taking a mechanical pencil from the glove compartment and working on her finger delicately. "I hid this in my hammerspace as soon I found it. Pretended I missed it. It was under her bed, but with how closely she was watching us, I was worried she might have a bad reaction if I confronted her about it."

The object in question was a standard pink parallelogram-shaped eraser. A permit was required for every carry, and crackdown was hard if you were to be caught without one. The reasoning was simple; Any contact with a Toon's form from an eraser would immediately destroy the offending area. If you were cautious, you might lose a few inches. If you weren't, you died. Plain and simple.

"Why would a Toon keep an- an eraser under her bed?" I realized with some embarrassment I was giving the tool as wide a berth as Sam was, despite it posing no threat to me.

"If she knew it was under there, I doubt she would have ever let me look around in there. This is evidence, and our best lead." Sam flexed her new pointer when it was finished. A Toon had to be good at redrawing their form, especially since the lack of eraser on most publically available pencils left little room for error.

"So that-" I shrugged. "I mean, that cinches it, right? Constance erased her husband after finding out he was cheating on her?"

Sam gripped the steering wheel, shaking her head fervently. "Not. Yet. I don't ever want to make a rash or knee-jerk accusation. Fingering the wrong person won't make me a very popular figure among the Toon community."

"Cotoonity."

"Shush. You need to handle that eraser. Put it somewhere safe; the less physical contact I have with it, the better. Let's figure out where this thing came from."

Finding and buying an eraser without a permit was considerably harder than buying a pencil, which made it considerably easier for Sam to keep her thumb on the pulse of the local industry.

Sam's contact publically ran an eyeglasses repair shop of dubious quality, which was forgivable seeing as it wasn't really what people came for. As far as Sam and I could tell, the owner was drawn a supervillain with some sort of hypnotic glasses theming, and had actually made it onto a few cartoons as a monster of the week character. I had given him permission to hypnotize me once, and could say from experience it wasn't really as impressive as the television might have made it seen.

The four-lensed purveyor grinned his square teeth as we came in, clasping his hands together delightedly.

"Samantha, my friend! It has been too long, has it not?" He spoke with what I guessed was some sort of vaguely European accent, thankfully pretty low on the scale of Toon stereotypes.

Sam smiled politely as she came in to rest against the counter. "It's Sam. Good to see you too, Eyes. You owe me a couple of favors, and I need one cashed in right now." She lifted the plastic baggie we had put the possible murder weapon in and set it on the counter. "This eraser; need to know who purchased it."

"My friend, you know I do not normally disclose my business deals-"

"Criminal deals-" Sam corrected, baring a fang.

"But!" Eyes pointed at the ceiling, smile unwavering. "If it is only this one time, and for such a dear friend, I may still have the record of transaction. Which I will offer, provided it is nobody too important. Mwah hah hah."

"It won't get you in trouble with anyone big. Run it for us, quickly as you can, please."

Sam leaned back on the counter, while I rested my legs by sitting on the ground of the store.

The report came back within the minute, the telltale clicking of Eyes' metal spider legs bringing him back behind the desk.

"Yes, yes! Your record, madame." He waved a slip of paper Sam quickly grabbed and held up to her snout.

"Ledaway brand, one item, purchased by a Rabbit...." Sam faltered, rereading the same line. "... A Rabbit, R.. Richard Rabbit? He bought his own murder weapon?"

I pursed my lips, sticking to my guns. "It could still have been Constance who used it on him. Maybe there was a struggle."

Sam shook her head. "Toons can't have a 'struggle' over erasers, any more than humans can have a struggle over a puddle of acid. One wrong touch and we lose a limb to it."

"A limb you can draw back, right?"

"It's harder than it looks, especially when it's a hand. God, I hate drawing my hands." Sam shuddered, then squinted at the page. "Wait. This isn't right."

I sidled up to her. "What's not right?"

"Right here. Says the purchase was... August third." We ran the math mentally at the same time.

"That's not a week before the report." I pointed out the obvious.

"That's two days before the report, five days after the murder." Sam finished.

"Unless the week timeframe was fabricated."

"Which would answer your earlier question." Sam crumpled up the paper and shoved it in her pocket, nodding at the shopkeep. "Thanks, Eyes, you've been wonderful. This is just what we needed."

Eyes waved us off, his eponymous features twitching. "Anytime, anytime! Just... Don't show up during business hours again, please?"

That night, before she came to bed, Sam called me to our shared computer.

"Stupid me for not thinking it earlier. I took a photo of one of Constance's picture frames while we were searching her house; reverse image searched for his facial shape."

"Is it not possible he's redrawn his face?" I fell right back into my role.

"Possible. Not likely within the timeframe. Facial redesigns are a delicate process with Toons, and not something you would do yourself, any less than a human doing brain surgery on himself." Sam explained, face lit up by the computer's dim glow. "What's more, it sounds like he might have had a traumatic experience with that eraser, even if he did escape. Something that would make him unlikely to trust one again so soon. It was just a hunch, anyway. It didn't turn anything up."

"But...?" I egged on.

"But Beaver- From the picture included in her love letter- did. It's her; Wasn't a challenge at all. Girl didn't go into hiding or anything. Didn't change her name. Didn't redraw any of her features. She just left, and showed up in the background of a photo- Taken yesterday."

She pulled up a screenshot of an Instagram post, scrolling to zoom in on the back. The photo was taken at a garage sale by a human to tell her followers about a purchase- Beverly's slightly blurry but indistinguishable form was on the sidewalk in the background. "The day of the report. It's likely she was driving out of the state at the very moment you were woken up."

I knocked her gently on the shoulder, smiling. "And you're not even a bloodhound."

"Ha ha. I'd suggest we get to her quickly if we want to put this case to rest; we have no indication that Constance knows she's alive."

"No indication she thinks Beaver's dead either."

"True, but I think it's safe to assume Constance is no longer our client. She's now our prime suspect." Sam reached down and shut off the computer. "If my hunch is correct, she never wanted this investigation in the first place."

Gregor Giraffe seemed no more keen to see me the second time than he did the first time, but he was at least polite enough not to bring it up again.

"Thank you for having me, Mr. Giraffe." I was offered a seat at a couch chair with a back that stretched far out of sight. To try and put him more at ease, I fulfilled my part in a common species-specific gag by speaking directly to the part of his neck at eye level rather than craning to look him in the eyes.

"Please, it's really my pleasure." His foreleg shook to assure me. "You and Samantha are both saints for taking on this job. I've just been so worried about Constance since her husband disappeared."

I nodded, beginning to write down everything I could. "Can you tell me what their relationship was like in the weeks leading up to the disappearance?"

I could hear Gregor chewing his lip- Or cud, I supposed it could be. Whether or not real giraffes did that in the wild was irrelevant. "They were... testy, I suppose. I never saw anything! No abuse, no yelling, no nothing, just... On the few times I've been over, they seemed tense around each other. It was a gradual process, I suppose- Feels like only a year ago they were the happiest married couple you could imagine. Of course they were, I mean. They were drawn as a couple."

"That's why they're...?"

"So similar, yes. Like attracts like, you know."

"Interesting." I jotted that down and shot a cautiously hopeful look at one of Gregor's neck spots. "And I'm guessing if I asked you how toons are drawn into being...?"

Gregor chuckled. "Sorry, friend. Not for your species' ears."

"I figured as much. I always ask anyway, Sam included."

"You and every other human."

I cleared my throat. "So, gradually they became colder to each other?"

Gregor's neck rotated to indicate a head shake. "Not colder. They still spoke politely and fondly. Even nuzzled on ocassion. Just... Constance started to seem like she was walking on eggshells. And Richard started to seem like he didn't enjoy talking to his wife anymore. He'd go out of his way to talk to me and not her."

"You ever see Richard get any love hearts over Constance? Or heart eyes, or Cupid arrows sticking him, or the like?"

Gregor shook his head again, sadder this time. "Not in a long time."

"You're a family friend, you said?"

"For a few years now. Met them when they moved in."

"Mm-hmm." I noted. "Mister Giraffe, are you aware of a Miss Beaver?"

Gregor straightened up in his seat. "Beverly Beaver? Of course. She was their gardener."

I paused. "...A couple of rabbits didn't want to do their own gardening, and hired a beaver?"

Gregor tittered, seemingly aware of the questions that raised. "...Well, Richard hired her, actually. Constance... Never seemed too keen on her, if you ask me."

I underlined a specific line on my notepad-

Constance does not like Beaver.

"Interesting. Very interesting."

The following morning I received my second rude awakening in less than a week, once again at the window rather than my front door.

"Human! Mister Human!"

Once I had adjusted to the shock, I turned to my right, expecting to see Gregor's concerned face again. All that blotted out the rising sun were two floppy ears pointed straight up.

I opened the window, squinting against the light.

"Jesus- Mrs. Rabbit? What- you're... hanging off my window."

"Hi!" Constance smiled disarmingly up at me. "Sorry, I wasn't sure how to enter. I wanted to check in on Samantha's investigation."

A quick check behind me told me my bed was empty. Sam getting a sudden idea in the middle of the night and acting on it was hardly a rare occurrence, and I was mostly thankful the lightbulb spawning above her head hadn't woken me up this time.

"Sam's not here right-" I rubbed my eyes. "First thing in the morning?"

"Rabbits... get up early." She fibbed obviously. "...May I come in?"

It was unfortunate I couldn't throw her out on the basis of how suspicious it was to try and enter through the window, given she had an airtight alibi; It was funny. Still, I wanted nothing less right now than to allow a homicide suspect free access to my personal living quarters.

I allowed a homicide suspect free access to my personal living quarters.

And offered her orange juice.

"You don't think... you'll be able to find him?" The look on Constance's face could have just as easily be read as hopefulness or hopelessness. I tended suspicious.

"Now, I'm not saying anything yet. It's just bizarre. The case has gone entirely cold. If I didn't know any better..." I aborted the sentence as I sat down in front of her, realizing my mistake. "No, nevermind. Just speculation."

Too late. "Please, tell me! What is it?"

"I just thought-" Think quickly. Think quickly. "W-Well, maybe he ran off. You know, afraid to come out about his affair... but that's just a guess. Nothing to base that on."

Her expression was definitely relief this time. "Oh! Well- I- I mean, that's awful, but... It could have been worse, I suppose?"

"Yeah, that's... the spirit." I thanked my lucky stars for the phone ringing in the other room. "Hold on, I gotta take this."

I left Constance alone, talking the phone in the kitchen and muttering under my breath to greet the number.

"Sam, where the hell are you?"

"I've got her."

I quickly spoke up, making sure Constance could hear me from the other room. "Oh, what? Yes, that's just Mrs. Rabbit. She came by to ask about the investigation. Yes, I told her the unfortunate news. Anything you need?"

"Shit. Right now?" Samantha swore over the phone. "Okay. Okay, just hang tight, I'm driving back right now. Just- get her out of the house. Please."

"Of course, goodbye Samantha! I'll see you when you get back!" I finished, keeping the same overly chipper tone before hanging up with a sigh.

Brushing my hands, I reentered the room to see Constance quickly sitting down again. I pretended I hadn't noticed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Rabbit, but I really would prefer if you'd show up later next time. I haven't even had breakfast yet."

"O-Of course! I'll be right out of your hair, then?" Constance just as quickly stood up, nodding politely as she headed for the front door.

"Yeah. Hey- Constance. We're gonna-" I suddenly found myself not wanting to reassure her, despite what my gentlemanly instincts told me to.

She watched me curiously in the doorway, waiting for me to finish with a held breath.

"Ah- I'm just glad you're taking this well. I'm glad you're more concerned with his safety. It just... takes real guts to think of somebody that way."

She reassembled her smile, albeit fractured and looking now as if it could fall apart with a prod.

"Yes... Real guts."

She left, and my thoughts turned back to what I might have caught her in the act of. Getting up- She saw something? Wanted to look around? Something she saw she didn't want me to see. Something she could do in a handful of seconds, that might make her want to leave quickly. Something like-

My eyes fell on the computer in the corner of the room. On. Unlocked.

A quick glance at the Google history confirmed several tabs opened today.

Including old tabs from yesterday.

Fuck.

When Sam came back an hour later, she found me still waiting my the door, facing the ceiling and gritting my teeth.

I got up in a flash, taking Sam by the shoulders. "You found Beaver?"

"I couldn't sleep. So I got up and drove to Arizona." Sam answered in one breath.

"You drove to- Jesus Christ, Sam."

She looked away sheepishly. "Might've... made use of some tooniness to speed the trip up. But that's not important; I took an educated guess at which road she'd use to get from her house to the border, and with her photograph, I picked up a scent that should lead us right to her."

I threw my hands up. "Wonderful! Good news! Now it's time for the bad news."

Sam deflated, much more literally than a human might. "God damn it."

"Constance definitely knows where Beaver is, too. She snooped on the computer while I was talking to you."

"That's not good."

"No it isn't. I know you just got off the road, but I think we need to get on the road again. How much gas is left?" I grabbed the notepad, baggie containing the eraser, and claw hammer I had assembled while waiting on Sam.

"Might have to stop on the way, but you're right. We move ASAP." Sam caught the keys as I handed them to her, turning tail right back into the concrete balcony of our motel.

"All she knows is Beaver's in Arizona, right? We'll definitely get there first." I called as I followed her down the stairs.

"Something still bugs me about all of this. Maybe it'll click on the way. I'll drive." Sam tossed me a couple of granola bars from her hammerspace before opening the passenger's side door. "Come on. Let's see if we can get our answers."

I paused. "You're letting me drive?"

Sam grimaced at me. "I need to sniff, and I've already proven it's damned hard to do both at the same time. Don't make a thing out of it."

Vibrating with excitement, I nodded. "...Definitely not."

With Sam's head hanging out the side door, barking directions at me (And ocassionally at quadruped coyotes and jackrabbits on the side of the road), we made our way to Arizona on the impromptu road trip. We only strayed from the path twice, first for gas and then for pancakes, both of which we tried to go as quickly as possible through (The latter of which annoyed me to no end, as unlike Sam I had to chew my food, rather than her method of popping the entire stack down her throat and berating me to eat faster).

We passed the state border late at night, and Sam grew more excited as we went, ultimately pointing hard enough to nearly tip the truck at a rest stop with a Subaru parked as the sole vendor of the pumps.

"Here? She lives here?"

"No, dumbass- She is here. Right now."

"Fuck- We're just approaching her?" I quickly unbuckled as Sam climbed out the open window, landing flat on her face and bouncing back up quickly.

"Come on, damn it, and let me lead."

Despite my faith in Sam, it was still somewhat shocking to see an exact match to the photos I had seen step out of the stop with a grocery bag full of food. As soon as she saw us, her eyes widened, and she took a step back.

"H-hello?" The short Toon asked meekly.

"We're not here to hurt you, Miss Beaver, we just want to ask about Robert." Sam led.

"You're not in trouble, we're not with the cops." I added.

At Robert's name, Beverly shook her head hard, trembling and taking another step back. "I- I don't want to answer any questions. Please- I just want to be away from-"

"Beverly, we think Constance might be looking for you. You're in danger." Sam explained. "It's lucky we got here before she did, after-"

Beverly took on a strange expression. "Constance? Constance Rabbit? She's- She's still alive?"

Before either of us could digest that nugget of information, a howl sounded out across the entire parking lot.

"Beverly!"

Sam and I both jumped at the third voice, and turned with shock back to the truck we had just stepped out of.

The trunk rattled. An ear popped out through the crack- Then another. With a rubbery squeeze, the rest of the head popped out, followed by a paw, which she put in her mouth and blew to reinflate her flattened head.

With the two of us frozen in shock, Constance pulled herself out of our trunk like paper from a printer, and it finally occurred to me that I had been too busy on the computer to watch her leave the premises.

"Shit. That's her." Sam stated the obvious, dumbfoundedly

"Constance? Fuck. Fuck, I think that's my fault. I should have-" I stammered.

"Shut up. Focus."

"The hell do we do?"

Sam withdrew the claw hammer from behind her back and stepped protectively next to me to form a barrier.

"Protect Beaver."

Constance didn't look hot as she approached on still half-deflated legs; Her ink was faded from being in the hot trunk, and she seemed completely restless, as if she hadn't slept from now to greeting me at the windowsill, or longer.

"Constance!" Beverly blurted out. "You- You're not-"

Constance's voice quivered, and she looked forlorn as she peered past us at the anxious beaver. "Beverly. I knew I'd find you here- Listen, baby, I just want you back. I'm not upset! I'm not mad! Now that she's out of the picture, we can be together!"

"But- You- Constance...?"

Constance's voice wavered as she put her head in her paw, growling and shaking. "No, damn it, I- It's me, it's Richard! I just drew eyelashes on myself!"

All at once her voice dropped several octaves, adopting a much clearer male tenor.

"They look identical. Except for the lashes and clothes, I guess."

I hate being right.

"Then you killed-" Sam scowled at me to cut me off from running my mouth again.

"Shut up, both of you!" Richard Rabbit screamed at us, casting a long shadow under the dull flourescent gas station lighting. "Neither of you were supposed to be involved in this! That idiot walked in on me after Beaver ran off, and I had to use my pencil to get him to fuck off! Then, once he ran to you two- Goddamn it, I just wanted to be with you, Beverly! I love you!"

"You were a married man, Richard." Sam said coldly, moving to block his view.

This only angered him further, and he bared buckteeth up at us, still quivering with anger.. "I was drawn married to her! I never loved her! But we were always Richard and Constance, Rabbit and Rabbit, God forbid I ever get tired of her! How the hell was I supposed to divorce the Toon I was drawn for? Nobody would have looked at me the same way! No, Beaver, I love you. I'll do whatever the hell it takes to get you."

He stepped forward and Sam lifted the hammer menacingly. Without a similar pose to adopt, I simply steeled my stance.

"Mr. Rabbit, stand down. This is your last warning." Sam threatened.

Ripping his flat dress off and throwing it behind him, Richard lowered to all fours, poised to jump. "Come and get me, cocksuckers!"

For lack of a better term, a Toon fight is not nearly as cool as a human fight.

For one, a human fighting a Toon looks just as much like an ass as the other side does; There's simply no way to conventionally get an upper hand. Punch them in the face, they get a fist-shaped indent and keep going. Stab them and they keep going, with a new hole that'll fix itself as soon as you stop paying attention.

To get any leeway, you have to fight on their terms, and fighting on their terms is not cool.

Sam would step on Richard's toes, making him holler a stock sound effect and open his mouth wide enough for Sam to drop a stick of dynamite down.

Richard would wave a white flag, causing them both to take a break, and offer Sam a cigar she was contractually obligated to take, even if she knew for a fact it would explode and turn her face pitch black (except for the eyes, of course).

It has been said here before that Sam hated being conventionally toony, and this was why- if it had been a fight on a film screen, nobody would be on the edge of their seats. They would be laughing. Sam hated to be laughed at.

But try to pull off something daring? Act like a tough guy? That gave Richard the upper hand. It begged a Toon, begged the universe to show you up. And that went for me too.

Unfortunately, I was no good at this, not like Sam and Richard were; my engagement in the fight consisted mostly of circling the two, avoiding stray anvils and trying to ape a few moves I had seen on Popeye whenever his face was within hitting distance. Even that was just to distract him- I knew Constance would have to be the one who did the actual damage.

"For the love of fuck, can't you just eat him?" I groaned, dealing Richard his second swollen red bruise.

"And have him mucking around inside me? Fuck no." Sam withdrew the hammer, only to find her hand empty with an IOU sticky note on the palm. She turned to Richard in surprise, and naturally caught the hammer clean across the face, throwing a few fangs bloodlessly onto the pavement.

I racked my brain trying to think of a good joke as Richard turned to me, Powerhouse echoing in my head. Come on, come on. Remember a trick from Wile E Coyote. Tom and Jerry. Fucking Andy Panda, give me something, or else I'm gonna feel that hammer full force-

My hand reached blindly behind me, and I realized I was backed up against the gas pump. Nothing to grab, nothing to pick, except-

I felt a trigger, like one might find on a comically large handgun.

Quick Draw McGraw.

Quicker than a flicker, I shoved the gas nozzle into Richard's mouth and pulled. He dropped the hammer, eyes crossing in surprise, and for a moment nothing happened besides his cheeks bulging out.

Then, he began to widen- widen, further, further, beginning to panic now, shaking his head, pushing me up against the pump with his girth-

My last thought was wondering just what the hell the appeal of Inflation was.

And then Richard Rabbit exploded.

Black all over (Except my eyes, of course), I blinked.

Then, withdrawing my credit card from my pocket, I turned to the gas pump and began to run the numbers on just how much that endeavor had cost me.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Beatrice." I apologized, for both of our sakes.

I sat with her on the side of the road, keeping her company while Sam gave her report to the police, a handful of whom were at work scraping up pieces of Richard off the ground and putting them in a jar to reform in. The clerk had been kind enough to provide some Powerade at a slightly lowered price and a grease rag to wipe off with, and she now stared off into space with the rag wrapped around her like a trauma blanket.

"N-No. H-He deserved it." Beverly stammered. "The signs were always there, but- Oh, God, I never thought it would get that bad... C-Constance. She walked in on us, came home early while we were in bed... H-He argued with her, and then pulled out the eraser... I don't know when he bought it..."

"We figured that out too, Beaver." I assured. "We tracked down his dealer. He must have been planning for a moment to snap, even if he didn't know where it would be. You have to calm down, you're gonna be alright."

She nodded and continued. "I fled out the back window. I was so scared, I slipped through the crack where the window met the sill, a mile a minute. R-Ran to where I was staying as quickly as I could and left New Mexico to come back home that night."

"You live here, but you were staying in New Mexico for your gardener job? Where were you?"

Beverly tried to recall. "A-a motel, real bottom of the barrel one, not far from Constance's house. Think it was called the-"

When she told me, I suddenly felt the exhaustion of the drive and fight threaten my upright position.

You've got to be kidding me.

When we finally returned home, we were too exhausted to discuss the previous night's events. I respected Sam too much to mock her regression into Toon physics, and she respected me too much to mock my method of defeating Richard. We watched an old rerun of Animaniacs, she bitched about the actors, and we went to bed.

Less than an hour later I was awoken by a rapping at the window.

"Business, Sam."