The Fires of the Borderlands
Tha Kalligrapha

Looney Tunes characters, names, and all related indicia
are registered trademarks of Warner Bros. Entertainment.


Chapter One
A Small, Good Thing

"'Dis is it, Daffy," said Bugs softly, with an elegant smirk. "One good line drive and I'm twenty-six under par," his eyes slid enticingly down the base of his club. "Even 'da Masters don't put up numbers like 'dat too often."

"The Masters also don't play on this course too often," I chimed in fiendishly.

Normally, such a comment would've come off as crude and borderline irritating, but since I hadn't taken a shot in nearly six holes, my opinion was more of an unkind afterthought than a sporting jab. This game, at least, belonged to Bugs and there was no denying that. I'd stopped taking shots sometime around the tenth hole after my ball had suddenly stopped dead in the air and careened straight into an awaiting water trap. Somehow, from that point on, watching Bugs play out the game of his life under shadowy, rain-heavy storm clouds seemed far more worthwhile than pretending I actually knew anything about golf.

"So? Sophistication don't mean a thing," he went on semi-sarcastically, calmly digging his heels into the fairway. "It's all about 'da swing o' yer' club, 'dat's all—and some people do it better 'dan others."

Glancing sideways, he shot me a snidely, buck-toothed grin. My bill curled up unenthusiastically. He was better than me and both of us knew it—no need for words.

"Just hit the damn thing already," I mumbled disparagingly. "If you don't hurry it up, we're gonna wind up soaked."

For once, I was telling the truth. Although no rain had begun to fall just yet, it was plain to see, even to the least observant onlooker, that a considerably large downpour was all but imminent. No wonder the place seemed so depopulated.

I, too, would've stayed at home had it not been for Bugs's pleading last-minute request, one which, for whatever reason, had seemed so worthwhile at the time.

"C'mon, buddy," he'd said emphatically over the phone, "just one round. It'll be fun, trust me. S'posed to be a beautiful day tomorrow. I'll even make sandwiches."

Backed into a corner and starting to give way, I sighed with obvious reluctance.

"Why so interested in hanging out all of a sudden?" I inquired capriciously. "Don't we see each other enough already?"

"Sure, it's just…"

A long, defenseless pause…

"I can't remember 'da last time we actually did somethin', y'know, outside o' work—like we used to, back in 'da sixties." He smacked his lips noisily, as if to hide his humility. "Whatever happened to 'da wild, fun-lovin' Daffy I used to know?"

"Buried under fifty-odd years of the same old schtick…"

"So let's forget about it for a couple o' hours. C'mon, Daffy. God knows you don't get out often enough."

I took offense to that.

"I have… responsibilities of my own, Bugs," I responded intensely. "If I'm gone, who's supposed look after Melissa for me?" Like a stone, my heart sank at the very thought of it. "You know how lonely she gets…"

My voice trailed off despondently. It was a topic I'd always dreaded introducing, yet found myself discussing at great lengths with an unusual frequency, oftentimes with people I barely knew; friends-of-friends, mild acquaintances. The stigma of it all was far too overbearing, far too prevalent, for me to hide from.

"If she doesn't get her medicine three times a day like the doctors said... Bugs, I don't have a choice. I'd like to go. I really would, but…"

Silence hung between us for several empty, impenetrable seconds, like thick, humid air on a sticky midsummer's morning. Melissa—her name alone was a conversation-killer these days. Frail and bed-ridden, her ongoing bout with lung cancer repeatedly left me in a difficult position. Still, I tried not to think about it, tried to force out any stray, remorseful thoughts I might've felt, and focused as exclusively as possible on my own miserable life, going about my various daily routines as though I had no wife because, in many ways, I no longer did.

"What if I asked Honey to come spend a lil' time wit' her?" he pressed on unbeatably. "Would 'dat make ya' feel any better?"

"Y—you really think she'd be willing to do that?" I stuttered in disbelief.

"O' course she would," he replied assuredly. "'Dose ol' girls go way back. It'd be fun for 'em to see each other again, don't ya' think?"

"I don't know. Sure wouldn't be the same."

"C'mon, doc, don't worry about it," he jibed impatiently. "Everything'll work out just fine—it always does. Besides, d'ya' really think Melissa would want ya' to stop havin' fun just 'cause o' 'da way she is right now? Honestly, Daff, you could use a good break from time to time. Too much stress is hard on the immune system."

"Is that a fact?" I muttered sarcastically. "Fine, if you can get Honey to stay here while I'm gone," I paused for a moment, as though hesitant to commit just yet, "I'll go."

"Great. I knew ya' would."

And so it all came down to this: teetering on the brink of a completely wasted afternoon, the rain unapologetically ruining all our plans, with awful sandwiches to boot. What a joyous, stress-free occasion this all had been, I thought to myself, smirking inwardly, bored out of my mind.

I suppose I should've known. After all, a day with Bugs was like a day with the president. The whole world revolved around him, and everybody knew it—everybody except for him, of course.

Measuring the distance to the putting green one last time, he reared back suddenly with both arms—a slightly flawed upward swing—and in one fluid motion, brought the club back down in an overlong, swooping circular arc that sent his little white Titlist flying…

… straight into the woods.

I couldn't help but furrow my brow in mild astonishment.

"Wow. That one really hooked, didn't it?"

He flipped his club upside-down and rested his weight on top of it, staring blankly off into the distance as though the ball might suddenly reappear somewhere close to the putting green.

"Yeah, it did." He frowned disappointedly.

A slight chill on the back of my neck, about the size of a dime, made me jump. I held my hands out in front of me, palms upward, towards the clouds. Raindrops.

Finally, I thought.

One, and then another, landing squarely at the tips of my fingers—a slow start for certain, but bound to pick up soon. I pulled myself to my feet, the crisp-cut grass crumbling beneath the soles of my shiny white sneakers.

"Don't worry about it, Bugsy," I said quietly. "You played a heck of a game."

"'Dere's still time, y'know?" he returned with an air of desperation. "I can still go after it."

"If you wanna stand around, knee-deep in tall grass, gettin' soaked, be my guest, but I'm headin' back. Sorry to disappoint ya'."

I gave him a soft, reassuring pat on the shoulder and turned restlessly back towards the club house, stamping my right foot all the way in a meager attempt to wake it from its stubborn slumber. Why did I even bother to leave the house this morning? I continued to wonder, half-limping, as though walking on air. I'd barely touched a golf club my entire life, so what sick, uncontested impulse had urged me to tag along today? Bugs wasn't really that persuasive, was he?

I shut my eyes, and a few seconds later, he rejoined me at my side, carrying his clubs with him, jogging along just to keep up in the wake of the impending rain shower.

"Twenty-six under par, right, doc?" he cried out gleefully. "You saw it, didn't ya'?"

Somehow, I managed a smile. "If you say so, Bugsy. If you say so."


"Daffs," he bit his lower lip, butchering my name for 'buddy's sake,' "I've got a confession to make."

"Oh, really? Just one?" I snorted.

We were in the sauna now, toweled up and sweating out the bitter aftertaste of our afternoon deferred, still an hour or so before either of us were due back at our respective households.

Bugs sat on one side with his back against the wall, and I on the other with my head in my hands and my eyes half-lidded. The dim lighting and jagged, wooden walls, intercut with deep, rolling shadows left me feeling slightly claustrophobic, although the humidity was such that I had difficulty concentrating on it.

"Alright," I murmured, seeing as he wasn't amused. "What's the problem now, buster?"

He hesitated. "Well, I guess it's not so much of a confession as it's… " he trailed off, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Well, let's just put it 'dis way—I've got a small favor to ask ya'."

My eyelids slid open all the way, suddenly very alert and inappropriately wary. "A favor? What kinda favor? What're you talkin' about?"

"Don't worry, doc," he responded quickly, noticing the look on my face, "it's an easy one."

I sat up straight, resting my back against the moistened wall and crossing my arms diligently across my chest. Great, now I've got a homework assignment, I remarked snidely to myself.

"Y'see, I'm headed outta town next month," Bugs explained obliviously. "Pepsi wants me to shoot a commercial for 'em in San Francisco—"

"Pepsi?" I grumbled edgily, my bill turned steadfastly towards the wall. "You don't even drink Pepsi."

"I just bought a twelve-pack yesterday," he responded defensively.

I shrugged my shoulders and frowned, unconvinced. "Fine. You were saying… ?"

"Well, it's a three-day shoot, but 'dey said I might be up 'dere for about a week-and-a-half. So, in 'da meantime, it'd be great if you could… y'know… drive Honey to work for me… while I'm gone."

At first I didn't say anything. Drive Honey to work? What kind of favor was that? And why couldn't she drive herself?

"Why can't she drive herself?" I asked, the road from my brain to my beak less traveled.

"C'mon, doc, d'ya' have any idea how pampered she is? Heir to a rich oil tycoon, the only kit to her litter—just like me, 'cept I never grew up in 'da high Hollywood hills." I screwed up my face as he continued. "She doesn't know how to drive a car, Daff, and she's too chicken to learn it now."

"So lemme get this straight," I interjected airily, "you want me to drive your wife to work every day for a week-and-a-half while you're off in San Francisco gettin' paid six figures to drink free Pepsi?"

He chuckled uncomfortably. "Seven."

"Oh, seven figures? Even better," I could've puked right then and there. "And what about me? I assume I'll be receiving some sort of monetary compensation as well?"

"What? No. No compensation." He seemed appalled at the very thought of it. "Yer' doin' me a favor, Daffy, a favor. B'sides, you already owe me one after today."

My eyes narrowed conspicuously. "Owe you? For what?"

"Remember? You didn't even wanna come along 'dis afternoon 'til I made sure Honey could watch Melissa for ya'. Sound familiar?"

"Oh, so that's how it is!" I exclaimed brashly, deeply offended. "You force a favor down my throat just so you can choke it back outta me when the time's right? Oh, yeah—real classy, Bugs. Real classy."

"Look, 'dat's not 'da way it was s'posed to come out." He wiped a few stray beads of sweat from his brow. "I'll admit, I came here today wit' 'dat in mind, but honestly, all I really wanted was for 'da two of us to have a good time together—to get away from it all, y'know?"

He broke off for a moment, then, as if to reestablish himself, and I couldn't help but glance at the walls in shame. His gaze was far too innocent to bear.

"I was just hopin' you'd understand," he went on slowly. "But, hey, nobody's got a gun to yer' head. I can't force ya' to do it. I can always ask Sylvester… or Marvin… or Wile E…"

We sat in silence for several minutes after that—dead, morose, void-like silence—neither of us ever fully committing to any sustained eye contact. Inside, I was conflicted. I felt guilty for biting his head off so quickly, making assumptions, all that insensitive jazz, but at the same time, I didn't feel any true prodding desire to make up for it either.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I considered optimistically. Chauffeur… for a week… and-a-half? I could do that. The only real challenge would come with making small talk with… Mrs. Bunny, I supposed. Is that what she'd want me to call her? Mrs. Bunny?

Looking up, at last, from a pool of my own discomfiture, I exhaled slowly and bumped my head intentionally against the wall behind me, staring blankly up towards the dewy, unpolished ceiling, a look of concession written all over my face.

"Alright," I said sleepily, slapping my knee with an open palm, "I'll do it. Don't worry. I'll do it."

And that was that.

My eyes flicked nervously from side-to-side, finally coming to rest on the first aberration in their line of sight. It was Bugs's shoulder—his entire left arm, in fact, and his right, not to mention his brow. There, lingering on the very bristles of his silvery fur, emerging soundlessly between each crystalline bead of sweat, emerged a sort of soft, soap-like residue which curled and swept and rolled down his shoulders like a trickle of wet paint on an elegant, brazen surface.

My heart skipped a beat. He was looking right at me, following my gaze, down my body and up his own. His ears twitched excitedly, and neither of us said a word for a moment. Finally, then, as though it were a common nuisance, he reached up slowly with one gloved hand and gently brushed away the thin, sudsy substance coming through his pores, smiling softly all the while.

"No need to look so shocked, doc," he stated calmly. "It's not like it's a habit or anything."

You have no idea
what you're getting yourself into.