Who do you think owns this fantastic movie/cartoon? I would've died happy by now if I owned it.
Headline: Peabody and Son Repair Falling Sky
Four eyes—two orange, two brown—flitted to the content below.
"New York City was sent into a tussle the other night by a series of strange happenings involving the famous canine prodigy Mr. Peabody and his adopted son. While eyewitnesses and reporters alike claim to have seen various figures from history running rampant, a phenomenon attributed to the appearance of a massive hole in the sky, the main highlight was the heartwarming speech a young Sherman Peabody said in defense of his father, who'd been in the process of being taken away by Animal Control."
A faint pair of gasps echoed in the dark room.
Impossible. Could it be?
The focus on the words intensified.
"It appeared fortune sided with the young man that night for thanks to a pardon from not just one but three of our past presidents as well as a standing ovation of support from both the historical figures and bystanders, Peabody was granted full release. Celebrations had to wait, however, for the wormhole had increased in its rage and intensity all the while. It took what certain witnesses claim to be a stroke of genius from Sherman for the father/son duo to solve the crisis and save the day."
"Hmm..." The petite figure sitting in the red-velvet swivel chair set the newspaper down on the table and observed with utmost scrutiny the shadowy couple seated from across the tabletop, the room's visibility hiding all but her meditative painted-red lips. "Are you sure?"
A baritone snicker, sounding too much like sharpening knives to be friendly, bounced from the shorter shadow as it held its palms out in faux pleasantry. "Come, come now, my dear, vould my honeybunch and I steer you and your honeybunch wrong?"
One could almost hear Petite's eyes roll. "Don't flatter yourself." A fold of paper later, the news went sliding back to its original sender, who caught it effortlessly. "At least not without keeping your end of the bargain."
The bantam phantom's lankier counterpart waved its manicured hand in a dismissive manner, its syrupy contralto voice no more welcoming. "Ov course, dahling! We remember deal down to last period. Though I must admit, this is awfully bold of you two."
Harsh laughter followed, its source impressed yet incredulous. "Yeah, even I vould think twice before messing with dis guy."
"Hence the need for an ace in the hole," at last spoke the sinewy figure standing against Petite's chair, its voice deep and controlled and confident. Arms over a barrel chest uncrossed to reach into a drawer and take out a glossy picture in full view of the fellow unknowns. "Him."
A sharp survival knife pointed at the image the moment it touched the desk, the disbelief in its holder's voice more palpable than blood. "Dis is ace you two came up with? But he is so small and scrawny! You sure he will do?"
No blade could compare to Petite's smirk. "Believe us. With him, Peabody will be putty in our hands."
"So vhy not go now and take him?" Bantam barked, "Get it over with?"
Petite and Sinew shared a long look—then not so much burst into laughter as much as flowed into a haunting symphony of dark giggles and chuckles.
"Oh honey," Petite gently admonished, "you should know the best things come to those who wait."
And so we begin.