Sweet Phobia
Calligraphy by Tha Kalligrapha
Looney Tunes characters, names, and all related indicia are property of Warner Bros. Entertainment
Chapter One: Sweet Phobia
One year ago . . .
I was lying on a patch of carpet stained with my own blood as dry, ragged breaths escaped my dying lungs, abandoning their last-ditch efforts to keep me alive. Raspberry veins hemorrhaged their way across the off-white upholstery like blood-fused snakes slithering tactfully from my crumpled up body. So much blood . . . more than there should've been—dangerous amounts—trickling out like the remnants of a dammed waterfall.
Steam rose in dark, cloudlike plumes from the hot chunks of lead still stuck in my chest. The wounds felt as though they were only skin-deep, but that couldn't have been true. Not with my luck. They must've gone in deeper—hit a vein or two, ripped through an artery, shattered a bone, burnt up some skin . . . anything malignant.
My head swam like an Olympic medallist as I struggled to breathe, watching the sun set gently on the horizon through tear-stricken eyes. It was beautiful—a big orange ball sinking beneath the misty, pink swirls of swollen, cotton candy clouds right outside my window.
How dare they murder me here—in my own home. They're despicable, definitely despicable. Blessed with one more ounce of strength, I would've fought back. I would've wiped those tasteless smirks off their furry fucking faces and I would've taken them apart—ripped them limb from limb—until they were all dead and I was the only one left standing.
Sadly, it was a far-off dream.
I was stuck there, in a heap on the floor, paralyzed in pain and slowly bleeding to death—anxious and exasperated all at the same time. A tidal wave of emotion suddenly swelled up inside me and crashed down upon the shores of my fading brain—a lethal dose of sweet, sweet phobia buried somewhere in a bottle of gin.
It was times like these that I'd ask for a second chance—beg for it even. All I needed was one more try—another quarter in the machine and another shot at killing these motherfuckers. I hated them now—a burning grudge taking its first baby steps towards the foreshadowed chaos it would undoubtedly produce.
Friends today, enemies tomorrow. What the fuck was their problem? Did they want a piece of my spotlight—a free sample of my fame served with toothpicks and cheese cubes? Were they building their own little Cinderella stories in the background or were they just pissed, turning pale from all the time they spent living in my shadow? Fucking wannabes.
But even so, I had to admit, they knew what they were doing. They did me in and hung me out to dry . . . like I was nothing—a speck of dirt, a car to their truck, a jack to their queen—inferior in every way possible. They killed me without a second thought, or at least they tried to. It was the idea, the purpose, not the outcome, that mattered most. Death had swooped over me like the Grim Reaper's pet vulture. I could feel myself dying—losing control, falling apart at the seams. What was waiting for me on the other side? The afterlife? Eternity in paradise? Surely not anymore—not after all I've done since then.
I succumbed to every primal, evil, ugly emotion ever devised. I killed people—scores of people—without mercy, because I had nothing but contempt for their interests. I destroyed property, stole from civilians, disturbed the peace, and interrupted at least one national sporting event, but you know what? If it came down to it, I'd do it all over again.
By now, the entire house reeks of smoke. I couldn't tell if they'd started torching the place or not, but I was willing to bet they had. Either way, Bugs Bunny stood over me, grinning from ear-to-ear like a fucking circus freak.
"So whaddya' say, Daff?" He sneered, taking his sweet-ass time to load up the gun in his hand. "Didja' see it comin'?"
I could barely speak through the enormous, swollen gobs of blood in my mouth.
"Hmm?" He grunted. "What'sa' matta'? Cat gotcha' tongue?"
Keep joking, bitch, just keep joking.
"Well, I must admit," he continued, "I do feel a lil' slimy doin' 'dis to ya' . . ."
A little? A fucking little?
"But 'den I just remind myself," he took aim at my forehead, "it's your funeral, not mine."
They say when someone points a gun at you, your entire life flashes before your eyes—a garbled summary of your finest, shining moments. The funny thing is, all I ever saw was a bullet.
End of Chapter One.