The alarm clock on the night stand in the hotel room buzzes loudly and a weary hand fumbles to turn it off.
It's far too early to feel good about waking up, but it comes with the job. Tails tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes before throwing his blanket off and forcing himself to sit up.
He makes a single cup of coffy with the hotel's machine. He struggles for a minute to figure out how the thing works and which of the packets is caffeinated.
Brown fluids tinkle in the cup. His outfit laid out neatly on the undisturbed second bed. He adds the artificial sweetener and powdered creamer to his coffy and stirs. He sips it. It is too hot.
After he finishes, he brushes his teeth. Then he takes a shower. He calls Cosmo wrapped in a towel and sprawled across the messy sheets on the bed he slept in.
When she answers, she sounds understandably tired. "Heyyy~.."
"Good morning," he says smiling. "Did I wake you?"
"No," a lie. "I knew you were gonna call."
"And you woke up just for me, huh?"
"Mmmm, you know it." A half truth. She woke up when the phone rang. "How was Downunda?"
"It was Downunda. I didn't get mauled by drop bears, so that's a plus."
"So that cute face of yours is still in tact?"
He laughs. "Would you still love me if it got mangled?"
"No," she groans. "Of course I would, stupid."
"Jerk," he says, getting up and tossing the towel aside. "After this flight I'll be off work for a few weeks so we can finally spend some time together."
"I knowwwwwww I'm excited."
"Are you gonna be ready for Sally's party tonight?"
"Mmmmhmm," she says, borderline drifting back to sleep.
"You'd better be. I've got a surprise for you."
"You know I don't like surprises."
"It's a good one!"
"...Mrph, better be."
"Don't sound too excited, now."
"I don't like surprises. And I don't like you telling me about surprises before you surprise me with them."
He laughs. "I know. Hey, look, I gotta catch my flight. If I don't get dressed now I'm not gonna make it. I'll see you this evening, okay?"
"Okay, sweetie. I love you."
"I love you, too."
He hangs up the phone and checks the box in the pocket of his uniform. The ring is beautiful, he thinks to himself. She'll love it. She'll have to say yes.
She'll just have to.
He gets dressed.
"Do you have your script?"
"Yes, Cream."
"I'm not nagging you, Sonic," she says, lighting a cigarette with the end of a previously lit cigarette. "I'm making sure we have our shit together."
"I know, I know," he says vacantly. "I appreciate it."
His attention is drawn to the invitation in his hands. COME TO SALLY ACORN'S BIRTHDAY EXTRAVAGANZA, the card reads. YOU! SONIC THE HEDGEHOG! HAVE. BEEN. INVITED!
He hasn't talked to Sally Acorn in years, and he really, really wants to fuck her. He turns the invitation over in his hands. Flakes of glitter fall to the ground.
"Do you?" Cream asks, tossing the lit but into the street and taking a big drag. "It doesn't seem like you appreciate everything I do for you, Sonic. I work hard. Look at me." He looks at her and stuffs the invitation back into his jacket pocket. "I work very hard, okay?"
"I know you do."
"Do you know your lines?"
"Yeah. I have a few notes, if I may." He digs the script from the jacket and unfolds it.
"Fire away, Captain."
"Okay, you kick it off with 'hello, everybody!' but I don't think Sonic would say that. Something more sloppy I think would work better, like 'mornin', ladies and gents!'"
"Fine."
"Same here with 'it is important to help out the community.' 'Helping out the community is way past cool!'"
"Right, sounds too formal."
"Yeah, but this last one. You're really going to hate me for this one, Cream."
"Is it the Chawtaw's Chilidogs plug? Because, I don't have time for this, Sonic. We gotta do the plug."
"I know we gotta plug shit but they're starting to know me as the chilidog 'hog. I don't ever want there to come a time when people start throwing chilidogs at me. They're fucking disgusting."
"What would you like to sponsor you, Sonic? More importantly, what would you like people to throw at you on the streets because they're mad about you selling out? Because that's gonna happen, dude. People are dicks. You know this."
"Not chilidogs, that's for fucking sure. Cologne bottles hurt but it doesn't usually make a mess on me. Not tampons. Never tampons. Pillows, maybe."
"You're being dramatic. Lose the coat, you look like an idiot."
"Hold my coat," he says, taking it off and throwing it onto her, almost knocking the cigarette out of her hand. "You look like an asshole."
"I'm not always going to be here, Sonic." She folds the coat over her arm. "And when I'm not, you'll be sorry."
"Yeah, yeah," he says, unfolding his script again. "Do I have time to warm up?"
"You're on in five. Be ready."
"Yeah, yeah." His eyes scan the lines. "Way past cool! Helping out your community is way past cool! Haha! Chilidogs!" he says in the voice.
Charmy, his copilot, is already waiting for him in his seat in the Captain's Cabin when Tails arrives.
He sits next to him, buckling himself in. "Good morning."
"'Eya, Tails. You get enough sleep last night?"
"Never, haha. Not enough coffy in the world, either."
"We'll feel better when we hit altitude."
"Yeah, I'll bet," Tails says. He turns some knobs and flips some switches. It's a normal thing to do when you are a pilot, for the console has many switches to flip and knobs to dial. "Say, Charmy."
"What's happenin' Captain?"
"I'm gonna propose to Cosmo tonight."
"Whoa-hoa-hoa. This early?"
"Well, it's been two years."
"You should wait five."
"I love her."
"Love her for three more years, then propose."
"It's different with her. I know it is. Besides, I already bought the ring."
"Seems a bit soon. You should probably wait three more years."
"Just shut the fuck up and be happy for me, dick."
"Whatever, dude. I'm happy for you."
"Mean it."
"What?"
"I said-" Tails is cut off by a knock on the door followed by the door opening. The stewardess steps in smiling.
"The plane's been boarded and we're ready to go, ya'll."
"Thanks doll," Charmy says.
Tails picks up the wired thingy and pushes the walky-talky button to speak over the loud speaker to the cabin. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking-"
"Mornin', ladies and gents! Your old pal Sonic here hangin' out with the firemen at the Station Square VFD! You know, helping out with your community is way past cool, and these firemen could use your help! Did you know there are over nine hundred and eleven fires a day in this city alone! Whoa! We'd better put 'em out before the whole city burns down! But even me being the fastest dude alive, I could still use all the help I can get! It's okay to need help sometimes. It's way past cool to give help sometimes. And it's way past okay to treat yourself to a footlong chili cheese dog at Chawtaw's Chilidogs down the street! That's where I'll be hangin' after a long day's work of volunteerin'! Snack you there, bro!"
"And cut! Wonderful."
Charmy dashes the razor blade against the mirror, sprinkling the excess coke off the sides in a rhythm. He plucks the straw from the reflective surface and pops it in his nose before leaning in and polishing off a rail.
SNRRRT. SNRRT.
"All I'm saying, man," Charmy continues raving nonsensically, "if god's dead where's his fucking body? Why haven't we found god's body?"
"God has foresight, you fool. If god left a body behind, man would find it and consume it and get hulkpowers and shit. Mankind cannot be trusted with that sort of power, so god built in a failsafe so that when god dies, god dissolves."
"You're saying god built itself?"
"Of course god built itself. What do you think, there's some sort everlasting chain of gods creating each other?"
"I dunno, dude. What about all that ÆdS shit? Didn't ÆdS will itself into existence and-"
"Get the fuck out of my face with that stupid cornwallace bullshit, Charmy. Don't even fucking get me started. That faggot would convince you that your nuts are strawberries if it would make you eat your girlfriend's lungs."
"That sounds familiar. That sounds really, really familiar."
"cornwallace would have you believe that ÆdS is a small genderless child so that he can call upon some kind of eldritch Chthulu monster to drive you insane and consume you. Luckily for us, god is dead and that can't happen."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Will you shut the fuck up, Charmy? I read it on reddit. God is dead and you're a faggot."
"Whatever," Charmy says, handing over the mirror and straw. At altitude they can use autopilot. They're only half paying attention to the radar. It usually starts beeping if something goes wrong. "So, you really think you can stick your dick in only three holes for the rest of your life?"
"I only get to use two of those holes," Tails sighs. "For now."
"Goddamn, man. You think you can do it?"
"Yeah," SNRRT SNRRRRRT. SNRRRRT. "I love her dude like the moon and the sunshine."
"Yeah but. You don't really love the moon, do you? It's just kinda there."
"Shut the fuck up dude," Tails says through clenched teeth. SNRRRT. "I love the fucking moon. This coke is bullshit."
"Whatever, dude," Charmy says. "I gotta rock a piss."
"Yeah, well hurry up. This plane aint gonna fly itself. Ha! Hahaha!"
"Hahaha."
"Haha! Haha!"
"Heh." Charmy gets up and opens the cockpit door only to be met with the blunt force of the robot monkey in the flight attendant outfit with the nail clippers. The brute force of the attack causes his throat to stop functioning properly, making him gurgle and desperately try to wheeze as the two ends of the clippers dig in around the skin as deep as they can before closing and tearing away an irregular patch of flesh from his throat. More gurgling as blood jets out almost comically from his jugular, hosing down the white walls in an irregular pattern as he collapses into the door. Squirming. Still alive.
Startled, Tails spills the coke, which he is briefly really upset about, before realizing he desperately needs to get out of this situation. He fumbles with the buckles on his safetyharness for a moment as Coconuts approaches. He starts flailing to the side, trying to grab Coconuts or knock the weapon out of his hand but Coconuts powers through his desperate attempts to fight back.
Grabbing the side of his head with his left hand, he smashes it into the wall behind him, thumb digging into his eyeball, mashing it into his brain like a grape. He's still alive, still screaming and weakly flailing. His screams desperate and primal as Coconuts pinches off his jugular with the set of nail clippers. Tearing his flesh away more than cutting it. Spraying the windshield down with blood.
Miles Prower and Charmy Bee are still alive for now, but it won't be for too terribly long. Coconuts redirects his attention to the cabin, stepping out and leaving the pilots to die.
An old-timey title card superimposes itself onto reality with a circular window framing the robot monkey's face. It's Coconuts!
"That's me-e-e-e!" he screams at nobody in particular. Confined to their seats because they've been dutifully following the laws of the lights, the passengers stare at the robot monkey, confused.
Coconuts wields the nail clippers in one hand and scratches at the lightbulb screwed into his skull with the other. A bit of bee skin and gore hangs off the edge of his weapon.
Wait, what was he doing again? Oh, right.
"Attention, passengers," the monkey robot announces. "I'm here to let you know that the plane has been officially hijacked and will soon turn into a large fireball which will consume you, me, and part of a large building. The pilots are dead, and there is nothing you or anyone can do to stop me."
Someone coughs.
"Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened for as long as the light is on," Coconuts says. "Once the light is off, you may move freely about the cabin."
One of the passengers raises her hand. Coconuts points the gory nail clippers at her. "Yes?"
"Will there still be light refreshments served?"
"Oh, uh," the robot monkey rubs a circle into the carpeted floor with his foot. "I'm not really a flight attendant, so … no."
The entire cabin erupts into screams.
Earlier, in the void:
cornwallace: "I'm probably just an asshole in denial."
Swiper. No swiping: "Nah, I don't think so."
cornwallace: "If you're an asshole, I'm definitely an asshole."
Swiper. No swiping: "I don't think we're assholes."
Swiper. No swiping: "Not all the time, anyway."
Swiper. No swiping: "Speaking of, we oughta start writing that parody of how a lot of people died horribly 16 years ago."
There is no right way to grapple with the knowledge that you are going to die. Some passengers have turned to prayer, bowing their heads and choking out pleas for divine mercy. Some have begun turning on their cellphones and calling their loved ones for one last conversation, whispering all the things they had been so afraid of saying to them. But now, it all seems so stupid to hide anything from them.
In the back row of coach, right by the toilet, sits Swiper. No swiping—one of the two writers of the very piece of shit that you're reading, and the one currently typing this sentence. He pulls out his cellphone, dials a number, and says: "Hello? Is this the Little Boy Fantasy Hotline, where real live little boys are waiting next to the phone for my call?"
High-pitched mumbling from the other end of the line.
"That's great, Andy. So," Swiper. No swiping pauses to scratch at an eczema patch next to his nose. "What's your shoe size?"
Coconuts has taken a gray kitsune hostage and has hung him up with a harness made of those flimsy drink straws. He had to use the plane's whole supply of them and forced passengers to tie them together, end to end, and then figured out how to hang him from the ceiling of the plane. If you think that seems like a lot of work, you're right. It took the better part of three hours. Is that integral to the plot of this story? No, it isn't. But I wrote it down here, see, and now you're reading it. This is usually the part of the block of text where people drop off, so I can write anything here I fucking want to and no one will read it. I'm in love with your poodle. I want to marry your poodle. I want to have a poodle marriage to your poodle, and I want to be married to your poodle now, and I want your poodle to wear a poodle dress, and I will also be wearing a dress, and I want to make passionate love to your poodle. That's the real reason I go through twenty cans of peanut butter a week. I'm not that crazy about protein. No one's that crazy about protein.
"Now, we're gonna play a game!" Coconuts screeches as he clamps the kitsune's lower left eyelid in the pair of nail clippers. "I'm gonna everybody questions, and you are gonna answer them. And for every answer you get wrong, I shall tear a piece of this fox's flesh!"
"No, no," says the kitsune. "I'm a kitsune. Please respect my species."
"Uh," says Coconuts. "It looks like… most of your tails have been… glued on? How many are there, even?"
With every word, the pair of nail clippers smacks the kitsune's cheek. "You are being very disrespectful of my true being," he says. "Self-crit or ban."
"All right, everybody, here's the question!" says Coconuts, neither self-critting nor banning. "If god told you to kill yourself, would you do it without question?"
"That depends," says one of the passengers. "How do we know if g—"
"WRONG," screams Coconuts at the top of his robotic lungs, which doesn't make sense because he is a robot. He forgets sometimes. Then, he tears off the kitsune's eyelid with the nail clippers.
"Goddamnit! Swiper!" the kitsune screams, kicking in the air in front of him. "I told you to make my death fucking painful! A nail clipper is pussy shit!"
At the back of the plane, Swiper's now nude from the waist down and masturbating furiously. "Tell me the size of your egg!" he moans into the phone. "Will you compare your egg to my egg? Tell me who holds the littlest egg!"
"Sorry, I don't—" Coconuts rubs his face in exasperation, which is weird because he doesn't really have something akin to nerve endings in his face. "You want to die more painfully?"
"Well, yeah," says the kitsune. "I mean, I deserve it, du. After all, I'm responsible for Balls off, for fuck's sake."
"Oh, no way," says Coconuts in awe. "That was you? I loved Balls off!"
The rest of the passengers in the cabin begin to murmur among themselves. "Me too!" someone shouts. "Balls off was one of my favorite fanfics!" someone else shouts. "Yeah, Balls off was hilarious! How come you took it down?"
"No, goddamnit!" the kitsune can't stop kicking the air in front of him even though he knows there's no point to it. It's like he can't stop. "It was supposed to make you mad! You weren't supposed to like it! It wasn't supposed to be funny!"
The knowledge that Balls off failed to offend anyone on the plane enrages the kitsune so much that he instantly decomposes, liquefying into black sludge. His organs burst like cysts, his eyes explode, his bones disintegrate. In a matter of seconds, he is merely a stinky stain on the carpet and a bunch of fake plastic tails on the ground.
Coconuts stares up at the now-empty harness, watching the black liquid dripping from a couple of straws. And he says, "Aw, goddamnit."
Well, so much for that game.
Up in the cockpit, Tails and Charmy are also decomposing, but slower than the kitsune did. In the distance, two large towers glint in the sunlight, full of people unaware of the tragedy about to befall.
Back in the cabin, Coconuts is speaking to the camera that isn't there. "I got penis problems," he says, directly quoting Splatter. "Hell, who doesn't?"
He doesn't, because he doesn't have a penis. Robots don't have penises or lungs. They don't have anything. They don't even have free will.
But he forgets this sometimes. Coconuts forgets a lot of things. He forgets what he's doing right now. Oh right, the plane.
"Can anybody tell me the correct answer?!" he bellows.
"I don't have penis problems," says a woman. "Mine works great."
"No, to my earlier question! If god told you to kill yourself, would you kill yourself?"
"Why would god want us to kill ourselves?" asks another passenger.
"That's not up to you to decide," Coconuts shrieks. "We can't know why god wants what he wants for us! God knows all! God sees all! The lives of us mortals mean nothing to the immortal god!"
"But how do you know?" asks yet another passenger.
"Because my god speaks to me," Coconuts explains. "My god's given me a purpose, which is more than you fleshies will ever know! Unlike you, in life, I had a mission! And unlike you, in death, my actions will have meant something!"
Suddenly, a chorus of feedback screeches through on Coconuts's transmitter.
"COCONUTS — DO — YOU — COPY — STOP," screeches Robotnik's voice over the radio. "IT — IS — I, — DR. — RRRRRROBOTNIK — STOP — I — WAS — INVITED — TO — PRINCESS — SALLY'S — PARTY — AFTER — ALL — STOP — THE — INVITATION — WAS — MISTAKENLY — PUT — INTO — THE — "OUTGOING" — PILE — BY — SOME — BUMBLING — BUFFOON — STOP — ABORT — THE — SUICIDE — MISSION — REPEAT — ABORT — SUICIDE — MISSION — OVER."
And then an awkward silence washes over the cabin, save for the rumbling of the plane.
"Uh," says Coconuts, loosening the collar on his blood-soaked uniform. Why he does that, he does not know. It's not as if he can sweat. "I'll… be right back."
And the robotic monkey runs up to the cockpit and sees only the wall of the tower reflecting the light from the sun, engulfing the airplane's windshield, and as everything is consumed in a wave of bright white light, so hot that it even melts steel beams, Coconuts says, "Aw, godda—"
On his TV screen, Robotnik watches as the plane collides with one of the two towers and erupts into flames. He watches as the tower collapses on itself. Then, unfortunately, another plane hits the other tower for a reason completely unrelated to this story. The news station has been looping the footage for the past hour.
"Oooh," he fumes. "That BANANA BRAIN. That INCONSIDERATE AUTOMATON. Now I shall have to cRRRRRaft an entirely NEW Coconuts. Did he not think of how pRRRRecious my TIME IS?!"
When the alarm goes off, you could say Sonic, or Maurice as he more privately goes by these days, is alarmed.
The approximation of over 900 fires a day he made earlier was an outright fabrication. The whole goddamn city would be on fire. In reality, to his understanding, volunteer work for the fire department was quite boring. He expected to be playing cards, but what he happened to be facing today was no mere fire. It was a measure of national security.
What exactly was happening on this, the day of the object of his lust's birthday, was not entirely clear to him. What he does know is that he calls and gets shotgun. If hell's going to be raining down a celebrity of his importance, he'd better be in goddamn air conditioning.
"What do you make of this, uh. What's your name?"
"Bark? You don't look like a dog. You look like a polar bear."
"Bark like treebark."
"You don't look like that, either."
"Yeah, but papa knew I'd be strong. Strong like treebark."
"That was a bad decision. When I hear bark I think dogbark. Bark bark. Ruff. That's a bad name, Bark."
"I uh. Yeah, I don't know about that."
"What do you make of this, Bark?"
"I dunno yet, I don't really know much about what happened. All they gave me was an address and something something terrorism."
"I'll tell you what I think, Bark. It's a goddamn mess, a travesty. A stream of projectile vomit in the face of god."
"Uh. Sure. Right." Bark is trying to focus on driving the firetruck. Siren blaring, vehicles confused and trying to get out of the way. Some of them just stopping for some reason. "For fuck's sa-"
"You might be asking yourself. What kind of 'hog, what kind of monster - would suggest eugenics as an option at a time and place like this? In the face of terrorism, atop the carrion remains of our brothers and sisters and mothers and aunts and cousins and uncles and second cousins and second uncles and an entirely convoluted removal system I'm not sure I understand? Well, I'll tell you. I'm that 'hog. I'm that monster."
"Why are you talking like Morgan Freeman?"
"Did I say out loud to castrate the poor? No. I did not. But we were all thinking it. You see, the poor people are typically the ones causing all the problems in the world. And let's be real, I may not say outright that most dogs are poor, because they are. But we were all thinking it, weren't we?"
"Ah-"
"Of course we were thinking it. You know, I didn't vote for Sally Acorn, Bark. None of us did. She's a princess. That's not how princesses work. But when I get pissed off about taxes and what poor people are doing, I know exactly who to blame."
"Sonic?"
"Yes Bark Bark?"
"Why do you do that stupid Jaleel White voice on television?"
"It's for the kids, Bark Bark. It's for the children. It's for the parents of those children that grow up to have more children. Do you know what I mean, Barkbark?"
"Uh. No. Not exactly. Not really at all. Do you always talk like Morgan Freeman?"
"No, no. Just when I get somber and philosophical."
And as the firetruck rounds the corner, on the skyline in the distance they can see where they're going - the towers of trade crumbling at the seams, billowing black smoke into the sky that takes the shape of death itself. Up ahead, on the corner, a rodent of sorts screams and panics as he runs blindly through the streets, set ablaze. Like a dying, withering match he crumbles to the earth just as the towers beyond him.
They pass the remains wordlessly.
Sonic breaks the silence as the firetruck speeds closer and closer to the inferno of ground zero - he speaks over the ambient rumblings of the very foundation of the city which they drive upon.
"Ernest Hemingway once wrote - 'the world is a fine place, and worth fighting for.' I agree with the second part."
cornwallace/Swiper. No swiping - 9/11/17
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SALLY ACORN. R.I.P.