Me VS the Toons VS the Closet

Mr. Plotz jumped out of the lead police car as they pulled up in front of the kidnapper's hideout. However, unlike what you would expect, he was no toon; he was the real Thaddeus J. Plotz, four-foot-five and balding with a bulldog's face, his somewhat goofy-looking appearance leading to his being caricatured for the studio's old cartoon Animaniacs. (Of course, Mr. Plotz had never been fully satisfied with his toon counterpart, insisting that the animators had ignored something he called his "rakish charm". The toon Plotz, characteristically, had told him to go jump in a lake.)

The head policeman, a tall, young fellow with shoulder-length brown hair, saluted to Mr. Plotz as he exited the car. "We have the house surrounded, sir," he announced. "What do you want us to do? Storm inside and retake the Warners?"

"NO!" Mr. Plotz cried emphatically, his eyes wide and complexion ashen. "That's just what they want us to do." He pressed a piece of paper into the officer's hands. "Look!"

The policeman unfolded the paper. It was a standard magazine-cutout ransom note, the letters messily arranged as if the writer hadn't been fully concentrating on the work.

WArNer

I haVE yOur bELoVedAnimaniacsIF YOU choOseto

PromOtE that SortoF CrAPaBOvemorE deSeRvinG staRs,

ImtAKiNg a staND. i eXpECttoSEe a nEw

rELeaSe OFEdWArD SCIsSOrhaNdS' " ' by tHe

EnD oF tHEWeeK, SLimEbALLs.

I woN't HEsitATe to KiLLtHEm iF yOu TryAnYThinG FunNy

Mr. Plotz was visibly shaking. "We can't lose the Warners!!" he yelled, waving his arms about. "We're going to make a fortune with those DVDs, and, if they do well enough, we might need those kids for another major project! That—crook can't rub them out!"

The officer nodded sharply. "I understand, sir." He then paused. "Ehhh...so, should we storm inside and retake the Warners?"

"NO, YOU DOLT!" Mr. Plotz's short temper was another thing that had survived in his cartoon double. Even though the officer was nearly two feet taller than him, the executive managed to grab hold of the man's collar, shaking him back and forth. "We can't risk the Warners getting killed!" He paused. "...If it'd been those hippos, though..."

"Wh-what about the National Guard, sir? Or the Marines?" offered the policeman, trying to straighten up. But Mr. Plotz was holding on too tightly. "Or the Canine Core...Or something..."

"That's even more preposterous!" Mr. Plotz shot back, shaking him again. "What do you want to do, advertise to the media that Warner Brothers studio can't even protect their star toons from a mere child?! I saw that kidnapper, and that kid was no more than seventeen—maybe even a girl!"

The policeman didn't argue this point, even though his own sister was plenty aggressive if she felt like it. However, he was still quite confused. "Then...then what do you want us to do, sir?"

At last Mr. Plotz let go of the officer's collar, causing the man to rub his neck gingerly, and the CEO hopped up and sat on the hood of the police car. "We wait," Thaddeus informed him stolidly, crossing his arms and staring at the house. "I've had those Warner kids under my jurisdiction for nearly fifteen years—ever since they were created for Animaniacs. They'll take care of themselves, and then we cuff that crook."

"All right, sir," acquiesced the policeman, knowing full well out ofwhose pocket came the funding for the police force. And he too sat on the car and waited.

Once I get my nerve back, I rush down the hall to the closet I'd cleared out, kicking random junk out of my way as I do. The sack is still light, as well as motionless, which is still bugging me. I'd thought that those toons were supposed to be rowdy. Would they really sit still for a kidnapping?

I kick the closet door open, more because both my hands are full than because I'm trying to emulate an action movie. Then, swinging the sack around, I release the opening and fling the toons into the room.

At least, I think I do, because even as I slam and lock the door I realize that I haven't actually seen anything come out of the sack.

Just as I'm pondering on this fact I feel a weight on my shoulder, and look up with a jolt. Standing next to me and clearly not in the closet are the "Animaniacs", sitting on top of each other's shoulders with the smallest girl one on the top. She'd leaned her elbow on my shoulder, as their combined height still only made them marginally taller than me, and she was fluttering her eyelashes at me.

"Do you do this often?" she asks coyly.

"What th—" I start, then stick the key in the lock and fling the closet door open again.

Inside are the three toons, lounging around and yawning. The shirtless boy absently plays with a paddleball before they sit up and wave cheekily at me.

I slam the door shut again and whirl around to look behind me. The toons are sifting through the junk on the floor, "ooh"ing and "aah"ing. I think I see the boy with the sweatshirt eating a large fur coat, but I can't be sure because I open the closet door again.

Sure enough, the toons are in there, wearing lederhosen and performing as an oom-pah band to boot.

I slam the door and look behind me. They're dancing a ballet out in the hallway.

I open the door and look inside. They're hang-gliding in the closet.

I close the door and turn around. They're dressed as cowboys, with the taller boy and the girl riding on the shorter boy as if he was a horse.

Just as I grasp the doorknob again, though, I sense a pattern and realize that I'm obviously being played for a sucker. So I immediately fling open the door and then turn around to look behind me instead.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least, not until the tallest boy's face appears upside-down in front of me.

"What're you doing?" he inquires innocently in a high, slightly nasal voice, a wide and irritating smile plastered across his face.

I yelp with surprise, fumbling around with my hands and, dropping the empty sack, I shakingly point The Gun at him. He doesn't even seem to notice, instead quite calmly getting down from the rafters and standing casually in front of me, both hands in his pockets. The other two toons come out from somewhere behind his back, leaning against one another and seeming utterly at ease.

"D-don't move!" I command, quiveringly aiming The Gun at each of them in turn as I self-consciously back away. "I'll shoot you, dammit!"

The boy in the sweater gasps ridiculously loudly, covering his mouth with gloved hands. "She's got a potty mouth," he informs the other two in a congested Beatles accent, then in a flash he's suddenly standing on my shoulder, attempting to force a plunger down my throat. "DON'T WORRY!! I'LL HELP YOU, POTTY-MOUTH LADY!"

"Get the fudge off of me!" I shout, trying to pry him off my face with my free hand. I can't very well let go of The Gun, not when I'm surrounded by three toons who can do who-knows-what with it.

"FUDGE?!" the girl squeals, pulling a bowl of steaming liquid chocolate out of thin air. She then turns as if looking at an invisible audience and winks, cocking her hip to the side. "Just a little thing I picked up in Home EC."

At last I manage to get the Beatles boy off of me, and The Gun is pointed at all three of them again. "What the hell is your problem?!" I splutter.

Even though I never took my eyes off of any of them, the taller boy somehow appears on my back, leaning into my face. "What's our problem?" he demands in mock-astonishment, poking my nose as he affects indignance. "You're the one who's wearing a mask after Mardi Gras! What have you been up to, young lady?"

"Don't you effing dare call me that!" I want to point The Gun at him, but, seeing as he's right next to me, I don't want to risk blowing my own face off.

While I decide this, though, he expertly unties the mask and tugs it off, letting it flutter to the ground. I begin to splutter with rage, gearing up for another bout of swears, but the boy flings himself into my arms and flutters his eyelids at me. "You have lovely eyes," he grins impishly.

I drop him on the floor, pointing my gun hand at the closet and quivering with rage once more. "GET IN THE CLOSET," I bark. "ALL OF YOU."

The taller boy sighs dramatically, his long tail swinging from side to side. "Just think, it's our first date and already we're heading into the closet."

"GET IN!"

The girl puts her hands on her hips and favors me with a disapproving glare. "You masher!" she scolds. "We don't even know each others' names!"

Just as I'm about to repeat my directive again, the two boys jump forward. "We're the Warner Brothers!" they chorus.

The boy wearing pants salutes. "I'm Yakko!"

The other boy sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, puffing out his chest. "I'm Wakko!"

The girl pushes her way past both of them and clasps her hands together, leaning forwards. "And I'm the Warner Sister, Princess Angelina Contessa Luisa Francesca Banana Fanna Fo Fesca the Third," she gushes, smiling sappily at me. "But you can call me Dot!"

"I'll call you what I want to call you," I retort, trying to seem braver than I feel at this moment. "Now get in the fricking closet."

The Warners glanced at each other, then they looked back up at me with ridiculously wide puppy-dog eyes. "But we don't know your name yet," they state in unison.

I heft The Gun higher, realizing that I've been aiming at their stomachs and not their chests. "I'm not going to tell you my name! Now get in that closet or I'll shoot, dammit, I swear I will!"

"You've been doing enough swearing already," Yakko counters, zipping behind me again. He yanks the ski cap off my head and looks over the inside label as I whip The Gun towards him. "Hmm...Ly-de-ah Hoskins. Lih-dee-uh?"

"Lih-day-uh," I correct him automatically, then in my embarrassment at this slip I tighten my grip on the shotgun and focus it between Yakko's inky black eyes. Although by now I haven't expected them to show any fear, he seems even more not-scared than before.

"Aaaaaaaaaah...y'know," he remarks offhandedly, looking at me slyly through half-lidded eyes as he pokes his gloved finger at the barrel of The Gun, "that thing won't hurt toons. Unless the bullets are coated in Dip, a'course."

I blink. Dip? What the hell does he mean by "dip"? Does he expect me to serve him the bullets with nachos or something? Does the heartburn kill 'em?

"They are," I bluff, glaring at him. He returns my gaze nonchalantly. "And you'll be dead dips if you don't get in that closet."

There's a sudden pause, then Wakko makes a disturbingly hideous face. "That was a really bad joke," he accuses me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, then returns to the same gross expression.

At last I've had enough. "IT'S NOT AN EFFING JOKE, YOU LITTLE CRAP-HEAPS!" I shout, swinging The Gun out in front of me again and using my free hand to push against the three of them. "NOW GET IN THE DAMN CLOSET!"

Even as I'm pushing, though, Dot somehow manages to turn around and attach herself to me, wrapping her arms around my neck and getting her red nose up against mine. "But we wanna stay here with you," she whimpers unconvincingly, her eyes becoming big and wobbly with tears.

I inform her simply, "Shut the hell up."

At last one of my comments seems to affect the Warners, as both brothers immediately tear themselves out of my hands and whirl around to face me as Dot leaps lightly down, sobbing pointedly. Wakko rolls up his sleeve menacingly, his face dark, and Yakko actually removes his white glove and smacks me across the face with it.

"Foul villain!" he cries dramatically in a faux-English accent, replacing the glove and crossing his arms as his face contorts into an exaggerated glare. "Thou dost not insult a Warner without reprimand!" Then he returns to his normal voice, though still affecting a scowl. "And you're not even reacting to our best material!!"

"Shut it, toon!" I'm sorely tempted to pull the trigger, but my hands are shaking too much for me to be able to get a clear shot. Besides, if that "dip" line had been their own bluff, I don't really want a murder on my hands. I'm already going to get hell from the cops for kidnapping.

By the way, where the crap ARE the cops?

I know that they've followed me, 'cus they'd been literally right behind me. Why the hell aren't they bursting inside and demanding that I release my hostages?

Are they...considering my demand?

Yakko notices my distraction as I think of a rerelease of Edward, and before I can snap out of it he's lightly plucked The Gun out of my hands and has begun examining it excitedly. "Heeeeey, a PEASHOOTER!" he marvels, slipping his hand onto the grip and squinting at the barrel. "Neato!"

"It shoots peas?!" Wakko's over there in a flash, bending over his brother interestedly. He lifts the hem of his blue sweatshirt and rubs his black, furry stomach. "I am gettin' kinda hungry..."

"Hungry enough for peas?" Dot's looking disgusted, and demonstrates this by sticking out her tongue and pointing to it. Yakko doesn't notice, though, instead still goofing around with The Gun.

If my face can possibly get any paler, it's turned sheet white, and I back up as far as I can against the closet door. "G-give it back to me!" I gasp, even though I realize that this is a directive that no one in their right mind would follow. "Give it to me now!"

Yakko looks up, his oddly-shaped ears bouncing a little on top of his head. "Relaaaaaax," he mentions offhandedly, leaning an elbow on Wakko's head. "It's in your pocket, anyway."

I jump, then reflexively my hand reaches for my pocket and finds a hard lump. The Gun is actually in there. Had he still been holding it when he'd said that it was in my pocket? I hadn't noticed. What the hell is going—

Taking advantage of my complete distraction, all three Warners lunge forwards and quickly shove me into the closet, locking the door behind me with a key that it seems they'd snatched from me at some other moment. I'm utterly shocked more than anything, but when I get my reason back I begin pounding on the door, demanding that they let me out. My response is a short sing-song chorus:

"You'll stay there 'till you behave, naughty girl!"

After a bout of insane giggling and the sound of furry footsteps hurrying away, I begin slamming my fists on the door again.

Shit.

Mr. Plotz remained sitting on top of the police car, idly tapping his foot against the tire and twiddling his thumbs. If anything happened to those kids, the studio was going to lose a fortune. Just the thought of it made his blood run cold.

But then, sifting through his memory, he recalled all of his encounters with the Warners over the years he'd been employed at the studio.

And he began feeling sorry for the kidnapper.