Passing The Torch

by Brithund

The original cast return to Acme Acres for Christmas a year later. Acme Looniversity has a problem - and just maybe Babs' brother Mortimer and his class can solve it - with a little help.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Under the snowy fields of Acme Acres, mid-morning saw Babs and Buster contentedly spending the holiday time indoors, Babs running a hare dryer over her just-showered pink and white fur. Being American Jackrabbits, they could claim to be either rabbits or hares, whichever the scene's punchline demanded.

"Mortimer called when you were in the shower," Babs said brightly as her husband walked out towelling his fur. "He's got his grades for the term already. An A in Anvil Dodging, and a B+ in Escapology." She snickered. "Miss Prissy takes that class, as well as Props and Gags these days. I don't think she's in it for the Props part."

"Hog-tying escape and anvil evasion. That's like Jaggi's old all-action drama film school," Buster mused. "They had professors of all sorts of dire subjects. One department used to have a Chair of post-apocalypse studies." The tall zebra was currently qualifying as an Indoor Survival Instructor – very few modern Toons really needed advice on how to catch desert rattlesnakes for dinner, but the number perishing of ennui in office meetings and in bizarre spatula-related kitchen accidents was at an all-time high.

"Post-apocalypse studies? That sounds more like Plucky's kind of shtick, something for after you've finished all the levels of Retro Rocket Rumble, and the other players have done that to you," Babs shuddered at the thought, switching off her hare dryer. "I've never been into squatting in burned-out basements, wearing torn black leather and eating pet food out of rusty tins with a saw-backed bayonet for cutlery." She paused, thinking. "You say Jaggi's place once had a chair of that? But not anymore? That genre's only getting more popular since President Hitcher took over."

Buster shrugged. "They had to cut up the Chair for firewood. It's a survival thing. That's the way it goes with that kinda course."

"I'll stick to comedy," Babs affirmed. "Thinking of which – Mortimer's putting on a Christmas show, with his whole class. On Christmas Eve."

"Oh? In holiday time? That's keen." Buster's ears went up. "You want we should go and heckle?"

Babs considered the matter. "We'll go and see it, but – we can't lend a helping paw. It's his show, now." She looked at the mantelpiece, crowded with Christmas cards. "Nice. That's all our old class still in touch. Even Gogo Dodo sent a New Year card… naturally his came in mid-June." It had followed weeks after the news of a happy event – Gogo and his partner now had a child that was a natural-looking blend of its parents, a dodo and a numerically controlled milling machine. *

(Editor's note: the news had caused a great disturbance in the Farce, as if a million character design artists and animators had cried out in shock, their horrified screams dissolving into insane peals of shrieking laughter…)

"Of course," Buster nodded. "Japan's in a different time zone. It's ten in the morning here, but it's next August there already. Hamton's T-mailed his season's greetings, but no card from him yet. I'm sure he's sent one."

"I expect it's stuck in the post, somewhere between here and Happy-World Land. So many reasons it might be." Babs struck a dramatic pose. "Either snow or rain, or fall of night, may stay These couriers, from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."

"I think that's meant to be "Neither…." Buster suggested.

Babs grinned. "Meant to be, sure. But have you tried using the post office lately?"

"I tend to T-mail," Buster admitted. "Today I've got to send in a new script for us I'm working on, have to see how the studio like it."

Babs squeezed her husband's cottontail affectionately. "That's my Buster! And you write it all yourself – no buying in gags."

"I know the Studio used to do that a lot. There was a whole team of specialist writers, like Mister Pauling, who did nothing but puns," Buster recalled from his scriptwriting classes. "He was a skunk, I remember. A real gent too, the books call him the pun-gent writer."

"Choose a Pauling Pun or appalling failure!" Babs quoted the writer's trademarked phrase. She cast an eye over to the cot where their son was fast asleep. "Well, I'm at least the author of our Blitz Bunny. Our very own First Edition. With some help from my co-author, of course."

"Only to be expected, with your background" Buster suggested. "Your mother must be a best-selling author, with the scale of her output. Have to see if you'll match her someday."

"Mmm." Babs' gaze softened, as she contemplated that. "We'll see all my sibs on Christmas Eve. One of our famous family parties, with scores of friends and relatives dancing all evening."

"Rabbit family dances. Like 'Danny and the juniors' old Rock'n'roll track – 'At the hop!'", Buster said.

"Or in this version - Babs and the juniors." Babs snickered. "And I hear young Duncan Potter from the burrow next door's invited. He's growing into quite the handsome young buck. Going to turn a few heads, and tails too." She sighed, reminiscing. "And to think, only a few years ago I was baby-sitting him! Now my youngest two litters of sisters will be sizing him up at their hop."

"He'll have quite a choice of partners," Buster suggested. "A-bun-dance, even!"

"Alice Esmeralda and Cheryl Eleanor Bunny are the girls in the fifth litter, Tanya Francine, Donna Fern and Vicky Francesca Bunny in the sixth," Babs replied promptly.

Buster scratched his head-fur. "I thought all four of the youngest bunch were girls?" Babs' siblings were a confusing swarm to keep track of at the best of times, and often moved so fast as to leave fading freeze-frame after-images where they had been, making counting them difficult.

"Oh, you mean Terry. Terry Francis Bunny, the youngest kit." Babs nodded knowingly. "Well… you know that Anime trope where the prettiest girl in school always turns out to be a boy? Turns out that's infectious. Terrie Frances Bunny, most people think the name is."

"I remember you saying one of your brothers went through a Japanese phase, a couple of years ago," Buster recalled. "Carrots not good enough for him, all of a sudden – wanted to dine on Daikon radish and Wasabi all the time."

Babs snorted. "That was him. Looks like he caught the meme off an unwashed Daikon, or something. Serves him right for turning his nose up at carrot cuisine." She paused. "So, as far as looks go – that is an all-girl litter. Nobody minds – with us having little Blitz we've already secured the family line or whatever, so the rest of my sibs can do whatever they like. Bonnie certainly is." Bonnie Clarice Bunny was currently enjoying her time away from the Acme Acres music conservatoire with her handsome fiancé Henri D'Aromar, and seemed likely to add to the skunk rather than rabbit population someday.

"That's some range of dance partners. Should be interesting, to see who Duncan picks! I'm sure he knows the score, living next door like he does," Buster mused.

Babs winked. "It's not as if Terry actually liked the idea, that wouldn't be so funny... but you know, what with him having three older sisters in the litter who just love to play dress-up - one way or another he always ends up in a skirt, like it or not. Makes for some real … interesting... plotlines for a rainy day in the burrow."

Buster nodded. "Definitely an Anime meme. There's always a twist. If you see a guy with a dozen lovely girls throwing themselves at him, you can bet he'll have a reason he can't just say 'Whoopee! Thank you, Great Scriptwriter in the sky!' And… appreciate it."

"Mmmm. The dance is Christmas Eve, same day as Mortimer's play." Babs paused for a beat, then went on with expert timing. "One way or another, the bucks in the Bunny household are in for an… interesting experience."

---

"So," Professor Bugs addressed his colleagues, as they gathered for the traditional end of term Staff meeting, in the nearest tavern. "We gots problems, guys. Those Sons of Schlesinger, they're gonna be watching our second-years real close. Mister Hackensaw invited himself to the show they's puttin' on. His whole bunch are likely to show up, too. We'd best make sure it goes with a swing."

Yosemite Sam snorted, his long red moustaches curling and uncurling. "From those critters? If they's the best team Acme Loo can field this year, we'd best start packing our bags."

"Eeh… I thought you were taking an interest in Bubba?" Bugs asked, one ear dipped quizzically.

"He's maybe the best of a darned bad bunch." The desperado glowered up at him. "It's a sad day in this here town when the best student in my class is a varmint. There's none of the human folks in that year worth two whoops in Tarnation." He paused, remembering the brutal bull. "Leastways, Bubba comes from good stock, for a critter. Public-spirited."

Bugs raised an eyebrow. He remembered the student dossiers very well; in the 1950's Bubba's grandfather had served on a nine-man town Committee Against Rock and Roll, and later on his father had hosted hearings on Un-American Activities which had run many dangerous extreme moderates out of town on a rail for being less than fanatically enthusiastic about their Mom's (admittedly fairly inedible) apple pie. Professor Sam had played many compatible film roles; he had stayed an unswerving Hanging Judge even when reassigned to traffic court.

"We certainly must act, albeit with discretion," Professor Coyote's deep, cultured voice was heard. "Mister Hackensaw even complained about the materials covered in my science classes. The effrontery of it!" He pulled out a holographic pen recorder, and projected the previous day's encounter at 1:12th scale, floating above the table-top.

The scene was the very recognisable Toon Physics laboratory at the end of a class and the last student's tail was vanishing through the door, leaving the Professor alone with the studio suit. Behind him on the wall was a scientific diagram of the sun, evidently the focus of the previous lesson. Useful captions pointed to its various features, such as one labelled 'Do NOT attempt landing. Not even at night – that trick never works.'

"I'm not happy with your teaching material," Hiram K. Hackensaw looked up at the tall coyote. "Not happy at all. It's too old-fashioned."

"Old-fashioned, sir?" Professor Coyote drew himself up in haughty surprise "I assure you, all the science taught in this class is the very latest."

"Science? It's just a bunch of theories. Some Prof says he's proved one, then another comes along in a coupla years and disproves it. And they both get paid for that! Load of hooey." Mr. Hackensaw waved a paw dismissively. "I don't want any more theories taught in class. Facts, only solid facts! Now, market forces, they're real. You can go real bust if you screw up on your market evaluations."

The coyote looked at him, outraged. "We can offer experimental and observational proof of the sun's dynamics, exactly as I teach them - and the theory on its nuclear processes are based entirely on the most recent data."

"Yeah, but that's your problem; you said a dirty word. Nuclear. So old-school. That hasn't been fashionable since the 1950's. Public opinion is against it these days, and our focus groups agree, it's no longer acceptable to the beliefs of a modern audience," Mr. Hackensaw said. "So, quit it. Right now."

Professor Coyote stared at him in a fur-bristling Wild Take for a second. "Sir – it is not a matter of belief. It is the best explanation Science has come up with. It has never been proved wrong."

Mr. Hackensaw shook his head slowly. "So? Not yet? You're supposed to be a super-genius. According to our brethren in Accounting, you receive a generous $2.37 yearly bonus for it on your pay cheque. If you want to keep getting any pay cheques, you find a more acceptable explanation. And if you can't do it by New Year – don't bother showing up next term."

Professor Wile-E shut off the projection, his fur bristling with indignation. "Un-heard-of cheek!" Mister Hackensaw had also demanded he find a better law of Nature than QuanToon Physics' famous Uncertainty Principle – what he wanted was a That's_exactly_where_it_is_and_no_funny_business Principle.

"You ain't the only one he's riled, Prof," Professor Bugs shook his head sympathetically. "Prof Road Runner got it just as bad. Tell 'em, Doc." The long-legged predator was missing his usually smiling expression.

"Beep beep!" The athletic bird said angrily, his tall plume of head-feathers quivering.

All the faculty decompressed the bird's ultra-compact language * and sat back in shock, trying to digest the full implications.

* (Editor's note: evolved to make communication possible between two road runners passing each other at their usual closing speed of forty-eight frames per second, ( ~ ) their language is the second most compact known to Toon science. The most compact of all is spoken by ape-adopted Englishmen in the African rain forests, where "Ungava" can be uncompressed to several pages' worth of detailed instructions to friendly jungle animals…)

(~ Editor's sub-note: while the maximum speed while staying wholly inside EinsToonian space is twenty-four frames a second, the closing speed of two Roadrunners at top speed has been clearly measured as twice that. This has annoyed other scientists who have proof that nothing can travel that fast. The debate, like the Roadrunners themselves, seems set to run forever.)

"Ah say, that's, Ah say hittin' below the belt, I do declare!" Foghorn Leghorn said, the rooster's red hackles raised. The fact that he never wore a belt was a matter for sublime indifference to him, as was the fact that any "concealed" male Toon had nothing in harm's way there however they were hit. Unless it was funny, of course.

Even Professor Sam was heard to mutter "Where Ah comes from, them's fightin' words."

"Beep beep!" Professor Runner added profoundly. Evidently there was far more to him than running gags.

"Yessss…." Miss Prissy chipped in, her just-arrived copy of 'Poultry-trussing weekly' forgotten for the minute as she sat enthralled by the eloquent bird. "Ah simply could not have put it better mah self."

"Ooh, dat mean ol' wed wolfy-hound," Professor Tweety agreed, the tiny canary hopping up and down in rage on his adorably cute toes. "We gotta fix his widdle wed wagon! But good!"

Professor Bugs looked around, glad that his normally fractious colleagues were in agreement over something for once. "Eeeh… ain't dat a fact. 'Cept… it can't be us who does it, 'cept maybe backstage real quiet-like. Let's give those crazy kids a hand, folks."

---

Several miles away from the bright lights and snug taverns of Acme Acres, a dense, snow-covered forest spread around the feet of Mount Acme, and an isolated mansion sat at the end of a long, snow-choked road. Stepping into its hallway out of the snow, Plucky Duck took off his long Winter overcoat and hung it up in the hallway, shaking the snow off his webbed feet and tail-feathers. "Brhhh. Chilly out there. I've been out with Brandi and Candi… their igloo's pretty warm, though."

"Dear girls," Margot said fondly, walking in with him to the living room. "I was out there yesterday. Though I barely fit in that igloo with them – it's certainly built just for two. They say they have everything they want in there."

A green mallard frowned. "When I was a duckling, I sure didn't want to sit in an ice house on animal skins, eating cold raw fish straight out of the lake. It was bad enough having to do chores like clean my room. I didn't have to build the house!"

Margot patted the sofa next to her, and Plucky sat down. Margot's keen nose had been trained by years of surviving Perfecto (where a rival was likely to try slipping military grade laxatives in your Foulplay coffee before a competition) and more years in the wild (where a sabre-toothed tiger was likely to try slipping you on his dining schedule.) She scented direwolf fur bedding and the familiar oils of natural waterfowl plumage from her daughters. Living in the snow was clean, and after years in the wild she knew that insisting they come in and bath with soap or shampoo would only harm their natural waterproofing. "Let's talk about our daughters."

Plucky nodded. "Sure! Don't you think Brandi and Candi, they ought to be getting into regular girl stuff? They've never been into dolls and that. Or even fashion. How are they going to upstage all their classmates when they go to school? They've already missed out on years of real important stuff like junior beauty queen contests!"

Margot stroked her husband's green feathers fondly. "I don't think they're really interested. Oh, they could win anything like that – I suspect the judges would all suddenly develop blinding headaches whenever they dared NOT think about giving our pair the prize."

Plucky scratched his head-feathers. "Funny how stuff like that always happens," he agreed.

"They've got interesting powers, all right. And – 'With great power comes great freedom from responsibilities'", Margot quoted a phrase from her alma mater. "Plucky. Our little chicks are going to be Apex Predators someday, whether in a world of direwolves and sabretooths – or here. They've inherited my Meme and a certain loon's powers, with nothing stopping them developing them – all the way." Her eyes gleamed. "They ate every drop of power out of a nuclear reactor. They can do more than that."

"So you don't think they need … therapy or stuff? On account they're deprived, all those years in reed huts with no TV or brand-named merchandise?" Plucky asked.

Margot shook her head. "They're doing fine, dear. The way they're going, the rest of the world is the one that ought to worry."

Plucky Duck thought hard for a second. He remembered Shirley droning on for hours about the responsibility that came with power, and how everything must be used in a harmonious way. For a fraction of a second a flash of insight breezed past him – of what could happen to a world where the greatest Powers on it preferred lands untouched by civilization, and with a stone-age sized population. And had the ability to do something about that. What had they said about the friend they had met at the Miskatoonic, who wanted the world 'Cleaned off'? As his super-powered avatar the Toxic Revenger Plucky had specialised in cleaning up pollution and had assumed, at the time, they meant nothing but that. But just possibly…

Then Plucky looked down at the Foulplay Coffee table by his elbow, and saw what had arrived for him in the post. Unwelcome, forbidding premonitions fled like shadows at daybreak. "Whoo-hoo! It's here!" His eyes widened as he grabbed and read through the latest weekly issue of 'Survival Sporks and Fighting Foons of the world's Elite Forces''. "How about that? Says here, the Eastern Molvanian Even-More-Special-Than-Most Forces, they've ground half an inch off their issued close-combat sporks. Making them Even-Closer Combat Sporks."

"Must be easy being a journalist for that publication," Margot said lightly, spotting her volatile mallard's previous chain of thought was no longer binding. "Every time someone releases a new Foon design, they've know they've got a scoop." She turned on the even-wider screen television and spotted the familiar sight of Bobo Acme, the fat rodent proudly gesturing with his latest product.

"Now available for everyone's Christmas stocking – the new, improved, Mark Two ACME-phone!" Chisel teeth gleamed in an expansive smile to match his expansive waistline. "So, you've got a smart phone already? Not like this one, you haven't!" His expression softened, though a conspiratorial look crept over him. "Friends. Have you ever made that all-important call then awhile later thought, 'I could have said that better?' I know I have. With the Mark Two ACME-phone – never again!" He leaned forward towards the camera, his voice dropping. "And how? So maybe your old phone has predictive text… sure, it'll fix the odd word here and there you got wrong. But only ACME have the all-new, one-hundred percent predictive message technology! Sends the message you SHOULD have sent! Hands-free operation, and it learns your style so everyone can prove it's from you! All messages sent are guaranteed legally binding, at no extra cost!"

"Cool!" Plucky's eyes widen. "Got to get me one of those." He reached for his credit card.

Margot raised an eyebrow. "It's certainly different. It learns your style? Sends different messages depending who you are? I expect if you're the President using one to talk on the hot-line, it'd fix that dull old 'we've started putting up Christmas decorations', to something more dynamic, like 'we start bombing in five minutes.'"

"Sure!" Plucky nodded. "And it's a special Limited Edition, too. * How cool is that?"

(Editor's note: as with most of that company's exclusive products, production was strictly limited to either the number ACME hoped they could sell, or the amount of suitable stuff in the Universe to make them out of…)

Just then the commercials finished and the next show started. It took Margot a few seconds to decide it was not actually a savage urban fire-fight but a rock video.

"That's Fowlmouth's band on TV again," Plucky said, a little wistfully. "Another Christmas record chart Number one for them."

"Mm." Margot looked at the screen, intrigued as the band launched into a Death Metal version of a classic Christmas carol. "What's Vinnie Deer playing?"

Plucky's eyes shone with excitement. "Hey! I'd heard they were getting one of those for the new album. That's a Specific Dynamics customised 405 mm Advanced Flugelhorn, with variable shock inlet ramps and plenum chamber burning. Borane fuel injection in the afterburner, even. Whoo-hoo!"

"Must be what they call the 'high-energy sound'," Margot commented as she looked at the band with mild interest at their severe performance. Dizzy Devil was obviously having the time of his life, apparently attacking a set of heavily overclocked steel drums with a five-pound hammer in each paw.

"Sure." Plucky looked at the band a little wistfully. The stocky rooster Fowlmouth was stage front laying down a heavy riff on lead guitar, backed by the eerie shriek of Furball on a lead/antimony electric violin. As befitted a metal band, Mitzi Avery had upgraded her superconducting Theremin to a more extreme keyboard made from the pure Trautonium metal that was found only in Wacky-Land. "It was great to jam with them, that one time at our wedding."

Margot's expression softened. "Next year, would you like to do more than that? Appear on worldwide stage and screen with them? Suppose there was a film calling for the band and your… distinctive talents."

Plucky's eyes lit up. "That'd be great! But…" his feathers drooped slightly. "What's the chance of some scriptwriter coming up with something that needs us all in the cast? And the studio picking me for the star role?"

Margot's eyes narrowed. She nodded, plans beginning to fall into place. There were phone calls to make and T-mails to send, but she already knew just who to call and just what to say. "Ohh… I think you just might be surprised."

Finishing his Survival Spork magazine, a relaxed film star reached for the games controller. "I missed this." Plucky's feather-fingers were a blur as he loaded and played his NumbMindo console. "Couldn't take it to the wild Alternate World with no batteries, and way too busy being awesome on the film set to have any quality gaming time there."

Margot cast an eye over her husband's shoulder at the game. 'Retro Rocket Rumble' seemed to have acquired some new features since the last time she had glanced at it. "That's different."

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Plucky nodded towards the latest issue of 'Re-entry vehicles in heat' that had been awaiting his return to Acme Acres. "It's a whole new ballistic ballgame! Anti-ballistic, even."

"Mmm." Idly, Margot leafed through the highly enthusiastic gaming magazine. It seemed that now there was a game option to either try and defend one's home base with interceptor missiles, or battle against those defences. She looked at the front-page article announcing 'Hot blue-on-blue 1970's 'What-if' season! Classic all-genuine speculative historical action! Watch allies go rogue! Safeguard ABM vs British Chevaline RV grudge-match! An epic clash of 'Spartans' with a 'Sprint' finish!'

"I'd bought this upgrade for Brandi and Candi to play. But they just don't want to know. Have they been watching enough TV?" Plucky's eyes briefly turned square as he stared at the screen. His feathers turned pale at a terrible thought. "Have they watched any?"

"No… they have an interesting way of seeing the world. They read minds and auras, not flat images. TV doesn't impress them at all." Margot paused. Brandi and Candi had lost any remaining interest in TV programs when they had decided most of it was 'not real' and had demonstrated an uncanny ability (especially on news shows) to spot when any Toon was lying.

Plucky frowned. "How are they ever going to be film stars, if they don't even watch films?"

"Not their priority." Margot looked down at a screen where Plucky seemed to be busy compensating for his daughters' lack of interest. "That looks well spectacular, at least." On the screen was a landscape with a huge truncated pyramidal radar structure overlooking an array of what looked like very high-tech manhole covers. Suddenly one of them popped open and belched fire, a conical missile leaping into the sky at incredible acceleration.

"Whoo-hoo-hoo! Sprint missile! Watch it go! Pulls one hundred G right off the pad – eat your heart out drag racers! Hits Mach ten in six seconds flat – the missile skin glows white-hot with air friction!" Plucky watched on the graphic plot as the interceptor dropped its first stage and converged on an incoming line of white fire… that promptly fizzled out like a fading firework ember before Plucky's missile reached it. Another four incoming lines stayed disturbingly solid all the way to the ground, until the screen suddenly flashed 'Game Over'.

"Oops. There goes the neighbourhood," Margot said lightly.

Plucky snorted in disgust. "Rassa-fraggin' sneaky Chevaline Re-entry Vehicle. I only hit its decoys. Again. They're despicable."

Margot smiled, her arm on his shoulder. Some folk might think her husband had an unhealthy obsession with the leisure applications of thermonuclear warfare, she reflected. But it could be a lot worse – in various quiet ways she kept track of her mallard better than the Safeguard radar pyramids on his game guarded their base, and knew he had not strayed in the slightest in the months away from her. Despite basking in fame and adoration as a film star, he had shown no interest in doing anything with the hordes of eager young fans and starlets but signing their autograph books. "Plucky? We need to talk."

"Well, sure." Plucky put down the games console and rejoined his wife on the sofa.

Margot nuzzled close to him. "You know… Gladys and Gracie have been very good to us. Raising the chicks, and doing all the housework too. But now they're getting egg-heavy… they could use some help."

"No problem! Hire a whole cleaning team! We can afford it." Plucky nodded. "Just go ahead."

"Actually… I was thinking... of just one extra pair of hands. Someone we know." Margot whispered. "Not a whole team of strangers. Do you know, when you're away, G and G walk around the house and do all their work… unconcealed? When they're in the mood. And they often are."

Plucky's eyes bulged in a Wild Take, almost a Clampett Corneal Catastrophe as he imagined the purebred avians Gladys and Gracie bending over to straighten a rug or clean out a fireplace. Like Plucky and most such Toons they usually wore nothing below the waist, but when Concealed that made little difference. Unconcealed, however…

Margot looked up, and snickered at the image Plucky's hyperactive imagination was projecting hologram-style. "Pretty much like that, yes. I had an idea for a Christmas present we could all enjoy." She paused. "Not all presents are something you can wrap in paper."

"Well, sure. My folks got me a foreign holiday for my Birthday once. Took me a month to find my way home." Plucky reminisced. There had been some problem with his return ticket, but that had been surely accidental.

"Yes. And for starters, just a visiting daily household help. I'm thinking of asking a cute red-head-feathered maid I know if she could help out." Margot's eyes fixed on Plucky.

Plucky scratched his green head-feathers. "One of those maids who clean up and everything at Perfecto? You kept in touch?"

"Oh, no. Rather closer to home." Margot's eyes bored in hungrily. "Plucky… remember when you taught me to spin-change? You demonstrated the most extreme change you'd ever done."

A wary look crossed Plucky's bill. "I'm not sure I like where this is going."

"Oh, but I'm sure you'll just love it when you get there." Margot put on her most beseeching look. "My film-star husband can play any role so very well."

"I'll say! Why, on my final skill assignment at Acme Loo, Professor Coyote himself said my disguise skills were 'quite devilish!'" Plucky preened.

Margot smiled inwardly, knowing the actual words used had been 'utterly diabolical'. "Show me just how amazing your spin-change skills are. Please? Let's meet Skylar, that adorable petite maid."

Plucky winced, then took a deep breath. Standing up, he stood in front of the mirror and concentrated, recalling the form he had taken just once in their official class films, and that under loud protests.

[That neat-freak obsessive Hamton just HAD to get to the studio before me, didn't he? And bag the plum role as the Vanderbunnys' butler ] He grumbled inwardly. [Leaving me with just the one part that hadn't been cast… like anyone wanted it. ]*

(Editor's note; entirely true and fully canon. See their original class film, "Journey to the centre of Acme Acres.")

The green mallard spin-changed, his muscular form dissolving in a starry burst of special-effects he had once 'liberated' from a passing Anime show. The shape that appeared when the effects faded was very different.

"Oh, yes!" Margot grinned, her eyes wide at the sight. Her Perfecto classes in Social Engineering were proving useful as ever, she reflected. "Very nice."

Plucky Duck had vanished. In his place stood a female duck, still mostly green-feathered but with shoulder-length tresses of curled red head-feathers. Her shape, though slender and shyly 'concealed' showed traces of definite mammal ancestry. "This is… embarrassing."

Margot cast an appreciative eye up and down the new form – mostly down, and not only as she was now a head and a half taller. "Back at Acme Loo, I'm reliably informed your Professor Bugs does it all the time. And sometimes off-duty too. Whenever his wife Honey doesn't feel like social engagements, he fills in for her. Outfits and all."

"Well, he wasn't MY mentor. That's a 'rabbit thing'," Skylar muttered. "In our fourth year I went along with Buster, he said he was going to compete in 'Drag City'. I thought it was a street-car race…"

"I know you like drag racing," Margot said innocently. Plucky could often be seen avidly watching ToonTube clips of something loud and fast over a quarter mile, preferably belching flame for no good engineering reason.

Plucky/Skylar snorted. "Not rabbit style drag I don't! How Buster could run in those heels I'll never know."

Margot raised an eyebrow, amused. "Skylar…" She stood up, pressing against the blushing maid. "Can you hold this form for an hour or three? No matter what happens?"

"Yes, ma'm. You want me to clean and polish a bit, while G and G rest their egg-bumps?" The redhead blinked. "I can try. But we can get a team of pro cleaners in who'd do it much better."

Margot turned to look at their reflections in the mirror, comparing and contrasting. Skylar was easily four inches shorter than Plucky, and far lighter of build. Evidently as there was far less of a feminine side to Plucky, that form was correspondingly smaller. "Sweet Skylar. You haven't quite got the point yet. I'm sure my dear husband would have at once, he's so clever," she deadpanned. "But then, G and G would never get that… relaxed, when he was home. He's not their type, at all. But a pert little thing like you... oh, yes!"

Inwardly, Skylar/Plucky shivered as (s)he recalled Acme Loo's Classical Film Tropes classes. Pert? Nobody says that any more. Next thing, she'll be putting on a Pirate hat, throwing me over her shoulder and growling "A-harrr, me proud beauty! Now I has ye in me power!" Suddenly a red light special effect shone above Skylar's head. "You mean… with me... and them?"

"Let's just say 'all of us' and take it from there," Margot purred. "Since getting those cute little egg-bumps, G and G have been… let's say, really interested. Hormone levels up to their beaks. They'd pounce on sweet Skylar like hawks, if she showed the slightest bit of… interest back." She looked at the maid appraisingly. "So… would you?"

Skylar blinked. "What, me, with three girls? All of them… expecting?" Margot's stork feather certainly counted. "I mean but as a girl… what would they see in me?" There came the quiet 'pop' of a Toon Unconcealing as Skylar thought about that scene. Looking down, Skylar was embarrassed to see just how total the spin-change was, and though naturally the reaction was not the same as Plucky's, it was – equivalent.

Margot looked on, and laughed in delight. "I think that'll do nicely."

---

Back at their army surplus store headquarters, Colonel Fenix had finished briefing his team on the disturbing news about Shirley's daughters the probe had brought back from an alternate future. Some of the team were as shocked and worried as Shirley had been. The vultures – it was hard to say what if anything they thought, as usual. (Shirley had read many books on dream interpretation, but none on drool interpreting.) And predictably, three of the team were delighted with her problem.

"Well," Angelina said lightly. "Looks like your daughters are definitely volunteers for the Dark Side. Nice to know your chromoplasm has it in there."

"They are totally not!" Shirley snapped. "Those girls were like, destined to be the like totally harmonious Celeste and Astra. If I'd raised them, they would be."

"We should get them over here, where we can train... I mean, keep an eye on them," Angelina mused. "Ah. The pitter-patter of little feet, what a nice idea," Her face was wistful. "I must try accepting one of those Stork feathers they keep dropping on me."

Shirley's aura looked sourly at the magpie. Like you corvids aren't into – making omelettes. And I bet you're not fussy about the ingredients.

Calgari nodded towards the Fraudulent Lebanese takeaway next door, where one of the staff could be heard loudly extolling the quality of his flatbreads to prospective customers. "Thinking of such - hearing the pitter-patter of little Dark Side feet would make a nice change from the pitta-patter of Middle-Eastern bakers."

"Fer sure," Angelina said.

"And in the New Year, we're all due some leave," Calgari mused. "Want to come along, Shirley? There's this new theme park opened up in Los Angeles… just like that Happy World Land 'where all your dreams come true', but for nightmares. Based on a daemon world of ultimate horror."

"And if there's anything penultimate about it, you get your money back!" Angelina put in happily. "What's not to like? Fun for all the dark-side family!"

"Si! You should have fun, Shirley, let your head-feathers down a bit," Tlalocopa urged. "Is their speciality, live-action role-playing games!"

Shirley glowered at her. "Doing this job, you want that for a holiday?"

"Well, Colonel Fenix wouldn't be around to spoil the fun," Angelina said. The magpie winked. "You could get to do what you really want to, deep-down. We intend to."

"We save all the people!" Tlalocopa pronounced, with a grandly sweeping gesture.

Save? Like, since when? Shirley's aura asked acidly.

The chupocabra thought for a few seconds. "OK, so maybe 'DOOM' is better word. I always get those two mixed up. But hey, who's fussing?"

Shirley's beak wrinkled. "It's as bad as that Dark-side world I was on. Way paranoid. They had a Secret Society that was put together under one of our Presidents in the 1840's to carry out his plans… and just kept on going ever since."

Got handed a chunk of secret money and bank accounts with compound interest piling up over the decades, enough to pay their wages like forever, her aura agreed. Some of the Toon members of the bunch are the originals, the rest they just kept recruiting over the years.

"Oh, you mean Polk's Punks?" Sergeant Gander asked, while a look of horror spread on Shirley's face. "They're real here too, we've met them. President James K Polk wasn't the only one who left his project running when he left WashingToon. There's at least half a dozen groups like that. It's like they just got wound up, pointed the right direction and set loose. Teddy Roosevelt's old bunch, the 'Revenant Rough-cut Real-time Rough Riders' are even worse."

"Grody." Shirley shivered. An icy feeling swept over her, remembering all the times she had sneered at articles in Plucky's favourite supermarket checkout reading, the trashy 'Conspiracy, actual fact, not Theory! Weekly' tabloid. "I totally cannot believe the world really runs like that." She had of course met and talked to that entity which the Pentagon was built to imprison, but there were limits.

"No?" Calgari said in helpful tones. "Well… there may be a perfectly good reason for that. Perhaps you're insane?"

"This, from someone who trusts a Master calling himself "The father of Lies", Shirley snapped. "Get real."

Calgari gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Please! It's 'The first spin-Doctor' these days. A man of wealth and taste, he naturally moves with the times. Like the rest of us Addams Academy graduates."

"We only wearing black till we find something darker," Tlalocopa agreed.

"Just think; in some religions you have to contribute to the funds," Angelina nodded. "With his, you get paid! Cash! Hard currency!"

I don't see he's got anything to be cheerful about, in his mondo long-term plans, her aura added, focussing on the raven.

"Hey! Just because he's from the flip side of that pantheon, doesn't mean Calgari can't be a shiny-eyed, joyous happy-clapper too. Dressing in black and looking miserable isn't compulsory on either side. Everyone cheers for their own team, don't they? Nothing wrong with that," Angelina objected. "He sings hymns too."

The raven pulled out his air guitar with a flourish, and winked at Shirley as he filked his religion's version of the classic track 'Spirit in the sky':

"Droppin' on down to the Universe below,

That's where we all end up when we go

When I die and they leave me to rot

Gonna go to the place where it's hot!

Always been a sinner, good at sin,

(I got a deal with Satan!)

So I know that, when I go,

I get a staff position, in the Universe below!" Calgari sang cheerily.

"Like, as if!" Shirley snapped, a sour expression on her bill. If they have a National Anthem, I bet it starts with an anguished chorus of 'But we had a deal!' she thought. With an endless canned backing track of fiendish laughter.

Her aura poked an immaterial tongue out at the raven. That is SO not my pantheon, she sniffed. But like, certain-mundo he's going to be in for a mondo disappointment.

"Fer sure. Better check the sub- QuanToon-scale small print on that grody contract I just bet you signed like a total dweeb" Shirley agreed. "If you think you can ever win on that kind of deal – just remember where all the lawyers end up. And they've had plenty of time to plug all the loopholes before you signed it."

"As Colonel Fenix says, 'the Devil's in the details'. That's why he tries to keep things vague," Sergeant Gander said. "I'm due for some leave myself. Being in Acme Acres is good for me."

Shirley nodded, remembering his girlfriend was a certain Maria Mandarin who on many timelines had been by now happily married to Plucky. She winced inwardly, remembering exactly how she had selfishly derailed that natural plot development, doing severe damage to her own karma in the process, and remembering just where that deed had got her.

It looked like a good idea at the time, her aura commented sourly. We've seen like, hundreds of time-streams where she's an item with Plucky, way contented – and where we're having a mondo harmonious time with Drogo de Vere.

"Nice, isn't he?" Angelina grinned. "If you like hippie stuff."

Shirley's head feathers bristled as she stared at the magpie in horror, realising her thoughts had been read without her even knowing. "Like, get out of my head! How can you DO that to a Toon on your own team?"

Angelina laughed. "Why, I'll tell you. Your light-side, conflicted head, Shirley McLoon, is one big mess right now. Getting in there is like hopping the border of a country in turmoil. Laughably easy, with all the border guards… distracted."

"Which we've done a few times, for specialist Civil War tourism, seeing the sights." Calgari said in helpful tones. "Plus, any of us three are much stronger than you are. The Dark Side of the Farce really is superior, you know. We've been running Spirit Tap spells on whole crowds of Toons, and…" He winked. "You might say we've reaped a lot of useful high-energy mana."

"In a mana of speaking," Angelina deadpanned.

"Ah. Thinking of our dear ally Mister Drogo De Vere," Calgari mused. "I met him in medieval times, in Western Molvavia. I was incarnated as the King's chief tax collector, and Drogo was the Court Magician."

Western Molvania, about the year 1360? Shirley's aura broadcasted in shock. We were there! As a Wise Woman. A natural healer, or like some called us, a Hedge Witch.

"Hedge witch? You tackled daemonic topiary, possessed shrubberies and that?" Tlalocopa asked, interested.

Shirley sniffed. "No. I was like, a country healer using secret herbs, ancient healing springs and other way cool stuff." The healing springs had been more than merely cool in the medieval winters; she recalled usually having to break the ice before using them half the year.

"Ah. Just like our dear President," Calgari murmured. "Though not so well qualified."

"No way! He's a medically registered psychopath!" Shirley stepped back in shocked disgust.

"And you were a naturopath. That's half identical. But you weren't medically registered, unlike our dear leader. Believe me, back then I'd have taxed you double for it if you were." Calgari winked.

"I missed out on that century," Angelina said wistfully. "Now there's no shining knights in towering castles, just drab costumed Toon troopers digging trenches."

"Farewell, age of chivalry. Now it's the age of shovel-ry," Calgari agreed. He winked. "But I can dig that scene too. Dig it deeply."

Shirley wrinkled her bill in disgust and wordlessly walked out, heading back to centre her energies in her trailer, with her aura in tow.

The Addams Academy trio looked at her retreating tail-feathers with amusement.

"Is good we brought her back, as comic relief," Tlalocopa declared.

"Yes. Even though she doesn't know that's her true role in life. Which makes it all the funnier," Calgari said. "One day, she'll realise. I plan to be there, with a comfy seat and popcorn to watch."

"Maybe she'll go violently insane?" Angelina said hopefully. "We can drag her off to that Institute for the Comically and Criminally Insane. I bet their Director Doctor Wyrdbeard would just love her as an inmate, help make up for her losing him all his star patients." She considered the matter. "We could have online petitions where the public write in suggesting bold and radical 'treatment' every day. The most radical wins."

"Nice idea," Calgari agreed. "If in doubt, always increase the voltage."

"You're always the wisest one of us," Angelina smiled, preening herself against the raven's midnight feathers. "It's just too bad Colonel Fenix won't approve your application papers to be our padre – or equivalent. You look so good in black."

"Other religions have their padres in the military," Tlalocopa agreed. "When I convert enough Toons to the true Aztec gods, I go for that job too!" She patted the obsidian sacrificial dagger that sat ever ready at her belt.

"I'd make a good padre, I hope," Calgari said. "I've been checking up on their usual duties – console the dead, bury the wounded…" He winked. "Or anyway, something like that."

---

Unit Four Plus Two was not the only team that day making plans to tackle pressing problems. The Acme Looniversity second-years met in their favourite diner, the Marina Mall restaurant, which had a tacky nautical theme involving obviously rubber seaweed and poorly-drawn mermaids but was at least cheap. It was much cheaper dining for some of the group than others.

"Hey, waiter!" Lucretia called from one end of the room, the gothic mouse scowling as she angrily waved her just-delivered order. "This donut's got a hole in it!"

While all heads were turned, in the other direction there was a quiet splash and the big ornamental pond with live Koi carp was suddenly a little emptier. A tonne of gastropod girl wriggled happily, and returned her stinging tentacle to its place under her shell as she engulfed and digested her prey.

Sitting at the table opposite her, Mortimer Bunny shook his head. He had tried to explain to Shelley the concept of paying for fish, but a thousand years of habits were hard to change. No, he corrected himself – just of old habits. Shelley had picked up so many new memes, and was cheerfully parking her bulk next to a table with all the other girls in class sitting around. His Mother and sisters had taken to her too, despite their rather different backgrounds. Shelley's just one of the bunch now, he shrugged in resigned bafflement. And now she's my steady girl – with a size and shape like that, she's about as steady as a pyramid…

Shelley sensed his thoughts and slid her siphon under the table to touch him, the mollusc appendage like a slippery, muscular firehose. That fish was good… she narrow-casted to Mortimer but I know what I'd rather enjoy … she raised her shell slightly, exposing more of her glistening mantle. Mother-of-pearl gleamed in rainbow-shot silver as her exposed inner shell caught the light.

Mortimer gulped, and stood up. "OK, folks. It's time we made a start on planning our big show."

"I sense doom," Cassandra pronounced.

"Cheer up, Cassy!" Henry noticed the bloodhound's more-than-usually long face. "It may never happen!"

Not the kind of thing to say to a Prophetess, Mortimer thought fleetingly. Like saying 'no news is good news' to a journalist…

"Oh, it will." Cassandra said mournfully. "Probably in extreme slow-motion, extreme close-ups, with montaged high-definition shots from a dozen camera-views endlessly repeated on tape loop. And the footage gone viral on ToonTube."

"Is there such a thing as a cheerful bloodhound?" Henry Smith wondered aloud. "There's that one in the third-year classes; he's in demand as a world-class tracker but always moans he's never appreciated." He scratched his head, recalling a line from the English philosopher Robyn Hitchcock – 'Everybody needs my nose, but no-one knows my needs'. *

(Editor's note: from 'It's not just the size of a walnut", Robyn Hitchcock and The Soft Boys, 1977)

"Cassandra's family is all like that," Lucretia offered. "Her big Sister was one of those who prophesied a few years ago, that rogue Planet Nibiru was going to smash into Earth and wipe us all out."

"Her predictions are usually very accurate," Cassandra said darkly. "She may well have been entirely right. Maybe it really did."

Mortimer blinked, looking around at the intact snowy landscape through the window. "So how come we're still here?"

"I'll not say her theory doesn't need a bit more work. But really, you only think you're still here. It's all in your head. Or maybe somebody else's. Someday the illusion may crack, then you'll be sorry," Cassandra intoned.

Mortimer squared his shoulders, looking round the room. His whole class had turned up – Shelley, Cassandra, Lucretia, Gene, Henry, Granville, Nootka, Marie-Sioux and Gibson. Even Bubba was there, uninvited – he could see the shadow of the hulking bull cast on the glass diner door as the bully waited outside to pounce on anyone heading towards the bathroom. He took a deep breath. "Right, people. Professor Bugs and the rest of the staff will be coming to see our show – so will the Studio, and anyone else around Acme Acres who wants. We're all being marked on this project. So, this is from all of us."

"What show are we going to do? And who stars in it?" Henry Smith asked. "We've hardly got time to write one from scratch… I mean, in three days?"

A special-effects economy-mode light bulb sprang into being over a pair of rabbit ears as Mortimer had a sub-brilliant idea (none of the class needed to put their sunglasses on). "Let's all write it together, at once! This'll work – I saw it done on TV once."

"It's crazy," Henry mused. "But round here … just possibly, it's crazy enough to work."

"Parallel processing. It's the big thing these days" Gibson Goat said, multi-processing as his drone fought it out with the steam-powered ornithopter automaton his Steampunk rival was controlling by the 19th Century Hertzian waves that had preceded modern radio. "A neat trick if you can do it."

Marie-Sioux put her hand up. "May I be the heroine? If we're going to show everything we've learned, it'll have to be a mix of genres. Including romance drama. I'm awfully good at that."

"And action drama, I'm good at that," Lucretia mused. Suddenly the mouse's eyes glittered. "Act One, Scene one – Mary-Sue shows her humble, self-sacrificing nature as she saves the day."

The human girl smiled wistfully. "I accept! You can write my part in. We should all write each other's parts. And make sure there's plenty of changes of pace."

"So… we start it as an Action Movie. Lights! Camera! Drama! Act one, scene one, Mary-Sue throws herself on a grenade to save the Company! Of course it's pointless; turns out they were safe out of range all along." Lucretia mused, pencil and notebook suddenly in paw. "One second later, it all switches to musical comedy mode. Everyone points at the crater, laughing their snouts off. And then they sing!"

For such a small Toon, the mouse had a surprisingly powerful voice, and put her heart into it as she switched to real-time improvised dramatic mode, bursting into impassioned song:

"What a dumb Toon! What a maroon! In Scene One she went Ka-boom!

Oh, I'll never take a bet, that she's as thick as she can get!

The lamest loon, see her outsmarted by a balloon!"

"I forgive you." Marie-Sioux radiated an air of injured innocence that had radiation alarms ringing half-way across town. "Shall I play a poor, humble tragic orphan?"

"Good idea. One whose poor, in fact downright shoddy parents were tragically, if amusingly slain years before she was even born, on a game-show pilot. It was never even aired, that was the tragic bit." Her eyes crossed dreamily. "Spectacularly slain in high-definition extreme close-ups along with all their relatives and family friends, down to their most casual business acquaintances…" Lucretia mused. "We can cast Bubba as the hero just for a change, come back from the future to finish the pest control job, Toonminator style."

"Why does it always have to be from the future?" Granville Laverne asked curiously. The steampunk badger was not dressed in his compressed-air driven power armour for a change, but wore a long tight-buckled coat of embroidered steam-proof leather with a pair of brass-rimmed goggles pushed high up his forehead. "Mister Wells had a perfectly good Time Machine working as early as the 1890's, and he could go back with it much further than that." He tapped the luminous brass sundial on his wrist.

Lucretia nodded. "That'd work too. Bubba plays a noble warrior from the heroic past, come to the corrupt present to put studio finks like Mary-Sue to the sword, in the traditional style. Or is it, to have the sword put to her? Let's try both."

"Whoever's starring in it, someone will have to work the cameras and such," Henry Smith mused. "Granville and Gibson, as usual?"

"It's a bit unfair to have you two techs always behind the scenes," Mortimer objected, looking at the badger and the goat. "Though someone has to do it."

"We can use my flyers for some of that, program their Jacquard input cards for the zooms and high angle shots" Granville offered, his seagull-sized ornithopter automata folding its steel wings as it landed on his shoulder to refuel from the compressed-air tank in its inventor's leather knapsack. "Kind of job most classes give to their bird pals. Ours is the only year in the whole school without a single avian, or bat even."

"Funny thing, that," Mortimer agreed. There had been six avian Toons in his sister Babs' class, seven if you counted Gogo Dodo (whose exact status in the school, as well as relative to the rest of EinsToonian space-time, had always been ambiguous.) "Professor Bugs usually picks more of a balance, species-wise. We're almost all mammals."

"Hmm." Gibson Goat's head-up display screen flashed a sequence of graphs and charts. "Depends on what algorithm you use. Shelley counts as both Extremely Weird and Extremely Large – so if you average the class weirdness per mass unit, it works out the same as any other year."

"Say what?" Mortimer blinked.

"He means, she cost a lot of points. For the price of Shelley on the team, Professor Bugs could have bought a whole flock of little birds, bats, three-toed tree toads, even." Lucretia explained. "In other years, he did. Most classes have a lot more Toons in them."

"We'd better keep this simple," Mortimer said. "Cast: a hero and a heroine, a villain and villainess. Assorted friends of each. We could splash out on an exotic location, though."

"Abroad? We'll probably all catch O'Nyong-Nyong virus," Cassandra prophesied.

Gibson's head-up display flickered as he accessed information. "That's a real disease," he confirmed.

"No doubt genetically engineered and spread by Patrick O'Nyong-Nyong, the discredited Irish/Congolese missionary doctor," Lucretia put in cheerfully. "It was a slack day for epidemics, and he needed to drum up some paying business."

"Not so sure about that…" the cyberpunk muttered, after a much longer search.

"Could be worse," Lucretia added "We could all catch African Rift Valley fever, and get torn apart by enormous African rifts! Our model sheets ripped to shreds and scattered to the winds!"

"That too," Cassandra agreed. "And lo! Verily shalt they perish, each one after their kind. Like unto ancient rubber bands long shrivelled by pitiless sun."

Mortimer coughed. "So… I think we'll skip the exotic location. Anyway, we've not got time for any elaborate set building."

"Back in a sec," Henry called out, heading into the corridor towards the toilets, which were between the bathroom and the restroom. Which had a bath and couches respectively, of course.

Lurking outside, Bubba spotted him and picking up what he had hidden behind his back, hurled a twenty-pound sandbag at Henry – who promptly ducked. The heavy bag carried on twenty feet, and hit a stack of painting supplies where the management were redecorating the corridor. Striking one end of a six-foot plank, it sent it spinning end over end, back the way the sandbag had come to hit Bubba straight between the eyes. The ox went down as if poleaxed, special-effect stars swimming around his head.

"That's got to hurt," Mortimer commented. Then he scratched between his ears thoughtfully, thinking of momentum transfer and trajectories. Such things were essential course material at Acme Loo where so many falling anvils and ballistic pianos were involved on a daily basis. "I'm really not sure of the physics of how that worked."

"It wasn't physics," Cassandra said. "I could see the psychic backlash from Henry's Instant Karma. That's his secret shtick."

Mortimer frowned. "Bubba hates everyone, that's his thing. But he really, really hates Henry for some reason."

"Oh, I know that one," Nootka said cheerfully. "Bubba's father served years on a committee against Un-American Activities; that kind of thing is inherited. And Bubba found out Henry's a sports star back home."

A bunny blinked. "So?"

"My sports are cricket and rugby," Henry shrugged, picking up the conversation as he returned. "Not those strange versions of Rounders and armoured rugby you have. Very un-American, I'm afraid. Can't help it."

"Yesterday one of those Sons of Schlesinger was saying they might press charges against him," Nootka growled, the fox's ears pressed down flat on her head. "For, what was it? 'Behaving in a gratuitously un-stereotypical manner in a public place in the hours of darkness.' That suit then tripped over one of Pete Puma's 'Danger wet floor' warning signs and bounced down three flights of concrete stairs - on his head."

"How we laughed!" Lucretia added brightly.

"Instant karma, that which may not be denied" Cassandra nodded.

"Well." Mortimer took a deep breath. "Someone has to play the villain. Do you mind, Henry? The Studio types will be watching; they sort of expect it from you."

"Here, I'm used to it." Henry admitted. "Back home, I'm actually one of my town's Guitar Heroes. It's a non-stop battle over there with sinister Ukulele Villains."

Nootka's eyes went strange for a few seconds, as if she had briefly gone into a trance. "It's vitally important Henry's in a leading role, for this," she said as she snapped out of it. "That's what my Arctic Inuition tells me."

"I want to be the villainess!" Lucretia announced. "I look good in black." She grinned. "And if Mary-Sue's the heroine like the Studio wants, that way I get to beat on her."

"We'll go with that," Mortimer said. "Everyone plays using their best talent."

Marie-Sioux assumed a martyred expression. It was always the same, she inwardly sighed – her swarm of identical cousins had the same problem, even the futuristic one in deep space whose ongoing mission in life was to facilitate the starship's handsome Captain and austere Science Officer declaring their secret (and admittedly, completely hidden) true love for each other. That timeline's Marie-Sioux had been thrown into so many warp reactor cores, ravening alien carnivore nests and out of so many airlocks by her enraged fellow crewmembers that she had stopped counting her reincarnations.

Mortimer scratched his head. "Well, Marie-Sioux, someone has to be the heroine. And your model sheet says you're designed that way."

"Well," the human girl dropped her gaze modestly. "I have so many, many failings."

"Such as? I thought you were meant to be perfect?" Lucretia's eyes narrowed.

Marie-Sioux gave a modest sigh. "I have terrible, terrible food allergies, specially to balance my character. I'm deathly allergic to any foods containing Francium or Astatine."

Gibson Goat's head-up display screen flickered as he pulled data off the Net. "Those elements hardly even exist, they're so rare. Unstable, too. So how do you know you're allergic?" he queried. "At any one time there's about an ounce of either, just random atoms scattered through the whole planet. Nobody's seen enough in one piece to even know what colour they are, even with a microscope."

"And they're so radioactive that having food allergies to them is a bit redundant," Henry said, standing behind Gibson and kibitzing from his display. "They're bad news for anyone."

"It's truly a great trial, but I try to bear up as nobly as I can, under it," Marie-Sioux said humbly.

"Hey! Do a Sword and Sorcery show; she can go up against Bubba the Barbarian!" Lucretia suggested. "Maybe he wins, wielding his enchanted two-handed Sword of Pesticide (+6 to hit, + 8 Damage Bonus against Annoying Finks)… or maybe she annoys him to death. Maybe they take each other out simultaneously. I don't see any down-side to that."

"Right. Yes. Moving on… what sort of show will we really be doing?" Gene Ericson asked, not unreasonably.

"I remember my Sis Babs doing 'Ducklahoma! The musical' for a class project", Mortimer mused. "That worked OK for them. But it's been done. Anyway, no ducks in our class."

"Something like that kind of show, though, big and classy with musical numbers" Nootka said. "It's Winter, plenty of free snow and ice, could we use that? Not 'A Christmas Carol' though – that's been done too, and so often."

"I vote Mortimer directs and produces it," Gene Ericson volunteered. "Rabbits are famous for producing."

"Generally, for producing lots more rabbits," Nootka grinned, a sly expression on her muzzle. "But hey, why not shows too? He's got my vote."

"Well, I'll try." Mortimer looked around for inspiration, when nobody objected. There was the shining frozen expanse of Lake Acme, as a huge (and free) dramatic backdrop. He had a record-breaking three techs in his team – Henry was as qualified as Gibson or Granville, but had to officially keep quiet about it. As the Studio had repeatedly told him, modern audiences only believed in foreign engineers with Scottish accents.

"Something using Nootka's background – and something we can fit Shelley into. And our technologists." He mused. Gene Ericsson could fit in anywhere. "And a Christmas theme." Suddenly a special-effect light appeared between his ears as the name 'Shelley' triggered an association. "Yes! We'll do – Mary Shelley's Frankenstein!"

His class did a synchronised 'take', that would not have disgraced a Japanese Synchronised Mass Formation James Dean Impersonation club – though this was one of jaw-dropping amazement rather than a square full of identical rebels showing off their edgy individuality with a hundred authentic sneers timed to the split-second.

Eventually Shelley's hesitant mental broadcast reached them. Is that a traditional Christmas show?

Mortimer grinned, the ideas coming thick and fast now. "It could be. The original book finishes at the North Pole, and that's guaranteed Christmas-y. Imagine it with a whole new seasonal twist – Frankenstein's Monster Mollusc – on ice!" He struck and held a triumphant pose, locked rigid in concentration. A special-effects bead of sweat ran down his muzzle.

There was a long silence as every stare stayed locked on him. At last somebody spoke.

"We're really all quite doomed, you know," Cassandra said cheerfully.

---

Only a brief tunnel-hike and airlock away from Mortimer's family burrow, Fifi and Rhubella were back in Acme Acres for the Winter, and renting the annexe to the Bunny family once again. As Babs' mother had confided to Rhubella, they had tried using it as a guest room, but the scent residues of a skunk living there had not made that a great success despite all their cleaning efforts. Currently the couple were relaxing on the sofa as the short Winter day outside drew to a close. Below ground all was warm and peaceful.

Rhubella smiled wistfully, listening to the radio whose aerial poked out of the ground thirty feet above them. "I recognise this song! It's J-pop. When the self-styled leaders in Cool discovered J-Pop years ago, at Perfecto we were already well into K-Pop. Variola says they're now on L-Pop, but she's got a sneaking suspicion not everyone's on the same 'L'. "

Fifi's muzzle wrinkled slightly, but she made no comment.

"She thinks it's from Laos, but anywhere from Livonia to Liberia's a contender. The more exotic and exclusive the better," Rhubella continued "And nobody dares ask – it's not safe to show ignorance or any sort of weakness there, or have folk find out you're ever wrong."

"Zat place," Fifi sighed. "Now I know Perfecto zey 'ave ze sense of 'umour, aftair all. But any Toon finds out, ze joke eez generally on zem." She looked at her young cub nestled in Rhubella's lap. "Eef Gigi wishes, one day she may go zere. But I 'ope she does not."

"We can afford it. And as it's a family tradition Mother could help, even if we couldn't. Seeing as she's pretty much keeping ACME in business, it's not amazing they give her a fat salary," Rhubella mused. "Just last week, she defeated a tricky lawsuit. From the family of someone whose car broke down in Alaska and depended on his folding ACME Emergency snow-shovel to dig him out of the drifts." She paused. "He was last seen frozen into an iceberg heading out across the Bering Strait, broken shovel still in paw."

"I 'ave nevair understood why Toons zey still buy zat brand, aftair all Professor Coyote's experiences," Fifi shuddered. ACME themselves claimed what they may possibly have occasionally lacked in quality control, they more than made up for in world-beating delivery times. Plus, they offered their famous Lifetime Guarantee on every product – until it broke, when obviously its lifetime was over. "Mais – 'ow did zey get away with eet?"

Rhubella gave an embarrassed grin. "It was guaranteed to work only as an Emergency snow-shovel. That blizzard was forecast two whole days ahead… so Mother successfully argued in court that it wasn't Emergency snow."

Fifi rolled her eyes. "No wondair zey recruit lawyers from Perfecto." A line from her all-time favourite group DEVO ran through her head – 'And so it is. A few are shepherds, and the rest are sheep.' It seemed that both ACME and Perfecto Prep believed that, and looked on the rest of the world as something to be profitably fleeced every year and eventually end up as mutton stew.

A rat tail wriggled. Perfecto played many mind games as well as the more physical ones such as competitive group hazing; she had been the third year class champion at 'zero-sum games' which were good training for a legal (or borderline-legal) career. "You just have to read the fine print. Like last year's best seller – the ACME home nuclear fusion reactor kit. Everything it said on the packet was true, as far as it went. It said you could generate 'UP TO' enough energy to power your whole city. Which legally means, anything less than that, including none. And even Calamity agrees the instructions were right in theory – it'd start generating once you compressed and heated the tritium fuel enough. Like in the middle of the sun."

"Calamity, 'e told me." Fifi said darkly. "But zat bicycle pump in ze kit was nevair going to work."

"The instructions didn't exactly say it would. The pump was a free gift that just happened to be thrown in with each kit… it's not ACME's fault if Toons jump to conclusions." Rhubella said. "And some Toons believe that if something keeps failing you just have to try again, but harder. Not us."

"Toil is stupid," Fifi quoted from the musical philosophers DEVO and their great words of eternal wisdom. Then her expression softened. "Eh, but you are away from all zat now. And we do not 'ave one single ACME product in ze 'ouse." She had made certain of that, remembering the national scandal with the ACME self-powered autonomous mincing machines. Hers had last been seen mincing off gaily down the street, escaping from the daily grind.

Rhubella gave a wry smile, remembering Margot's tales of bizarrely amusing failures when using items from the ACME catalogue's adult supplement – but then, Margot liked that sort of thing, and occasionally played to lose. "Just as well, with cubs in the house." Fifi's black and white furred son Victor was a few months younger than his sister, and currently sleeping soundly in the next room.

"Certainment. And now eet ees petite Gigi's feeding time." Fifi reminded her.

Rhubella gently passed their daughter over to Fifi, who Unconcealed to feed her. "She's so beautiful," Rhubella sighed. "I'm glad she got your fur colour. She'd be special anyway, but purple skunks are so very rare."

"Mais oui! My mothair and two of my cousins, zey are ze only others I 'ave seen," Fifi agreed. She looked at her wife knowingly. "And – when ozairs see us together – eet is ze proof zey cannot deny, zat petite Gigi is truly ours."

"There is that," Rhubella nodded. "The storks really got it right." She watched Fifi's expression a little enviously as their daughter suckled. The classic Toon trope apparently linked stork deliveries and feeding-bottles, giving a girl no other biological option. "Makes you wonder just how the whole stork thing really works. You couldn't just ask those birds – I think they got the job because they're dumb enough they couldn't tell if they wanted to."

"We do not ask ze questions, of zese things" Fifi said firmly. "Eeef eet eez not broken, do not try and fix eet. Did Calamity not tell you of ze Black Box business? Quelle disastair! We do not want zat to 'appen to ze storks."

"I heard about it," Rhubella admitted. "The most famous widget ever – the Generic Black Box. You could use them as part of almost any gadget, worked like a miracle. Literally. Then someone tried to open one up and find out how it worked. Suddenly it didn't, and none of them ever worked again." They had been the greatest technical discovery to date by Acme Acres' little-talked-about Excessively_Technical College * who excelled at assembling widgets into gadgets.

(Editor's note: their proud motto was "If it's Excessively Technical – it must be one of ours.")

"Even Calamity, when 'e found ze Theory of Everything, 'e could not remember 'ow zey truly worked, aftair." Fifi nodded. "And 'e 'as made ze revolutions in Science, with what 'e 'as kept."

"Not everything he's revealed made him popular with his colleagues, I know," Rhubella said. "Like that whole research team at the Suppercollider; they'd spent years hunting for the fabled secrets of Zero Point Energy. Not anymore, they don't."

"Calamity, 'e could not 'elp zem?" Fifi queried.

"Worse," Rhubella said, her tail twitching. "He proved their whole search was completely pointless."

The purple skunkette snickered. "Zey did not see zat one coming."

"No. Not even with that telescope they've got for looking into the future, at the Suppercollider," Rhubella nodded. "The Supper-kaleidoscope."

"And thinking of supper…" While Fifi nursed their daughter, Rhubella got up and headed into the kitchen to prepare their meal. Her eyes scanned over the racks of fresh vegetables – onions, cabbage and garlic featured prominently, being full of the sulphur compounds so necessary for fuelling a skunk's distinctive scent glands. Although she had never made as much as a sandwich at Perfecto (where they had Michelin star chefs and priced accordingly) she had learned a lot in the past year, from Fifi and her family at the small chateau she had bought in France.

Just then, there was a knock at the airlock door leading to the main burrow. Rhubella opened it, and smiled to see Babs' sister, Bonnie Clarice Bunny. "Bonnie! Pleased to see you!"

Bonnie smiled back. The golden-furred rabbit wore her usual large round glasses, a white shirt that nicely showed off her curves, and a dark plaid knee-length skirt. Like all her family, apart from in the muddiest weather she went bare-pawed, showing off her adorable toes (a common family trait, despite what Babs said). "Hello! I've come to invite you to the party, Christmas Eve. It should be fun."

"Are you playing for us?" Rhubella asked. "You're world class on that violin."

Bonnie nodded. "Mother likes all of us to play something. Babs is coming too; mostly she just played the Prima Donna," she deadpanned.

Behind her, Rhubella heard Fifi a snort of laughter. "Zat is Babs, certainment!" Fifi agreed. "Yes, we would love to come, eh, Ruby?"

"I'll say!" Rhubella's tail swished. "It's been a while since we got out to a party." She cast an eye over to where Fifi was cradling their daughter in her arms.

"No need to worry about cub-sitting," Bonnie assured her. "There's another dozen cubs that cousins are bringing over; they can keep them company. We've got cub-sitting volunteers arranged all night, working in shifts. With a rabbit family, you're sure of plenty of relatives."

"Zen we shall certainment come!" Fifi nodded. "Eh – eet should be ze night to remember."

---

Over on the far side of town, another pair of Acme Looniversity graduates were settling in for the evening. Calamity Coyote looked up from his computer array as Marcia entered, in from the snowy dark outside. Compared with a warm summer day on Mars, it was positively balmy.

News from our friends and colleagues back in Akron at the SupperCollider, his sign read. Bookworm's researched a pioneering process for zinc-plating chocolate. Such a boon to Toon-kind. AndEgghead Junior, he's finally developed an ocarina that can be played at up to eight hundred centigrade without losing tone or pitch! A great advancement for science.

"It's cool that we've got these research jobs," Marcia Martian said. "Though – it's not what we'd planned, all those years at Acme Loo. Only half our class have had film careers."

We did that one Government health commercial, Calamity's sign read. He shivered. I don't want any more like that….

"Neat-o flash-back, though!" Marcia said admiringly as the scene wavered and re-formed into a view of the far desert with dramatic mesas, rock arches and other famous pieces of arid landscape geology as a striking tribute to the background artist's skills.

This is your cactus. A deep, rolling authoritarian voice seemed to come from the skies. The camera zoomed in to a collection of rounded, relatively inoffensive (apart from the spines) looking succulents.

This is your coyote. A slightly spin-changed but recognisable Calamity was strolling happily through the desert, looking around for edibles. When he saw the cacti he stopped, his mouth watering visibly at the succulent feast.

The next scene showed a wildly bristling coyote running madly through the desert in ever-decreasing circles, silently shrieking as if pursued by terrifying hallucinations and radiating yards-wide streaks of psychedelic colour all over the landscape until he collapsed, a burned-out monochrome husk of a Toon apparently drained forever of his natural hues.

This is your coyote – on peyote. Just – don't. The voice boomed, while in a full horror-film special effect Calamity's form crumbled to dust and blew away in the desert wind.

The very living Toon winced, as the flashback ended. Took me weeks to recover from that. The money wasn't worth it. I think I'm still a bit bleached, round the edges.

"Could be worse," Marcia sympathised. "The one TV spot I found, they had me playing a bacterium – in a bleach commercial! That didn't end happily for the bacteria."

Calamity looked on as Marcia swallowed her daily pills, reminded of her health needs. Fortunately for her, on his last trip her Uncle Marvin had dropped off another year's supply of diet supplements. Martian chromoplasm had a very different chemistry to Earth Toons; Marcia needed Antimony and Vanadium salts to stay healthy, especially now she was a Type Eight. Earlier stages in the life cycle were less demanding of resources, which was indeed the point – the Martian race would endure even if only the spore-based Type 1s and 1A's survived, the higher forms reappearing when conditions could support them once more. Mars had once had hundreds of Queens, but back then had enough productive land for them (almost) all to carve out a Queendom wide enough for their pheromone signals not to overlap. Things got messy when that happened; not all the ancient craters on Mars came from meteorites.

So – did Mary tell you about this big scheme she's signed up for, that Margot Mallard hatched? His sign read. Marcia had spent the day over at Mary's house, the two under-used bit-part characters having much in common.

"Sure thing, daddy-o," Marcia nodded. "Mary's Queen of Phobos, which everyone thought meant Queen of next to zero. But these digital days – well, everything's zeroes and ones, dig? Meaning when you've got all the zeroes, you've got half of everything."

And so? The coyote queried.

"Phobos has a Green Age communications relay, you can jive with Earth from there. Queen Tiranee's had it fixed, the first time it's worked since your Dinosaurs were cruising the scene. You Earth Toons have these strange things you call 'offshore banks' Mary told me about. She's going to register one there."

Yes. And they're not only offshore on islands. It's not my thing, but I know little places like LiechtensToon have huge chunks of the world's money held anonymously. You don't have to go there in person any more to hand over cash to the teller – just have a bank registered there and digitally transfer… The coyote's sign went blank for a second, while his eyes did a fruit-machine 'Take' and settled as a pair of glowing dollar-signs. Phobos! It'd be the ultimate in off-shore! And nobody on Earth could touch it! It'd even beat LiechtensToon. For years, LiechtensToon had been forcibly told to hand its anonymously held money back so its foreign customers' Governments could take their rightful cut as taxes – at which the plucky little nation had responded with an eloquent hand gesture. Currently several Intercontinental Ballistic Anvils were sitting in their silos beneath Kansas targeted on the little Dukedom's fair fields, impatiently awaiting the launch signal. Their target was a narrow nation only a few miles across – despite what fashionistas had said for years, evidently you really could be too rich and too thin.

"That's what Margot said," Marcia confirmed. "She's from Perfecto; when she heard Mary was a registered Queen with her own sovereign territory she saw the potential deal right away."

A bank registered on Phobos. That's a place even President Hitcher couldn't turn up and give some of his 'hands-on negotiations' like he did to the Bahamas banks, Calamity shuddered at the memory of that extremely messy TV report of the President's 'working vacation'. It's amazing he finished that weekend with the same axe he started, even if he did wear out three axe heads and two handles.

"Besides, even if he did, the joint's empty. Nobody home," Marcia said. "And Queen Tyrannee can replace any hacked-up hardware easy enough. It's a cool scheme."

That moon is cool, all right, about ten Kelvin, Calamity confirmed. Just needs a computer to run the bank through the data link, solar cells for power and no trouble cooling it!Not a great spot for an after-office bank party though – there's really no atmosphere.

"It explains why Colonel Fenix asked us to enquire." Marcia said, relieved. "So, that is over."

Calamity blinked, his brain working fast. High (and indeed high orbital) finances were not his area of expertise, but some things seemed clear enough to him.

Oh, no. His sign read, as his ears drooped. This hasn't even started. We've found the Queen of Phobos, and we've found what the key is, to the 'huge wealth and power' she could get hold of. That's got to come from somewhere. He paused. What would happen if a malfunctioning ACME teleporter dropped – say, Lake Michigan, into one of the dry craters of Mars?

Marcia's eyes went wide. "Queen Tyranee's treasury contains nearly three hundred tons of ice bullion, some of it millions of your Earth years old. That regulates the trading on our whole planet. Ice would become worthless! And hundreds of Type Seven Martians like I was would be diving into the pool, breaking their pheromone constraints, hoping to become Queen Type Eights! Our ancient society would collapse. It would be a disaster for Mars!"

Calamity nodded grimly. Different setup for Earth, but – same kind of result.

Marcia blinked. "But Mary's not like that. She would not do such a thing."

No? Maybe she wouldn't want to. The Coyote's ears went right down. But it was Margot Mallard's idea. Mary said. What about her? She's pretty ruthless. He had researched and discovered there was not a single person called Ruth recorded in her whole family.

Marcia's complexion stayed hole-in-the-film-black as ever. But as the space around her took on a special-effects bleached appearance, it was clear she was doing a Martian's very best attempt at turning pale.

---

Far from Acme Acres, in the coastal city whose twin an exiled Shirley had known as Los Diablos, Hiram K Hackensaw was sitting in a luxurious executive chair, chairing a meeting of luxurious executives. The red wolf was not happy. This was nothing unusual. Just as Duck Trek's surly and brow-wrinkled species of humanoid aliens had their default phrase of "belHa'!", Mr. Hackensaw too had no particular need for a firm reason to be permanently displeased.

"And another thing," he barked at his aide, a plump peccary "Why are they building that metalworking factory right next door? This part of town is all film studios!"

"Sir..." the aide shuffled his notes. "Apparently they've run tests all over the city. This is the best place they've found to treat and finish High Dourness Steel. Apparently it's very sensitive to ambience when it's forged." The extra-grim alloy was used in various roles in both the Defence and Assault industries.

"Well, if it's business…." Hiram nodded a grudging assent. Suddenly his ears went down again as he scanned his calendar. "Two days' time – we're heading back to Acme Acres. See what sort of a fool show they're putting on." He tapped a newspaper. "That place is way behind the times, with all that 'comedy' stuff. Look, the Government is already banning research into Human clowning!"

The aide looked over at the headline. "Umm… Sir? That says 'Human cloning.'"

Hiram snorted. "I think you'll find that's just a typo. And if humans can't be funny, there'll be no demand for anyone else learning to be, either. We don't waste Studio money like that. I think I'll bring the whole of the Brotherhood along to see just what kind of a mess they're making of Acme Looniversity."

"And if we don't like what we see?" The aide prompted him. "They're allowed to do most things for educational experience – their charter says so, it's written on their Dramatic license."

Hiram K. Hackensaw smiled, but it was not a pretty sight. "Then, boy, we gonna go take that fancy Dramatic Licence right off of them - and we gonna tear it up."

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