By Ryan Phelan
Phil Pomfeather sat at his desk in the offices of the Anaheim Pond. He frowned as he stared at the computed screen, deep in thought. Suddenly his face lit up. "Yes!" He cried out. "A ten!" He clicked on the little electronic card and moved it onto the three. "All hail King Phil, ruler of Solitaire!" He spun around in his chair, arms raised in triumph. "Who's the king? Me!"
Phil stopped twirling and looked at his watch. "Hmm…ten-thirty. I suppose I'd better get to work." He hit a button on his desk. "Midge, will you bring in my mail?" No response. "Midge?" He asked again. "Where is that woman?" Phil muttered. He walked over to the door and opened it. "MIDGE!" He yelled, sticking his head out into the hallway. Midge's desk was empty except for a stack of mail. Then Phil noticed a letter tacked to his door.
Mr. Pomfeather,
I quit! The job description didn't mention anything about killer robots, energy monsters or explosions! I could sue you for creating a hostile work environment, but I won't if you pay my therapy bills. You'll be getting the first one in the mail shortly.
Sincerely,
Midge Sampson
"Not another one!" Phil groaned as he snatched the letter off the door and crumpled it up. "Why is it so hard to find a secretary that won't quit because of a few little explosions? It's not like the Pond blew up or anything! Well, I better place an ad in the newspaper tomorrow." He picked up the mail. "Let's see, bill, bill, summons, bill, summons…oh great!" He groaned, fingering a thick envelope with Aimes Contractors printed on it. "Is it that time of the month already? I swear it feels like we just paid these guys!" He tossed it on the desk and continued to sort though the mail.
"Stupid Ducks," he muttered. "They should be making me rich, not a bunch of…all right!" He yelped, holding up a manila envelope. It's here! If we land this deal I can go back to getting the deluxe treatment at the car wash!" He glanced at his watch. The ducks would be finished with their morning practice by now. He headed off towards the secret headquarters below the rink.
***************
Phil found Wildwing and Nosedive talking by the supercomputer. He fixed his hair, put on his most sincere smile, and walked over.
"Boobies!" He cried. "Have I got a deal for you!"
"Forget it Phil!" Wildwing snapped.
Phil wasn't fazed. He knew the drill; Wing would say no right away, then Phil would hound the young duck until he finally gave in.
"Wing, boobala, just hear me out. You've heard of that cable TV show Jerkweed? Well, they want you guys to do a guest appearance!"
"Really? Cool!" Nosedive said. "I love that show!"
"Yeah?" Phil felt his hopes rise.
"No!" Wildwing said firmly. "That show is dangerous and it sets a bad example for children."
"Dangerous?" Phil asked. "If anything it's educational! It shows kids why you SHOULDN'T do things like set yourself on fire."
"Phil, your publicity stunts are usually either really dangerous or really embarrassing, but this time you've managed to combine the two," Wildwing sighed, shaking his head. "There is no way we're doing this!"
Phil thought quickly. "Not even for charity?"
"Charity?" Wildwing asked.
"Yes!" Phil replied. "If you do this the producers will make a donation to, um, the St. Mary Homeless Shelter!"
"How much?" Wildwing asked.
"A lot!" Phil snapped. "Do you want to help the homeless or not?!"
"Of course," Wing replied. "But I…"
"No, that's fine," Phil sighed. "We'll just tell all those poor souls that they'll have to go find a park bench to sleep on because you refuse to hang by your feet over a tank and hand feed Tiger sharks!"
"Well, I do want to help the homeless…"
"Then it's settled!" Phil exclaimed. "If you'll just sign here…" He held out a piece of paper and a pen towards Wildwing. Suddenly Drake1's alarm went off and the other ducks came running.
"Whaddaya got, Tanya?" Wildwing asked.
Tanya's fingers flew across the control panel. "Teleportation energy in the warehouse district!"
"TO THE MIGRATOR!" Wildwing shouted.
"Wing booby, don't forget to sign this!" Phil called out as the ducks rushed past him. "Hold it a sec! Wait…DON'T FORGET THE PHOTO SHOOT THIS AFTERNOON! Phil yelled as the elevator doors slid shut.
***************
Phil fidgeted in his chair. He checked his watch. Nervously he looked around; the studio was empty except for the photographer, who was leaning against the wall reading the latest issue of Variety, and a man in a business suit and slicked back hair glaring at Phil. Phil gave him a weak smile and checked his watch again.
"So, where are they, Phil?" The man asked. "Your ducks were supposed to be here at three o'clock. It's almost four."
"Yes, well, I'm sure they'll be here any minute, Mr. Ernesto," Phil replied, trying to hide his anxiety. "They're probably stuck in traffic. You know how bad traffic is in this city."
"You know, I had reservations about hiring your…clients," Mr. Ernesto sniffed. "They have a reputation as being difficult to work with. And I can see why."
"Well, they have a demanding schedule," Phil replied quickly. "You know they're so popular and all. That's why want them to be your spokesducks! The public will buy anything they endorse!"
"Please, that can be said for any celebrity, including that ridiculous Bernie TV character," the man snapped. "In fact, I think I'll see if he's available. Good day, Mr. Pomfeather!"
Phil sat in his car, drinking a double mocha latte. It was his comfort drink; the one he always got when a deal fell through. He drained the cup and tossed it in the backseat, where it landed on the pile.
Phil sighed. He remembered how excited he was when he first signed the ducks; they were sure to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Instead he faced blown moneymaking opportunities, countless lawsuits, and occasional life-threatening danger. Fate, it seemed, either hated him or had a twisted sense of humor.
"Stupid ducks," he muttered, reaching for his antacids. "They have no idea how to behave like celebrities! They should be going to fancy parties rubbing elbows with movie stars or using their fame to get into trendy nightclubs and restaurants! What are they doing instead? Saving the world! How could they be so selfish?" He checked his watch. "Well, I'd better get back the pond. At least I can always count on the them to be on time for a game."
***************
As Phil predicted, the ducks were on time for the game, barely. Hockey was like a religion to them. The same could be said for the sold-out crowd cheering them on; the noise was deafening. Phil jammed his finger in one ear and held his cell phone close to the other.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Eduardo, you don't want to pass up this opportunity! Give them another chance; the ducks will make your product a household name! Just listen to their fans!" He held up the phone.
Suddenly a loud blast blew apart the stadium's entrance. A half dozen spider-shaped robots poured into the ice, laser blasts firing from the cannons on their backs. The cheers quickly turned to screams as the crowd made a chaotic dash towards the emergency exits.
"Yo, bro, looks like we missed a few!" Nosedive yelled, dodging a blast. It took out a huge chunk of wall instead.
"Battle gear, ducks!" Wildwing shouted. In seconds the ducks were armed and doing battle with the robots.
Phil, meanwhile, had taken refuge under the bench in the penalty box. "What? No, no, those aren't screams. The ducks just scored and the crowd is going nuts! Gunfire? I don't hear gunfire. It sounds as though your cell phone is picking up some interference; maybe a police scanner or…you're not on a cell phone? Then it must be me! I'll call you back!" Phil hung up, and hit number two on the speed dial.
"Hello, Aimes Contractors? Hi, it's Phil. Yeah, just a heads up. I'm going to need six of your guys this time." He instinctively ducked as another blast rocked the stadium. "Better make that ten," he groaned.
THE END