Author's Note: "The Sweet Stench of Success" is my favorite episode, right up there with the pilot. I've been preoccupied with the idea of an alternate ending and here it is. Er, enjoy…
Nowhere
Chapter One: Going Fast
"Isn't that?" a girl whispered, huddling close to her friend. The two crouched by a window display and continued their conversation behind their hands. Both giggled obnoxiously. A very cold look crossed the humanoid's face, but he shoved his hands in his overcoat and pressed his lips tightly shut as he passed.
"It is!" the other shrieked, snatching one of his arms and yanking. His blue eyes narrowed disdainfully, but attempting to extract himself proved hopeless. Both girls, giggling insanely, proceeded to scrutinize him delightfully. He loathed them already.
"My God, the last time I saw him as a human was when he did that Variety Hour…how long ago was that?" One mused, gnawing on her lip reflectively. Fiercely, he hoped it bled. Ever since that night, he despised all humans, despite sharing their appearance. They only pretended to like him, and then used him. Not even his creator was exempt from this rule.
"Two years," he snapped, an air of impatience apparent. Two years ago, he'd had it all. Why had he risked it for such a stupid endeavor? Why had he been so damn foolish? These were questions he'd often asked himself at night, stars shining down on a bleak scene.
Recovering his arm, he swept them away and strode purposefully down the stark lane. As usual, he hadn't the faintest clue where he was going, but every path led to the same place, right where he'd started. An insurmountable rage consumed him, briefly barricading his pointless pursuit. He had no idea whether he was furious with him for not listening or himself for taking advantages of the little things in life, like friends, family, or even a house. He had none of those now and their ache panged in the cold, ruthless evenings with only a spare blanket warming his miniscule frame.
Yet he could not bring himself to call or contact them. Thanks to a certain someone, he believed wholly if he tried, his manager would hurt each and every one of them. He'd dangled the threat over his head many a time, even after he had given up hope of seeing his creator and friends again. His career might have ended, but he doubted there was a time limit on the threat. For all he knew, they might already be dead.
Banging his head against a red brick wall (and drawing attention to himself unwittingly), Blooregard Q. Kazoo fought an onslaught of tears and whispered his creator's name.
"Mac…Mac, I'm right here, buddy…if you remember me…"
Who am I kidding? I'm probably just a glitch in his memories by now…
"(We ought to bring up Bloo again,)" Coco trilled, balancing a string of baubles on her beak. Wilt strung them along the walls and Eduardo, cautiously avoiding anything remotely frightening, kept jumping whenever someone bumped into him. However, since the three were used to these displays by now (as was most of Foster's), they ignored it. The task at hand demanded most of their attention, yet conversation randomly broke out. None could quite contain their excitement for the ensuing birthday party.
"No, Coco, I don't think Mac wants to talk about that," Wilt murmured, hoping the human hadn't heard the new topic. Fortunately, distracted by the lures of Frankie, he hadn't. In fact, they might have a rare five minutes to discuss it in his presence. Normally, Mac would grow exceedingly irritable whenever his name was brought up. Regardless of the theories thrown about, Mac still believed Bloo had abandoned them. He obstinately refused to talk about his imaginary friend and glared until the subject changed.
"(He's his imaginary friend!)" she insisted, tossing her head and sending plastic pink shells everywhere. A disgruntled fluffy turtle scowled, dispelling them disdainfully and stomping off. In the chaos, no one noticed. It was both a blessing and a curse, because if anyone cared to complain about the state of affairs, no one could spare five minutes to lend an ear.
"Si…and I know he misses him," Eduardo chimed in, glancing at the blushing ten year old boy, helping Frankie pin up a banner. Though a grin split his face, all three acknowledged that with a reference to Bloo, it would vanish quicker than one could blink. Not even the most elated occasion offered them a chance to speak to Mac about Bloo without the human lashing out.
"(He thinks he's dead,)" Coco replied mournfully, glancing at Mac too. The boy feigned obliviousness. Nonetheless, if Bloo's name were dropped casually, the boy would immediately fire up. Therefore, Bloo was called the "ghost" in polite company.
"But he would not be here if he had not-" Ed protested and, over his shoulder, Mac threw the trio a sharp look. Dread settled uncomfortably in the pits of their stomachs and for the next five minutes, they busied themselves. However, mentally, their thoughts carried them along familiar ventures.
Why had Bloo abruptly ceased contacting them? Moreover, why had he simply disappeared the night of the variety show? He'd vanished without a trace and none had the faintest clue where he'd gone to, but his manager indicted for fraud six months afterwards. He'd claimed Bloo had participated in a crazy stunt and killed himself (the color drained from Mac's face and he'd spurted out of the room).
When they found him later, it was in their bedroom; he was cradling Bloo's blanket to his tear streaked face. That moment on, mentioning Bloo merited a reproachful glare and a bad attitude. They'd learned to skirt the issue, but it unnerved them how far Mac would go to avoid so much as speaking his name. Far from behaving like he died, he rewrote history to act like he'd never been created. It was unhealthy, but breaking him of that impression proved extremely cumbersome.
Yet, despite Mac's bizarre reaction, they had reason to discard Kip's condescending answer. There was no record of any stunt performed by Bloo, not to mention Herriman's assurance that Mac would sense Bloo's death. Yet Mac had striven to deny his very existence, so that within itself was inviolable. Theories might be placed before him, but he denied every single one. Bloo wasn't dead because he'd never been born.
"Should we use blue streamers or pink?" Frankie inquired innocently, balancing the aforementioned on her palms. Mac paled, hands trembling. Sometimes the smallest things set him off. And she'd forgotten to call it "azure" again.
"There is no Bloo!" Mac hissed, glaring spitefully at Herriman, hopping swiftly to his creator's granddaughter's side. The rabbit gawked, taken aback by Mac's venom. Though it was on the tip of his tongue to reprimand him, he abstained. His creator's ninetieth birthday party was far more important.
"Mac…" Frankie began tenderly, but he waved her away angrily. In fact, he sauntered out, slamming the door on his way. Silence rang throughout the dining hall; Wilt, Coco, and Eduardo swallowed hard, tempted to follow. Unfortunately, Mac's exit indicated his solitude and they reluctantly respected that. Besides, the rest of the decorations beckoned and with an effort, they pushed Mac out of their mind.
Mac moodily marauded towards the den couch and flopped languidly atop. The remote lay prone on the mahogany table adjacent; he snatched it up and pointed at the television. Meaningless words floated past, but try as he might, he could not lose himself in their irrelevancy. His thoughts returned increasingly towards Bloo.
Was he in fact dead? Could he be alive somewhere, hoping Mac would rescue him? Had he never abandoned him? Could Wilt's warning words regarding the show have held more significance than Mac afforded them? Could Bloo have been screaming for his help and he'd just ignored him?
A nasty thought surfaced- what if Bloo had pined away for him? Though the idea was pathetic, he wondered what happened to imaginary friends who were forgotten completely. Did they fade away? Did they become suicidal? Was Kip telling the truth? Could Bloo have thrown himself away? But that didn't add up with Mac's vision of him…
"In other news today, these two teenage girls claim they saw Deo. As our audience well knows, Deo disappeared two years ago today after transforming into a human at the end of his variety hour. Rumors of his death have circulated since that day, confirmed by his manager. Then again, there are rare devotees claiming there's no substantial proof of Deo's death and here are two of them. We're not telling you they're crazy…you can figure that out for yourself."
Mac sprang from his seat and glanced at the screen with the most amount of interest he'd shown in anything since the day Kip had announced Bloo's death. The hands clutching the remote sweated profusely. His heart beat fiercely and he scarcely dared to breathe. Though he was furious with Bloo for abandoning everyone, he was eager for any information detailing he still lived. Maybe Bloo just couldn't call me…for two years…
"He looked like a homeless person…" One commented dourly, folding her arms across a t-shirt inappropriate for children. Thankfully, censors had already cottoned on and blurred its offensive comments out. If Mac weren't frantically scanning their surroundings as if expecting Bloo to pop out, he might have wondered what the expression was. The reporter seemed disgusted by it, whatever it said.
"Yeah, like, isn't Deo supposed to be rich or something? I mean, unless his manager totally took all his money…" the other muttered and wheels began to revolve in Mac's head. Maybe his manager bankrupted him…but that wouldn't explain anything else…
Nodding curtly, the reporter faced the camera. "That was…an extremely uninteresting factoid our viewers could have done without and a good space filler for the last thirty seconds of our show. I'm…"
Mac tuned the rest of his inane dialogue out. Thinking adroitly, he discovered no location had been cited for the two girls. They could have been anywhere in the United States, for all he knew. His heart sank- they also could have been lying. Maybe Bloo was dead and he just couldn't accept it yet.
If Bloo's alive…give me a sign...
Somewhere in the house, a phone rang shrilly once, twice, then stopped. Its intended recipient sat unaware his imaginary friend had just tried for the first time in a long time to hear his voice. Its recipient was also unaware Bloo pounded the payphone with his fist and kicked it before berating himself for the millionth time. Mac and Bloo were just a telephone call away from each other…but Bloo was too apprehensive to permit Mac to answer.