Chapter 9-Nightmare Unfolding?
Author's Note: YESSS!
FINALLY...some time to update! Sorry it's taken so long, readers,
but if y'all think school is hectic for students, try being a
TEACHER! At last, though, I have found a moment to write and
upload another chapter, so I haven't abandoned this fic, and I fully
intend to finish it...then maybe do a sequel, I don't know right
now. I've also considered a Foster's x Monsters, Inc. crossover,
which I'm still working out in my red head at the moment. For
now, though, I leave you with Chapter Nine, although it is rather
short, and it is a bit of a cliff-hanger, sorry(geesh, I'm even
starting to sound like Wilt...). Please let me in on any feedback
as far as interest in a sequel, and keep the reviews coming. Oh,
yeah...I do not own any of the characters in this story. They all
belong to Cartoon Network, and were created by Craig McCracken.
And, if half of this thing appears in italics, it's
fault. My Document Manager is STILL acting up a bit, and
converted half of this to italics when I uploaded it. I don't
know if it will allow me to save the changes or not.
"Noooooooooooooo!"
Bloo bolted upright with the sound of his own scream still echoing through the room, his breath raspy and ragged. Momentarily confused, his eyes perceiving NOT a cold, ice-bound, deserted city, nor a lifeless and frozen…
Wait…a DREAM? It was all a DREAM?
He sat very, very still on the edge of the sofa, the events of the dream, and of the past 48 hours, playing back slowly through his mind, staring at the tv set. Onscreen, two human guys were strapping what appeared to be a very battered crash-test dummy into what appeared to be an enormous catapult. "Now, let's see how well ole' Buster is gonna fare after we launch him over this 50-foot high brick wall…and just to see how a real human would be feeling after this little journey, we've placed this large plastic bag of theatrical blood inside of Buster's cranium…" Bloo blinked and rubbed his eyes. So he HAD fallen asleep, and there was no frozen city, and Wilt could NOT, therefore, be…or…OR…could this be a premonition of things to come? Bloo's heart rate had begun to level out a bit upon his realization that he'd fallen asleep and had a bad dream, but now it suddenly picked back up once again.
The photograph! He HAD to find that photograph, before it was too late! "I GOTTA find that photograph! Now, where did I last see it…I think Sandy had it…or, no…wait…maybe it was Tubey…I just know I have to find it, before Mr. Herriman or Madame Foster sees it! Now, how hard can it be to find one single Polaroid picture in a house of oh, say, THREE HUNDRED ZILLION Rooms?" Part of Bloo seriously wanted to sit back down on the sofa and continue watching the latest exploits of the always ill-fated "Buster", but that nagging little voice in the back of his mind(the one that always sounded suspiciously like his creator), refused to shut up and get a grip this time. Bloo despised that little voice. It always tried to get in the way of his major goal in life, which was to have as good a time as possible, and make himself the absolute center of attention. Still, he knew that this time, he'd better listen to it, or there could be dire consequences for someone he liked to think of as one of his best friends…make that TWO someones. Like it or not, he had no choice this time but to heed that annoying little voice, and with what he hoped was a determined scowl on his face, the little blue Imaginary Friend set off from the tv room to search for the incriminating photograph, and to try to undo a wrong that HE, as bad as he hated to admit it, had done before it was too late.
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As his own search for the photograph continued to produce no results, nor even to get him any closer, it seemed, to finding it, Wilt's panic began to grow, along with his anger and hurt. WHY would anyone want to do something like this to him, or to Frankie, who certainly in his mind, anyway)deserved this even less than he did. He just knew that if that picture wound up in certain hands, his days, or even hours, at Foster's were numbered. The thought of having to leave his friends behind, the thought of having to go live…out there…was nearly too much to cope with, and made it difficult to concentrate on his objective. So far, every possible lead in the search had proved fruitless, and each time that Wilt had gleaned some information that he thought would lead him closer, it only had appeared to lead to a proverbial dead end. He wondered, and hoped, that the other innocent victim of this evil plot was having better luck than he was. The tall Friend had just started down the third-floor hallway, for what seemed to him the tenth time, at least, pondering the how's, why's, and WHO of this predicament, when…
"Master Wilt! There you are, though I must say you've proved a rather elusive quarry thus far" a stern British-accented voice commanded Wilt's attention, snapping him out of his thoughts. Wilt spun around to see one of the home's inhabitants he most did NOT wish to encounter at this time, Mr. Herriman, standing at the top of the stair landing. He felt the muscles in his chest tighten involuntarily as he tried to force a smile.
"Oh, uhm…Mr. Herriman! How's it goin'? Uhm…"
"I've been asked to locate you", Herriman continued in what seemed to be an even more business-like tone than usual. "Madame Foster has requested your presence in her living quarters immediately! I am told that she has a rather urgent matter that she needs to discuss with you!"
Wilt tried to respond, but his throat had nearly seized up, making even the act of breathing difficult. There was no doubt in his mind as to just what this "urgent matter" was. His worst nightmare was unfolding; Madame Foster had seen that photograph of HIM, asleep under the covers on the sofa…with HER granddaughter.
Herriman regarded the tall red Friend for a moment, adjusting his monocle as he did so, then cleared his throat as Wilt just stood there, as if in shock. "Oh, excuse ME, but apparently I've taken to MUMBLING incoherently," the oversized rabbit responded, sarcastically, "so perhaps I shall find it necessary to reiterate my original statement, and the purpose for my quest, which was to locate YOU, Master Wilt, and inform YOU that Madame Foster insists upon YOUR immediate presence in her living chambers! That is 'immediate' as in NOW!"
"Oh, uhh…right, Mr. Herriman, sorry for zoning out…I, uh…I'll(gulp) get down there right away, sir" Wilt was barely able to rasp his reply. Taking a deep breath, or as deep as his tense chest muscles and constricted throat would permit, he headed for the stairs, and started downward to meet what he was certain would be his fate.
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"GottafinditGottafinditGottafinditGottafindit…" muttered Bloo as he searched, with ever-increasing desperation, for the photo that HE had taken, that very morning, as an act of what now seemed such petty vengeance upon Wilt and Frankie. His search, thus far, had been as fruitless as Wilt's had been, with the real irony being that while they were both seeking the same Holy Grail of Polaroid snapshots, neither was aware of the other's quest, nor was one even remotely aware that the other was the cause of all this consternation. Bloo paused just before passing the open double doors which led to Madame Foster's private living room, pounding what amounted to his forehead with what amounted to his fist. "Think..think…THINK!" he commanded himself out loud. "I mean, a photograph just CANNOT get up and walk away! It HAS to be around here SOMEWHERE…now WHERE would I go if I were a photograph which showed what may or may NOT be evidence sufficient to…"; as Bloo passed by the open double doors, it was as if his eyes were drawn like a nail to a magnet to the little table against the wall, just a few feet inside the door, right underneath some old faded oil painting of some chick in a long dress. There, sitting out in plain view on the table, beckoning to him like a Siren song, was the object he so urgently sought…the Polaroid photograph of Wilt and Frankie, snuggled up warm and cozy under Madame Foster's own heirloom Afghan, on the sofa, in the TV room.
"THERE you are! Oooohhh, you have no idea how hard I've been looking for you!" exclaimed Bloo as he started inside to retrieve the snapshot. Who would ever have thought that a little piece of stiff paper could cause so much aggravation? Bloo did not get very far, though, before two things happened, nearly simultaneously, which threw him off course, so to speak. First, he was nearly stepped on by Wilt, whom he had totally failed to hear approaching, and who seemed to be in a daze, completely(which was very odd for Wilt)failing to acknowledge Bloo's presence. Second, Madame Foster herself appeared in the doorway of her living room, blocking Bloo's entrance.
"Oh, hello, Bloo!" said the little old woman, pushing her glasses up a bit further on her nose as she did so.
"Madame Foster! Oh, hi...", Bloo responded, trying to sidle around her to get to the table with the photo, as Wilt came to a stop just inside the door, behind the home's owner.
"Yes, yes, dear", spoke the little woman, "now run along, Wilt and I have some very important business to attend to." She made a little waving motion with the back of her hand, to indicate to Bloo that he needed to get out of the doorway.
"But, Madame Foster…I have…I REALLY need to…"
"Yes, yes, I know that I'm a popular gal, but this is very important, Bloo dear, so whatever it is shall have to wait until I've finished this business with Wilt here, so move along, now, toodle-loo!"
And with Bloo's protests still being aired, the old woman closed both large double doors in his face. Bloo heard the lock "click" just after his field of vision was obscured by the antique stained wooden finish.
His face fell. He took a deep breath, and let it out with a melancholy sigh, his head shaking ever so slightly. HOW could this be happening? HOW could he have LET something like happen?
Hearing panting and heavy footsteps behind him, Bloo turned to see his creator, Mac, charging down the hallway towards him, nearly out of breath."Bloo! Did you find that picture yet? I've been looking all over for it, along with Eduardo and Coco, and we didn't have any luck. How about you?"
Bloo took a deep breath, and averted his eyes from Mac's to gaze thoughtfully at the wall, as if expecting a really clever response to Mac's question to magically appear there. His voice quavering a bit, he answered.
"Weeeellllll…I sortakinda found it…" Bloo turned his eyes from the wall, which had not helped him one iota, to the floor, then briefly glanced up at Mac's face. Mac did not like the expression he saw on his creation's face at all. He raised his eyebrows.
"Whataya mean, you 'sortakinda found it'? You either found it or you didn't! Which is it?"
Bloo turned his attention back to the floor, as if to suggest that the carpet was seventeen times more interesting, and easy, to look upon at this point than Mac was. He sighed again, in what he hoped was a convincingly heartbroken manner, then sprang forth with his verdict.
"Wellll…MadameFosterhasthepictureinherlivingroomandIwasabouttogoinsideandgetitwhen
WiltwalkedinandMadameFostershowedupatthedoorandsaidshehadsomeveryimportantbusinesstodiscusswithWiltandItriedtotellherIneededtocomeinbutshepushedmeoutandshutthedoorsinmyface
Andlockedthem. And thatswhathappened. Really."
"Excuse me?"
Bloo straightened himself and aimed another stare at the wall, having found the floor unresponsive. Annoyance began to creep back into his voice. "I SAID…", he began again, speaking very slowly and deliberately, lest Mac miss anything this time around, "Madame Fos-TER has the PIC-Ture in her liv-ing room AND I was ABOUT to go IN-side and GET IT, when Wilt walked IN…and Madame FOS-ter showed up at the DOOR and said she had some very IMPORT-ANT BUSI-NESS to dis-cuss with WILT and I TRIED to TELL her that I need-ed to come IN but she PUSHED me OUT and SHUT the doors IN MY FACE and LOCKED themmmm."
Mac's expression turned from one of impatience to one of horror. "So, you mean Madame Foster has the photograph? Of Wilt and Frankie? In THERE? Like, NOW? AND she called Wilt in there to 'discuss important business'"?
Bloo nodded sadly, still refusing to look the eight-year-old in the eyes. "I'm afraid so." His bottom lip began to tremble, and now the ceiling became the object of his visual speculation. He sighed again, as Mac just stared at the locked doors to Madame Foster's chambers, shaking his head in disbelief. Bloo spoke in a small, trembly voice, "All I ever wanted was to be rich, and have everyone love and admire me. Isthat so wrong?"
"This is terrible! This is just…TERRIBLE!" was Mac's response.