At the city docks, a flock of suited predatory birds haul loads of ACME crates into the ships. Leading them is a tiny brown hawk, squawking orders to hurry up and be careful with the cargo. The hawk is accompanied by a buzzard who looks none too bright and a rooster who clearly isn't joking around.
"Don Henery's got eyes all over the ground," Wile E. reports through the earpiece as he watches from a nearby rooftop. "I can pick off his guards, but it's too big a risk. Have you found a path onboard?"
Hiding behind a stack of crates, Ralph presses against his earpiece to respond. "I see an opening, but I'll have to swim to it. Good thing I brought my diving suit."
"That sounds a bit too convenient, even for you."
"Like I always say, be prepared for anything."
"I've never heard you say that."
"Well, now you have." He glances at the patrolling guards, who have their backs turned. "Alright, I'm going in."
Diving suit equipped, he swims towards the target's ship, using the built-in suctions on the palms and soles to climb up its hull into an open port window. Inside, he slips into the crevices, keeping out of sight of the goons as he progresses.
He soon reaches the cargo hold, where the Don's contraband is stored. Crates marked with ACME's name clutter the area, with a handful marked with other company logos. Looks like they're too busy to protect the inside, he muses to himself. All the better for me. After finding the perfect spot behind a crate imprinted with an eerie pair of exotic eyes, he starts setting up the bomb.
Wile E. waits for his partner to finish, spying on the feathered ruffians below. Everything seems to be running smoothly… perhaps a bit too smoothly. He takes another gander at the ongoings.
A gunshot rings out, and the Don's trusted rooster goes down. The goons are sent into a panic, as is their feisty hawk boss until he, too, gets shot down. Pressing the earpiece, Wile starts running. "Ralph, get out of there! We're not alone in this joint." He barely dodges a bullet aimed in his direction.
"No worries, sweetie, I'm just about done here." He presses the button to activate the bomb and immediately takes off, throwing caution to the wind for the sake of self-preservation. As Ralph leaps out of the port window into the water, the ship explodes, setting it and all in or on it aflame. As he makes his escape, he catches a glimpse of a svelte figure vanishing from the moonlit rooftops.
Days later, back in the apartment, Wile sits in front of the TV, tail wagging as the events of the anime Kismet/Night Stand play out on the screen.
"I am Bawktoria Hendragon, Knight class Servitor," the animated cockatrice knight introduces herself. "I ask of you: Are you my Master?"
Meanwhile, Ralph paces restlessly, checking his phone every now and then. After several minutes of silence, he lets out a yell of frustration. "Why isn't it ringing? I would think we'd get some hits after our last job. Wiley, you spread word about our business, right?"
Wile answers, "Of course. I even got to meet some of our neighbors."
The other day, he was trekking the apartment floors, a stack of flyers in his hands. When he spotted 205's resident, a calico cat in a sunflower dress, he rushed over to introduce himself.
"Hey. Name's Wile E. Coyote. Inventor, hitman, genius." He handed her a flyer. "If you need someone robbed, tortured, or killed, call us."
The cat, tail and ears spiked from fright, alternated her gaze between him and the paper. She warily nodded, then zipped away and out of sight.
Ralph facepalms. "Looks like door-to-door is out of the picture. Can I take a look at that ad you made?"
Wile E. hands him a copy of said ad. From the garish gradients to the mismatched fonts to the poorly edited stock images, it can best be described as a graphic designer's worst nightmare.
"Jesus Wolfhowl Christ, this is an eyesore! No wonder we're fucked." He tosses the printout over his shoulder.
Pepé, exiting the lab, catches the flyer before it hits the ground. He takes a gander and winces. "Geez, who thought this was a good idea?" Wile sighs in humiliation. "Luckily for you, I happen to know someone who can help. Ralph, you know about that kit from West Quarter I tutor every week? His father is a good friend of mine, and just so happens to be an expert when it comes to marketing and networking. With his help, you'll be top of the pack before you know it!"
The three of them head to the location of interest, a duplex residing in one of the city's more peaceful neighborhoods. As Pepé rings the buzzer, Ralph points out, "I've lived with you for three years now, yet you never told me you had a friend in business… or any friends, for that matter."
"That's because you never cared to ask," the skunk retorts.
The door opens, and a tall, red-nosed tuxedo cat in a beige suit invites them inside. They gather around in the living room for their meeting, and as Ralph pitches his business idea, the cat listens with skeptical curiosity, his green eyes alternating between his clients and the eye-searing flyer.
"I'm not gonna lie here: this is a hard sell in its current state," he finally says, his loose tongue creating a sloppy lisp. "However, we can still work something out, if you're open to adjustments.
"Firstly, your 'mercenary' premise, while it sounds cool on paper, lacks a proper foundation. Once you specify what you want to accomplish for your client, promoting yourself becomes much easier. Second—and most importantly—is trying to make yourself sound less… legally dubious. I suggest we start by focusing on your specialties and work from there. What are you two good at?"
"Well, I used to work as a professional sheep thief before moving here," answers Ralph.
"It's not a profession per se," Wile E. contributes, "but my instincts and inventions kept me alive up until now."
Pondering over their responses, Sylvester is about to respond when Pepé steps in. "It would be remiss of me to not mention this, but they're quite skilled as bodyguards. They wiped out the Canasta clan when they were harassing my clients, Monsieur and Madame Gonzales. Monsieur Coyote and I also created the bomb that blew up Don Henery's ship."
Sylvester's ears perk up, and a sly smile forms from his muzzle. "You don't say." Standing up, he says aloud, "As it turns out, our little friend here gave me an idea. Follow me."
He leads them into an office, relatively mundane in appearance save for the framed posters of old TV series and product adverts, all of which feature his face on them. The largest of them portrays him smiling while he holds up a tiny yellow bird, topped with the title The Sylvester & Tweety Show. Ralph, barely restraining his excitement, points at one of the adverts. "Ooh, I remember seeing the commercials for this as a kid. I knew I saw your face somewhere!"
Inspecting a poster separated from the others, one which displays the cat as a proud, champion belt-donning boxer, Wile E. asks, "But why are you showing us this? Surely you're not intending for us to quit and join a theater troupe."
"No, of course not. Though I have to ask…" Facing the wild dogs, he jabs his thumb over the shoulder at the Sylvester & Tweety Show poster. "How good are you at catching birds?"
Deep underground, in a dimly lit tunnel, a scraggly, purple-furred cat tiptoes nervously on a ratted red carpet, at the end of which is a throne hidden behind partially-raised curtains and cage bars. The seat of the throne is deliberately shrouded in shadow, obscuring its occupant. From the shadows, a deep, distorted voice booms out, ordering the cat to kneel.
"I commend you for succeeding in taking down my rival Don Henery. But you let the cargo get destroyed, and I can't let that go unpunished." The cat, scared out of words, can only let out a soft mew. "However, I am feeling merciful, so I will give you one more chance. If you can hunt down and take out the ones responsible for the destruction, I will reward you greatly. But should you fail…"
Two bulldogs emerge, each armed with a spiked bat. They, along with numerous other dogs, surround the cat, who can do nothing but tremble in place. "…you will pay with your nine lives."
The Acme Studios lot is thriving as cast, crew, and audience members scramble about. Studio 8 is especially lively, for it is moments away from a live recording. As the cast of The Tweety Bird Show get ready backstage, the audience—largely consisting of young children—trickle in, with guards sorting them into organized lines to control the manic crowd. Among them is Sylvester, accompanied by his son, Sylvester Jr.
"Dad, I know you mean well, but isn't The Tweety Bird Show a little… juvenile for my age?"
"Let's not judge too quickly, Junior. You're only as young as you feel. Besides, this is an important milestone in the show's history, and speaking as a former co-star, I want you to be present for it."
"Can't you have your cast reunion without dragging me along?"
"Son, when you grow up, you'll look back at this moment and remember it. This is a memory that will last you a lifetime." That, and adults are forbidden from attending the show without being accompanied by a minor—a rule which Sylvester thinks bringing up will prove futile in their conversation.
Junior sinks into his chair with a sigh, slipping a paper bag over his head. "I hope no one at school is watching."
Meanwhile, backstage in the dressing room, two actors prepare for their parts. They chat about work conditions and other meaningless nonsense, unaware of the lurking presence hiding behind the costume racks until it is too late.
After stuffing the unconscious bodies into zippered clothing bags and taking their cheap bird mascot costumes, Wile E. and Ralph waddle their way to the wings to inspect the ongoing action. "Looks like Cat's in the audience," Wile whispers to his costumed partner. "And he's brought his kid, too. What the hell is he thinking?"
"Father-son bonding, perhaps? Bringing your child to an attempted assassination isn't the absolute worst thing a parent can do. Oh, we're on. Break a leg, sweetie!"
The announcer's voice booms out as the spotlights sweep across the stage. "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for… It's Tweety!"
The spotlights merge in center stage, where a small yellow bird lands on a perch and waves. The rest of the stage lights up, and the audience is treated to a song and dance intro featuring a cast of costumed and live actors of varied species.
Hello all you kiddies!
It's your best friend, Tweety,
Bringing the fun to you!
That Furrball wants to eat me,
But he's no match for Granny
And Hector the Bulldog, too.
The number continues for another verse or two, with Tweety's younger viewers participating, before the costumed extras are forced off-stage for the main show. "Well, that certainly wasn't humiliating," Wile E. mutters sarcastically as he meets up with Ralph backstage.
"I dunno about you, but I had fun. Though if I was to go onstage again, I'd rather not be in these suits. Like, pee-eww, I'll take eau du skunk over human sweat any day of the week!"
"There's something I noticed about the audience while we were up there. Aside from Cat, none of the kids' parents are present. Isn't that sort of weird?"
"Huh. When you put it that way, it is odd. The kids here are quite young, so one would expect some parental supervision. Perhaps it's for the camera?"
"I don't think immersion has anything to do with this. Something's up, and I don't like it."
"I don't like it, either. I mean, look at that!" He jabs a fuzzy flipper at the current sketch, which involves a scraggly purple cat trying to catch Tweety only to receive increasingly violent punishments from a grey bulldog named Hector. "Twenty bucks says that guy doesn't even get medical insurance for this shitty gig."
From the corner of Wile's limited vision, he catches a glimpse of a bulldog guard slipping deeper backstage. "You keep watch. I'm gonna check on something." As he sneaks off, Ralph continues watching the show, keeping a close eye on the young spectators as they cheer, laugh, and clap their hands to the ongoing shenanigans.
Soon, the auditorium darkens to pitch black. Tweety's voice resonates throughout, his chipper tone contrasting the ominous atmosphere. "Thank you all for coming to my show, and for supporting our family for all these years! To celebrate our three-thousand episode milestone, I'm inviting one of you to join me onstage for the finale. Step up, you lucky kid, you!" A spotlight shines on top of Junior, who tries futilely to cover his face in shame.
"What are you waiting for?" Tweety asks in a sing-songy manner. "Don't be shy, come on down!"
"Don't worry, son," Sylvester whispers as he grabs his paw. "I'll be right by your side."
Hesitant, Sylvester Jr. stands from his seat and follows his dad to the stage. As they step onto the now-lit set, the little bird's blue eyes widen in surprise and he exclaims, "Well, looky here. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" Tweety turns to his audience. "I thought I taw a puddy tat! Most of you kids might not know this, but this is my old pal, Sylvester! Now he's back and he's brought his little boy, too." He turns to look at Junior and asks, "So, kiddo, what's your name?"
The kitten stutters, "Sylvester Jr."
"Not exactly a creative name, is it?" Tweety retorts, giving Sylvester Sr. a condescending look. "Your pop must be proud of that one."
"'Sylvester' is a fine name for a cat," Senior replies, crossing his arms in contempt.
"I'm sure it is. Hey, since it's been so long, how about we do something special, just like old times?"
He claps his tiny wings, and suddenly a cage falls over Junior and swoops him up and high above reach. "In this game, your kid plays the role of me, and you have to try to catch him. But if you get caught…" Another clap, and Hector storms onstage, cracking his knuckles. "…you lose!"
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello again! As promised, here's the third entry in this action-packed series. I expected this story to be a bit more straightforward than it actually turned out, and as a result, I had to split it into a two-part arc. It also happens to be the most difficult one thus far; while writing, I realized that my ability to describe action scenes and interior architecture are a lot weaker than I first thought. That said, despite the moments of contrived logic, awkwardly worded dialogue, and shaky descriptions, I think I managed to get most of the plot I wanted in, and I hope that makes up for the weak points.
One small thing I should point out ahead of time so people don't start worrying: no, the rooster mobster working for Don Henery is NOT Foghorn Leghorn. You'll learn who he is somewhere down the line, but for the time being, that's about all you need to know.
6/29/2021 UPDATE: Made some minor revisions. Mostly punctuation-based, with some rewordings and word reduction thrown in.
7/12/2021 UPDATE: Changed a bit of Wile E's dialogue during the first meeting with Sylvester to something less awkward-sounding.
12/3/2021 UPDATE: Made some slight alterations to Sylvester's debut scene, most notably adding a bit of dialogue between Ralph and Pepé. Also made some minor changes in wording here and there.
4/28/2022 UPDATE: Added some extra details to the first scene when Ralph enters the cargo hold, including a small bit of foreshadowing.
8/20/2022 UPDATE: Expanded the second scene with additional dialogue and a brief flashback scene. Edits were also made to account for said additions.
