Fourteen Years Ago, Delta City General Hospital Emergency Department Waiting Room.
Huddled close together on a bench sat two bluejays, one female and one male:
The female one had blonde hair-like feathers atop her head. She wore a mint-colored blouse and blue jeans. A look of worry and anticipated grief stretched across her misty-eyed face.
Sitting beside her was her husband, a male blue jay wearing a gray t-shirt, brown leather jacket, and blue jeans. He, too, had hair-like feathers atop his head like his wife. His, however, were brownish gray. He tightly clutched her hand while placing his opposite wing around her in a vain attempt to console her. Vain, in that he had little reassuring to say, given his own state of worry.
Through a swinging door came a brown-haired man. He wore khaki pants, a blue collared shirt, a red tie, and a white doctor's coat. A small white cloth patch was on the left lapel, just above the stethoscope pocket; embroidered in blue thread, was the following: his name, Dr. Stewart; his profession, neurologist, and the name of the hospital, Delta City General Hospital. After speaking to the nurse at the front desk, he walked over to the bluejays. Bending slightly at the knee and leaning in, he approached them on eye level as a gesture of thoughtfulness and privacy. The two birds expecting the worst but hoping for the best listened closely to Dr. Stewart.
"Mister and Missus Quintel, that son of yours is quite a sturdy boy. He took a nasty fall back there and had quite the concussion. Given what happened, he is lucky to be alive."
"Oh, Dear! Doctor, will my baby boy ever walk again?" said the worried mother, holding back tears.
"That M'am, I cannot answer with certainty. However, the initial CAT scans do show some promise. We'll have to wait for him to wake up before we can know for sure. One thing I can say, given the circumstances, I advise against having him ever fly again."
The husband then asked Dr. Stewart, "Are you are saying we should clip his wings?"
"That would be a prudent decision," replied the Doctor.
"My poor baby boy!"
The female blue jay began sobbing at the thought of clipping her baby's wings.
Reaching into her purse, she grabbed a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
Present Day. 2 am. Park House.
Rigby sat upright on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Sitting beside him was his best friend, head slumped back, eyes half-closed, mouth agape.
Suddenly, the TV screen went black. Shouting over the blackened screen came the obnoxious voice of a TV pitchman.
"Parents...Trying to teach your kids to fly? But don't know what to do?"
The screen lights up again as a sequence of grainy black-and-white footage appears on the screen:
- A father bird is holding his son horizontally by the waist, moving him up and down and side to side in sweeping arcs, mimicking the art of flight.
- A mother bird is standing at the edge of a platform, encouraging her daughter to jump off. The little girl stands there and shakes her head, refusing to move.
While against this backdrop, the narrator continues his pitch.
"Do you want them to soar, but they just won't leave the nest?"
"Maybe, it's time you called The Coach!"
Meanwhile, Rigby shook his best friend, trying to rouse him from slumber.
"Mordecai...Mordecai...Wake up...Mordecai...Wake up"
"Huh," said the startled blue jay, "Huh. I must've dozed off."
"Bro," said his raccoon friend, "it's that infomercial for that flight school thingy! You know, the one with the eagle dressed up as a coach. It's about to start!"
"Oh yeah! Don't wanna miss that," said Mordecai, chuckling.
The black-and-white footage ends and fades into a color scene of a large summer camp nestled between trees in a mountainous landscape.
Small wooden cabins surround a lake with a large artificial beach. Rising from the sands are numerous tall wooden platforms. The tops of the platforms are covered with synthetic weatherproof carpeting to provide cushioning and grip. Spaced between the platforms are springy fiberglass poles forming what appear to be slalom gates. Beneath it all was a large black safety net.
Soaring high above this camp was a large speck of a bird. Suddenly, the bird did a barrel roll before dropping into a nosedive.
A vast cloud of sand and dust rose as the diving bird closely swooped the ground before pulling up. Using his wings as air brakes, he quickly scrubbed off speed before doing a pirouette and landing on one foot.
There he stood: a tall bald eagle of middle age with a slight paunch but otherwise muscular build. He was missing many of the feathers on his head, giving him a vulture-like appearance. He was quite literally "a bald bald eagle." A red polo shirt stretched across his barrel-like chest with the word "COACH" printed in simple black letters. The shirt tucked neatly into a pair of gym shorts that terminated just above his knees. Beneath, the rest of his legs were bare save for a few strips of black tape wrapped around his lower calf and ankles. The black tape contrasted with the yellow skin of his talons and made his feet look like a bee.
A silver whistle and a black stopwatch hung from his neck. Tucked underneath his right arm was a wooden clipboard.
He quickly shook off the dust and began his speech. His booming voice and Southern accent reminded Rigby of a cross between Colonel Sanders and Foghorn Leghorn.
"Greetings! My name is Coach Troy Jacobs, founder and owner of Camp TJ School of Flight Instruction. And this here is my flight school."
"For almost 30 years, We've been teaching young people the art of flight."
"Here at Camp TJ, we believe that learning to fly should be healthy, safe, easy, and fun." [cuts to photos and footage of various young birds in flight with coaches and instructors cheering them on].
"As a young coach, I was disappointed with the current state of flight instruction."
[Cuts to footage of young Coach Troy with all his head feathers intact shouting commands and looking at his stopwatch].
"I worried that current methods were ineffective. And millions of years of ancient avian tradition[stock footage of birds in flight] may die within a generation lost to modern technology" [cuts to footage of birds driving cars, followed by footage of a traffic jam].
"Over countless hours, I developed my proven "Flying is Easy" method to take the guesswork out of learning how to fly and make it easy and intuitive for youngsters. I then released my method to the world" [cuts to an image of Coach Troy's book, aptly titled "Flying is Easy"].
"Not satisfied with simply writing a book, I started a camp to put my methods into practice."
[Cuts to more footage of a younger coach Troy, including images of him smiling in front of his newly built camp, followed by him shouting words of encouragement at youngsters].
"25 years later, our organization has grown from humble beginnings to be a world leader in quality flight instruction."
"Sure, there are faster ways to get from one point to the next." [Cuts to footage of an airplane landing].
"But nothing beats the freedom of having the wind beneath your wings. And there's no better way to boost creativity and self-confidence, instill discipline and build healthy bodies and minds."
"We are so confident, that for a limited time, we are offering 50% off the regular price of our introductory summer class to the first 100 students who sign up."
"So come down and stop by one of our 15 locations. And leave the teaching to us."
[Screen cuts to a large group of students and instructors gathered behind Coach Troy.] Together, they shout in unison, "Soon, you'll be soaring in no time!"
The commercial then cut to an 800 number, while the pitchman read as fast as humanly possible a long list of terms and conditions before concluding "void where prohibited."
Mordecai was laughing hard as the commercial ended.
"What a racket," he said.
"Can't believe he's still in business, getting parents to shell out money to teach their kids to fly. With modern transportation, what's the point? A plane or even a car will get you there faster with a lot less effort."
"I don't know. Tradition, perhaps?" replied Rigby, with a slight tone of indignation.
"A dumb tradition, if you ask me," scoffed Mordecai. "Society has advanced, and you must learn to adapt with the times, even if you're a bird."
"So is that why I never see you fly? Because it's obsolete?" asked Rigby.
"Yes," responded Mordecai, confidently.
"Or maybe, it's because you don't know how to... Hmmph Hmmph... Hmmph Hmmph... Hmmph Hmmph..." said Rigby inquisitively.
"No, Rigby, I know how to fly," said an annoyed Mordecai, condescendingly.
"Then why didn't you do so when you jumped out of the chopper at Margaret's Family Reunion?"
"Dude, I had her dad holding my hand for dear life. I wasn't about to let go... Besides, he weighs like over 200 pounds. I couldn't generate lift for the both of us!"
"Besides... Rigby, do you remember that time when you wanted to be player one, and you 'death punched' your way straight through the Earth's crust? How do you think I got us out of there?"
"You jumped. That wasn't flying; it was some over-glorified karate jump!"
"Oh yeah? Well, how about the time we got stuck in the woods with Benson, got chased by ghosts, and I had to get us off that cliff?"
"Boy, that wasn't flying, just falling, and maybe gliding. Furthermore, you botched the landing and damn near got our asses killed." laughed Rigby.
"Face it, Mordecai! You cannot fly, and you are jealous of other birds who can."
"Hmph. Hmph-Hmph. Hmph. I'll show you! You won't be laughing so hard, jackass, once you see me fly!"
"Fine, Mordecai. Show me you can fly, tee-hee!"
Mordecai jumped up and flapped his wings. He hovered two feet off the group for 10 seconds before tiring out and dropping back to his feet.
"See, Rigby?" he said.
"That's not flying, that's hovering!" said a doubting Rigby.
"Whatever, dude; I'm going outside for a cigarette," said Mordecai as he rose from the couch.
"Come on, boy! Show me some real flying!" said an unconvinced Rigby to Mordecai, who at that moment had his back turned.
Quickly, Mordecai's mind flashed back to a time 14 years ago.
He was standing in a large gymnasium. Coach Troy was there beside him, shouting "Come on, boy! Show me some real flying! Show me some real flying... Show me some real flying...[echoes]"
He spun around, screamed, and then punched Rigby hard in the arm.
"Owww! That hurt. Whyd'ja do that for?" said Rigby as he rubbed his arm. Tears briefly welled then receded as the pain wore away.
"Cause you're being an idiot," said Mordecai in a deadpan manner. He still felt ashamed at the incident 14 years ago. Knowing that he couldn't fly made him feel useless as a bird and more like a human trapped in a ridiculous-looking bird body. Eventually, he'll need to come clean, just not at 3 am on a work night.
"Now grab me a beer from the fridge before I punch your other arm."
Rigby meekly walked over to the fridge and pulled out two cans of beer, still rubbing his sore arm.
He returned to the couch and shoved one of the beers straight into Mordecai's chest.
"Here, take it!" said an angry Rigby to Mordecai.
"Asshole," Rigby whispered without Mordecai hearing him while rubbing his injured arm.
After 10 minutes of awkward silence, Mordecai spoke:
"Rigby, I'm sorry for hitting you."
Rigby's arm still hurt, but he was ready to forgive. As much as he resented Mordecai for what happened, Rigby loved his best friend like a brother and could not hold a grudge for long.
"That's OK, Mordecai. I'm used to the abuse. But still, why'd you hit me? I wasn't trying to be rude or anything."
"OK, I'll explain. But promise not to laugh at me."
"I was a student at Camp TJ, back in 5th grade, except I never finished. I got injured, had to drop out, pretty much spent the rest of the summer in the hospital recovering."
"So, that's where you were! I wondered why you were gone that whole summer. Why'd you never tell me this before?"
"Well, maybe because I was embarrassed, being a bird and all. Maybe, because you'd judge me for it."
"Me? Judge you?"
"Ho! Ho!" laughed Rigby heartily. "You're talking to a high school dropout. Why would I do that?"
His arm still stung, but he wasn't mad at Mordecai. He only wished his friend would lighten up a bit more.
"Listen, Mordo. I want you to know that I'm your friend and will always be there if you need someone to talk to," said Rigby in a comforting voice as he placed his sore arm on Mordecai's back.
"Sorry again for hitting you. You know I love you like a brother, and I apologize for losing my temper," replied Mordecai, remorsefully, eyes gazing at the floor.
"Noted...Anyways, I'm packing another hit," said Rigby wanting to move on, "want some?"
"Sure!"
Rigby swiftly repacked the bong and reached for the lighter.
The TV, still on, continued with another commercial:
This time it was for stainless steel kitchen knives imported from Japan, apparently forged from the same steel used to craft Hanzo Hattori's legendary blade. After using the knife to cut through a 6" piece of concrete without dulling, cleaving the rebar inside like butter, the host effortlessly julienned a carrot. Having demonstrated the effectiveness of the knife, the commercial cut to the "special TV offer" available to those ordering in the next 30 minutes.
Neither of them paid attention.
As before, Rigby went first and took in the bigger hit before passing it to Mordecai, who could only do a small puff before coughing.
"Boy, what's wrong with you?" asked Rigby, disappointed.
"Birds don't have diaphragms," wheezed Mordecai before coughing again.
"Shit, I knew it! I shouldn't have slept through bio class!" said Rigby, laughing at himself.
"No probs. Now you know," said Mordecai as he coughed and laughed at the same time.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I always wondered why Mordecai never flies in the series. There are numerous times where Rigby acts like a literal raccoon, Benson acts as a walking gumball machine, Fives phases through objects, and Muscleman Hulks up. Still, you never see Mordecai fly or leave random deposits of white poop on your car. It's as if he's a human wearing a bird costume. Here's my theory why he cannot fly and how his lack of flight has affected his self-esteem. Leave a review if you like it or have constructive criticism to make.
Some references: Coach TJ is loosely based on an overly enthusiastic cycling coach I knew from college. I stole Hanzo Hattori from Kill Bill. I was also trying to satirize infomercials, especially Blendtec, where the guy stuffs concrete into a blender and turns it into gray powder. I reused his last name because Mordecai is loosely based on JG Quintel himself. If anyone knows Mordecai's canon surname, please let me know in the comments. I will gladly update my fic.
Oh, and one other commentary piece: To me, Mordecai strikes me as insecure and is a bully. He bullies Rigby to buoy his own weak sense of self-esteem, knowing well that Rigby has an even lower self-esteem and thus is apt to tolerate it. Still, Mordo still loves him as a brother and admires him the same. He just takes too much from Rigby in the relationship and doesn't always put enough back. I want to capture that power play in my dialog. I hope it was successful and didn't portray Mordo as overly mean, but rather someone who doesn't always aspire to be the best possible friend to his lifelong pal.
