The next morning was a Saturday. The sun rose over the Mallard household. Drake was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, enjoying the quiet. The quiet lasted for about a nanosecond. All of a sudden, loud rock music came blaring from the second floor. Surprised, Drake ended up ripping the newspaper in half, and spilling his coffee on the floor.
"GOSALYN!" he screamed up the stairs to his nine-year-old daughter. However, Gosalyn didn't hear him.
Drake went up the stairs, fighting against the strange wind, caused by Gosalyn's boombox. Gosalyn didn't even notice when Drake opened the door to her bedroom. Ultimately, the music grew louder, and Drake was blown away by it. Literally. The blast from the boombox when he opened the door blew him straight into the wall on the opposite end of the hallway. Drake managed to pull himself off the wall, and went back to Gosalyn's room. He made it (barely), and pushed the stop button on Gosalyn's boombox. Gosalyn turned around, and glared at her father.
"Hey!" she shouted. "I was listening to that!"
"A little loud, don't you think?" Drake asked. "Listen, young lady, you're not the only one in this house, you know!"
"Awww, come on, Dad!"
"I don't mind that you listen to this head pounding music, but keep it down! Some of us would like to keep our hearing, thank you very much."
BRRRRIIIING! BRRRRIIIING!
"Oh great," Drake groaned, digging his finger in his ear (or the spot where his ear would have been, if he even had ears). "Now my ears are ringing!"
"Dad, it's the phone," Gosalyn said.
"Oh," Drake said, and then he started down the stairs. "I knew that."
"Yeah right," Gosalyn mumbled, shutting her bedroom door, and turning on her boombox, but, for the sake of argument (and to avoid getting grounded), she turned the volume down.
Back downstairs, Drake picked up the phone.
"Mallard residence," he said. "Who? Uhhh . . . . well . . . . . ahem. You want to see me, Drake Mallard, today at noon? Uhh, well . . . . I . . . uhhh, I don't think that's . . . . oh, yes, yes I am familiar with Darkwing Duck. Well . . . . errrm . . . . you need to meet with both of us, eh? Uhh, well . . . . sorry, but I have another appointment today at noon, but . . . . oh, I'm sure Darkwing Duck can fill me in, I mean, he and I . . . . you wouldn't believe how close we are, heh, heh, heh. Eeeehhhh."
Drake hung up the phone, and groaned. His friend, Launchpad McQuack, heard Drake's end of the conversation.
"What's going on, DW?" he asked.
"This is really weird," Drake said. "That was J. Gander Hooter on the phone. SHUSH wants to meet with both Darkwing Duck and Drake Mallard."
"Is that why you told them you have another appointment?"
"Yep. I can't be in two places at once, you know. Come on, LP. Let's head to SHUSH central and find out what's going on."
Drake and Launchpad sat down in their chairs, and Drake pounded his "Basil of Baker Street" statue with his fist. The chairs began turning in circles, and when they stopped, Drake and Launchpad were gone.
Meanwhile, in the offices of SHUSH, director J. Gander Hooter was sitting at his desk. Standing beside him was SHUSH's chief agent, Grizzlikoff. Grizzlikoff wasn't particularly happy (like he ever is).
"He is late," the Russian grizzly said. "Vhy for is he alvays comink in late?"
"Patients, Grizzlikoff," J. Gander said. "Darkwing will be here."
"Vhy for ve alvays haff to wait for Darkving Duck? He is not agent of SHUSH! He never does anythink by the book! Vhy for you alvays call on him?"
Before J. Gander could answer, a puff of blue smoke filled the room.
"I am the terror that flaps in the night!" a voice shouted, as the blue smoke began to disperse. "I am the needle in the haystack of crime! I am Darkwiiiiiiing Duck!"
(Forgive that one, it's hard to come up with Darkwing's intro lines)
"Can't you ever use door?!" Grizzlikoff shouted, waving the smoke out of his face.
"Well, yeah," Darkwing said, shrugging. "But this way's more dramatic."
"Oy vey," Grizzlikoff groaned, and he began to mutter in Russian. No one in the room spoke a lick of Russian, so they had no idea what he was saying (though Darkwing had a pretty darn good feeling what he was saying wouldn't be allowed on a kid's show).
"Sheesh, Grizz, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Darkwing asked. Then he turned to J. Gander. "What dastardly, demented evil doer is doing evil in our fair city as we speak?"
"Nothing like that, Darkwing," J. Gander said. "I had hoped someone else would be here, a Mr. Drake Mallard, but he was unable to make it. You see, this really concerns him more than you."
"I see," Darkwing said, though he was incredibly confused. "So, what is it do you need Drake Mallard for?"
"Vitness protection," Grizzlikoff said.
"Vitness protection?" Darkwing asked. "And . . . just what exactly do you need Drake Mallard to do for this vitness . . . . I mean witness protection program that I can't possibly handle?"
"I vill make list," Grizzlikoff mumbled. Darkwing shot him a glare, and turned back to J. Gander.
"We did some research on our SHUSH computer," J. Gander replied. "We were looking for the safest place possible, and our computers showed that the home of Drake Mallard is quite possibly the safest in all of St. Canard."
"Is he so sure about that?" Launchpad asked.
"Shhh!" Darkwing hissed, smacking his sidekick in the head before he could say anything else. "Well, J. Gander, if that's what you want, then, I'll notify Drake Mallard right away. Though I still don't know why you called me in on the case to begin with."
"I am vonderink same thing," Grizzlikoff said.
"Agent Grizzlikoff, would you please bring in the witness in question?" J. Gander asked, ignoring Grizzlikoff's comment. Grizzlikoff left the room. Darkwing and Launchpad exchanged glances for a moment. Moments later, Grizzlikoff returned with the witness in question, and Darkwing's jaw nearly made a dent in the floor. He suddenly whipped out his gas gun, and aimed it for the figure standing next to Grizzlikoff, a mutant plant duck.
"Freeze, you felonious flora!" he shouted. "One false move, Bushroot, and you'll be whiffing weed killer!"
"Hey! W-w-watch where you point that thing!" Bushroot shouted, trying to hide behind Grizzlikoff. "You could hurt somebody!"
"Darkwing, calm down," J. Gander said. "Last night, Dr. Bushroot turned himself in."
"You what?" Darkwing asked, staring at Bushroot like he couldn't believe it.
"It's true," Bushroot said. "I want to give up being a criminal."
"Careful, J. Gander," Darkwing said, raising his gas gun. "It could be a trick! I wouldn't trust this vile veggie even more than I'd trust Bonnie and Clyde!"
"You mean Herb's cousins from Fresno?" Launchpad asked, a little confused.
"Launchpad, why don't you wait for me outside?" Darkwing asked, through clenched teeth.
"Oh, sure, DW," Launchpad said, as he left the room.
"I'm telling the truth," Bushroot said. "I'm tired of being a criminal. I never was much of one anyway. You know that. Negaduck wanted me in the Fearsome Five because of my power over plants. I really want to turn over a new leaf."
"And does Negaduck know you want to . . . . . go straight?" Darkwing asked. He was unable to bring himself to use that awful pun Bushroot had just used.
"No," Bushroot said. "None of them know. I don't know what I can do to get you to believe me, Darkwing, but really, I do want to go straight."
Darkwing sighed, and put away his gas gun.
"All right, J. Gander," he said, grudgingly. "I'll do it. But I won't like it."