Though I have finished The New Guy, I decided that I wanted to make a sequel. It's called Sticking With You Literally, where Bob and Frankie get stuck together. Here is a sneak peek.
Frankie looked at the situation she had fallen into. Her husband was currently handcuffed to her, and he was just as unhappy about it as she was, for anyone with a brain knows never to intervene when a couple is arguing. When they were handing out brains, Bloo must have swapped his for his unique color. But that didn't matter now, as the blue one didn't know where the key was, and they would be stuck like this until they found a way out of the cuffs. They would ask the friends that they passed if they knew anything about keys, but so far that had been about as effective as trying to get Bloo to look for the key, since his logic was it wasn't him handcuffed to Frankie, and therefore not his problem, even though he caused it.
"Why don't we talk to Coco?" said Bob, "I'll wager she can cook up a key no sweat."
"That's the smartest thing you've said all day." said Frankie. She could see that that had annoyed Bob, but he shrugged it off. The couple walked together to Coco's room, and knocked on the door.
"Coco." said the voice on the other end, only something was wrong. The voice that said the word sounded labored, raspy, and weak. But Bob and Frankie knew that Coco had granted access into her room. They opened the door, and the sight was not pretty. Coco's feathers and looked pale, her eyes were half open, and what the couple could see of her eyes was bloodshot. Her hair wasn't its usual red, it looked a steamy white.
"Coco," said the bird, and repeated the mantra a few more times.
"A sickness that only happens once a month?" asked Bob, before looking at Frankie, "remind you of someone?"
"Shut it." she snapped.
"This is inconvenient," said Bob, "because Coco's sick, she can't lay eggs. And because she can't lay eggs, we're back to square one." Coco said her name again before pointing with her break at a white jar.
"That's your medicine?" Asked Frankie, "Bob and I will certainly get it for you." Bob and Frankie walked to the shelf, and knew that it was too tall for either one of them.
"Here," said Bob, "I have an idea. Get on my shoulders, and I'll lift you up."
"If you drop me," warned Frankie, "you'll sleep on the couch for the next month." Bob said nothing in return, getting on his knees, and allowing Frankie to get on. She stepped gingerly onto her husband's shoulders. Then slowly as not to make Frankie lose her balance, Bob lifted up. She was lighter than he expected her to be, what with what was happening today. Frankie used the shelf to balance herself as she gained altitude. Then she saw the jar, and a label. It was written in a language Frankie couldn't read. The characters all looked like a child took a few pens and went nuts on a piece of paper, scribbling and doodling where there was room to do so. She reached up quickly for the jar. Her arm stopped short, and Bob yelped in pain.
"I'M A PUGILIST NOT A CHEERLEADER!" he yelled.
"Sorry," Frankie said, actually feeling bad about it, but not too. She refocused and reached for the jar again, slower this time.
I will cut it here. The chapter will be longer when it's time for this particular one in the story.