'"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you ca'n't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."'

~Lewis Carroll

The home of Lanton and Tiffy Waffleburn would appear to most people to be a quaint, reasonably kept one story home a stone's throw away from the west end of St. Canard. While passersby would be shocked at the number of pink lawn flamingos, they would naturally assume an old lady lived there simply from the overall feel of the place and move on. Unfortunately, for the two ducks in Lanton's arms, the luxury of such an assumption was not to be had as they were forcibly dragged over the threshold into what both would later swear was the missing level of hell.

The plastic flamingos alone seemed to sense their plight and watched the duo struggle for freedom. Numerous black eyes locked with theirs, temporarily turning their brains to mush. A shadow cast from an ivy covered archway creeping down their bodies broke the trance. Forming a silent truce, they attempted to form a blockade in the doorway by linking arms and latching onto the frame, determined to have one last go at salvation. The result? A few splinters and having their arms practically dislocated; combined with a very loud, very frustrated roar, which concluded with the breaking of a clay pot. Drake, never being one to make waves, apologized for his foot accidentally knocking the pot over. Of course, Negs, never being one to believe anything Drake said, shot him a look that plainly said, "you're a dork". Drake had just enough time to stick out his tongue before the door swung shut and Lanton shouted, "Tiffy, I'm home, and I brought some friends."

To stand inside the home of the Waffleburns is to feel completely abandoned by God and humanity. To know you're slowly dying and that your soul is forever bound to the rotting flesh in which it was born. To lose all meaning of the word hope. To . . . to swear the air wasn't this cold a second ago. Drake shivered, wondering if it was just him, or if the AC was on.

He blinked, looking everywhere and nowhere, seeing but not hearing, knowing what was reality and what was not, only . . . only . . . only that the reality is that you're standing next to yourself and you haven't been praying enough lately.

Lanton would never have known, and no one could have correctly guessed that the look of disgust forming on Negaduck's face wasn't simply disgust, or even hatred. It looked like he was trying to channel Joan Rivers and Carole Channing and not throw up.

Drake was willing to bet that whatever Negaduck was thinking it was both similar, and far worse than his own thoughts. Negs's body language alone screamed of an unbelievable amount of self control coming into play. Drake was silently amazed, but kept a firm hand on his double's arm. Because regardless of whatever mental trick he was using, his gun hand was still shaking and his eyes were closer to smoldering ash than blue.

Praying that this nightmare would end shortly -and not in body bags- the do-gooder begun to note what was around -mostly looking for blunt objects should Negaduck lose it.

Though the entryway had been set up as a softly lit receiving room with a hint of European origins, it came across as more of a country mishmash and smelled strongly of vanilla. Almost to accentuate the point, a nineteenth century English hat stand stood directly in front of the one window in the room, which ran long and thin beside the door. At its base sat a large stone rabbit wearing a top hat and leaning on a cane, with a gentle lady rabbit on its arm. The scene was completed by a lacy window treatment casting the rabbit and everything surrounding it into shades of baby pink, including the bunny patterned floor tiles.

Against the wall the Waffleburns had placed an antique white desk to catch keys, mail, and apparently everything else as the top of the thing couldn't be seen amongst a throng of clutter. A matching wicker bench sat beside the desk as another "catch all", only with coats, sweaters and shoes. All of it sat illuminated by a Brier Rabbit children's lamp that looked handmade rather than store bought.

At the far end of the foyer, between two sets of French doors stood a massive, mahogany china hutch crammed with ceramic figures of nothing but bunnies. Bunnies in swim wear, in bonnets, in dresses, in suits -even a Scarlet O'Hara bunny on a miniature movie set. There were bunnies playing house, shopping at a general store, picnicking, dancing, playing chess; the assortment went on and on. Drake felt as if his brain had been sucked down Rabbit Lane with no end in sight. To like bunnies was fine. A stone rabbit here or there was okay, they generally worked well in gardens. But to fill a hutch large enough to hold at least two complete china sets with rabbits and nothing but rabbits was pushing it.

A pained grimace replaced the fake smile Drake had been wearing and he tightened his grip on Negaduck's elbow. The sociopathic duck's twitching had come to a sudden halt and his breathing had a forced rhythmic flow to it. To stare at his face was to stare at a defaced monolith on the surface of the moon -at least it was in Drake's narration. He also had the distinct impression that the only reason Negaduck was able to walk was because Lanton was pushing them forward. He tugged on him, but his twin simply wobbled. No sardonic one liners, no insults, no "why the hell are you touching me", not even a sideways sneer.

Lanton turned them towards the set of doors on the right and shoved them through a mass of pink lace curtains. His happy-go-lucky voice cheerfully announcing that Tiffy was expecting them in the sweetest, most relaxing family room in the world. And it was into that particular room that the Mallard boys had happened to be dumped as Lanton politely excused himself through another door.

As their eyes slowly adjusted to the peach lighting a pair of dainty hands pulled them in further and a small woman with a high voice materialized before them. Her cinnamon curls bouncing around her head as she excitedly shoved them into their seats. Tiffy, talking a mile a minute about God only knows what, poured three tea cups of what looked like lemonade and told them to help themselves. Before taking her own seat across from them, she turned and lit several bunny shaped candles on the fire mantel, all the while proudly stating that she had decorated the room herself.

Up until that point, Drake hadn't bothered to observe anything other than Tiffy Waffleburn. But on her mentioning the room everything came into sharp focus and he finally pinched Negs, hissing their shared name sharply under his breath. Drake watched his double come to, glance around, then start to gag. Somewhere between the blue and pink rose patterned wallpaper, a window seat full of stuffed rabbits -some with bows, some with bright clothes, some with diapers and rattles- to a smaller hutch with dishes featuring Peter Cottontail, two sets of blue eyes grew steadily wider and into identical expressions of disheartenment.

Tiffy, being the sugary sweet lass she was, addressed their reaction with a lively speech on rabbits and why this room was so special to her, gesturing repeatedly to her fireplace. Which to the boy's morbid curiosity, featured bricks inscribed with the names -as she informed them- of every pet bunny she had ever had. The more stuff in the room she talked about, the more they noticed the stuff she didn't: bunny-rabbit border, carved rabbits on the chair rail, a small mural by the fireplace depicting sleeping bunnies, and set in front of them on a bunny theme coffee table were bunny cakes with bows; even their tea cups had bunnies.

Drake was taking it all in stride, trying to keep himself from screaming. At this point, he would have given up crime fighting just to be anywhere but here. He could handle disgustingly sweet rather well, or so he thought, but it was like something his dad said once, "too much sugar will make you sick". Of course, his dad had been talking to his older sister about too much PDA when he said it, but he thought the words rang truer in regards to Tiffy Waffleburn and her rabbits.

How the heck had he managed to get himself into this mess without even trying anyway? Here he was sitting on a small blue love seat, stuffed between a now very sober Negaduck and the pinkest hand-made bunny pillows he had ever seen, when he should have been at the store. Secretly he wondered if this was payback for leaving the toilet seat up when he had the Muddlefoots over for dinner the other day, because he couldn't think of anything else he might have done to deserve this.

He tried to get comfortable, but the pillows wouldn't allow for much movement and if he moved any closer to Negs he would be sitting on him. His arm was pinned behind his twin's shoulder as it was. Leaning his full weight on his left arm in an attempt to make more space, a sharp prick in his side caused him to flinch. From behind him he produced a small bunny rattle, the ears of which would have fallen under the child endangerment category. He turned slightly, and subtly dropped the toy over the back of the couch. Next to him, Negaduck was motionless despite all his previous fidgeting. Drake couldn't say he was too surprised to find him whiter than a sheet -if that was possible- and his eyes nothing more than two ink drops. If this house made him depressed, he couldn't imagine what Negs was going through.

"Kill me."

"Wha?" Drake waited until Tiffy had disappeared into the kitchen -she had forgotten the tea, although she already had a tea set out; sometimes it hurts too much to ask- then peered worriedly at his twin.

"Uh, I don't normally ask this, but are you going to be okay?"

"I'm gonna kill her. I'm going to turn this hell hole into a charred wonderland and then I'm going to kill her." He whispered harshly.

Drake chuckled nervously, "she's not that annoying."

Negs squeezed the head off a bunny puppet. "I'm not talking about her yakking, I'm talking about this stupid room. Anybody with this much pink lace in one room deserves to die."

Drake scratched his head. "A psychiatric evaluation maybe . . . Honestly, I thought for sure you would have at least punched Lanton for the flamingos."

"Give me a little credit will ya? If I was going to anything, one of those flamingos would have found its way up his..."

"All right, all right, I get the picture. You don't have to say it."

"What if I just really want to?"

"And what if they heard you?"

"Who cares?"

"I do. I rather they not find out what kind of person you are."

Negs smirked. "Yeah, you're right, they might think it's you."

Drake glared at him. "I would never think to stick a flamingo down someone's throat."

Negs convulsed. "Down his throat? No, no, no, here." He put his beak to Drake's ear and started whispering.

With every passing second the smile on Negaduck's face grew, while Drake's cheeks went from white to tomato red. His jaw dropped to his lap in the type of horror that only comes with graphic details and a wild imagination.

Negs leaned back chuckling, pleased he had once again managed to ruffle Dipwing's feathers. Which, granted that upsetting the Dork was as easy as blowing up a microwave, it was still great entertainment. All that was left for him to do was to sit back and watch the show. Currently, Drakey was frozen in his seat, but his consternation was melting away and it was just a matter of time before . . . three, two, one.

Reality rushed back through Drake's veins, followed by a blush that left him feeling faint. He slumped against the couch and stared wide eyed at his laughing doppleganger.

"That is just sick! How . . . I . . . I didn't know that was possible. I didn't want to know that was possible."

Negaduck laughed harder. "What's the matter, DW, afraid someone will find out you're a sick freak?"

Drake blushed angrily. "You . . . you . . ."

"Hey, you're the one turning red."

"Shut up."

"Come on, you know you are, just admit it. Who's gonna know?"

"I'm not playing your game." Drake crossed his arms and stared pointedly at the other side of the room.

Negaduck's eyes twinkled merrily. "What game? I'm being absolutely serious here."

"You have a twisted sense of humor, you know that?"

"Nice try, but flattery won't get you out of this one." Negs shifted to face him, resting an arm on the back of the couch. "Just one little sentence, that's all I'm asking. I, Darkwing Duck am a sick freak- that's all you have to say."

"I refuse to even pretend what you say is true."

"Oooh, getting a little testy are we? What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

Negaduck scoffed. "Yeah right, I'll believe that the day Launchpad stops crashing."

"Believe what you want."

Negs smiled nonchalantly. "All right, I will. I choose to believe that," he lowered his voice to a crude whisper, "Dickwing Dork . . . is . . . a . . . carnal, soft-bill of a duck, who is afraid to admit the sweat on his brow is from..."

"Shut up! Shut the hell up you conniving wasteland of a human being!"

"Hmm, that's not half bad, I might use that one."

Drake fumed and sat there opening and closing his mouth, his index finger skyward.

Negs smirked. "Aw, did I make you mad?"

"You . . . you are nothing more than a degenerate, self-conscious, pistil loving maniac -and I don't mean the crude pieces of metal you like to sit on either. The only jolt you get out of life is causing enough destruction to overshadow the fact that you're a soulless waste of space. Don't push your sick fantasies on me and think just because some pencil wielding nutcase decided that one universe wasn't enough, that I think like you!"

Negaduck threw his head back, eyes wide, laughing delightedly in complete surprise. "Whoa, who would have thought you had it in you to come up with that, and people say I have pent up aggression."

"And since you're not from around here, if someone were to do the world a favor and kill you, would that filthy whore of a black hole you call a soul suck its self into oblivion and take your body with it? Or would you just go to hell where not even the vilest of demons would want to touch you? Even if it was just to use your cracked skull as a latrine."

For a moment Negs seemed truly astounded. "Crud, if that's what you see when you're awake, I don't even want to know what kind of dreams you have. I'll give you points for creativity, but all that makes me wonder . . . does Gosalyn know what you and Launchpad really do at night?"

The movement was fast, almost too fast . . . it was too fast. Negaduck had curled into himself, fighting for air in staggered heaves before he realized what had happened. Drake had punched him, seriously punched him. In one fluid motion, Drake had spun up and around to hover over him. The pause had lasted less than a blink of the eye, when his chest abruptly buckled and snapped. Negaduck forced himself to look up into the shadow that hung above his head. He stared directly into his eyes, down at the fisted hand, then back into the deep blue abyss that had always followed him. Drawing out a small hand pistol, he leveled it at Drake's head.

"If I blow your brains out, does that count as suicide?"

"Only on your dammed plane of existence."

"Clever, I never would have thought Saint Darkwing capable of such a witty comeback -alert the media."

"Funny."

"What, that the media would actually be interested in anything you say, or your amazing ability to swallow your own crap? Personally, I don't know how you can stomach it."

"I could say the same of you. Although, I'm sure not having a soul makes it a lot easier, don't have to worry about what you don't have."

A small click came from the gun. "Don't push me, DW, I hadn't wanted to make your death a quick one."

Drake stared down the barrel, utterly perplexed that he wasn't the least bit afraid. "Just shoot already, if I'm going to die, I'm going to die, and according to you, you'll die too. It's not that hard."

"Not that hard, huh?" Negaduck put the gun in Drake's hand and placed it against his own head, smiling. "Prove it."

A small, thin finger curled around the trigger, tightened gently and stopped. Had he stopped his finger, or had his finger stopped him? Why had he stopped? An irritated voice broke into his mind.

"Are you going to pull the trigger or not? I rather have a head start on my bathroom duty in hell than sit here on Michael Jackson's old playroom couch watching you have a moral argument with yourself."

" . . . Drake I . . ."

"DON'T CALL ME BY THAT NAME!"

Something snapped in his brain. "WHAT AM I DOING?"

"Right now, nothing, that's the problem."

Drake meant to lower his hand, he wanted to lower it, but he didn't. Choosing, instead to gaze in pleading shock at the determined face in front of him.

"No way . . . you have to be after something."

"Holy crap, you are as dumb as you look in that purple suit. I already told you to kill me, so KILL ME. Trust me, it'll make both of us feel better."

"No, this wasn't . . . this won't . . ." His hand started to sweat. He wanted to do it, then he didn't, and then he did.

"Earth to Darkwing Duck, helloo, are you in there? Are you going to fire the stupid gun, or am I going to have to do it myself?"

"I . . . I guess..."

"You guess. Great. I'm happy for you, really. And I would love to spend more time talking to you about your indecisiveness, but I was supposed to meet Death's sister in the back of a car twenty minutes ago and I still need to buy condoms."

"You can't seriously want me to..."

"WHAT ABOUT "KILL ME" DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?"

The gun started shaking. Negs snarled. At this rate, the idiot was more likely to bruise him than shoot him. He covered Drake's hand with his own to steady it.

"It would be you to mess up a point blank shot."

"Your hand is clammy." He realized.

"So is yours. Less talk, more squeezing."

Negaduck slid his finger over Drake's and pressed down hard on the trigger.