The Road Runner raised his eyebrows at Daffy in pointed question. “Meep meep?”
“I think that might be for the betht,” Daffy said. He was a little apprehensive about this, but he didn’t see any reason to deny him. “Thtatement of Beep Beep Road Runner, regarding hith further rethearcheth into…” He trailed off.
“Meep meep!”
“Right. Recorded direct from thubject, February thirteenth, two thouthand theventeen.” Daffy nodded. “Thtatement beginth.”
The Road Runner nodded. “Meep meep! Meep meep!” He shook his head sadly. “Meep meep! Meep meep!”
Daffy was kind of accustomed, at this point, to the way the statements unfolded over the statement givers’ shoulders, like a flashback in a cartoon. They’d been getting slightly more washed out lately, but he attributed to the fact that most of the ones he had taken lately were from humans. As the Road Runner told Daffy, complete with gestures, about his difficulties with investigating what had happened at the Cambridge Military Hospital, he expected it to be in full color and detailed animation, but no, it was just as washed out as the rest of them. Still, it was enough for him to get a full picture of what was being described. He’d always been more of a visual learner.
“Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“I underthtand the feeling,” Daffy muttered.
The Road Runner raised an eyebrow again. “Meep meep! Meep meep! Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“Blood.”
“Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“Yeth, I know what a meme ith!” Daffy narrowed his eyes at the Road Runner. “You were thaying…?”
The Road Runner shrugged apologetically, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge it. “Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“But…?”
“Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“I thee.”
“Meep! Meep!”
“Theriouthly?” Daffy frowned. “Our library ith pretty exthtenthive, but it’th hardly focuthed on the Thecond World War.”
The Road Runner smirked. “Meep meep! Meep meep! Meep—“
“—became a noted occultitht,” Daffy said, feeling the light dawn, “whothe memoirth and rethearcheth were only ever published in an exthtremely edited verthion. And we have unexthpurgated copieth.”
“Meep!”
“Did you find anything?”
“Meep meep! Meep meep!” The Road Runner pushed a piece of paper towards Daffy.
He picked the page up and scanned it. “Let’th thee…‘On the thubject of thavagery, I have mythelf theen the long term effectth upon the pthyche of witneththing the violenthe Toonth may inflict upon one another. A dulling of the thentheth ith merely the firtht thtep, though one that few progrethth beyond. In more acute catheth, there cometh a thtrange mania, a fathcination with the mechanithmth of thith violenthe, the tactility of injury and the thenthationth that accompany it. My theory ith that, ath everyone knowth Toonth cannot feel pain, they become fixthated on itth effectth on men. When thith mania paththeth to men, however, the outcometh are far more theriouth and dire. The thmell of blood ethpecially appearth to inthite in a thertain thort of mind, not confined to one rathe or the other, numbed by the horrorth of war, the urge to commit unthpeakable actth of violenthe. I thaw it onthe on the fathe of a Toon called Private Doom, whothe actionth were tho thevere even for hith kind that he wath thent home with a dithhonorable dithcharge, and it thtill maketh me worry for the thafety of thothe, human or Toon, he may encounter there. Worthe thtill wath what I thaw in the eyeth of a young medic near Merey, a thing tho grotethque that I have thome thympathy with thothe who dethided to crash rather than rithk hith rampage, in thuch a way that even the Toonth aboard the car were thcarred for life if they were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to thurvive. But even that paleth to inthignificanthe compared to what I thaw in the infirmary at Amritthar. Two dothen Ghurkath tearing each other to pietheth, conthumed by the terrible butchery they had inflicted. Thuch thingth are not to be dwelt on, but therve to illuthtrate my propothition that violenthe, inflicted, retheived, or even jutht witneththed, can not only deal injury to the body or the mind, but to the thoul itthelf.’”
He lowered the paper slowly and peered over his glasses—when had he put those on?—at the Road Runner. “I thee. Tho doeth thith mean…?”
“Meep! Meep!”
“Even after your exthperienthe with the hothpital train? It thoundth like thith could be even more dangerouth.”
The Road Runner snorted and shook his head. “Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“In cathe you get murdered by ghothtth,” Daffy completed. The Road Runner nodded. “I thee. Thank you, Road Runner.”
The Road Runner nodded again. “Meep meep?”
Daffy frowned. “Well, how the heck should I know?”
The Road Runner blinked. “Meep meep?”
“No? He’th never worked here.” Daffy blinked as well. “Ralph should be out there, though. And probably Porky and Tweety, too.”
“Gadzooks! I don’t quite understand
Why you think I worry about that.
I’m more concerned with my costar
Than wolf or pussycat,” the Road Runner said. There was a frown on his face, but also a slightly worried expression in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Daffy asked, exasperated. “Wile E. Coyote wath in, like, five cartoonth, topth, other than Thpathe Jam and Back in Action, and he barely interacted with you.”
“I think there’s some confusion here,
At least I hope that’s so—
Because if you’re trying to gaslight me,
I’ll headbutt you to Soho,” the Road Runner said angrily.
“What? No! I’m not gathlighting you.” Daffy sincerely hoped his head hadn’t shifted to a gas lamp while he was talking, but he still felt like himself—and anyway, that sort of thing didn’t happen here, no matter who he was talking to. “You’re thitting here trying to thay you were in cartoonth with Wile E? He wath a minor villain that went after Bugth. You alwayth thtarred with Ralph Wolf, before you…retired.” He was vague on that point—why had the Road Runner stepped away from cartoons?—but pressed on. “After that’th when he thwitched to sheep. For goodnethth’ thaketh, he chathed you through here the firtht day we were all in the Archiveth!”
“I know what comics and cartoons
I starred in better than you.
I won’t continue with this talk—
Goodbye, you lying Toon.” The Road Runner pushed to his feet fast enough that he rocked the chair back, nearly toppling it, and sped out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Daffy stared at the rapidly dissipating cloud of dust, an uneasy swirl of dread beginning to form in his stomach. Unsure what else to say, he reached for the tape recorder. “End recording,” he managed, and turned it off.