Daffy hunched in a crevice, hyperventilating as quietly as he could. In one hand he still gripped the pitted, corroded, incredibly solid lead pipe he’d found on another level, for all the good it would do him—against the thing chasing him or in general; in his other hand, close to his chest like a protective talisman, he clutched the tape recorder. He could hear the progress of the thing that was neither Ralph nor Wile E, not even trying to be stealthy now, and he switched the recorder back on. This was highly likely to be it, and he wanted there to be a record, just like he had during Prentiss’s attack.
“I’m glad we got this chance to run, Daffy,” the Not Ralph said conversationally. “It makes this so much more satisfying. Do you have any idea how long I watched you? You and your little…minions. I hated it.”
Good, Daffy thought, but he didn’t say anything, just clutched the recorder tighter.
“Let me tell you a story,” the Not Ralph continued. “You like stories, don’t you, Daffy? We can call it a statement if you want.”
If it was trying to get him to say the words, Daffy thought grimly, it would be waiting a long time. It didn’t really pause, though, just went on. “Once upon a time there was a monster, but no one realized that. Sometimes someone did, and then they were scared, so that was good. Then one day a nasty man came along. A nasty man who tricked the monster and wrapped it all in webs and tied it to a table.”
Its voice dropped into what Daffy always thought of as the “narrator cadence”—the same tone and drawl the voiceovers in cartoons, at least ones that weren’t specifically spoofs of spy films or police procedurals, always used. “So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people. And then, one fine day, it was sent to the house of its enemy, which had the biggest eyes you ever did see.”
Daffy pressed his beak together tightly to keep from saying the better to see you with, my dear. The Not Ralph continued. “The monster was sent there to steal all its secrets. It was sad because it couldn’t scare anyone anymore, but at the same time, oh, it was so intrigued, because it had never got to wear a shape like this before. A shape that almost shared its nature, in a way. It was fun, at first, but the time stretched on and on and the monster was so very, very bored.
“Then finally, after what seemed like forever, a stupid, arrogant little duck, a greedy little coward, did what he always did. He rushed in, eager to be the hero, eager to be the best, and messed everything up. He cut the webs and set the monster free. Free to kill and scare whoever it wanted. So thank you. I did leave what clues I could, but I never dared hope you would actually release me.”
It laughed, or at least Daffy assumed the laughter was the Not Ralph. It didn’t…well, it didn’t sound like a wolf, or a coyote, but it also didn’t sound like a woodpecker, or a sheep, or a little wooden boy, or—okay, he was not going down that route right now, especially since it was getting closer. “I gotta admit, Daffy, I almost enjoyed watching you scurry around. Missing the point almost…cartoonishly. At least I knew what I was looking for. You really aren’t even a shadow of your predecessor. Even I would make a better Archivist than you.” It paused, then added, “Hey…there’s an idea. Maybe I will! You’ll miss the Unknowing, of course, but you wouldn’t understand it anyway.”
Daffy tried to curl up smaller and whispered into the recorder. “I’m thorry, Porky, Tweety…Wile E. I’m tho thorry. I thhould have…I didn’t…I’m thorry. Bob, I’m thorry.”
“I wonder, if I wear you, will I really become the Archivist?” the Not Ralph mused. “Rob the eye of its pupil? Eh, probably not. Better just to kill you, I think. Yeah, I think that’s the best option.”
“Pleathe forgive me,” Daffy begged, still keeping his voice as quiet as he could and hope it would carry onto the recording. “If you’re thtill alive…if…if you hear thith. Tell Bugth—get ath far away from the Magnuth Inthtitute—”
“Olly-olly-oxen-free,” the Not Ralph sang out, suddenly appearing directly in front of him.
Daffy shrieked in fear and tried to lunge backwards, but the wall was behind him. There was nowhere for him to go. He tried anyway. “No. Pleathe—”
“Sorry, Daffy, it’s time to change—” the Not Ralph began.
Before it could finish its sentence, the stone walls, improbably—impossibly—shifted, with a loud grating and groaning. The Not Ralph screamed, in a way Daffy had never heard the real Ralph, Wile E. Coyote, or indeed any Toon do, and then…disappeared into the stone.
There was silence.
Daffy stared at the spot for a moment, wide eyed and slightly in shock. Finally, he squeaked out, “What?”
“I say—you there! Daffy Duck, suh!”
Daffy jumped to his feet and whirled around, torn between surprise and anger. “You!”
Foghorn Leghorn, looking grim and clutching a slim book, strode out of the shadows to face him. “I think it’s time we had a good ol’ talk, boy.”