Who Wacked Roger Rabbit?

by Gary K. Wolf

  The gorilla’s jaw came unhinged and dropped to the ground. Red hearts replaced his massive eyeballs. He put up a word balloon that said “Hubba hubba!” in the scrawling lettering you see in notes sent by third graders to one another on Valentine’s Day.

  “You’re just fine,” said the gorilla. He picked her up gently and set her back inside the truck. “You’re more than fine. Maybe you and me can get together some time for a banana daiquiri.”

  Miss Ethyl was the stuffiest, most serious woman I’d ever met, but she was no fool. She smiled coyly at him and winked. “I’ll be around for a few days,” she said. “You come find me, big boy.”

  “You bet I will,” said the gorilla.

  The gorilla returned his attention to me. “One last formality.”

  He ducked back into his Guard House. He came out carrying a tiny wiggling Toon puppy and handed the pup to me.

  The puppy snuggled against my chest, reached his little head up, and licked my chin.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A puppy,” responded the gorilla, missing my meaning the way Toons always do. “In every group what comes to Toontown, the sourest puss gets a puppy. Puppies are fun!”

  “What am I supposed to do with a puppy?”

  “Enjoy,” said the gorilla. “Let the puppy’s contagious mirth make you happy.”

  The puppy’s idea of making me happy was to pee on my leg.

  The gorilla broke into a huge grin that exposed a row of yellow teeth the size of house shingles.

  “That’s that, friends, the end of bureaucracy. Welcome to Toontown!” The gorilla opened the gate and motioned us forward. “Come on in and have some fun!”

  Chapter Three

  “You worthless mutt. Calm down,” I commanded my new puppy. Mutt. Perfect name for him. I knew a mutt when I saw one. I should. I see one every morning when I look in my bathroom mirror.

  Mutt was brown and tan with black circles around both eyes, like he’d taken a couple of hard pops to the puss from a boxer. He had the outsized nose of the sniffer dog Southern wardens use to track down escaped convicts. His fur was bristly and stubble-short like a terrier’s, except around his jaws where random patches sprouted out twice that long. Same way my beard looked after a shaky shave following a weekend bender. One ear pointed up, one pointed down. His tail looked like a spineless ice pick.

  Mutt was squirming around in my lap, shivering. A young Toon like this one still had an immature pitoonitary gland, that place from where word balloons emanated. He couldn’t form balloons. He could only make sounds. Right now, he was whimpering. If he got this scared speeding along at next to no miles an hour, he would die of a heart attack long before he hit the water when I pitched him off the first high bridge we crossed over.

  Mutt started barking. Yap, yap, yap. On and on. No matter how much I yelled at him, I couldn’t shut him up. If that was his way of endearing himself, he ought to have tried a quieter approach, like rolling over and playing dead.

  I got no use for puppies. Sure, they’re cute little buggers. Then they grow up. They become snarly, smelly, messy, ungrateful, and unpredictable. I feel the same way about kids. Got no use for them either for pretty much the same reasons, but that’s another topic.

  I decided not to wait for a bridge. As soon as we were out of sight of the customs house, I dumped the pup in a gutter.

  I gotta give him one thing. The tiny guy was a gamer. Mutt ran after me, yapping his little head off.

  We were going so slow, Mutt had no problem keeping up.

  Since we couldn’t outrun him, I figured I’d keep him until we went over that bridge I was planning to toss him off originally.

  I reached down, picked Mutt up by the scruff of his neck, and dropped him into one of Cooper’s leather-fringed saddlebags.

  The pup made an ungodly ruckus when I closed the flap. The only way to shut him up was to open the flap and let him breathe.

  Mutt spent the rest of the trip standing on his hind legs inside the bag, his paws on the bag’s lip. He faced straight into the wind, his little pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, his droopy ears flapping. He looked like he would have been happy staying right there, doing exactly what he was doing, for the rest of his doggy life.

  Wish life was that simple for me.

  We parted ways with Reggie. He drove to the hotel with our stuff.

  The rest of Sands’s Traveling Circus pulled up outside the intersection of Snigger and Snicker Streets.

  According to Roger Rabbit’s Gossipy Guidebook, the rabbit lived here. If so, his house was invisible. The address he listed was a weed-filled vacant lot.

  Sands climbed off his platform. “Are we at the right place?” He walked to the front of the truck. “Ethyl, are you sure we’re at the right place?”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Sands,” Ethyl told him. “This is where he lives.”

  “There is no house here,” Sands said in the same patronizing tone of voice you would use to tell a toddler there was no monster hiding underneath his bed.

  “Yes sir, no house.” She got out of the truck. She stood on the sidewalk, staring at the vacant lot, as though by sheer force of will she could make the house appear.

  “You must have made a mistake,” said Sands. “This is the wrong address.”

  “No, sir. No chance of that.”

  From my limited experience with Miss Ethyl, I would agree. No way did she bring us to the wrong place.

  I rechecked the rabbit’s map. We stood smack in front of the lot where he had drawn a big red X and written “This is where I live!”

  Maybe his house had fallen down. Toon houses do that sometimes just for the perverse pleasure of it. Maybe a mischievous Toon tornado carried his house off. Like what happened in that Wizard of Oz movie. Maybe the same tornado that carried Dorothy off to Munchkinland took Roger Rabbit to kingdom come.

  I should be so lucky.

  I wasn’t.

  A word balloon popped up out of a foot wide hole in the ground. “Welcome to my humble abode!” the balloon said in the slap happy lettering style you get out of a Toon that’s been slapped happy.

  Maybe, just maybe, that balloon wasn’t the rabbit’s. Maybe the balloon popped out of some other Toon living in a hole in the ground. Some Toon with an ounce of sense to him. Some Toon that wouldn’t drive me nuts.

  Nope.

  The next balloon sealed the deal. “I’m so p-p-p-pleased to see you!” I knew only one Toon who slobbered his P’s. Roger Rabbit was down there.

  Roger popped out of the hole. I mean literally. He popped out of the hole like he was the cork in bottle of overly-bubbled champagne. He flew about ten feet into the air. He landed on the sidewalk, planted his feet, spread open his arms and put up a balloon that spelled out “Ta da!” in the kind of bright light bulbs they use on movie marquees. Roger Rabbit knew how to make an entrance.

  Sands’s grin resembled a quarter moon with teeth. He was filming the rabbit’s every move. “Love, love, love what you’re doing here,” he said. “Roger Rabbit rocketing into action.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mister Sands,” said Roger. “That’s a swell compliment coming from a big deal movie maker like you.”

  Roger was either greasing Sands good, or he hadn’t done his homework. I’d checked Sands’s background. The biggest deal he’d ever swung was a two-for-one deal for burgers at the Steak and Shake on Melrose.

  “Mister Sands,” said Roger in one of the almost transparent balloons that Toons use when they whisper, “your underwear’s peeking out.”

  His skivvies were more than peeking. They were on full display. Sands’s unbelted pants had fallen around his ankles, exposing his white boxers and the black garters he used to hold up his knee socks.

  “Ethyl,” shouted Sands. “
A little help here!”

  Miss Ethyl took a look at the situation, instantly sized up the problem, and formulated a workable solution. She rummaged through the truck’s tool box. She pulled out a set of jumper cables. She used them to formulate a crude pair of suspenders. They worked but looked ridiculous.

  Which was what the gorilla had intended when he’d confiscated Sands’s belt.

  “Those are really slick suspenders,” said Roger, admiring Miss Ethyl’s handiwork. “Very stylish here in Toontown.”

  “Glad I’m fitting in,” said Sands. His scowl told me he wasn’t enjoying this project nearly as much as he thought he was going to. Sands pointed at me. “You know Eddie Valiant.”

  “I sure do,” said Roger. “We’re like brothers, Eddie and me. Or maybe half brothers. Or maybe second cousins once removed, or maybe—”

  “Yeah, Roger,” I said, stumping on his family tree. “We get the picture.”

  Roger came towards me, his lips extended and puckered. Toons are always kissing. Why can’t they shake hands like normal people?

  Oh, wait. I forgot. Because they’re not normal or people.

  I held up my hands in front of my face. He wound up planting his big wet one on my left palm. “I told you the last time I saw you. No more kissing.”

  “Sure, Eddie, sorry.” said the Rabbit. “I’m just so happy to see you that I forgot.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t happy to see you.”

  The rabbit physically deflated the way a soufflé does when given a cold shoulder from an oven. “Gee, Eddie. I thought we was friends. I thought that’s why you took this job. So you and me could spend more time together.”

  I had to set this rabbit straight, and quick, or my time in Toontown would be even worse than I was expecting. “You thought wrong. I took the job in spite of you, not because of you.”

  Roger lost another gallon of oomph. He got so saggy he almost turned into a soggy white, orange, red, blue, and yellow heap of heartache. That was when Sands said the magic words that pumped him back up.

  “Roger, I’d like you to meet Gary Cooper.”

  Roger instantly turned back into the spritely, lively, giddy rabbit everybody knows and everybody but me loves.

  “Mister Cooper, what an honor.” Roger bowed at the waist the way you would kowtow to the King of Siam. “I am so happy to meet you.”

  Roger straightened up. He should have stopped there. Except Toons always take everything to the extreme, do everything to excess.

  Roger ran through his complete repertoire of greetings. He put his hands in a prayer position in front of his mouth and bowed his head. He raised his arm and waved. He put one hand on his scrawny chest over his heart and lobbed it up and down to mimic the beating of his heart. He cocked his elbow into a right angle, moved his hand to head level, and held it palm out like an Indian saying “Howdy!” to John Wayne. He dropped his hand, grabbed Cooper’s and shook. He leaned forward and kissed Cooper on both cheeks. He rubbed his nose against Cooper’s. He stuck out his butt. He couldn’t bump his rear end against Cooper’s since Cooper was sitting on the motorcycle. He settled for butt-bumping Cooper’s leg. He held one thumb up. He made an okay circle with his thumb and forefinger. He finished off with two salutes, the first one boy scout style, the second one military. There might have been a few greetings from a few countries in the remotest reaches of civilization that Roger didn’t cover. I’ll be darned if I knew what they were.

  Cooper silently and impassively watched Roger go through his entire ritual. Then Cooper nodded his head a quarter of an inch. “Same.”

  “I’m your biggest fan,” proclaimed Roger. “I’ve seen all your movies. I loved you in Arsenic and Old Lace and The Philadelphia Story.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Cary Grant.”

  “Oh,” said Roger. “Destry Rides Again? Mr. Smith Goes To Washington?”

  “Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Mutiny on the Bounty? It Happened One Night?”

  “Clark Gable.”

  At this rate, we would be here all day. I was standing behind Cooper where he couldn’t see me. I waved at Roger. I pantomimed ringing a little bell.

  Roger looked at me. A light bulb went on over his head. “He was in a movie called Dingaling?”

  I shook my head. I mimed ringing the bell in a church steeple, pulling the rope down, letting the rope go back up.

  Roger still didn’t get my hint. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I have no idea for whom the bell tolls.”

  “Yup, me,” said Cooper.

  “Huh?” said Roger.

  “Great,” I said. “We got that straightened out.”

  “We did?” said the rabbit.

  I nodded.

  “You wanna come inside?” asked Roger, pointing to the hole in the ground. “I’m sub-leasing from Bugs Bunny. He hit cashed in big and moved into a really deep hole on the Warner Bros. lot. Lucky rabbit.”

  He hopped over and pointed at his home-sweet-hole-in-the-ground.

  “You wanna come inside?” asked Roger, pointing to the hole in the ground. “I’m sub-leasing from Bugs Bunny. He cashed in big and moved into a really deep hole on the Warner Bros. lot. Lucky rabbit.”

  Sands turned off his camera. He wanted a documentary, not a horror movie. “So Roger,” he said. “How about giving us a tour around Toontown? Show us some of the scene locations we talked about.”

  Okay, you bet,” Roger said cheerily. “I wish I had a copy of my Gossipy Guide To Toontown. That would be ideal for mapping our route. I only had one copy, though, and the book store sold that one. I’ll have to make another one. If you want to wait, making another copy will only take me a day or two. You can come in and keep me company while I work.”

  I reached into my coat and pulled out his book. “You mean this?”

  He took the book. “Aw, Eddie. Jeez. You were the one who bought my book! Golly, thanks. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

  He leaned forward, lips puckered, ready to plant a big wet one on my cheek. I backed away. “What did I tell you? No kissing. Never. Not ever.”

  “Sure, Eddie. I remember. I get carried away.”

  “How about carrying us away from here?” I said. “Let’s get this tour on the road.”

  The sooner we started, the quicker we ended and I could get back to civilization where every conversation didn’t start with knock knock and end with a punch line.

  Roger rummaged around in his overall pockets. He pulled out a sheet of paper. “I got your list of shooting locations,” he asked Sands. “Where do you want to start?”

  While Sands and Roger plotted our route, I figured I could take care of some personal business. I would dump the puppy down Roger’s hole. Let the rabbit deal with the dog.

  I looked into the saddlebag. The puppy was curled up at the bottom, sound asleep. He was making little whimpering noises. His tiny legs were moving forward and back, like he was running through that big meadow that stretches from one end of Dreamland to the other.

  I’m as hardboiled as a ten minute egg. I got no soft spots left in me. They’ve all been washed out over the years by too much booze and too many disappointments. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw a puppy down a rabbit hole.

  Maybe Toontown had a dog pound. Mutt would sleep sounder in a wire mesh cage than in the bottom of a saddlebag.

  “Okay, that’s that.” Roger opened his Guidebook. He unfolded a page. He unfolded that page again. Again. And again. Until he had a page roughly the size of an elephant’s bedspread.

  “We’ll start with the Toontown Trolley.”

  The completely unfolded page was a Toontown Trolley route map. The route might have been laid out by a three year-old in his first year of scrawl school. Trolley tracks circled around, back, forth, around aga
in, crossed over themselves and over themselves again. I’ve seen fewer twists and turns on a roller coaster.

  “Now I know why Toons have dizzy natures. Too many years of riding this Trolley,” I said.

  “You’re quite the kidder, Eddie,” said Roger. “You always make me laugh. He started to climb on the motorcycle behind me. “Let’s get going. The nearest stop’s three blocks away.”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “No room. You ride up in the truck.”

  “I love riding motorcycles. Can’t I ride with you? P-p-p-please, p-p-p-please?”

  I jerked a thumb toward the truck.

  “Aw, okay. I’ll get my own ride.”

  Roger disappeared down his rabbit hole.

  A couple of minutes passed. Then a large, square section of the vacant lawn hinged up out of the ground.

  From deep underground, I heard the throaty roar of a powerful engine.

  Roger Rabbit came sailing out of the opening. He was going so fast he went airborne.

  He was riding a red, white and blue motorcycle that resembled a mammoth Harley. Except Harley never made a motorcycle with an eyeball for a headlight. Or a motorcycle that could talk.

  This motorcycle came off the same assembly line that gave the world Benny the Cab.

  Roger wore an outfit identical to Cooper’s. Same black leather jacket, same mushroom-shaped cap. “Meet my friend Charlie Cycle,” said Roger introducing us to his ride.

  “How you doin’, pukes?’ said Charlie in the skinny, vertical word balloon felons used to send messages through the bars of their jail cells. “Waddya say we burn some rubbers? And I’m talking tires, not the kind you slip over your exhaust pipes. Follow me. If you can.”