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“So yes, yes, sometimes our cartoon products do explode,” Boomed Foghorn’s voice as he stood in front of the jury and the entirety of Congress. His arms splayed out wide to make a point.
“Sometimes “they do backfire, sometimes they do push the boundaries of gravity and science! But do you all wanna live in a world without new? Without progress? Now, what is it you always say, Mr. Crane?” The rooster turned to Buddy, watching a sly smile appear on his face as he sat straight in his seat. Foghorn took heavy steps back to his seat, sitting beside his attorney.
“Well, you know what they say Mr. Leghorn, can't make an omelette without—” he began, watching Foghorn’s face downturn into a brief scowl.
“Breaking a few eggs…”
A brief silence followed, before Foghorn let out a belly laugh, smacking the back of Buddy’s back.
“Well I say, that's right!” He laughed, and Buddy relaxed, chuckling as well, turning his attention to the plaintiff’s.
“And if this egg happens to be some lowlife, cave-dwelling desert dog with no connections, no family, no friends— I'm sorry, but so be it! No harm, no fowl!”
Wiley growled, a low rumble in his chest as he felt Kevin give him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, but the coyote swatted him off. He pulled out an empty sign from behind himself, scribbling on it.
“BREAK.” He wrote, tapping the sign frantically with a claw. Wiley looked pissed, damn near ready to start blowing steam out of his ears. (A little already began to emerge)
“Senator Fudd, my client would like to request a brief recess-” Kevin quickly said, and Elmer Fudd sighed, waving his hand.
“Alwight Mister Avwey, I'll allow it. Fifteen minutes, we'll call for a wecess.” Elmer sighed. Chatter erupted in the courtoom, and Wiley was quick to stand, pushing his chair out and storming out of the courtoom. Kevin sighed, putting his hands in his head, figuring he'd let the coyote blow off steam.
Buddy let out a laugh watching the cartoon stomp out of the court room, crossing his arms as he pointed a thumb behind himself.
“Glad you're not like that, Mr. Leghorn. You're a sensible toon, at the very least.”
Foghorn’s smile faltered just a tad. Barely noticeable. He stood slowly with a gun in agreement, stepping out past the table.
“I say you've a perceptive eye, son. Don't mind, I say, mind me at all now, I just have ta’ powder my beak is all.” He chuckled, giving a firmer pat down on the attorney's shoulder that practically said watch your words. Buddy swallowed, keeping his head down as Foghorn walked out of the courtroom.
Wiley leaned over the sink in the empty bathroom, watching water run down the sink from the faucet. His hands clenched into weak fists, breathing in and out quickly through his nose. He couldn't get mad, couldn't storm out again like he did to Kevin the night before, and certainly couldn't dig around for an ACME themed piece of TNT to set alight underneath Buddy and Foghorn’s seats. He promised no more violence until they were done.
He just wanted to catch that bird. He knew he could eat other things, hell, even convert to veganism, but he'd rather drop dead from those faulty products first. Of course, with that logic, why bother continuing with the case? Was it a sense of justice? Self fulfillment? Just wanting to help his new friend?
His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. Wiley didn't look up, kept his head low, knowing who it was.
“Runnin’ off already? I didn't think I was that scary.” Foghorn laughed, letting the bathroom door quietly swing closed behind him. He stepped up beside the coyote, turning to face him, leaning against the sink.
“Ya know, son—” the rooster began, before Wiley suddenly held up a sign.
“Don't.” It read.
The rooster didn't scoff, bark back in anger, or even leave, just stood there, that smile on his beak widening just a little.
“No need to catch an attitude with me now, son. Even if that’s the only thing you seem to be, I say, catchin’ as of late.” He hummed, turning to face the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
Wiley blinked, head slowly turning to look at Foghorn, eyebrows furrowing into a deep scowl as he tried to keep his hands from balling into fists that’d swing right for the end of that rooster’s beak—
Wiley grunted, pulling out one of his older signs, tossing it on the sink beside Foghorn, obnoxiously pointing at it.
“ACME SUCKS!” It read.
Foghorn didn’t quite know why that made his composure waver, but it did. It was just so- blunt. So obvious what this coyote’s statement was in turn to all of this mess, of the past months of attending meetings over one toon taking the multimillion dollar corporation to court over user error.
The rooster’s eye twitched, and that smile began to fade. He suddenly pushed the sign off the edge of the counter, hearing it smack against the bathroom tile.
“Now see here, son,” Foghorn growled, as his eyes narrowed. He loomed over the coyote, taking a thud of a heavy step close to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest.
“You can sit here and whine an’ groan about our products failin’ as much as you want, but they’ll never, ever believe you. You’ve failed more times than our devices have, fallen apart far more often than any, I say, any contraption of our’s we’ve created. All for what?” He hissed, and Wiley’s ears pinned back, nose scrunching angrily. He reached behind himself, pulling out an empty sign to angrily scribble on with an ACME labeled marker, (where else can you even get them at this point?) Foghorn suddenly reached forward and plucked the half written sign out of his paws, tossing it behind him.
“For that bird?” Foghorn threw his hands up after tossing aside the sign, and Wiley seemed to just freeze in place. Those big yellow eyes widening a little, pupils darting around slightly before settling on the floor like a scolded puppy. Foghorn dropped his arms, a flicker of something closely akin to empathy flashing across his face, before settling into something cold.
“For that bird that you ain’t, I say, ever gonna catch?” He said, and the coyote simply stayed quiet. The rooster crossed his arms, before sighing in annoyance, reaching out and settling a heavy hand on the scrawny toon’s shoulder.
“I hate ta burst your bubble, but it’s true. That bird will always outrun ya, no matter what you try. The least ACME can offer in turn, is some sort of compensation for your– well,” He began, sifting around in his pocket for a thin envelope. He set it down on the countertop, sliding it over to Wiley.
“Pain and, I say, suffering that may have fallen under the usage of our products.”
Wiley stared at the envelope for a moment, blinking. He hesitated, before grabbing it, a claw unsheathing from his finger as he slid it underneath the glue, opening it up and pulling out a settlement statement, and a check with an obscenely large number of dollars on it.
“You definitely, I say, put up a good fight here. But it seems it’s gone on far longer than ACME and it’s associates have wanted it to go on. You can walk off from here with that, and ya don’t gotta utter a word in that courtroom. Well- not like you ever did to begin with.” The rooster chortled, crossing his arms.
Wiley just stared at the check. A million dollars. That was a little over half of what he’d spent on ACME products, with additional interest nearly. Getting that all back could get him more than the Road Runner, more than the dingy cave he’d grown to sleep comfortably in, to look out over the distant horizons, watching the dust being kicked up by that bird racing around, waiting to be chased. To be caught.
But it still wasn’t what he wanted.
Wiley swallowed, but simply shook his head. He, surprisingly, gently folded the check back up alongside the settlement back into the envelope, handing it out towards Foghorn with two hands, that angry look on his face melting into something just— sad.
Before Foghorn could object, Wiley suddenly pushed it into his hands, grabbing another blank sign from behind himself, writing on it with that marker.
“You are supposed to be with us.” It read.
Foghorn paused, blinking. That charming, aloof exterior he held seemed to crack a little under pressure.
“I say, son, I say, you’ve made your point–”
Wiley suddenly flipped the sign over, writing on it again a little more quickly, holding it up to the other. Foghorn stepped back, shaking his head, ready to turn on his heel to leave, but he couldn’t look away from the frantic look on Wiley’s face.
“You’re not like them!” It read, and the coyote aggressively tapped the sign, pointing to Foghorn after.
“If one of us isn’t standing beside them, none, I say, none of them will stand beside us!” The rooster suddenly boomed, throwing an arm out in emphasis.
“If we’ve gotta live amongst them and, I say, co-exist as they call it, they can’t treat us like we’re nothin’ more than colored-in-between-the-lined-drawings and comedy for their enter–I say–tainment when someone steps up to work with them! When we weren’t before, that’s all we were ta’ them!” Foghorn hissed, reaching forwards and grabbing Wiley by the shoulders, spinning him around to face the mirror, pointing at their reflections.
“Existing to be laughed at, to be, I say, scrutinized, kicked down and seen as nothin’ more than a less-than-functioning member of society cuz we ain’t three-dimensional! Just–” His angry words fizzled out into silence, the grip on Wiley’s shoulders loosening into nothing more than resting the moment the rooster registered the toon beneath him tensed up and froze.
“Just–... Look at us.” Foghorn swallowed, eyebrows crooking up as he glanced down for a moment, beak pressed into a wobbly line as that gaze began to harden once more.
“They ain’t takin’ us seriously anytime soon when we look like this. When we've taken a step up in power, through money, or whatever means necessary, then they listen. I think about all the friends I had when Project Sisyphus began. Now the whole lot o’ them are either in the looney bin, or workin’ with us.” The rooster’s voice quieted, growing an edge once more.
Wiley frowned. He knew. There was a time where everyone knew each other. Where they were friends. Maybe more so than others. He thought about his Roadie for a moment, wondering where he’d be if he hadn’t kept chasing. Sure, he was hungry for the bird, but part of him wondered why he kept going. It wasn’t even to catch him anymore.
The coyote carefully pulled out another sign, slowly writing on it. He felt Foghorn’s hands lift from his shoulders, and step back a pace.
“There is still time to make it right.” One side read. Foghorn just stared at it for a moment, eyes narrowing. Losing power meant gaining trust. Losing trust meant gaining power where it mattered right now. Right now. The rooster tutted, shaking his head as a slight laugh left his throat, though it sounded less mocking than earlier.
“Your hopes are, I say, are higher than the sky above our heads.” He huffed, but the thought crossed his mind briefly. Foghorn grew to be the kind of toon that didn’t think, he just went and did it. That’s how he ended up here, really. But that stupid, hopeful, determined look on the others face below him made his heart twist in a way it hadn’t done in years.
Wiley gave a stern look to the rooster, turning over his shoulder to look him straight in the eye instead of through the mirror, facing the sign towards him and tapping it with a claw once more. As soon as he did, he flipped it over, scribbling onto it.
“It’s more worth it than the money.” He wrote down, just holding it up for a good long while. Foghorn knew he was right, and he also knew he wasn’t willing to throw it all away just yet.
Foghorn just looked at him, reverence brimming beneath his feathers for a fraction of a moment. The rooster was more prideful than sin, yet he felt respect towards someone else's sheer audacity for once. Rather than berate or swing a comically large mallet he’d pull out of hammerspace towards the coyote, he really just thought. Maybe it would be worth it. Maybe those few words Wiley said– well, wrote for him meant more than either of them realized in the grand scheme of things.
The rooster stared down at him for a moment, silent.
“I remember when ya used to talk.”
Wiley’s brow furrowed.
“Ya used to talk to me sometimes. I remember when Barnyard Dawg caught ya in the hens coop when I was off patrol, I say, I ain’t ever seen him try to beat the hell outta a predator faster than he tried with you. Yet you were just too quick. Then you came back the next day with a basket full enough to classify fer a house-warming gift, I say.” He laughed, shaking his head at the memory. Wiley vaguely remembered too.
There was a time he grew desperate enough to venture outside of the desert plains, till prey doubled after chilly evenings in winter. During those months, he’d scour farms outside the borders of Albuquerque, and caught himself wandering onto that property. And yes, he did in fact come back with a nicely wrapped basket of goodies for the rooster and the dog. That definitely got a laugh out of the old rooster, who found it charming more than anything.
“Then after that, I say, you came back a few more times. Talked ta’ me on the farmers porch, sharin’ a glass of whiskey neat on hot nights. You sure were somethin’. Now you just don’t talk anymore. All ya do is chase that bird.” Foghorn sighed, shaking his head. Wiley seemed to shrink in on himself a little, unable to respond.
How could he forget? Nights where the rooster made him nearly forget about the Road Runner for just a fraction of a moment. Warm summer nights, crickets singing their hymns under the porch while they laughed about the little things. It nearly made Wiley reconsider everything leading up to that moment.
“If I do this,” The rooster suddenly said, making Wiley look up at him again, snapping him free from his thoughts.
“Are ya gonna start doin’ more than chasing him? Gonna go back to bein’ that, I say, super genius?” He suddenly asked, and Wiley blinked. He hadn’t realized how long it’d truly been since he’d embraced his plans without the help of ACME’s products. Wait- if Foghorn would actually give in? Let up? Tell the truth and do more for Wiley than just fill his belly with the promise of a bird?
“If I could tell you all I had to say besides I’ll try, I would, but,” He flipped up a sign, before turning it over.
“It’s a limited number of signs.” The coyote smiled a little, shrugging. Not a yes, nor a no, but a step.
Foghorn signed, shaking his head.
“I suppose I’ll have to trust ya then.” He held out a hand for a shake with the coyote, and Wiley returned it with a firm grip and a confident smile.
“Don’t make me regret, I say, regret this, Wiley.”