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“Huey! That’s your true strength! You have that hiding inside you?”
“You can’t ignore the parts of yourself you don’t like...even the parts you’re afraid of. You gotta own them.”
Huey could not find the words (and was ashamed to even try) that had the ability to express the relief that came with releasing the Duke of Making a Mess. And sure, even though Lena was a good friend of his, and he trusted her, and he found her insanely cool, Huey just couldn’t shake the idea that she didn’t truly understand. But then he couldn’t understand why she couldn’t understand. Like, come on. She was Magica de Spell’s shadow. She had this whole character development arc about finding your strengths amidst your weaknesses.
But still…
It made him burn, the lack of understanding.
So he turned to his most trusted source of information: the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook.
Surprisingly, there’s nothing in the JWG that discusses destructive anger. Nothing. Huey had even snuck into several bookstores and pored over the indexes of the newer editions, but the closest he ever got was:
So he decided to go to the expert on anger. He shuddered as he left the market and headed back to McDuck Manor. He did not notice how he had began flapping his wings and had not stopped doing so at the checkout counter, down the street, or on the bus, and the intensity of the fluttering increased when he finally made it down the shabby gangplank and into the worn houseboat.
His uncle happened to be in a fit of rage at that exact moment. Huey couldn’t tell the root of it, but he saw how in a pool of broken glass, Donald sighed shakily and gripped the countertop to avoid losing his balance in a bout of exhaustion. Huey could practically see his heart furiously inflating and deflating in his chest, trying to redirect the blood in his sunken cheeks and balled-up fists to the rest of his body. His uncle muttered something, and Huey couldn’t make out if he said “I hate my life” or “There’s so much strife.”
Huey decided that both were appropriate answers.
“Um, Uncle Donald? Can I talk to you?”
Donald nodded his head, steeling himself. His kid needed him. Now was not the time for —
“Let’s go out on deck,” he agreed, eyeballing his nephew’s hands. He felt his chest warm. What (or who) had his nephew so wound up? He cleared his throat as he patted one of the deck chairs. Whenever baby Huey was upset, whether it was from exhaustion or stomach cramps, Donald took him out to the platform. The coolness of salty sea spray and the scent of seaweed had always managed to calm the duckling down, and it was working a bit of its magic right now, despite everything being replaced with chlorine and eucalyptus. “What’s up, kiddo?”
Huey counted to three thrice, trying to get control of his breathing. Why was he so nervous? This was his uncle Donald! He could talk to him about anything. Especially this.
“I promise not to lose my temper, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Actually...it is about temper. And losing it, I mean.” He detailed his last adventure with Uncle Scrooge and his siblings and his friends, and watched as Donald’s frown deepened. Huey’s voice died, and the boy suddenly had a strange interest in a small fray in his chair.
Donald sighed and reached over to brush some of his nephew’s feathers out of his eyes. In the history of his entire lineage, Donald had never heard of a Duck or a McDuck containing their violent temper without suffering from an aneurysm. “How long were you holding all of that in? And why?”
“What do you mean, I haven’t been approved? I’ve set up several of my properties in Hollywood as collateral. Okay, fine, I know most of them have been destroyed, but that wasn’t my fault!”
Huey stepped away from his brothers, momentarily forgetting their fuss over who should be the pilot and who should be the co-pilot today. He peeked his head around the corner and watched as Unca Donald’s face turned a funny color. Kinda like the berries Louie likes in his oatmeal.
Unca Donald seemed like he was cold, because he was shaking. He pulled the tellyphone away from his ear and Huey could barely make out the lady on the other side.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m having a hard time understanding you. Perhaps we can reschedule this phone call for another time?”
Huey anxiously gripped the book he was using as a tray for his steward assignment. He never liked when his unca started growling like this; it scared him. Before he knew it, the older duck had launched the phone right through the ship’s hull with a very audible CRACK. Dewey and Louie's bickering fell silent.
“I don’t think I wanna play anymore.”
“Me neither.”
Suddenly Huey felt tugs on the hem of his shirt, and his brothers’ frightened warmth enveloped him. He gently wrapped his wings around the both of them.
“For a while,” Huey admitted softly. How old was he then? Maybe four? Five?
Huey rubbed the sleep out of his eyes to allow room for the pale moonlight. His lips smacked together dryly in desperate need of water. He quietly untangled himself from Louie’s grip and crawled over Dewey in order to make his journey to the kitchen.
“Ouch! Why you no good --”
Huey scrambled to the edge of their small living room, hiding behind the couch to avoid the infliction of punishment. It turned out Donald didn’t even notice him, and was talking to the wall. From the gaps in between his fingers, the duckling watched as his uncle picked up Dewey’s loose baseball bat (he had told his brother to make sure to return his toys to the chest) and smashed it against the wall. The bat shattered, and its splinters drifted to the floor with pieces of drywall.
“Aw, phooey…not again.”
His uncle’s tears of frustration were enough to quench his thirst, and he went back to bed.
"And well...I’ve seen how badly it can affect your life, so I decided to...to lock it away.”
Donald watched as his nephew removed his precious cap and started wringing it nervously. He smashed his hands down his face, remembering what Huey had been remembering.
Donald felt the inflation of a hot air balloon pressing against his sternum, and his eye twitched. Sure he loved his nephews, more than anything in the world, but why couldn’t these palookas understand that they couldn’t just throw their food on the floor? Why couldn’t they understand that he’d been unable to sleep for weeks, since he had to work extra hours to get this food? Why couldn’t they understand that he’s been going through it for a year, all by himself, for this food?
“Duck. You have to pay attention to the signs. How do you feel when you start getting angry?”
“Angry.”
“No, no, no. Some of my clients report feeling a headache coming on. Others get an upset stomach.”
PLINK.
Donald ground his teeth as he slowly reached up to wipe the smushed peas from his eye.
“I get hot. Very, very hot.”
“Listen, Dewford,” Donald smiled sweetly, trying to picture how the marina had probably frozen over last night. “Food is...it goes in your mouth, okay?” He took the small ladle and spooned some of the vegetables into the duckling’s mouth, and the grin was returned to him. “That’s it! Great job, Dewey.”
Baby Louie was not pleased by the lack of attention. He slammed his fists on his tray, sending his bowl flying in the air. The carrots made a sickening plop as they smacked onto the tiled floor of the kitchen, and that made Huey uncomfortable. He began to wail, terrified, and Dewey decided to cheer him up by dumping his bowl on his uncle. Or, more specifically, the sweater his uncle had been gifted by his dead twin.
“I can’t believe — why would — you no-good —!“
The garment was suddenly unnecessary. Donald felt himself sweating bullets as his vision blurred. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened, or how much time had passed, but for some reason he was surrounded by the glass of Louie’s favorite bottle and three shrieking babes.
“Okay, heat. Whatever’s the source of it, redirect it. You want to channel that destruction into protection.”
Too late.
How would he be able to protect his nephews from himself?
“But now, lately, I’ve been able to see how it’s great to be like this. Uncle Scrooge even said it was my inner strength, so it has to be good. Right, Uncle Donald?”
Jones’s voice was long gone at this point in time; Donald simply did not have enough time to attend his anger management lessons, and his money was better spent on a project that had recently been assigned to Louie. They stayed up late nights together, with Louie waiting for his uncle to come home from work to assist him on the diorama. After a week’s worth of hard labor, the finch’s ecosystem was finally finished.
“Alright, boys! My shift starts again late tonight so I’ll be able to take you to school today. Grab your lunches, make sure you have your homework…”
Donald stood in the doorway of their houseboat and ushered his nephews onto the marina, pecking a kiss on each forehead that passed by. Finally! Even though he probably wouldn’t make it home in time to tell the boys good night, at least he’d be able to wish them a nice day at school.
Almost comically, inky clouds soared into a huddle and started pouring their souls all over Duckburg.
“Oh, no! My ecosystem! The one time I actually put hard work into something…!”
The sky. Why was it always the sky? First it takes his sister, his uncle too, and now they couldn’t even have a stupid model?
“Not to worry, little bro! It’s a really easy fix. I can dew it. Uh, Uncle Donald! Really! You don’t have to —“
The three of them watched in horror as their uncle snatched the ruined project out of Louie’s hands and slammed it into the mud.
Donald was unable to see the turmoil in his nephews’ eyes as he continued shouting unintelligible curses at the heavens.
“I...I don’t really know, Huey — oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely proud of you. So’s Uncle Scrooge, and the rest of the family. You’re an invaluable member, Hubert. ALL of you...even the parts you hide.”
Donald’s dreamless nap was interrupted by murderous yelling. He rolled out of his hammock and rushed into the living room. “What is going on in —“
“I said no! The tables are supposed to be over here, and the lobsters over there!” Huey spewed. It’s too dumb to have the tank OUTSIDE of the restaurant. What if they had a lobster emergency?
Dewey simply shook his head and rearranged the dolls and the action figures the way he thought best. Huey shoved Chef Louie to the ground in order to scream in his other brother’s face.
“Look boys, I’m sure we can all work something out.”
“Yes! We can work the RIGHT way out!”
Donald crossed his arms and tapped his feet impatiently. “Now Hubert, you know that’s not how compromise works…”
“I DON’T WANT COMPROMISE! I WANT CORRECTNESS! IT HAS TO BE JUST RIGHT!”
“Chill, bro. It’s just a game.”
How could Dewey say that? Minimize his feelings like that? And if he didn’t care so much, then what was the issue with doing it his way, the right way?
Huey lunged.
“No!”
His nephew’s arms continued to windmill in that familiar way, and a strange but warm noise erupted from his beak. Donald paused, the realization smacking him harder than a ton of bricks, and he wasn’t able to restrain Huey before the kid knocked a fist into Dewey’s eye and the other on his beak.
He didn’t have the heart to send Huey to his room, but with one look at his brother’s purpling face and his uncle’s leaking bill, the duckling punished himself on his own accord.
“But...I’m not sure if I can help you with this one. I...I need help myself.” He hadn’t realized that it was more than just his genes that contributed to his nephew’s anger. He’s been exposing the boys to his ugly temper for years. And now one of them was afraid of showing just a bit of annoyance at common irritant. How else had he ruined them? Were they afraid of him? He’d never hit them, and he never will. But did they think he was some kind of monster?
Why would Scrooge refer to this as a strength?
“No. We’ve both tried the alone thing, and it’s not working out. Maybe we should do something else.”
Donald hummed dejectedly. “The Duke of Making a Mess, you said?”
“Yeah. What do you call yours?”
“He — mine —” Donald swallowed. “It doesn’t have a fancy title. It’s...I call it the ‘black rage.’”
Huey thought about that for a moment. He supposed his anger made him feel black as well. Made him feel dirty. Empty. Like it swallows everything that it comes in contact with and leaves a void of nothingness.
“Uncle Donald?”
Donald nodded to show that he was listening, but kept his eyes on that fray.
“Do you ever...do you ever hate yourself?”
Huey felt himself being smashed as his uncle quickly gathered him into a tight hug.
“Listen...you were right earlier. This solo stuff isn’t working out. I can show you how to be better at letting it out, and you’ll help me with holding some of it in. To control it healthily, we’ll work together.”