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Chapter Text

“Porky!”

As he had promised over a breathless telephone call, Porky stumbled off the aluminum bus and into the crowd swarming the depot. The bags pillowing his eyes were heavier than the bags he juggled in his hands, whose clumsy situating prompted him to stumble uneasily over his hooves. Maintaining his balance was a struggle.

With a pang of amusement, Petunia knew right away that he was wearing his Sunday best. It wasn’t glamorous by any means: a tan pea coat and gray fedora, a green bow-tie poking out from his coat. Yet, considering she was so accustomed to seeing him only in a dusty pair of overalls, she could only imagine the histrionics he went through trying to dress “Hollywood style”.

Regardless, he seemed rough around the edges, jerking his head around and scanning for Petunia in the crowd with tired eyes. His clothes were wrinkled and slightly dirty, and the contents of his suitcases were beginning to spill out from its slightly open cracks. Odd for such a neat fellow as himself.

“Porky!” Petunia called for him again, waving her hand. “Here I am!”

After a moment, Porky finally settled an unsteady gaze on the source of the shouts. Instead of greeting her with a smile, he languished with relief, his eyes rolling up and his shoulders sagging before shoving his way through his fellow departees on the bus.

Petunia threw her arms around her companion. She was met with a handful of awkward, strained pats on the back; Porky was never much of a hugger.

Bigger issues seemed to linger on his mind. Almost immediately, he thrust himself away from Petunia, placing his hands on her shoulders. He still clung to his luggage as he did so, causing the suitcases to nearly wallop her in the face.

His eyes were wild and his breath shallow as he sputtered “Eh-wee-eh-weeah-eh-where’s the feh-eh-fi-eh-fir-eh-fire!?”

“Look at you!” Porky couldn’t understand Petunia’s jovial expression, the rouge on her cheeks matching her lips. Her voice squeaked with bubbly energy, energy that left Porky bedridden for nearly a week every time she paid a visit—too much excitement for him to handle. “You look as though you’ve run a marathon!”

“Eh-wee-eh-weh-weh-what’s the emer-eh-meh-mee-eh-meh-emergeh-eh-geh—emer…”

Porky’s stuttering was more profuse than usual as he contorted his face into a scowl, wrangling to spit the words out. His hands, and consequently the leather baggage handles he lugged, dug deeper into Petunia’s shoulder blades as he wound himself into a frenzy.

Finally, getting nowhere fast, he spat “A-are eh-yeh-yee-eh-you al-ull-alright??”

Flightiness was no stranger to Petunia Pig—no relation to Porky, but a close family friend—yet even still, Porky couldn’t help but feel bewildered at Petunia’s calm and almost confused expression. She blinked at him.

“Why, I’ve never been better! What’s gotten into you?”

A squeaky, huffy laugh of utter confusion and helplessness as Porky allowed his arms to drop to his sides, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Now, his voice squeaked and cracked and pinched as he worked himself into a tizzy, dropping his baggage on his feet to scramble and wave his arms around like a madman.

“Eh-the-eh-the-eh-the emerg-eh-geh-eh-jeh-jee-eh-jeh-eh-meh—crisis! You-you-eh-you said to eh-ceh-eh-come ree-reeah-eh-right away on dire beh-bee-beez-eh-beh-business!”

A shy smile spread on Petunia’s face as her blush reddened, averting her gaze. Porky knew that gaze well. It never meant anything good.

“Oh, Porky,” Petunia cooed, grabbing him by the face and pinching his cheeks. He grunted audibly, squeezing his eyes shut and scowling as Petunia only tried to rile him up more. She grinned at the way his cheeks burnt beneath her grip. “You never would have come if I told you the real reason! You’ll thank me later!”

Weaseling himself out of Petunia’s grip, Porky tossed his head back and threw his hands in the air. “Leh-leh-leh-land sakes alive!” He sounded as though he could cry. “Eh-deh-deeah-eh-deh-d’you have eh-eh-any idea what I eh-peh-peeah-eh-put-put myself through eh-teh-treeah-eh-tryin’ t’ get here? I-I-I abee-eh-beh-about killed myself jeh-eh-just to get onto that bus!”

Picking up Porky’s luggage, which nearly dislocated her shoulder due to its hefty weight, Petunia motioned for Porky to walk alongside her and out of the depot. It was past midnight; Porky had told her over the phone that the midnight bus was the only bus he could catch if he wanted to see her at all. She hadn’t minded, of course, and was eager to catch up with her company. Even in the midst of Porky’s breathless ranting and raving now, with his exhausted face rubs and interjections of moans and groans, her chest fizzed with excitement.

“Eh-ceh-eh-car broke down in Colo-eh-ceh-ceeah-eh-Colorado… heh-eh-had to bum reh-re-eh-rides from strangers… I-I-I had to eh-seeah-eh-speh-eh-spend the-the-the-the night in a-a cabin with a rat infeh-infesta-in-eh-feh-feeah—a swarm! Rats, eh-Petunia! Unsanitary little reh-re-eh-rodents nibblin’ at my ears! Hi-eh-heh-hitchhiking… walking… heh-had to work a day in a-a-a leh-leeah-eh-leh-lumberyard just so I could geh-eh-geh-get somethin’ t’ eat… I-I-I still eh-have beh-beeah-bli-eh-bliste-eh-beh-blisters on my hands!”

In the midst of his frenzy, Porky halted and shot Petunia a look, scanning her up and down with a quizzical stare, cocking his eyebrow and pouting his lip.

“I eh-sheh-sheeah-shuh-shoulda known somethin’ was up eh-wheh-eh-when you still answered my ceh-ceeah-eh-ceh-calls,” he moaned bitterly at last. “Huh! Some creh-cree-crisis! I haven’t sleeah-eh-seeah-seh-eh-slept in days!”

“We’ll fix you up when we get to my place,” Petunia reassured him, patting his back. “It’s a short walk.”

“A-a short eh-weh-walk,” Porky repeated with a grunt. “I-I-I’m tired of walking! Eh-heh-honest, Petunia, I-I thought eh-seeah-eh-seh-somethin’ terrible eh-happened…”

“You worry too much,” scolded Petunia. Porky gave another squeaky chuckle of bewilderment as he shook his head.

The cold night air did little to alleviate his nerves, as did the hustle and bustle of the city streets around him. Even at midnight, plenty of car horns blared and honked, headlights interrogated unwilling passerbys, footsteps clomped on the streets and chatter was abundant. Though the quietude of country life could get a little too suffocating at times, Porky desperately longed for the stench of his chickens and the bellows of his cows.

“Eh-neh-nee-eh-neh-eh-no c-car,” he mumbled to himself, staring at the sidewalk, sidestepping bits of trash. “No meh-mee-eh-meh-meh-money. I-I-I haven’t got a peh-eh-pehhh-peh-penny to my name! Ov-eh-eh-over a thee-eh-theh-thousand miles from home.”

He gnashed his teeth and shot a glare at the traffic whizzing past him. “It’s so neh-nois-eh-neeah-eh-noisy here! Weh-why is it seh-seeah-so noisy? Huh! Eh-neh-eh-noisy. I-I don’t leh-eh-like it.”

To add insult to injury, Petunia began to laugh. Porky snapped his head up from the ground and scowled at her, his giant cheeks reddening like apples. Just as he opened his mouth to tear into her, Petunia shook her head at him.

“In all my years of knowing you,” she giggled, waving her hand, “I’ve never heard you speak this much in your life!”

Indeed, on her impromptu visits to the farm, Porky always found himself a convenient excuse to avoid her presence. “Eh-geh-geh-gotta meh-me-eh-mehimilk the ceh-cows,” he’d say. “Eh-geeah-eh-gotta gather ay-ay-eh-eggs.” “Feh-fee-eh-feeah-eh-feh-fields need eh-pleh-plowing.” “I-I eh-neh-need to fix deh-di-din-eh-din-dinn--eh-supper.” “I have a-a eh-heh-eh-headache.”

Now, he had no such means of escape, and both of them knew it. To see such the awkward, bumbling, shy Porky ranting up a storm, waving his arms around and rubbing his face, it was a sight to behold.

“I eh-jeh-jee-eh-eh-just wanna know weh-wee-weh-why you dragged me ou-out here,” Porky moaned at last. “Haven’t eaten, eh-heh-eh-hav-eh-haven’t slept, neh-nee-eh-no shower…”

He seemed to be calming down, as his tone was less ferocious but much more pathetic and exhausted. All he did was stare at his feet instead of taking in the sights around him. Petunia thought for sure that he’d spend days rambling about the city life. She wasn’t sure that he knew where he even was.

“Home’s just around the block,” She hummed, lifting Porky’s chin up. He made another angry grunting noise, staring straight ahead with tired eyes, which in turn caused her to giggle some more. “We can talk about it over a pot of coffee.”

They turned a corner, which branched into a more suburban, less clustered area of the town. Despite being late autumn, palm trees and other shrubbery dotted lines of bungalows in full bloom. Porky found the sight of the palm trees unnerving, a reminder of how far from home he was.

“It really could count as an emergency, you know,” Petunia piqued up nonchalantly. Porky jerked his head to look at her, drooping eyelids rising as he grew more alert. “Your life will change!”

Porky’s stomach churned at whatever she was planning. Spunk and vitality were rife in her delivery and mannerisms, so she obviously didn’t seem to be injured or hurt. That was a sliver of comfort that Porky opted to appreciate at another time when his head wasn’t spinning.

“Eh-mee-eh-meh-eh-my life’s cheh-chee-eh-chehh-eh-cheg-changed enough eh-the-eh-thi-eh-this past week,” he grumbled dejectedly. “Sheh-shoulda known you eh-we-eh-were gettin’ one of your ceh-cree-ceh-eh-ceh-cre-ehh-cehh-crazy ideas again.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Petunia shrugged in a sing-songy voice, repeating the same statement from earlier. Porky bit back the bile forming in his throat.

After what seemed an eternity, they approached a quaint little bungalow on the corner of the suburban street. Even in the darkness, the pearly white exterior glittered. Petunia’s home was sleek and modern, an obvious Art Deco influence; with its rounded edges and flat, rectangular roof, complete with steel handlebars skirting the staircase leading up to the porch, Porky would have thought it was a diner instead of somebody else’s home. The gold nameplate reading “Petunia Pig” above the doorbell was his only clue otherwise.

Just as Porky prepared to trudge up the staircase, barge into Petunia’s home and pass out on the floor for a couple of days, he halted, one hoof perched on the step.

“The-eh-the-the light’s on,” he blurted out, blinking.

Petunia pushed him up the stairs from behind, catching onto the briefcases threatening to spill from his tired grip. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about Penelope!”

Now, Porky stood in front of the doorway, yellow light streaming out from the blinds inside illuminating his contours. He didn’t turn his head as he asked “Eh-peh-peeah-eh-peh-Penelope?”

“You’ve forgotten about Penelope,” Petunia answered her question dryly. “Well, you’ll meet her in a minute!” She grabbed Porky’s hand, who swatted away from her.

“I-I-I can’t eh-lee-eh-leh-let her see me leh-leeah-eh-like this!” The frantic energy in his voice resumed as he carried on once more. He pointed to his clothes, his face, himself, practically smacking the dirt off of his jacket in a frenzy. “Eh-theh-thee-eh-theh-this is a teh-tee-eh-teh-terri-beh-terribeh-beh-terribeh-eh-beeah-terrible first impression! A-a eh-ceh-compleh-eh-complete stranger, eh-seeah-seeing me in this state!”

Petunia seemed oblivious to Porky’s problems, as she fished for a key in her pocket and jammed it into the keyhole. “Penny won’t mind,” she reassured him. Porky answered her with a mournful moan as he adjusted his hat, tightened his collar, gave a few flicks of his bow-tie, all the while muttering to himself about what a mess he was.

As soon as the key clicked inside the keyhole, Porky paused his cleaning frenzy, giving one last tug of the bow-tie for good measure. He had no doubt Penelope was a nice person, but any friend of Petunia’s made his stomach churn—Petunia could be a lot to handle. The prospect of dealing with another Petunia gave him pause; he had no energy to maintain pleasantries, and was never thrilled to meet strangers in the first place. He could only hope that Penelope would be a forgiving soul.

“Penny!” Petunia threw the door open before grabbing Porky by his plump wrist and dragging him inside. Much to the gratitude of his dignity, he only tripped over the stoop of the door twice. A good day in his book.

“Penny! I’ve brought Porky!”

Porky stood in the doorway smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes, forgetting his manners after his little stumble. As he gingerly placed his luggage on the floor, he was able to catch a chance of Petunia’s furnishings.

Perhaps it was his own fatigue talking, or his own stubbornness, or his resistance to change, or an amalgamation of the above, but looking in one place for too long caused his head to spin.

A brash, rectangular rug took up the span of the living room, adorned with flat, Art Deco style rectangles. The wallpaper served as the rug’s older cousin, giant, rectangular tile patterns stretching around the span of the living room.

Furniture was sleek, modern, and of keen design sense. Consequently, it felt cold, mechanical, and the antithesis to homely. The couch nestled against the dizzying wallpaper looked more like a can of sardines than a sofa, with a hard, curved back, a single cushion stretching to form a bench. No pillows, no arms.

A glance into the kitchen fared even worse. The kitchen stretched straight ahead from the doorway, yet Porky had to crane his neck to get a good look at its contents. Dizzying, triangular tiles immediately caught his eye, and was enough to make his stomach churn.

Amidst the main stretch of the hallway, there was a cut in the walls as the hall turned right, likely where the bedrooms and facilities resided. Porky almost considered making a break for it and locking himself in one of the bedrooms, never to come out again, stowed away from any potential ridicule and poking and prodding that the night surely entailed. Instead, he forced himself to remain grounded, cementing plenty of weight on the ground so he wouldn’t be tempted.

So caught up in scrutinizing the sickening sleekness of Petunia’s glamorous Hollywood bungalow, he didn’t even realize the black cat standing right in front of him. Porky gasped audibly, clutching his stout chest before sulking and rubbing his face. So much for good first impressions.

The cat in front of him was much smaller than he was, but she had a surprisingly strong demeanor. Small ears, small nose, curved whiskers, but wide, curious eyes and a tail big enough to put a feather duster to shame. She said nothing, only bearing holes into Porky’s soul with her all-consuming stare.

Porky made an attempt to shove his trepidation in a corner as he forced a smile, outstretching a plump hand and tipping his hat. “Eh-heh-eh-how d’you do, eh-Miss Peeah-eh-peh-p-ee-eh-Penelope…”

Penelope said nothing. In fact, her eyes didn’t so much as think about moving towards his outstretched hand. She just continued to stand and stare at him with an expression Porky couldn’t read.

Opting not to pry, Porky instead heaved a timid, nervous chuckle, awkwardly returning his hat to his head and hiding his outstretched hand behind his back as though it were tainted.

“Porky’s a little high strung,” Petunia informed Penelope, patting Porky on his shoulders. It was impossible to discern whether his wincing was on account of her words or her touch. “I told him I’d fix us all a pot of coffee and break the news! Oh… would you mind, Penny?”

Penelope gave a wordless smile as she excused herself to the kitchen. Petunia used this as an excuse to usher Porky towards a table in the middle of the living room, its sleek and shine a reflection of its neighboring decor. Almost immediately, Porky flopped into a striped chair situated at the table, throwing his head in his hands.

“She eh-deh-dee-dehh-deh-doesn’t talk much, eh-dehh-does she?” His voice was muffled and spent, but a hint of dry humor lingered behind it.

Petunia, however, merely blinked, situating herself in the chair across from him. “Not to you, maybe.”

Together they sat there, listening to the sounds of Penelope making coffee in the kitchen. The clinks of spoons and gurgles of the percolator sounded distant, tinny, far-away and pinched to Porky. His eyes, his feet, his legs, his mind, and his heart ached. Telling himself that Petunia’s emergency wasn’t that dire did little to alleviate his nerves—he knew he should be grateful that nobody was injured or in danger, but a pit still lingered in his chest.

So caught up in his wallowing, Porky hardly noticed that Penelope had situated a cup of coffee in front of him. The real prize of the deal was the banana nut muffin perched neatly on a pearly white plate in front of him. Having not eaten all day, Porky thought he could burst into tears.

“Eh-thee-eh-theh-eh-eh-thank you,” he told Penelope, staring at her with wide, soulful eyes, completely disregarding any attempts to siphon himself through a presentable filter for his new company. Penelope, at the very least, seemed to take the hint, smiling as she sat next to him.

As soon as she made contact with her chair, Porky scarfed down his meal, much to the bewilderment of Petunia, who ogled at him with wide eyes as he devoured the muffin in seconds.

“Porky Pig!” She gasped. Porky recognized her tone—a layer of authenticity covered it, sure, but he knew she was also trying to get a rise out of him. “I’m surprised at you!”

“Eh-hee-eh-hev-haven’t eaten in-in-in a de-eh-day,” he told her quickly between bites. “Eh-two days! It’s peh-pehh-eh-peh-eh-eh-past eh-meh-midnight now. I-I-I’ve eh-ped-paid my deh-eh-dues.”

While Petunia observed with a scowl, Penelope seemed amused, observing with a pleasant smile on her face. Porky swiped a hand over his mouth, an adequate substitute for a napkin. He’d compensate for his manners later. For now, he caught wind of Petunia’s sour expression and stretched a dry smile of his own on his face.

“I-I like cheh-cheh-eh-chec-eh-choc-eh-chocolate chip beh-best,” he professed before downing a gulp of black coffee. He wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but he knew he would need it for the time being. A smile tugged at his lips as he heard Petunia huff at him in response.

“Well,” Petunia’s voice was commanding, matter of fact as she stared at Porky, who was taking hearty swigs of java. “Are you finally ready to hear the news?”

Of course he wasn’t. He could go his whole life without having to tag along in one of Petunia’s grand, crazy schemes again. The ceremony she was putting on, refusing to tell him and dragging him across the country for it, it all coagulated in a giant, ugly knot in Porky’s chest.

Instead Porky cautioned a shaky nod of the head, peering uncertainly at Petunia over the porcelain rim of his coffee cup.

Petunia flashed an excited glance at Penelope, who reciprocated it gently.

“You’re going to be an actor!”

Right on cue, Porky choked on his coffee, clutching a hand over his neck as he coughed and heaved, welding his mouth shut so he didn’t spew all over the table. Penelope had enough goodness in her heart to give Porky a few hearty whacks on the back, making his brains rattle. She was small but boy, was she fierce.

“I told you he’d be delighted,” Petunia squeaked breathlessly to Penelope.

After a handful of belabored, desperate gulps, Porky was finally able to breathe, panting audibly as he leaned over the table, coughing and sputtering. His eyes were wide and his face was red, and the scalding hot brew sloshing in his insides provided little comfort.

“Eh-the-ehh-thank you,” he croaked to Penelope with an apologetic wave of the hand. A warm smile was gifted in return.

Before Porky had any time to tear into Petunia and tell her how ridiculous she was being, she was already rambling and listing off ideas. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Porky? You’re going to be an actor! Famous! Why, I bet I’ll live the day to see your name in lights… billboards and magazines! Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Porky shook his head furiously, still recovering from his choking incident. Grabbing the table with his hands, he leaned back in his chair and gawked at Petunia, still shaking his head as words refused to come out. When he did manage to speak, his voice was comically shrill and squeaky.

“I-I-I-I-I-I’m eh-neh-nee-eh-eh-not gonna eh-beh-bee-eh-beh-be nothin!’” He pointed a trembling finger, the rosy bloom of his cheeks completely drained. “Eh-yeh-yee-eh-eh-eh-yee-eh-eh-you’re ceh-eh-craz-eh-ceh-craz-eh-heh-eh… you’re nuts!”

Secret conversation was exchanged through glances between Penelope and Petunia. It was exceedingly clear that they knew something he didn’t; it made him itch.

“But Porky,” Petunia insisted. Porky winced and screwed his eyes shut at the sound of her voice; she was putting on her signature pouty voice, the squeaky, pinched little coo she always did when she wanted Porky to do something for her, usually at his own expense.

“Eh-eh-yeh-eh-you stop that,” he snapped before she could say another word. “I-I know eh-the-thee-eh-theh-that voice! I-I’m no dope!”

Of course, his threats were disregarded immediately as Petunia continued to coo at him, putting on a disgustingly sweet and pathetic, sad expression. “You know I’m a dressmaker at Warner’s! They’re scouting for talent, I was told to ask around… oh, Porky, you’d be perfect for the job! You could keep me company on my breaks, we could go out to lunch… you told me yourself! You said you always wanted to make it big someday!”

“I-I-I eh-deh-deeah-did-eh-did-eh-eh-didn’t mean neh-neeah-eh-neh-no-eh-nothin’ by it!” Curses were handed to both Porky and Petunia on a silver platter as Porky chastised the both of them mentally. Curse him for saying that, and curse Petunia for remembering. He always knew he needed to watch his mouth around Petunia.

“You mean you plan to live on that dusty old farm for the rest of your life?” Petunia’s tone wore a veil of accusation.

“Eh-neh-nee-eh-neh-no!… I-I-I mean, ee-yes!… I-I, eh-wee-eh-weh-eh-well…”

Porky faltered, bumbling with his words in a desperate manhunt for any sense to be made. He hadn’t planned on being a farmhand for the rest of his years, and he had aspirations of doing something worthwhile, but he never got to the “what” stage. What did he plan on doing? Where did he plan on going?

“I-I-I eh-ceh-can’t leave home, Petunia…” He folded his hands as he pleaded to her, now growing desperate. The bemused expressions on her and Penelope’s face made him want to claw out of his skin. “I-I-I’ve got eh-theh-thee-eh-the-the whole feh-eh-fehhh-feeah-fam-eh-family beh-eh-back home…”

“But you’re the youngest!”

“Eh-seh-eh-so I eh-ceh-ceh-eh-ceh-can’t stay becau-eh-ceh-eh-because of that? I-I-I eh-deh-didn’t say goodbye or-or-or nothin’! Weh-weeah-eh-eh-weh-what sorta reh-reeah-eh-rat just up an-an-and leaves his feh-eh-feeah-eh-fami-family weh-eh-without saying g’bye?”

Petunia jabbed a thumb towards the kitchen. “We have a phone!”

“All my beh-eh-beeah-bel-belongi-eh-eh--my things are-are-are still eh-there! I-I-I hardly peach-eh-peh-peck-packed a thing! I…”

Porky was cut off by a giggle from Petunia. Another knowing glance was shot towards Penelope, which made Porky’s insides boil and his cheeks burn. He hated feeling like a stage act. One more reason why he wanted no part of her acting scheme.

In an attempt to command a sense of authority, Porky cocked an eyebrow and lowered his voice, leaning towards Petunia. “And jeh-eh-jeeeah-eh-jeh-just eh-wee-eh-weh-eh-what’s so feh-eh-funny?”

The smile on her face refused to falter. “Oh, Porky,” she cooed again, “I’ll be willing to bet that your entire bedroom is stuffed in those suitcases! You always take so long to get ready. I’ll bet you have suits, ties, seasonal clothes… every single toiletry in the house! Books… do you still have that Rolleicord I bought you? You never travel light!”

A violent wash of crimson branded its way onto Porky’s face, a dead giveaway that her point was proven. She burst into a case of giggles again as Porky folded his arms and stuck his chin in the air.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Petunia turned to Penelope, audibly informing her “Porky can be so stubborn.” The only thing more insulting than Petunia’s audible dig was the understanding nod that came from Penelope.

With that, Porky excused himself from the table, leaning back and scooching his chair back. Bitterness, fatigue, and a hint of fear amalgamated in his tone as he mumbled “I-eh-eh-I had a leh-leeah-eh-lovely time, but I-I-I really eh-ough-ought to get eh-geh-geeah-eh-goin’.”

“Where are you going at this hour?” Petunia reached across the table and grabbed Porky by the sleeve as he made a move to collect his luggage.

“Home!” Petunia had an iron grip on him as he struggled to wean himself free from her grasp. She refused to budge, staring at him with steely eyes.

“How do you suppose you’re going to do that? You said you haven’t got a car!”

Porky heaved against her grip. Petunia clasped a second hand on his upper arm to prevent him from budging.

“I-I-I’ll eh-beeah-buy one.” The intonation in his voice hardly quivered.

“You said you haven’t any money!”

Another unsuccessful heave from Petunia’s grip. “Ull-eh-eh-I’ll eh-feh-eh-feeah-find a job.”

Petunia tugged Porky closer to the table, causing him to stumble over his feet and curse. Almost immediately, he flashed a mournful, apologetic frown at Penelope. Any further attempts at making a good first impression were out the window. Thankfully, Penelope seemed more amused than offended at Porky’s colorful vocabulary, beaming at him and waving a hand dismissively.

“An actor’s a job,” Petunia persisted, the bubble and squeak returning in her tone. “Think of all the money you’ll make! You’ll buy all the cars you can imagine.”

“Eh-neh-nee-eh-eh-eh-no thank ye-you. I-eh-I’d rather work in-in-in the-eh-eh-the leh-leh-leeah-lumberyeh-yeea-eh-lumberyard again.”

“Now where are you going to find a lumberyard in Los Angeles?”

Porky’s timbre continued to harden into steel, though the struggle he put up against Petunia was beginning to subside. “A-alright, eh-the-then I’ll deh-deeah-eh-deh-eh-dance on the street ceh-eh-corners and beh-beeah-eh-beh-eh-beg for money.”

After a few more seconds of struggling, Porky finally allowed himself to go limp, dejectedly slumping back into his chair and waving Petunia off his arm. She grinned at Penelope as he shook his head.

“I-i-it’s awful neh-neeah-eh-neh-nice what yee-ee-you’re tryin’ t’ do,” Porky moaned, returning his head to his hands. He looked and sounded pitiful. “But I-I eh-ceh-ceh-can’t act! Jeh-jeeah-eh-jumpin’ juniper, I-I-I-I eh-ceh-eh-ceh-can hardly teh-teeah-eh-tehh-talk!”

When he snapped his head up to stare at Petunia, his eyes swam with desperation, his face contorted into a pitiful frown as he made a gesture to his gut. “Who-who-who-uh-who would eh-ev-eh-ever pay meh-meeah-eh-meh-mon-eh-mon-eh-money to look an-an-and listen to theeah-eh-this? I-I-It’d be heh-eh-highway ree-robbery!”

“Porky!” Petunia’s tone was sharp enough to snap him back to his senses. Her eyebrows pinched her face as she stared daggers at her company with a gaze so suffocating that Porky felt compelled to loosen his collar. “You know better than to say things like that!”

He didn’t.

Swallowing the rebuttal thudding in his chest and begging to be let out, Porky instead shook both his hand and his head, heaving a sigh. “I-I-I’m just eh-tehh-tired. It’s beh-eh-been a-a-a long eh-deh-dee-eh-deh-eh-da--er, i-it’s been a leh-eh-lee-eh-long weh-wee-eh-wee-eh-wuh… I-I’m tired.”

A gusty sigh from Petunia in response as she folded her arms and her legs. Slowly, the steely glower on her face melted into one of sympathy. “Oh, Porky,” she cooed, prompting a wince from the pig in question. He desperately longed for her to stop “Oh Porky”-ing him. “I see all kinds of faces at the studio, listen to all sorts of performances… I really think you have what it takes! You have so much natural charm.”

The squeak that emanated from Porky sounded more akin to a strangled sob than a dry laugh. With his head in his hands, he didn’t see the nod of agreement affirmed by Penelope.

“I can put a good word in,” Petunia continued. “And you’re already way out here anyway! You’re free to stay with us until you get back on your feet. Penny doesn’t mind, I won’t mind… oh, Porky, won’t you please consider it? What have you got to lose?”

Porky made a noise in his throat that sounded like the lovechild of a grunt and a whine as words refused to come out. He knew there was something he had to lose. Dignity? Integrity? He had made a royal fool of himself that evening, so perhaps he’d already lost that. Wires refused to connect together as his mind hummed in dull, staticky pulsations. Thinking, speaking, acting, being was futile.

“I-I’ll-eh-ull-I’ll-I’ll think on it,” he conceded at last, without lifting his head. The words coming out of his mouth felt foreign and his head spun. He couldn’t concentrate on anything.

Though he didn’t look up, instead staring at the polished metal wrapping around the table, the electricity from Petunia and Penelope’s grins were well present, making his ears tingle. He sought refuge in himself as he sunk deeper into his coat.

“That’s wonderful, Porky!” Petunia beamed as she got up from her post to wrap Porky in another hug. He grunted in acknowledgement, devoid of the energy to reciprocate or shun her advances. “You can stay in the guest bedroom, it’s just down that hall… oh, this is so exciting! I promise you won’t regret it.”

Biting back a comment about how he already did regret it took more strength than he wanted, but Porky silently congratulated himself for keeping his dry remarks to himself.

With that, Porky excused himself from the table, trudging his way over to Petunia’s pseudo-sardine can sofa. Petunia and Penelope both observed as he flopped like a dead weight onto the cushions, lying on his back as he rubbed his face.

“We have beds, you know,” Petunia prompted after a beat.

Dismissing her with a wave of a hand, Porky shut his eyes and shook his head. “I-I-I’ll only be a-a meh-mee-eh-meh-min-eh-minute.” His voice wavered and sounded staggeringly unconvincing as he mumbled “Eh-jeh-jeeah-eh-eh-jeh-just… eh-geh-gotta think…”

Petunia maintained an amused stare as she watched Porky turn weightless and succumb to unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. All she could do is shake her head.

Penelope’s softspoken, heavily French voice piped up from behind Petunia’s shoulder: “He’s funny.”

Chapter Text

From the clinking of utensils in the kitchen to the squeak of Petunia’s voice, Porky’s regaining of consciousness was soured knowing he hadn’t experienced some sort of terrible nightmare.

His back ached and his eyes ached, a dull headache from stress pulsing at his temples. Despite all of this, he awoke feeling more alert than he had all week. No rats nibbling at his ears, no sleeping on benches. Petunia could be overbearing, flighty, and bold, but Porky, in spite of his grumblings and mumblings, felt and appreciated her hospitality.

Easing himself up from the glorified sardine can “couch”, the porcine winced at his overall well-being. He’d slept in his jacket and hat, and felt the wrinkles in his clothes from tossing and turning were choking his neck. The dirt and wear from the past week that laced itself into his jacket fabric seemed to cake onto his own skin—perhaps not physically, but mentally. He felt grimy, antsy, itchy inside and out, but knowing that a shower was in reach made the weight he carried a few pounds lighter.

Petunia appeared to be engulfed in conversation with Penelope, which served as a benefit for Porky—he wasn’t exactly in the mood to strike up conversation and get heckled. In fact, he hadn’t thought over his decision to become an actor at all. A voice in his head, a small yet sensible, commanding voice, informed him that he was stuck in his current position and that he couldn’t weasel his way out of it. Another voice told him to listen to that voice. Porky instead focused his attention on the loud, brash cry of denial. He liked that voice best.

As such, he used the quiet moment as an excuse to get settled in, lugging his baggage into the guest room and preparing to shower off the physical and emotional grime that caked him. The guest room proved no mystery to find, the door wide open and allowing a glance at its own Art Deco furnishings.

Like the remainder of the home, its decor made Porky’s stomach churn and his head spin. Tile patterns spanned the wallpaper, just like the living room, and uncomfortably cushy carpeting brushed against the pig’s hooves. Nestled up against the wall was a double bed, its headboard a skillfully carved waterfall design with matching nightstands on either sides, stripes stretching through the entire set. Flower vases adorned the nightstands, the dresser nestled against the adjacent wall, even shelves. A changing screen, armchairs, lamps, and a mirror cut into a zigzagging pattern filled the remaining space. Porky’s appreciation for Petunia’s design sense couldn’t trump his anxiety at accidentally breaking or dirtying something up. He felt the walls would close in on him as he so much as breathed the wrong way.

Porky cautioned a handful of sweeps against his luggage to swipe the dirt off before placing them down on the bed. Clicking the first bag open, Petunia’s chides about his tendencies to overpack snowballed into a thick bile in the back of his throat. She was right, of course. As soon as Petunia had called Porky to hint at a possible emergency, he had flung everything he could into his bags without a second thought. He weighed the fluffy bath towel that he pulled out of his luggage, insisting that Petunia was the odd one out who would under-pack.

Unconvincing was the voice in his head.

Scooping a handful of towels, toiletries, and a change of clothes, Porky poked his head out of the door to make sure Petunia wasn’t leering behind the corner before tinkering into the hallway and meandering to find the bathroom. His search held little trials nor tribulations; as soon as his eye caught a perplexing amount of little square tiles, he knew he was in the right place.

He was quick to shut the door behind him so he wouldn’t run into anybody. Only Petunia’s bathroom would be as stylish as the living room or the bedroom. The mirror hanging above the chiseled, rectangular sink was an arched, waterfall design, with lamps synonymous in appearance guarding it at either side. Black squares and rectangles made of tile lined the white walls, making the bathroom appear coldly sterile. Porky supposed that was good.

After positioning his towel on the towel rack and neatly lining his toiletries in the midst of Petunia’s own tutti-frutti nonsense, Porky undressed, folding his clothes into a neat pile on the sink and wasting little time hopping into the bathtub to turn the shower on.

The first pluck of hot water against his doughy skin was like a godsend. Though he knew it was wasteful of Petunia’s water, Porky allowed himself to stand completely still for a minute as the synthetic rain relaxed his muscles and cleared his all too busy mind.

An actor. Porky knew nothing about acting. He hardly had time to weather a trip to the theater as is—the only time he ever went was when Petunia would make one of her surprise visits and drag him out to see a film.

“That’s John Barrymore,” Petunia would breathe, talking through the entire movie and pointing to a handsome man that looked like every other handsome man in those pictures. “I saw him on the studio lot just the other week… oh, and you know Clark Gable, of course, he’s come into the costume shop a number of times… and there’s Joan Crawford! She used to be a flapper, you know… Porky Pig! Are you even listening?”

Porky always nodded his head yes, he was listening, which was a stretch from the truth. Too many names and faces for him to memorize. If he didn’t even recognize stars such as Clark Barrymore or John Crawford, or whatever else ridiculous name Petunia had breathed to him, then he surely couldn’t learn to act like them too.

Lathering himself in soap, he pondered Petunia’s intentions. Giving him a place to stay for free, offering to drive him around, goading him into success, it all seemed too suspicious. Did she want a favor in return? What could he ever provide that would be good enough for Porky to set him up in such a situation? Surely there were dozens of other people much more qualified for the acting position Petunia wanted him to snag. He couldn’t understand it.

Then again, he couldn’t understand much of anything Petunia did.

Realistically, Porky could have stayed enveloped under the sanctity of the hot water for the whole day, or at least until it turned cold. A dull sinking feeling in his gut, however, told him that he needed to make pleasant company and socialize with his hosts. He couldn’t spend the entire day dodging corners and shutting doors and staying out of earshot. As such, he stifled his grumbles as he turned the water off. Curse his good conscience.

Having adequately dried himself off and changed into a new pair of clothes, a simple white button-up and red-striped tie, with plain black pants, Porky allowed himself to ogle at his weary reflection in the mirror for a minute longer before trekking into the kitchen.

He could overhear Petunia excitedly blathering on to Penelope as he approached the kitchen entrance.

“...and he asked if there were any stars, Penny,” she was breathing, “in the costume shop! A regular Joe Shmoe! Just barged right in… oh, Porky!”

Porky gave a nod and a small wave, the anxieties and doubts from the previous night flooding back to him in a wash and leaving him speechless. Petunia was leaning over the sink, washing dishes, while Penelope sat at the kitchen table, straddling her chair and resting her chin on her paws against the back of the chair. Porky awkwardly stood in the middle of the kitchen, unmoving.

“For heaven’s sake,” Petunia was saying over the din of the running sink, “I thought you’d melt into that silly old couch! Why, don’t you know it’s almost noon? I should be fixing you lunch… your breakfast is on the table, I can heat it in the skillet if you’d like.”

Normally, Porky would be mortified at waking up so late in the day. Instead, he was almost grateful--as rude of a thought as it was, that meant there was less time for Petunia to chide him about his future. Stiffly did he sit at the table diagonal from Penelope, who flashed a warm smile at him. A shaky grin was gifted in return.

“Eh-thee-eh-theh-eh-that’s alright,” he told Petunia, staring at the cold plate of eggs in front of him. “I-I-I-eh-I’m intruding enough as is.”

Scrubbing a pan with some soap, Petunia paused to cock her head at Porky, practically touting a scowl. “Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that cold!”

Porky stuffed a forkful of egg in his mouth and raised his eyebrows in response, which caused Petunia to shake her head incredulously. Truthfully, he didn’t feel like calling any attention to himself. Less room for conversation to strike up if he ate them now. The egg whites had begun to harden and cold yolk wasn’t on Porky’s list of favorite foods, but he was still starved from his misadventures from the past week.

“Porky Pig, you are the strangest fellow I’ve ever met! Isn’t he strange, Penny?”

Penelope smiled at Porky with an expression he couldn’t read before stifling a tiny laugh. Another forkful of egg was stuffed into the pig’s mouth as he ignored the telltale crimson blotching his face, prompting Penelope to titter some more.

“It’s a good thing I called in to say I’d be late,” Petunia continued from her corner in the kitchen. “You’d better eat quickly, Porky, the sooner we get there, the better.”

The weight that dropped in Porky’s stomach wasn’t the cold egg he just swallowed. Though he knew the answer, he decided to get a sick thrill out of placing his hand on a metaphorical hot stove as he cautioned “...Eh-gee-eh-eh-geh-get to where?”

His hostess slash kidnapper didn’t even turn her head nor bat an eye as she swiped a dishcloth over a large pan she was drying. “The studio, of course! It is a Tuesday, after all. Work goes on!”

“The seh-steh-eh-seeah-seh-studio!” Porky sputtered incredulously. “I-I-I-I only jeh-jeeah-just got out of the tub--”

“Oh, good! You’ll be nice and fresh to meet everyone then.”

“Eh-meh-meeah-eh-meh-meet everyone!” The pig’s voice was even more shrill as he mocked Petunia like a parrot, his jaw hanging. “Eh-nee-eh-eh-neh-eh-eh-now wait a mee-meh-mee-eh-meh-meh-minute! You eh-deeah-eh-didn’t say eh-an-eh-anything about geh-geh-goin’ to the studio--”

Petunia’s constant dismissals and squeaks made Porky’s blood boil. “Just to take a look around! I have a job to work too, you know! You can stay with me and get your feet wet.”

“I-I-I don’t eh-wee-eh-want to get my feeah-feh-fee-feet wet!” Porky’s eyes zipped around helplessly as he struggled for a convenient excuse. “Eh-eh-seh-seeah-eh-seh-eh-suppose I-I wanna stay an-an-an-and catch up with-ehhhh-with-eh-with Miss Pene-peh-eh-peeah-eh-penelo-pen-ehh-peeahhh--Penny?”

Now it was Penelope’s turn to humiliate Porky as she shook her head and waved her hand politely, encouraging Porky to go with Petunia. Porky scrunched his face into a befuddled scowl as he threw his head in his hands. No escape to be found.

“You won’t have to say hello to anyone,” Petunia reassured him as she finished drying the last plate, stacking it neatly onto the counter. “I won’t let you leave my side. You’re going to go there eventually, why not do it now and get it over with?”

She was right. She was always right. Porky knew that she was right, and he hated that she was right, and he hated that he knew that she was right. One way or another, Petunia would force him to meet his fate. It was best that he did it with her at his side, instead of on a day where she was too busy working or had some other chore to conveniently attend to.

Besides, there was always the off chance that the interview didn’t go as planned. Perhaps the boss would be out sick. Maybe Porky wasn’t seen as acting material. He certainly didn’t see it himself.

Though clouds still fogged his mind and his eyes, prickles of light seamed to burst through the more he thought about sabotaging his career before it started. Perhaps if he made a royal fool of himself, he’d only be subject to a case of embarrassment and not a commitment he knew he couldn’t handle.

“Fine,” his voice gravelly but animated as he concealed the twisted glee prickling in his chest at the thought of dashing his career chances. “We-eh-weh-we’ll go to the seh-eh-studio.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

By the time Petunia pulled up to the studio in her maroon ‘34 Ford Deluxe Roadster, all plans of sabotaging his career were completely forgotten as Porky clutched the edge of his passenger seat. He could feel his knees knocking together and sweat beating his forehead, fingers and lip trembling.

“That’s where the sound stages are,” Petunia was narrating, tapping a finger on the glass as she pulled into the lot. She had talked the entire trip. Porky hadn’t said a single word. “The water tower… oh, the costume shop is this way, Porky! Aren’t you excited?”

No answer. Instead, Porky tried to distract himself by observing his outside surroundings, marveling at the palm trees and clusters of buildings and cars before him. It was all so busy, too busy, but the hustle and bustle of the city was so starkly different from the quiet country life that he couldn’t help but feel awestruck.

They passed through security and into a parking lot nestled in the back, where a handful of other cars were already situated. Anxiety grew to an uncomfortable boil in Porky’s chest as Petunia parked the chariot at the end of the lot and clicked the engine off. Pausing to think wasn’t an option—she opened the door the minute the engine was off, which meant Porky had to do the same. No chance to hide or run.

“You won’t sign any contracts sitting in that stuffy old car all day,” Petunia chided as she crossed over to his side. “Come on!”

When Porky couldn’t get his hands to open the door, Petunia threw the passenger door open for him instead, sporting a bemused smirk. A trembling hoof was placed out of the car and onto the cement, and then another. Slowly, lamentably, uncomfortably, Porky forced himself out of the sanctuary brought on by the car’s leather interior.

Even standing in the parking lot, he felt as though he were standing in the public completely naked. Only one or two passersby strolled around the lot, not even turning their heads, but Porky found himself glued to Petunia’s side. Once or twice, he caught his hands meandering onto Petunia’s arm, clinging to her. He would break off, growing more embarrassed and flustered, which only caused Petunia to turn her head and laugh at his crimson complexion.

“Oh, Porky,” she giggled at him, “You don’t have to worry about a thing!,” Her reassurance was as sturdy as a flimsy piece of wood.

Just then, Porky noticed that they were walking the way they came in. Though he hadn’t a single clue as to the layout of the studio, he felt it seemed awfully redundant to park so far away from the costume shop. Petunia had a commanding, poignant presence and she knew what she wanted and when she wanted it. To take such leisurely, out of the way walks to her place of work seemed out of the ordinary.

“I-it-it’s an-an awful long weh-wee-eh-walk to the ceh-ceeh-eh-ceh-costume shop,” he ventured uncertainly, hoping the bite of suspicion was stronger in his delivery than it sounded.

Petunia said nothing. That meant trouble.

“I-I said it’s an awf-eh-awful long walk,” Porky repeated, the credibility of his insistence dashed by the way his voice shook. They continued to stroll through the parking lot before making a turn and heading up a long, winding sidewalk.

The sidewalk ran along a road where a number of cars clunked past. A water tower emblazoned with the Warner Bros. shield loomed over the entire lot, making Porky feel smaller than he already was. Anxiety continued to prickle in his chest.

When Petunia led Porky into the entrance of the building, a placard next to the double doors proudly touting a double billing of Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies productions, that was when Porky grew confrontational.

“I-I-I have a-a right notion eh-theeh-eh-that you’re trying to-to-to-uh-uh-t’ trick me!”

Petunia didn’t bat an eye as she reached for the door handle and gave it a hearty tug open. A selfish, wiley part of Porky hoped that she’d turn around and react, maybe yell at him or give an affirmative answer. Instead, she was collected and confident as she always is. Despite Porky standing with his fist clenched and an accusatory finger pointed at his companion, he felt more craven and timid than ever.

“How else do you expect to get in the costume shop?” Porky noticed Petunia wasn’t looking at him as she talked. “It’s not outside, you know!”

Just as Porky was about to open his mouth and chastise Petunia even more in an attempt
to get an equal rise out of her, he instead observed in petrified hopelessness as she dashed behind him and pushed him into the building.

“I’ll eh-reeah-remem-beh-eh-buh-bee-remember this, just you weh-wait,” he hissed behind his shoulder as she pushed him down a narrow, long hallway.

A musty odor mingling with stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the floorboards creaked with every hoofstep, voluntary or otherwise. The walls didn’t look too sturdy, and an overruling sense of dinginess dominated the interior. Rows of closed doors were passed by, some containing muffled conversations that made Porky sink smaller into his jacket, and therefore there wasn’t much else to gather from inside. Even then, for a Hollywood studio, Porky was surprised and rather turned off by the dirty atmosphere. He had worked in cleaner conditions at the farm.

After an incalculable amount of pushing and doors passed later, Petunia finally let go as she heaved Porky forward. They had halted in front of a tall wooden door with warped glass concealing the contents of whatever lay inside. However, unlike the other doors, the typography labeling this particular door was more pompous, more authoritarian, more commanding. In fancy, golden swoops of lettering, it spelled out the name of one “Leon Schlesinger”.

“Neh-neeah-eh-now I know eh-theh-this isn’t the costume she-eh-shop.” The quiver in Porky’s voice eradicated any sense of authority he scrabbled to command in his tone.

Instead of a snarky, chipper comeback from Petunia, she swung the office door open and gave Porky a shove so powerful that he had no choice but to stumble inside. What amazing audacity, not even knocking on the boss’ door before shoving a total stranger inside.

Preoccupied with regaining his balance and preventing an impending faceplant, Porky was unable to get a look at the boss. Petunia had her pudgy face shoved through a crack in the door, close enough to heckle Porky but a safe enough distance to avoid any confrontation.

“I sent him for the job opening,” she squeaked before giving Porky an extra shove into the office. With that, she slammed the door shut behind him. Porky was trapped.

“You-you-you-you eh-snake in the grass! Double crosser! I’ll—“

Porky had begun to spout curses at Petunia through the oak barrier before remembering where he stood. One by one, prickles pinched at his neck and his shoulder as he felt himself freeze up. He could feel a pair of eyes watching him. Slowly did he lower his raised fist, instead turning to face the boss.

Portly and stout, the man sat at his desk, thoroughly invested in his newspaper. He didn’t even so much as think about flicking his eyes towards his guest. He had a thick, dark quaff of hair that Porky suspected wasn’t entirely maintained from natural means, a sleek black suit, and a white pop of a boutonnière blooming from his lapels. As he gnawed on a cigarette through the support of a cigarette holder, scanning his paper, surrounded by posters and flyers of cartoon paraphernalia, Porky got the impression that he was worth more than the studio building itself. A strong sense of cognitive dissonance between his neat looks and the dingy atmosphere that encased them.

“So.” Mr. Schlesinger’s voice was booming and thick, but one had the impression that it wasn’t so much an indication of his power as it was his natural speaking voice. Either way, Porky felt thoroughly intimidated. “You’ve come for the job.”

The pig’s knees knocked and wobbled, his insides had been replaced with gelatin, sweat beaded his forehead and his fingers trembled. Head pounding. Face reddening. Insides warming.

In the midst of his anxiety, Porky had nearly forgotten to take his hat off. He did so with trembling hands, wringing the gray fedora into a whip as he frantically ran the fabric through his pudgy hands, praying that the boss man hadn’t seen his blunder as a sign of disrespect.

His words refused to come out, putting up a ferocious strike as he sputtered “Ee-ye-eh-yeh-yee-eh-ehh-ee-yehh-yeea-eh-yeh-yee-eh-yeh-yeh-yes, seh-eh-sir.”

Mr. Schlesinger cocked an eyebrow, which only made Porky sink deeper into his coat and wring his hat even more.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Ee-yeh-eh-yee-eh-yes sir.” Porky screwed his eyes shut as his face flushed deeper. He didn’t have to worry about putting on a front to sabotage his future career—he was doing a perfectly fine job of ruining any and all credibility without even trying. “Eh-peh-peeah-eh-peeah-eh-peh-ehh-peh-Porky Pig, sir.”

A stuffy pause as Mr. Schlesinger took a drag from the cigarette pompously perched in its holder. In other circumstances, Porky would have laughed at the difference between the boss and the studio. Here, any laughter would be performed purely by way of nerves.

“Well, Porky.” Schlesinger was now combing over a handful of papers on his desk instead of looking up at his company. Porky couldn’t decide whether that was a comfort or not. “Have any acting experience?”

“Ee-eh-ye-eh-yee-eh-yessi—“

Curse his nerves and his predetermined dialogue. Porky felt more akin to a doll with a string on its back than someone interviewing for a job.

“I-I-I-I-I-I eh-meh-mee-eh-mean, eh-nee-eh-neh-eh-neh-nee-eh… nuh-neh-nee-eh-eh-n… neh-eh-no-eh-no-eh-neh…”

After contorting and twisting his face into a grimace, trying to jar the words loose from the tip of his tongue, Porky instead opted to a shake of the head no. “Nn-eh-neh-nuh-uh.”

Another analytical eyebrow raise from the boss that Porky couldn’t decipher. His words and his body seemed to be locked in a race as to who could shake the most.

Just then, a peculiar thing happened. Leon’s gaze morphed from analyzing to bemused as he chortled “Say, that’s pretty good!”

A dubious blink from Porky. He could merely watch as Mr. Schlesinger reached for the shiny black phone on his desk and dialed in a number he couldn’t make out. Once more, his eyes were averted from Porky’s, making it nearly impossible to decipher his thoughts and emotions.

So overwhelmed by the thundering in his ears, his throat, his chest, he couldn’t make out Leon’s next words. Thankfully, he was speaking into an intercom—perhaps he could safely assume that it wasn’t for him. Instead, Porky merely stood glued to the spot, knees buckling as he wrung the life out of the hat in his doughy fists.

When Leon placed the receiver back to its rightful post on the phone, he folded his hands and gave Porky an amiable yet smothering glance. “I think you’re gonna work out fine,” he told him with an authoritative grin.

He should have been reassured. Porky should have been reassured by the news that he wasn’t a failure and that his embarrassing entrance, his embarrassing speech, his embarrassing looks and mannerisms weren’t a hindrance to his professional career.

Instead, he felt more terrified than ever as hot grease bubbled and cracked and picked at his insides, blood rushing to his head.

Before he could dwell on the feeling for too much longer, the sound of a door handle jiggling snapped Porky out of his stupor.

In entered a rather short man with a poignant yet warm presence, young but already going bald. He snaked his way past Porky, who had instinctively raised his crumpled hat to his face like a sort of shield.

“I think we nabbed ourselves a good one,” Leon told the man. Porky cowered under his stare as the man turned to observe him for himself. His tone grew louder as he flicked his chin towards the petrified porcine. “Introduce yourself, Porky. This here is Porky.”

It took all of Porky’s might to stick his hand out. He had to think of every single muscle and nerve movement manually, feeling the metaphorical and physical nerves move one by one as he stuck a trembling hand out.

Even more profuse than the tremble in his hand was the involuntary vibrato in his voice as Porky struggled and fought and carried on to spit out a simple hello. Squinted eyes, puffed out cheeks, red face, intense trembling. He should really be trying out for the role of a jester instead.

“Eh-heh-eh-he-hel-hell-eh-hell-eh-eh-heh-hee-eh-hell-hell-eh—heh-heh-eh-how’d’ya do,” he sputtered at last as he received a firm shake of the hand. The man’s expression matched the bemused look permanently plastered on Leon’s own face.

“Ain’t that good?” Leon told him, who nodded in agreement. “Really talks like that too.”

“He’ll be a fine fit,” was the man’s answer. Slowly, Porky began to piece together that this was one of the directors. “I can see us getting some mileage out of this.”

Porky didn’t appreciate being conversed and ogled at like a prize pig, but he supposed that if there was any gossip to be said about him, positive gossip was the best kind. Even then, the permanent wave of nausea sloshing in his gut refused to die down.

Mr. Schlesinger seemed to pick up on this, asking “Are ya nervous?” with a jolly glint in his eye.

Now, the words practically tumbled out of Porky’s mouth automatically as he breathed “Ee-eh-yee-eh-eh-yeh-eh-yes sir!”

Perhaps it was unprofessional to vouch for such shameless honesty. Such an admission read off as unconfident and, to Porky, irresponsible and untrustworthy. The pit in his gut dug its way deeper into the nether as his own words caught up to himself. Regardless, the two bigwigs seemed even more amused by his remark than not.

The entire interview—if one could call it as such—flashed by in a blur, but the latter portion diluted together especially quickly. Porky found himself receiving a script shoved into his grip, given a return date of who, what, when, and where, and given a congratulations and a pair of handshakes. He didn’t even have the awareness to say thank you, merely nodding back at what he was told with eyes wide and mouth agape.

Before he knew it, Porky was staggering down the hallway in a stupor, clutching his script and toddling his way towards Petunia, who was nowhere to be found. With his hat thoroughly crumpled and resting askew on his head, his jacket beginning to slip off his shoulders, and his bewildered, unsteady stagger through the studio, he could have easily been misconstrued as the town drunk rather than someone who just broke into an official Hollywood career.

As it turned out, Petunia was not tending to any business in the costume shop at all. Instead, she was sitting in her car now parked strategically at the entrance, staring expectantly at the pig lumbering towards her with wide eyes.

Porky was still entangled in the throes of his bewildered fog as he opened the car door and slumped into the passenger seat. He didn’t even bother to think about turning his head. Instead, he stared straight ahead with that same wide eyes and open mouth.

Just like always, Petunia proved herself as the antithesis to Porky, full of vim and vigor as she launched into a breathless tirade.

“Oh, Porky! How did it go? Tell me all about it. Did you get the job? I really am sorry for tricking you, but it was for your own good, oh, don’t you understand? Oh, Porky! What happened? What’s that in your hands? Is that… Porky! That’s a script! Then you really got the job? Or is that a rejection notice? Oh, don’t just sit there catching flies! Porky! Porky! You got the job! Let’s celebrate, let’s get some champagne—you did get the job, didn’t you? Oh, Porky—“

Before Petunia could “Oh, Porky” him one more time, he raised a shaky hand to silence her as he groused “Ee-yes, I-I eh-geah-got the job.”

Normally, Porky was resistant to Petunia’s over exuberance, but he had to admit that the pair of arms thrown around his shoulders and wrapping him into a chokehold was a welcome act of affection. Petunia’s voice grew more shrill, more jubilated as she filled the car cabin in praises and coos.

“Oh, Porky! I’m so proud of you! That’s wonderful news! I knew you’d thank me later, I just knew it—oh, wait ‘til Penny hears about this! She’ll be so proud, Porky, oh, I just know it, and I am too! An actor! I knew you could do it!”

Resigning himself to the fact that his perpetual feeling of shock wasn’t dissipating anytime soon, Porky enabled himself to awkwardly pat Petunia’s arm in return as a thank you. She hugged him tighter before letting go, a solid indication that she got the message.

With that, Petunia started the car and prepared to
drive home, explaining that she took the rest of the day off in case she had to “celebrate”.

“Oh, tell me, Porky, what’s your first role? A leading man? A roguish fiend? Ha! You, a fiend! Why, you’re no more intimidating than a kitten! Oh, I’m just being mean… after all, who knows what range you have! You could be anyone you wanted! Oh, quit leaving me in suspense! What’s your role? Don’t make me take a look at that script myself!”

Porky fully believed that Petunia would try to flip through a script while driving. As such, for his safety and hers, he answered back, his tone still low and deflated, riddled with stupefaction: “A eh-seeah-eh-seh-eh-seh-eh-schoolchild. I-I-eh-have my first practice eh-theh-theeah-eh-thuh-eh-Thursday.”

“A schoolchild!” Petunia’s voice was incredulous as she shook her head, staring at the road. “Well, I suppose we all start somewhere. Oh, but how exciting! I wonder what your castmates will be like…”

A resigned nod from Porky. Despite his good fortune, he felt more anxious than ever. The commitment was cemented in stone. Trapped. Any means of escape was hidden, sealed off. He really was an actor now.

Just then, the curse of realization collapsed on him like a ton of bricks as he jerked forward from his seat, eyes the size of saucers.

“A-a-a eh-seeh-seeah-eh-schoolchild! Eh-ceh-creh-eh-ceah-Christ, Petunia, they think I-I-I’m a kid!”

With that, Porky resumed his panicked histrionics from earlier, feeling his face and pawing at his cheeks, poking his snout and stroking his chin in frenetic, helpless claws. “A-a kid! They peeah-eh-preh-pruh-be-beh-probably only hired me for-for eh-sympathy! I-I-I didn’t audition or nothin’. I eh-beh-bet they’re leh-eh-lee-eh-laughin’ at me reh -ree-right now! A-a-a kid!”

Petunia proved Porky’s hypothesis about laughing as she herself launched into a fit of giggles so violent that the car swerved briefly into the other lane. In other circumstances, Porky would have gripped onto his seat for dear life. Instead, he was too preoccupied attacking and inspecting his own appearance.

“Oh, Porky, they probably just thought you were a good fit! You do have a cute charm. They wouldn’t hire you if they weren’t confident in your abilities!”

Instead, Porky merely waved her off, his tone dismissive and quiet as he grumbled “Ee-eh-yeh-yeah, yeah, eh-ceh-eh-cute. …seeah-eh-eh-see-eh-schoolchild! I-I’m doomed!”

A disapproving click of the tongue from Petunia at Porky’s dismissal of her compliments.

“I mean it, Porky! You could really grow into something big. I see it! You have talent! I see a bright acting future ahead of you!”

Even amidst his histrionics, Porky never forgot her words.

He also never knew just how right she would later prove herself to be.

Chapter Text

“You’ve been starin’ over that damn paper for an hour now! Are we doing it or aren’t we?”

Porky didn’t take his eyes off the script, instead tracing his finger along a string of type. He was muttering the same line he’d been muttering to himself for the past hour.

“‘...we’ll eh-peh-puh-pe-eh-punch it easy so it won’t make eh-tee-eh-eh-tee-eh-teh-too much noise’... ‘we’, huh? Eh-theh-the-thee-eh-that doesn’t sound ri--eh-neh-no, eh-hang on… ‘...peh-peh-punch it easy so it--’”

“Porky! Places to go and people to see! Chop chop! I can’t wait around on my carcass all day!”

Gabby tugged at his ears as he stomped and circled around Porky, who was perched at the vanity mirror—a poor excuse of wood and glass. Despite having newspaper interviews and articles written about him and a number of publicity shots, posters and billboards with that plump, cheeky expression he made a point to ignore, he was hardly given star treatment in terms of how dressing rooms went. A closet was more like it.

Regardless, those same newspaper clippings and publicity photos served as carefully arranged reminders. Porky had folded a number of photos into the wedge of the mirror: some of him alone, some of him with others. He neatly taped articles with his jolly old face on it above the mirror, the text detailing his love for his job and the cinema. Even after having stood in front of a camera for 2 years and made a fool of himself, bumbling and winning the hearts of hundreds of thousands, the love for acting that he was forced to blather about in his articles didn’t quite feel real.

Often, it wasn’t.

“Oh, eh-we-eh-eh-weh-we’re doing it,” he told Gabby after another recital of his lines. He bothered to wave him off, never peeling his pupils away from the words he was reading. Once more, he put a pudgy finger back on the page, surveying his lines and tapping the paper. “An-an-an’ we don’t have a line at eh-theh-theeah-eh-this part? Huh. I-I-I don’t like this eh-feh-fee-eh-ehh-eh-this frustration comedy stuff.”

Now, Gabby threw his hands on his head and shrieked a bleat of aggravated despair as Porky paid no mind to his histrionics.

“You’re frustration comedy! If ya want the line, add the line! If ya wanna take somethin’ out, take it out! I gotta leave, I have a life to live, and I can’t live it until you stop obsessing over that fuckin’ piece of paper!”

Porky’s reaction was delayed as he spared himself an extra handful of seconds to scan over his lines once more. It was when Gabby made a strangled noise that sounded like a mix between a sob and a scream that made him finally place his script down on the wooden desk before him, mingling with an amalgamation of scripts from past and present.

He turned to face Gabby, whose cream colored cheeks were washed in a red hot blush of rage. Porky placed his chin thoughtfully on top of his knuckles, straddling the wooden chair he was perched on.

“Eh-yee-eh-yeh-you’re not all that different offscreen than yee-eh-you are on,” he observed with a reserved, polite and slightly strained smile.

Always impulsive and unpredictable, always readying an insult, Gabby was quick to jump onto Porky’s words.

“Yeah? Well, you are! Moping and repeating yourself and spending time crammed in this closet, losing your damn mind reading all these scripts, when you could be out drinking in a bar or blowing your superstar money or doing something! GAH! You drive me nuts!”

In spite of his insults and yelling, Porky had worked with Gabby for enough time to know that it was his discreet way of showing concern. Gabby wasn’t a bad egg—he had a flaring temper and a mouth so sour it made lemons pucker, but he had a protective, caring and good heart and always encouraged Porky to treat himself better. It was his deliveries that were harsh, not his ideas.

“I jeh-jee-eh-jeeahhh-ehh-just think we could work with something buh-be-better,” Porky answered carefully. “I-I’m havin’ trouble gettin’ attached. Why, the only thing I reh-rihh-really like is the-the-the bit with the shoes, and even eh-then—“

“Even nothing! You’re too picky! You care too much! Who cares? It’ll all be over soon! And the quicker, the better! I hate this acting business! What a lousy way to make a buck!”

Another grin from Porky: a weary, defeated, yet sincere raise of the cheeks.

“Wee-eh-weh-why are you an actor, geh-eh-Gabby?”

The angsty goat halted his furious pacing around the wooden floors as he snapped his face to stare Porky in the eye, who was still sitting with his chin on his hands. Gabby suspiciously cocked an eyebrow.

“Why?” He rasped. “Why? Clean your ears! Didn’t I just say it’s a lousy way to make a buck? I needed the money, that’s why! I didn’t think I’d be stuck as a sideshow act with you! I ain’t talented like you! I’m no smiley, happy, big shot!”

While Porky appreciated his comments, his remarks were more puzzling than flattering. “I-I-I’m no eh-see-eh-smiley, happy, big shot either, an-an-and I’m eh-seeah-seh-eh-certainly not talented—“

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, will you QUIT THAT!?”

And just like that, he found himself snout to muzzle with a raging goat. Gabby had gripped the wooden sides of Porky’s chair and thrust his face down into the pig’s, flaring his nostrils and glaring the finest quality of daggers.

“You are so talented! And you know it! You’re so hard on yourself! For the love a’ Pete, lighten up for once! If I have to hear you mope around about yourself one more time I’ll go ballistic!”

It proved difficult to refute Gabby’s claim about going ballistic, seeing as he already was raging mad. Furthermore, Porky could spend the entire evening dismissing the goat’s proclamations of his talent, but his ears were ringing enough as is.

Instead, he turned back to his desk to stare at his script once more, resting his cheek against his knuckles. A bitter grin escaped him as he heard Gabby explode from behind him; “YOU’RE MOPING!”

“Yee-you go on home.” He waved him off, glancing at Gabby’s grimace reflected in the mirror in front of him. “I-I think I’ll meh-mih-mmm-mope seh-some more.”

An audible flare of the nostrils indicated Gabby’s disapproval of Porky’s little joke. Instead, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his sweater, doing that reserved, closed off, hunched shoulder walk he always did wherever he went.

Just as he was about to leave Porky be, Gabby halted in front of the dressing room door, hardly daring to look over his shoulder.

“Oh, uh, yeah. They’re having some sorta company Christmas party down at the bar on the corner soon.” His grunt was uncharacteristically subdued and hasty, almost as though he were embarrassed. “I’m goin’, and you should t--”

“Eh-nee-eh-no thanks.”

At the very least, Gabby’s signature temper was back in full form as he pumped his fists and shouted “You’re a NUT! Why dont’cha ever have some fun in your life, huh?”

Once more, Porky turned to face his sidekick with that permanently confused, gentle, whipped puppy look that made Gabby’s stomach churn. He never did it on purpose—that was just his face—but that face could be a masterclass of guilt-tripping.

“I deh-dee-eh-eh-duh-didn’t go to last year’s pih-party, an-an-an’ I didn’t go the-eh year bih-before that. I don’t like it, that peh-pih-eh-peh-party stuff. Too much reh-ree-eh-racket. Too many err-ree-ih-reh-roisterers. I-I’m not that ceh-co-eh-close with anyone ee-either.”

With a smack so loud it bounced off of the wooden walls, Gabby exasperatedly ran a palm down his face before engaging in another Dance of the Raging Goat as he paced back and forth, arms flailing in the air.

“Roisterers! I’ve never met another guy who’s ever said ‘roisterers’! I’ve never even heard that word in my damn life! Roisterers. You’re not close with anybody because you don’t go anywhere! Jesus, you’re the STAR, not a recluse! It’s unheard of! You’re a nutcase!”

“Eh-see-eh-seh-see you tomorrow, Gabby.”

Another exasperated grunt of defeat from Gabby which caused contrarian satisfaction to twist at Porky’s insides. As bad a habit as it was, he received a childish thrill when getting a rise out of his co-star. Especially when Gabby himself prodded and asked questions Porky didn’t know or want to know the answer to.

“You’re impossible,” Gabby spat as he headed for the door with a huffy sense of finality.

“I-I know. Have eh-fun at yee-eh-eh-ee-your party.”

Porky could hear Gabby mocking him in a shrill, nasal drawl even as he stormed out of the room. “‘Have fun at your party.’ I would if you came along with me! Some friend!”

Furious hoof clops clammered against the wooden floors of the hallway, slowly receding along with his angry muttering. And then,

“…See ya tomorrow!”

A gusty sigh from Porky answered in return as he stared at the bundle of scripts before him.

The past 2 years had worked out better than he ever imagined. He was the face of the studio, a de facto representative. Convinced that he couldn’t act to save his life and would only make a bumbling fool of himself, he never dared to consider the alternative. The alternative which was his reality; actually having talent.

While he still took up residence with Penny and Petunia, his constant sense of obtrusive intruding flickered only as a small flame rather than a bright blaze. Though they wrung him dry with details about his day begging for juicy gossip, dragged him to gaudy restaurant and movie theater outings (and the occasional Hollywood party or two when his refusals refused to be heard), and overall made him long for a proper taste of solitude, he was grateful for their never ending support and camaraderie. He managed to buy a car for himself months ago, and he could move out if he really wanted to.

Instead, a part of him actually longed to stay in their company.

It felt nice to be wanted.

Two years ago, he had nothing. No home, no money, no car, no life. Now, there were days where couldn’t so much as go to the restroom without being hounded for a handshake or an autograph. He had a comfortable sum of money, he had notoriety, and he had a place to call home.

As such, the guilt of feeling unfulfilled and malcontented with his career wrung his gut into knots.

A sense of belonging had never eked its way once into his acting career. Despite starring with multiple faces, having newspaper articles and interviews written about him, having made a name for himself, Porky never could shake the alienation that came with the job.

Feeling like a fraud. A hack. Gabby always groused about how hard he was to work with, which was true. A fear of making decisions and standing tall shut him out from really enjoying his career. He didn’t have a cartoon to his name that he was satisfied with. He did, however, boast an armful of self critiques.

Curiously, while Gabby wasn’t the first face Porky had worked with, he was the first who complained about him. He knew it was another case of his abrasive protectiveness, wanting Porky to be confident in himself and to take pride in his success, but the circumstances still churned the pig’s stomach.

Had other co-stars thought the same? Gabby was the closest he’d worked with so far. Beans—a plucky yet unobtrusive fellow—was kind enough, but Porky hardly talked to him outside of work or even off the stage. Beans had left the rat race of the acting business in the past year, and he had yet to hear from him. He couldn’t help but wonder if Beans shared Gabby’s complaints.

Porky knew he was hard to work with, but he didn’t like others knowing that. It merely amplified his feelings of inadequacy and fraudulence, which, in turn, only inflated his issue. Enjoying the final product or the making of a cartoon while harboring such inner turmoil proved practically impossible. That, of course, added to the never ending cycle of guilt.

Deep in the throes of his so-called moping, it took a sharp handful of knocks against the wooden door to jolt Porky from his pondering.

“Eh-beh-who is it?” He placed the script he had been staring at back on its rightful post on his desk as he rose from his chair, fidgeting meticulously with his bow-tie du jour; a quirky yet tasteful shade of rose. Seeing as Gabby never knocked on his dressing room door when making his grand entrances, Porky knew he had to make himself presentable.

A voice he had never heard before erupted after an awkward, belabored pause. “It’s the Fuller Brush man!”

Porky raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. The voice muffled by the tall wall of oak was shrill, high, and exceedingly mushy. Certainly no sound nor even energy he had ever heard before.

Regardless, he opted to entertain his jokester, seeing as his only other alternative was to agonize over his scripts or head home to Petunia and Penny… who would surely pester him about his day as they did every day.

As he answered, the pig’s tone sounded more synonymous to a question rather than a grant of entry. “Eh-cee-eh-beh-come in?”

The pause that suffocated the dressing room when waiting for a response was nowhere to be found as his visitor threw the door open before Porky had time to completely shut his mouth.

He never would forget the most minute of details during that encounter. He refused to. He would make it a point to recall every little domino effect with only the utmost clarity and adoration.

Porky never forgot the swagger in the little black duck’s step as he marched right into the dressing room, the slight bounce of his heels and swivel of the legs as he craned his long, striped neck and whipped his head around to take in the humble surroundings. He never forgot the glint in his wide, eager eyes—a glint that reflected an untamed fire which refused to burn out. Porky never forgot the way his own pathetic, stupefied, pudgy face reflected against those glimmering, twinkling eyes. He never forgot the air of belonging and companionship as the duck intruded on his privacy, behaving as though he had known him and his dressing room for all his life.

Staring down at the little black duck, all Porky could do was fidget and fiddle with his fingers as he croaked an empty “Uhh…”

His visitor, who was extending his feathery neck to ogle at the newspaper clippings near the mirror, snapped his head around to face the pig. He bore an expression of utmost warmth and familiarity, like that of an old friend’s rather than a complete stranger.

“I’m no Fuller Brush man anymore.” The duck’s voice was thick, spitty, and shrill, and a voice that would completely grate Porky’s nerves into oblivion under different circumstances. Instead, he found himself transfixed. “Turns out they just fired me.”

Without further ado, he felt a pair of feathery fingers envelop his own pudgy mitts, dragging his arms down to the duck’s height as he gave them a squeeze. Porky wobbled on his feet, taken off guard, catching his balance at the impromptu handshake as the duck shook with ferocious strength. He was small, but he was certainly strong.

It was only until after, when Porky was certain his arm hadn’t been dislocated, that he was able to locate his words. He flexed his aching fingers with an apologetic frown as he stammered “I-I-I’m sorry, eh-beh-but I’m going to have to ask you to eh-leh-lee-eh-eh-leh-leave…”

“That was a joke.”

Mirroring his abrupt entrance, the warm, amiable glow from the duck snapped off in a second as he stared at Porky with wide, blank eyes and mouth agape. Like a little kid staring at a stranger out in public.

Rightfully, Porky was put off by the transition. He was only able to blurt out a “Huh?”

No answer. Only a soul searching gaze from the intruding mallard, who continued to stare at him with that same awestruck—yet unreadable—expression. Porky found himself squirming beneath the pressure, his neck itching and his cheeks heating up, flexing and wiggling his fingers to ward his nerves off and maintain composure.

“Say, you’ve lost weight! A lot of weight!”

Like a flash, the duck resumed his rosy, friendly glow, folding his tiny hands behind his tiny back and taking his tiny, heel bobbing, sweeping kick footsteps. Like a shark, he meandered in circles around Porky and craned his neck. Instinctively, Porky tugged at the corners of the tan jacket hanging off his shoulders, covering himself up as though he were incredibly vulnerable.

He supposed, in a sense, he was.

Taking notice, the intruder halted his rotations around Porky, looking up at him with those soulful, hungry eyes that made his face itch and heat up.

“Wuzzat rude?” His mushy voice seeped with genuine curiosity and naïveté. “Sorry.”

Unsure of what exactly it was he was forgiving, Porky found that the words tumbled off of his tongue involuntarily as he reassured him with a quiet, cautious “I-it’s alright…”

“I’m a big fan,” the curious duck announced with yet another grin. It proved difficult to keep track of how many various facial expressions he was switching through in such a short time.

At the very least, it snapped Porky out of his stupor as he shook his head and patted around his coat pockets. “Eh-wee-eh-weh-well, you shouldn’t beh-be here. What, eh-deh-do you want an-an autograph?”

Now, the intruder leaned against the wooden chair in front of Porky’s desk, draping his spindly little arms along the back as he tilted his beak to his chest. He looked up at his superior with yet another unreadable expression.

“I’m not just a fan, you know.” His replies were just as confusing as his facial expressions. To Porky’s befuddlement, he didn’t follow up, instead maintaining a suffocating, all-seeing gaze. When Porky instinctively cocked his head to the side, his mouth slightly agape as the gears threatened to turn, that was when the mallard opted to elaborate.

A good humored grin painted the undertones of his voice as the duck announced, “I’m your new co-star!”

And while he knew it was the wrong reaction–-while he knew it was rude and impolite and immature–-while he knew he shouldn’t, Porky couldn’t help but heave a bewildered laugh. A shrill, nasal chuckle that filled the closed, claustrophobic wooden room.

“Eh-the-eh-theh-that’s ridiculous!” To the porcine’s surprise, the grin on the duck’s face only grew wider, his eyes bigger as Porky made fun of him to his face. He seemed to enjoy it. “I-I-I didn’t hear anything ehb-beh-about—“

“That’s why you’re hearing it now!”

Porky was quick to halt his explanation, once again transfixed by the way the mallard’s shrill voice cut through the air. Despite Porky’s admittedly rude manners, his visitor showed no mind to it, and in fact seemed more enthusiastic about it than ever. He leaned his scruffy little head closer to Porky’s, who awkwardly stumbled a few steps backwards. For such a diminutive size, the duck had an awfully large presence.

“I was told to tell ya. Didja want it written in gold or somethin’?”

Swallowing the contrarian urge to argue yes, he did, the pig instead fiddled with the corners of his jacket, struggling to think of what to say. He had met his share of overly enthusiastic fans, but never in the sanctity of his own dressing room, and they certainly never lied about being co-stars. What anybody had to gain by carrying such a bombastic lie, he didn’t know. Despite his clearly erratic nature, the duck seemed to ooze with a genuine, warm charm. Porky didn’t doubt his friendliness was genuine.

Instead, he opted to test with the age old ice-breaker. “Ehh-bwe-eh-what’s your name?”

“People call me Daffy, but I call me… Daffy. Duck.” In spite of his little joke, the little imp mimicked a hat tipping motion to indicate his respect with a flick of the eyebrows. He seemed to be hanging on Porky’s every movement.

“Eh-deh-dee-eh-deh-deh-eh-ehhhh-Daffy?” Once more, Porky found himself chuckling when he didn’t know why.

What occurred next would be a memento Porky treasured dearly, for every time it happened, he received the very same reaction he had then.

First, a pregnant pause. The little black duck focused his gaze so intently on Porky that he felt he was observing his every moment. Watching as though a physical manifestation of his nervous chuckles would hang in the air. Porky felt himself squirm beneath the weight of his clothes and the scrutinizing stare—he had no reason to be nervous, and yet, he was.

It then exploded in an ear splitting bang.

Sharp, piercing cackles of hysterical laughter seemed to shake the very floorboards that they were standing on. Porky could practically feel the soundwaves bouncing off of the wooden walls, weaseling through the cracks in the photographs hanging above his mirror, sliding off the glossy sheen of newspaper articles, absorbing into the wooden grain. The duck stood in front of him, clutching his tiny little gut, slapping his wobbly knees with his shoulders shaking so violently that it seemed like he was sobbing rather than laughing. Instinctively, Porky reached a cautious hand out, as if to console him… but paused. He instead flexed his pudgy phalanges in the not so stagnant air before him, awkwardly allowing his hands to return to his sides as he observed in polite, restrained silence.

When Porky thought the laughter would subside, the snaps in the air only grew louder. The duck’s eyes were screwed shut as he wobbled in place, whooping and hollering.

It was a sound of utter joy.

A sound of utter joy that had Porky completely, wholly, unequivocally hypnotized.

He had never heard such unadulterated glee filter out of anyone’s mouth. He had never heard such unadulterated glee filter out of anyone’s anything. There was such a visceral sensation of joy, of mischief, of zest for life in the duck’s wheezy cackles that he was intoxicated by it. A glimpse out of his peripherals in the nearby mirror indicated that a flush had tickled his cheeks.

Then, just as soon as he started, he stopped.

A crack louder than the initial snap of his laugh hitting the air. The mallard’s silence was explosive as he paused his histrionics with record sharp timing, staring at Porky with wide, curious eyes, the corners of his mouth slightly agape as he breathed “Yes. Daffy.”

Against his better judgement, Porky subjected his hand to more torment as he initiated another handshake from his said-to-be costar. Daffy obliged with a happy handful of violent thrusts that genuinely threatened a dislocated shoulder.

“Say, how’s about we have us a little chat?” Daffy was back to observing the paraphernalia on Porky’s wall.

Porky, on the other hand, blinked vacantly. “A-eh-eh-aren’t we already?”

“Outside!” Daffy was already making a break to the door. “It’s the evening already! You gotta get home t’ your family so you can show up t’ rehearsal tomorrow and get started on our script!”

Before Porky could make a bitter comment about how he didn’t have a family to return home to, the realization of Daffy’s words struck him in the chest.

“Buh-bee-eh-beh-but I haven’t any scri—“

A stack of papers was shoved right into Porky’s grip. Had Daffy been holding onto them the whole time? He didn’t even notice. Instead, his script harbinger eyed him down with a warm yet inquisitive gaze, the grin spreading on his tangerine cheeks an acknowledgement of Porky’s befuddlement.

“Outside is eh-nee-neh-nice.”

So outside they went.

Indeed, it was dark when they stepped onto the pavement outside, cool to the touch from the winter air. Even for Hollywood standards, a peculiar chill lingered in the air. Porky hugged his coat closer to himself and made a small noise in reaction to the cold. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Daffy exhale through his nostrils in amusement.

They settled on a little area near the back of the studio lot. Standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a brick wall, Porky fished a cigarette out of one pocket and a lighter from the other.

“Now.” His delivery was chewy from the cigarette dangling from his pudgy lips. The flame sparked by the lighter illuminated his face and jacket in a coating of a nice, warm orange. A reflection was cast off of Daffy’s eyes in the dark. It proved unnerving. “Eh-wee-eh-weh-what is it you wanted teh-tehh-teh-t’ talk about?”

No answer, except for the occasional crunch of tires as a car passed by on the nearby street.

“You smoke?” Daffy’s voice was considerably softer than his grand entry in the dressing room. Perhaps it was on account of a lack of walls for the sound to bounce off of.

In fact, it was so soft that Porky nearly did a double take, still figuring with his lighter. “Huh?”

He spared Daffy a quick glance as he slipped the lighter back in his pocket. “O-oh. Uh, ye-yes. Sometimes. We-when I’m nervous.”

Another thick pause as Porky watched a coif of smoke coil in the air, disappearing into the inky night sky. Observing the entrails was calming.

“Are ya nervous?”

Though he was hardly visible, the duck’s black feathers melting into the inky black nightscale, Porky could still make out a neutral expression in the darkness. The comparatively subdued nature startled him—especially considered he was analyzing all of this from a complete stranger.

“I gee-guess.” Eye contact proved particularly difficult. Porky instead strained to focus on his hooves in the dark. “I-I’m always a little nuh-nee-ner-eh-nerv-nerveh-ehhh… long day.”

The cold sweeps of air across his face was a reassurance, if nothing else. Porky had no idea why he was getting so vulnerable and open with a stranger. Fan, coworker, or anything else, it was a breach of self pride to confess one’s own vulnerabilities to someone you’ve only just met.

Daffy continued to stare straight into his eyes. Unblinking. Even with his face obscured by the darkness, Porky felt under scrutiny.

When Daffy showed no signs of breaking eye contact, Porky plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it on the ground, scuffing it out with his heel. All the while, he maintained eye contact with Daffy. He couldn’t place why, but he felt as though breaking the contact would prompt something bad to happen. An overactive imagination and unintentional embrace of superstitious tendencies proved to be a consistent burden.

When the last pieces of smoke curled up into the air, snaking past their starlit faces, reflecting against the twinkle of buildings and lights in the distance and mingling with the stars in the sky, that was when a familiar smirk spidered its way back on the mallard’s face.

The subdued quietude laden in his voice prior was gone as Daffy asked in a spitty, shrill voice “Were ya surprised?”

“See-eh-eh-surprised!” An involuntary chuckle escaped from Porky. “I thought I had a cee-eh-ceh-crazed fan.”

Daffy’s grin grew as he began to rock back and forth on his heels, skimming through his script. Porky had stuffed his in his inside pocket, the occasional brush against the leg reminding him of his theatrical obligations.

“I told ‘em I wanted to meet you myself. I really am a fan! I’ve seen all your cartoons.”

Porky’s temples squeezed together as a red hot wash lathered his insides. He was a movie star. He had people ask for his autograph in public. He had publicity photos and interviews and all sorts of memorabilia. He had a comfortable stash of money and notoriety, but stubbornness chained him to his humble roots. Without meaning to–while consequently striving to do so–he swept any sense of stardom under the rug so as to cling to the normalcy he craved so ferociously.

Thus, he shouldn’t have felt so taken aback by Daffy’s comment, yet he did so anyway. It felt as though all of his insecurities were on full display.

As such, he strained a quiet “Thee-eh-that’s very kind”, unsure of what to say.

Another beat of silence interrupted only by the sounds of cars humming in the distance. The chill in the air grew colder.

“You really are a shy fella,” Daffy mused suddenly.

“An’ I tee-eh-eh-teh-take it you’re not?” Porky didn’t mean to come off as defensive as he did.

Thankfully, the mallard took the comment in stride. “No sir!”

He had been standing relatively still, facing Porky in the darkness. Now, he mimicked the pig’s stance, leaning against the cold brick wall with his small, feathery arms folded behind his head. Porky felt like a giant compared to him. Self consciousness seeped into the fabric of his jacket more than the chill in the air.

“What made ya get in the acting biz?”

Porky blinked. Not even half an hour ago, he had asked Gabby the same exact thing. Now he was being interrogated at his own game.

The words wouldn’t jar loose from his mouth as he struggled to shake them free, instead just gaping at Daffy who smothered him with his all consuming stare. It wasn’t a possibility to say “Gee, I was forced into it and had to hitchhike across the country to get here. I don’t get any fulfillment because I haven’t had a chance to enjoy it and just feel exploited while I’m being reassured that I have talent. Y’know, normal stuff. And you?”

Instead, he fiddled with the lapels of his jacket, averting eye contact. This whole thing was ridiculous, talking to a stranger. Co-star or not. Gabby never poked and prodded. Nobody else even cared enough to poke and prod. Nobody ever asked him how he was doing or what made him do squat. Daffy had a knack for making him feel incredibly vulnerable.

Yet, somehow, he had another knack for getting Porky to talk anyhow. It was equal parts frustrating and fascinating.

“Jeh-jee-eh-eh-jeh-just ‘cause.” Suddenly, the threads on his jacket were wholly intriguing.

There was another pause. Despite his blatant attempts to avoid eye contact, he could still see that all consuming state from Daffy burning into his neck. He sunk deeper into his coat.

“Say, me too!”

Snapping his head up to gawk at Daffy was yet another involuntary action. A polite smile tugged at the ends of Daffy’s mouth as he reciprocated his gaze, accepting it as an excuse to keep talking.

“I’m a big fan ‘a pictures. I practically live at the theaters!”

Porky could just see Daffy and Petunia fawning over the movie stars that he himself could never remember. Both of them nudging him in the ribs and explaining who was who.

Laughing.

Talking.

Petunia would have a field day. How nightmarish.

“This’ll be my first time in anything. Yeah, but I sure am lucky to share it with a fella like you.”

Suddenly the chill in the air rose to lukewarm as Porky felt his face heating up. Daffy was skimming through his script, flipping through the pages while he talked. Porky hadn’t taken a single glance.

“I want’cha t’ do me a favor.”

Porky continued to stare.

“Please,” Daffy added after a beat, as though he forgot his manners. Porky really did feel like he was conversing with a fan. A fan who knew more about him than he knew about him.

Once again frozen in his monologuing, unable to croak out a word, he gave a slow, cautious nod, his eyebrows knitting together instinctively.

A warm smile of gratitude from Daffy in return. He turned back to his script, continuing to flip through the pages, which rattled in the night.

“Wont’cha teach me the tools of the trade?”

The confidence in which Daffy prattled off his mushy, squeaky words was staggering. Though it was a question—at least, as far as Porky knew—he worded it like a statement.

“I wanna know everything there is to acting. Tell me anything. Everything! I wanna be half as good as you.”

All Porky could do was jam his hands in his pockets, once more staring at the ground. This whole arrangement felt like a sick joke. He didn’t hear anything about a new coworker or a new script. He certainly hasn’t been asked to teach others his discipline before. What discipline? It was something he was still searching for himself.

“Please,” Daffy added again. His tone seemed to warble a bit, as though he were pleading for Porky’s help. Like he was swinging back and forth between his true self and his more approachable, mild mannered self, straining to prove he had manners in the first place.

Knowing “You’re just buttering me up” wasn’t an acceptable answer, Porky strained another nod with his eyes unfocused. First he couldn’t bring himself to talk. Now he couldn’t even bring himself to move.

“Ye-yeah.” Porky’s assurance dissipated into the night air, subdued and insecure. “Okay.”

Thankfully, his mysterious little co-star didn’t seem keen on spilling the beans tonight. Instead, he grabbed Porky’s hands in yet another bone crushing handshake, thrusting the pig’s arms up and down with ferocious jostles. The duck’s eyes twinkled brighter than any star gleaming in the sky.

“Gee, thanks a lot!”

And, just as abruptly as he had arrived, Daffy gave Porky’s arms one last heave of a shake before darting away from him at full speed. Once he turned a corner, it was too dark to see where he was headed. Not even a “goodbye” or “see you tomorrow”. Just the sound of tiny webbed feet smacking against the cold, hard pavement. Porky craned his neck, straining to see if he could make him out in the dark.

“What a cra-eh-cra-cray-cray-eh-ceh-cee-eh-eh-eh—screwy duck,” he mumbled to himself as he scratched his head.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————

It was only when Porky got home that he finally had a chance to settle down and read his script. Settling down, of course, was anything but with Petunia and Penny around. While he nestled himself in the cushions of Petunia’s sardine can couch, they poked and prodded about his day from the kitchen.

“A new coworker? What’s he like?” He knew Petunia would burst when he told her.

“Eh-dee-eh-eh-eh-deh-dee-duh-eh-ducky.” The title on the script read “Porky’s Duck Hunt”. This time, he was to be cast as a hunter who pursued an annoying, little black duck that continued to outsmart him. There wasn’t a word of dialogue written for Daffy—only quacks and garbles. He wondered how long Daffy was to be his coworker, as this certainly didn’t seem like a very sustainable role. “He’s a duck.”

“A duck!” Petunia gasped from inside the kitchen. “Can he talk?”

“‘Course he can teh-teh-eh-talk,” Porky retorted bitterly, waving her off. “It’s all eh-he does!”

If he strained, he could make out the polite titters from Penny in the kitchen. Porky continued to peruse the script, involuntarily smirking at a gag where he accidentally shoots a hole through the ceiling after asserting that his gun wasn’t loaded.

“Are you two going to star in any pictures together?”

He ran his finger beneath a line where a swarm of ducks try to steal his sandwich, making a mental note of how to get the best reaction. “The-ehhh-the-eh-that’s what it looks like.” A woeful moan escaped his lips as he griped “Never met him until eh-teh-today, and we’re s’posed to-to-uh film tih-tih-tomorrow!”

A clink echoed in the kitchen as Petunia placed her nightly cup of coffee on her porcelain saucer in surprise.

“You sound awfully calm about all this!”

Once more, the squeak of a laugh that burst out of Porky’s mouth was purely involuntary. It wasn’t a laugh so much as it was a cry for help, a lump momentarily closing in his throat as he forced himself to stare at the script and maintain his composure. Instead, he tried his best to direct his attention to wondering how Daffy would pull off the gag about swallowing an electric eel.

“Mih-mee-ih-ih-mm-maybe you’d like to ceh-clean your ears,” was his choice of a smart remark after a beat. “I can ash-shi-ssure you, my neh-nee-nerves are a wr-ree-wre-eh-ckeh-wuh-rih-rih-eh-ehhhh—I-I’m goin’ batty!”

Barely any hesitation before Petunia spoke up again. “What did you say his name was?”

“Daffy.” As soon as he said it, the duck’s introduction rewound right in his head. That spitty drawl drowned out his own nasal stutter as the words tumbled out of his mouth, almost instinctively: “Mm-most people call him deh-dee-ehh-deh-eh-Daffy, but he calls hi-im Daffy. Eh-dehh-ih-Duck.”

More giggling from Penny after a beat of silence. Petunia didn’t make any sort of auditory indication with her assessment of the situation. Rather, she poked her head out of the kitchen, scowling at Porky with an expression of unadulterated befuddlement.

“Have you been drinking?”

Mr. Neh-neeah-eh-Never-Had-A-a-Drink-In-Mee-ehh-mm-‘mi-eh-My-Life returned her stare with equal wordless vacancy. He watched as Petunia flicked her eyebrows up once more, a slight shake in her head as she entertained the idea of a shrug.

“Don’t blame me for asking!” was all she had to say on the matter. As she headed back into the kitchen, her voice maintained the same determination and ferocity—even in spite of the volume shift to accommodate her meandering further away. “What a silly thing to say!”

You should try living it, Porky groused bitterly to himself. He was almost convinced that he was the real daffy one here.

Metal squeaks against linoleum indicated that Petunia had finally settled down at the table with Penny. Perhaps she’d finally drop the interrogation soon.

“Well… maybe you two will become fast friends! If you only just met him today…”

“Ye-yeah, because me an’ geh-eh-geh-Gabby are such fast eh-friends.” By now, he’d forgotten about immersing himself in the script. The only reason he still found himself looking at the pages was as a means of diverting his gaze away from the kitchen. “A-an-an’ Beans.”

“Oh, Porky, don’t be like that.” His face tightened as he heard her narrate all too indiscreetly to Penny: “Porky’s in one of his moods again.”

A few laden moments of silence passed. Clearly, Petunia was expecting another retort from him—when she didn’t get her validation, she continued her preaching with haste.

“He could be different! Why, if he’s truly as crazy as he sounds, then maybe he’s crazy enough to hang around with you.” That kind, generous piece of advice was cushioned through more giggling on behalf of Penny.

“The-thee-ehh-thanks, Petunia.”

Not a shred of irony lingered in her voice as she piped up “You’re welcome!”

Chapter Text

“Mornin’!”

Porky’s trek inside the studio was interrupted by a road block. In particular, a small, feathered, spitty road block.

Leaning against the wood frame of the entrance was Daffy, saluting with a stack of papers in his hand. They rattled and scraped together with his every movement. His grin was bright enough in the nightscape, standing in the parking lot; in the daytime, it was blinding.

Still, that was the least of Porky’s concerns. This was the first time he had seen anyone arrive earlier than himself.

Ever since he first started out, he made an attempt to be as punctual as possible to maintain a good image. The habit had stuck since. It was also a nice excuse to leave home and avoid conversing with Petunia and Penny, now that he had his own car. He’d be seeing Petunia later today to pick up an outfit from the costume shop, but it would still be another hour and a half before she’d show up. It wasn’t even 7:30 yet.

As such, Porky could only sputter “Eh-wee-eh-eh-weh what are you doin’ here?” He realized how lame the question sounded the second it left his mouth.

Daffy shifted aside to let Porky inside the entrance, eagerly hobbling alongside him as they headed down the main wooden hallway. Webbed foot slaps echoed through the thin walls.

“I wanted the grand tour!” Porky was a morning person by all means, but even Daffy’s default tone of shrieking was a bit too perky. A wince painted his face upon the ferocity of his volume. “I’ve just been snoopin’ around.”

What “snoopin’ around” entailed, Porky didn’t feel comfortable asking. It was probably best that way. Instead, he trekked with his duck accomplice at his side, making a point not to look at the various photos and posters with his own rosy mug that hung all throughout the studio.

“I-I-I’m always the fee-eh-fir-eh-eh-feh-first one here,” he told him as they turned a corner, passing more wooden doors and offices. “It’s a good thing if eh-geh-eh-Gabby comes in an hour buh-bee-beh-beh-ehh-b’hind!”

There was a small window of time before Porky noticed the rhythmic slaps behind him had stopped. He turned around, observing as Daffy gawked at him, frozen in place.

Now, Daffy ran back up to his side, grabbing a hold of Porky’s arm. The porcine winced; his shoulder was still sore from yesterday’s abuse. “Ya gotta tell me all sorts ‘a stories!”

When Porky knitted his eyebrows, unsure of how to respond, Daffy gave his shoulder a shake, leaning closer in his face. “Acting!” A mist of spit sprayed Porky in the face. He grunted audibly. “We got time! Tell me all about it! What co-star do ya like best? What’s your favorite picture? I really like that one with th’ ice cream. Any parties?” Another shake of the shoulder. “Ya gotta!"

Wrestling Daffy loose from his grip, Porky practically shouted as he protested “Alright! A-eh-ull-alright! Okay!”

Daffy flashed a shy smile, as if he just remembered his manners.

A gusty sigh deflated from Porky as he wiped a hand over his face in exhaustion. He almost would have been better off staying home and coming in at a more reasonable time. At least nobody else was here to overhear their little conversation.

“Weh-wee-eh-weh-weh-weh-what do you wanna know?” Porky resumed down the hall, loyal slaps behind him echoing off the floorboards.

“What’s your favorite cartoon ya worked on?”

“I eh-deeah-eh-deh-deh-don’t have one.”

“You’re kidding!”

Though Porky stared straight ahead, he could practically see Daffy’s bewildered expression. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Aww, you’re just kiddin’ me!” Daffy adjusted his pace so that he could look Porky in the eye, swarming his side. He found it unnerving out of his peripherals. “There’s gotta be one!”

“I-I eh-ree-reh-reee-really don’t,” he answered again. “I don’t like teh-teh-t’ see or hear myself.”

Of course, he hadn’t intended to come off as pathetic as he did. His folly was marked by the widening of eyes from Daffy at his side. Porky picked up the pace, hunching back into his jacket and averting his gaze.

Thankfully, Daffy didn’t pry, only allowing room for a pregnant pause. “Not even one?”

How pathetic was it that he couldn’t even think of a lie to ease the duck’s questions off. Not a single short came to mind. He really didn’t like hearing himself talk or look at himself. Despite all of the clipping and paraphernalia in his dressing room, he made a point to avoid it. His sentimental instincts trumped his self loathing in the long run, but there were days that seemed to argue otherwise.

Another shake of the head no.

They finally turned towards a small little commons area that Porky frequented in the mornings. It was towards the back of the building, nestled behind a few offices but spacious enough to let the morning light in. Even though it never received much foot traffic, with other commons areas and secluded rooms granting more attention, he liked to lounge there in the mornings and review his scripts or just enjoy a moment to himself.

He supposed he’d have to share it for today.

Sitting in his usual spot—a brown oak chair with a green cushion nestled against the wall, positioned just right for the sun’s rays to envelop him in a warm spotlight—Porky motioned for Daffy to sit across from him. Daffy did so almost cautiously, as though he thought he were intruding. His on and off carelessness was fascinating.

“Nuh-nee-eh-neh-now why don’t we go the-through the script tuh-tee-teh-tuh-tehhhh-eh-t’gether?”

Porky had a feeling Daffy would pester him for more questions later. He wanted to discuss the cartoon together while they could—at least anything would be better than Gabby’s ambiguous grunts of yes or no and grumbles of “I don’t care!”

Lately, the directors had gone straight to filming with little time for onstage rehearsal. Something about maintaining “spontaneity”. Porky hated it. He felt like he wasn’t prepared for anything, and felt like an even bigger, blubbering fool on camera than he already was. His lines had grown shorter at his request—if they wanted to act spontaneously, fine, he can wave around like an idiot anytime. Rehearsing the cadence of his lines, which were always butchered from the start, was another story.

He was particularly worried about this short. Not only because he had to grasp and understand the chemistry of working with an entirely new person, one who seemed certifiably insane, but because he had more lines than he was used to. He wanted things to be as less spontaneous as possible.

Though he could sense Daffy wanted to discuss his personal and acting life more, he could sense that he wished to study Porky’s acting habits even more so. Daffy was quick to resort to his script, flipping through the pages with a hungry grin.

Flipping through the pages, marking areas where he had underlined them and written notes, Porky flicked his eyes above the top of the script pad. “So-so-so you eh-jee-just quack and swim around?”

Daffy heaved a loud honk in response. He grinned at Porky, who had put his script down slightly to stare—even knowing he was a duck, he somehow didn’t figure he could actually act like one too. Daffy was his own breed.

Instead, Porky gave an insecure nod, staring at Daffy before going back to his script.

“Well, eh-luh-leh-eh-let’s go through your fee-fer-feh-fih-eh-first scene.” He instinctively tapped the designated area on his script. Who knew if Daffy was even on the same page, figuratively or literally. “You beh-bee-eh-blend in with the-the decoys, an’-an’-an’ I go to get the gun…”

The duck was staring intently at Porky, not his script, which made him nervous. His insides crawled. When Daffy said nothing, he continued, his voice shaking a little. Something about his presence was so commanding and all consuming.

“Neh-now, it’s only for tee-eh-two times, but I-I say we go for thee-ehh-eh-eh-theh-thre-thee-ehhh—trés.” He could feel Daffy‘s grin widening and his own self confidence shrinking. “Gee-eh-geh-geh-gets better results in threes.”

Daffy still said nothing. Porky prayed he was paying attention, but didn’t feel in the mood for calling him out on it. Gabby could typically be on the quiet side when going over their scripts, but that was because he was tuning out everything Porky said. At least this screwball was smiley about it.

“Uhhh…” Porky flipped through his script, increasingly unable to concentrate. He couldn’t place why he felt so vulnerable. As if he had to impress Daffy and assert his worth. It didn’t help that Porky was so prominent throughout the cartoon—Daffy barely showed up at all, just to quack or hide from Porky’s gun. For some strange, inexplicable reason, Porky felt as though he were robbing him of his time.

Many of the notes he had were notes for himself; notes that would be futile explaining to Daffy. He felt as though he’d be bragging.

“Whuzzat?”

Porky snapped his head up from his notes and self doubts. Daffy was pointing to a picture frame on the wall. Squinting, Porky realized that it was a smiling photo of himself, taken earlier this year. For some peculiar reason, he hadn’t noticed it was there—too habitual or too embarrassed to acknowledge it. Both were reasonable.

“Peh-peeah-eh-peh-eh-publicity photo,” he mumbled, his face growing warm. “They do that.”

Daffy continued to observe the picture with a smile, sitting on his green armchair with his hands folded behind his back. He didn’t take his eyes off of it.

And then,

“I want one.”

“Huh!” Porky’s squeaky noise of dismissal, a subliminal message that communicated “You’re crazy” was purely involuntary. He invested himself back in his script to avoid eye contact. “I-I-I don’t have any reh-ree-eh-right now.”

A beat before Daffy asked “Will ya get me one?”

Porky waved him off, not saying yes, not saying no. No coworker had ever asked for a headshot.

“Sign my script.”

Now he snapped his head back up, blinking incredulously. Daffy held his stack of papers out, giving them an extra shake when Porky didn’t respond. “C’mon! Sign my script! I got a pen!”

He noticed that the script was positioned in his feathery hands so that the title page was available for Porky's John Hancock. A sense of authority through such a decision was implied; his signature wasn’t just to be delegated to some menial middle page, buried in a thicket of paper where it was a lucky day if one’s eye caught the scrawl. Not the back page, an indefinite end that was a more bold option in comparison but one that felt almost more sardonic, as though his signature could only be graced on the very butt of the stack.

No. Instead, he wanted the very front. A symbol of glamor, attention, one might even say respect. The first thing anyone would ever notice when glancing at the script.

“Don’t just sit there!” Porky forced himself to maintain his stolid exterior, masking the slight amusement that pinched the corners of his lips upon his cohort’s compulsive addendum of “Please! ” It escaped as a rush through his lips as he strained to remember his manners.

“Ehf-eh-ee-i-if I sign it for ya, ehh-wee-ih-wih-will ya pay attention an-an’ go through eh-thuh-the-ehh-the-the script with me?” Though he posed it as a question, Porky was already reaching across the meager distance erected between the two to grab Daffy’s pen.

Never once did Daffy’s steely grin fade, even when he was arguing.

“I am payin’ attention!” His tone was akin to an indignant toddler’s. “I’m payin’ loads of attention!”

Guilt nudged at Porky’s insides. He shouldn’t have made assumptions. After all, Daffy’s eagerness was startlingly genuine; just because he threw out a question or two or ten, often unrelated, didn’t mean he didn’t care about the work. All of his inquiries were work related, in some way or another.

Regardless, Daffy insisted that no hard feelings were had through a subliminal “Yes!”, seeking to reaffirm Porky’s question just in case he was looking for a sincere answer.

So, to make up for his blunder, Porky cast scrawling blades of blue ink on the script—it was somewhat of a challenge, seeing as the front page was wrinkled and crumpled into submission. Strangely, he didn’t see any indication of writing on the pages. It was exceedingly clear that Daffy had barely disentangled himself from the script; he probably had an iron vice from the second he received it. Nevertheless, his intentions were once again enigmatically unclear.

Sensing the piercing gaze of an overexcited mallard burning into his forehead didn’t do much to ease his concentration. Nevertheless, after a generous handful of seconds, Porky’s mildly sarcastic well wishes were permanently emblazoned in drying ink on the top right corner of the page, carefully nestled to ensure that it wasn’t overlapping with any of the text:

“To that crazy, darn fool duck.
~ Porky Pig.”

Before he could bend a tissue in his muscles to even think about returning the script, Daffy lunged forward in his chair and ripped the stack of papers out of Porky’s hand. The smattering of creases and folds made much more sense now.

As much as he strained to admit it, still thoroughly embarrassed with all of the attention—much less predicament as a whole—prickles of acidic gratification pinched at his sides. Daffy sat nestled in his chair, script mere centimeters from his face as he scrutinized the handwritten message. Porky observed with sardonic amusement as the duck’s eyes seemed to widen with each second, mouthing the text repeatedly before jabbing a feathery finger on the page and sweeping it beneath each slice of ink.

This peculiar ritual was repeated for several suffocating moments before Daffy rattled the papers back in Porky’s face. Instinctively reaching a hand out to restrain the parts of the script tickling his snout (and, more importantly, to restrain Daffy), all he had to do was frown and narrow his eyes in puzzled agitation to coerce an explanation.

“Can ya write the date on it too!”

His shrill, mush-mouthed inquiry wasn’t much of an inquiry at all, but a statement flaunting the duplicitous politeness of a question.

Even knowing this, Porky pushed back. It wasn’t because he was going to refuse—he knew there was absolutely no room for refusal when dealing with Daffy—but because he wanted to gain insight as to why he should.

“Eh-wee-eh-eh-weeahhh-eh-what for?” Grabbing the stack of papers and already making a move to follow captain’s orders, his response lacked the accusatory bite he desired.

“‘Cause I don’t wanna forget!” The permanent grin in his voice was just as obnoxious as it was endearing. It was obnoxious because it was endearing. As was the way he refused to elaborate; he really was like an overgrown kid.

As Porky expectantly returned the script back to its overzealous owner, hoping it was the last time he would do so, a foreign twinge soured his chest. It wasn’t necessarily a sour emotion in itself; he couldn’t identify what it was. It felt as though someone were twisting his insides, but in a manner that elicited a laugh or a grin as a reaction rather than a protest.

A part of him couldn’t take his eyes off of his subject. That could be said for the whole time he had known him—all 13 hours—but it was especially true now. It was almost as if he wanted to see how Daffy would react next. Not necessarily in an attempt to piece the many puzzle pieces together in figuring out who, what, when, where, why is Daffy Duck, but in an attempt to gauge what Daffy thought of him and how his actions, his presence, his being impacted Daffy’s actions, Daffy’s presence, Daffy’s being.

Some would describe this foreign sensation as “pride”.

Porky, however, growing increasingly aware of his monologuing, attempted to swallow his curiosities as the much more native sensation of “embarrassment” twisted his sides in a manner that elicited a protest.

After repeating his odd little eye widening, lip syncing, finger trailing ritual to accommodate the newfound numerology drying on the front page, Daffy stuck true to his word by recklessly flipping through his own pages. Porky’s signature was an excuse for him to be participative.

“You should do a wink.”

His suggestion was the most level headed and commanding that Porky had heard him all morning—it was a shame that it made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Likewise, Daffy’s gesturing didn’t help to illuminate Porky’s confusion that was clearly just as visible as it was visceral. He tapped repeatedly on his script (perhaps “smacked” would be a more apt description, as he was audibly jamming his forefinger onto the pages and sparking a rather obnoxious smacking sound), but refused to show the actual page. It just didn’t occur to him.

At least, not physically. Instead, his elaborations were all vocal. “The scene with the decoys and the gun and the threes. You should do a wink after the third time.”

The hot tar of guilt that coagulated in Porky’s insides earlier threatened to simmer again once more, contrasted only by the slight wisp of relief. He was incredibly thankful that Daffy had been listening this whole time. Conversely, he was incredibly ashamed for doubting his credibility so much in the first place. Daffy’s protests about paying attention were not in vain.

“I-I-I’m afraid I ehhh-duh-dee-eh-dih-don’t know what you mean…” He hadn’t intended to sound so formal nor so pitiful. “Weh-wink at you?”

As stupid as he sounded saying it, Porky was grateful for Daffy’s lack of a laugh. His elaboration, on the other hand—if it even qualified as an elaboration—was just as cryptic and dumbfounding as his initial statement.

“The audience!”

Again, Porky blinked. Daffy proved just as difficult to discern when he was cooperative. Perhaps it was a result of inexperience; maybe he thought they would be filming in front of a live audience. Or, on the other hand, “audience” could be his word for the directors and filmmakers. In a sense, they were an audience… but given the blunt, cheery exactingness in Daffy’s tone, Porky didn’t think that his mental gymnastics ran that deep.

He was nevertheless thankful for Daffy’s ability to pick up on his confusion, an ability that came and went given his focus (or lack thereof.) “The camera, the camera!”

“Weh-wee-eh-why would I ever dehhhh-deh-eh-duh-do a-a thing like eh-that?” Once more, he found himself losing a handle on his tone. It was delivered with an abrasive, dismissive timbre he hadn’t intended. In circumstances where he did attempt to channel such authority, he sounded meeker and more pathetic than ever.

Daffy rocked idly in his chair, swinging his legs back and forth as he fought to direct his attention on either the script or his coworker. It was very clear throughout this entire ordeal that he wasn’t at all affected by Porky’s stubborn, quizzically argumentative nature. Was it out of sheer oblivion? Or was it a purposeful disregard, and that he was so enamored by Porky’s presence that he’d do anything to keep a pleasant attitude?

A small but significant part of Porky almost wanted Daffy to fight back. He was so used to Gabby’s acerbic objections and arguments and insults that it felt rather humbling to be on the giving end rather than receiving end. Not in a good way, either.

There was a genuine naivete to all of his own arguments and questions and proddings, of course. He really did want to know what Daffy was thinking so he could possibly gain any sort of insight at all into his being and personality. He felt uneasy, not being able to discern his thoughts and emotions and true intentions as he could with Gabby. Even Petunia, who was indiscernible in her own way, at least was familiar enough so that Porky could learn to expect and brace himself against her eccentric peculiarities.

“‘Cause!” Daffy’s shrill jubilation wedged itself between Porky’s internal soliloquy. “The audience will like you more for it.”

Porky instinctively frowned, feeling his mouth thin across his face as defensiveness interrupted his manners. “Eh-wee-eh-what, a-am I not luh-leeahh-leh-lek-li-eh-likable enough for ya?”

“You are!” The final vestiges of Porky’s voice hadn’t even dissipated into the air before his cohort interjected with startling ferocity. He was thrusting his entire body weight forward just as he did when he thrust his script in Porky’s face, staring into his soul with wide, piercing eyes. “You really are! But I think it’d be a way t’ get the audience in on the joke, too! Make ‘em feel included! They’re payin’ to see you, after all!”

He was right. Of course he was right. Why wouldn’t he be right? Porky had proved himself to be a heel once again. Desperately longing for a day where he could go at least 5 minutes without feeling embarrassed or guilty, all he did was stare bitterly down at his script. The words seemed to blend together.

“Look,” Daffy continued, the comparative control in his tone prompting another jolt from Porky’s insides. “It says ya tie a decoy on your head after the quack routine, right?”

His whole acting career was a quack routine. “Ee-yes, eh-theh-that’s right.”

“Well, that’s a pretty silly thing t’ do. If ya winked right before, it would be even more ridiculous, like ya think it’s this grand idea.”

Porky said nothing. He wondered how long Daffy had thought this over. Gabby never displayed this sort of interest nor scrutiny towards the script in any of his roles; usually, he was the one making such suggestions. Daffy had barely started his first day of work, and he was already upstaging Porky in terms of direction.

Daffy continued to press on with an obnoxious innocence. “I really think it’d get a lotta laughs! Can’t’cha just try it once?”

Again, Porky said nothing. Not because he was opposed, but because he knew there was nothing he could say except “You’re right.” Those two words very often struggled to make their way past his lips, and not on account of the stutter.

Though he was staring down at his script, the blaze of Daffy’s piercing gaze continued to burn a hole through his head.

“If ya don’t like it, they can always redo the take!”

Those two magic words again refused to relent in Porky’s mind and heart, just as they refused to be contorted into speech. He almost argued back with a “Takes are expensive,” but was immediately humbled by remembering how many takes he had flubbed through getting stuck on a phrase. With each mistake came each anxiety, and he would ruin more and more takes until the directors called in a break. They had always insisted it was fine, no, really, yes, it’s fine. They had also always delivered such reassurances with a wry, sand dry smile that was wholly unconvincing.

When Daffy didn’t pry any further outside of his terminable scrutinizing gaze, Porky knew he had no choice but to concede. He still didn’t even know why it was so hard for him to concede in the first place; the insecurities that had plagued the first stretch of his career were making a fighting comeback with a vengeance. Losing a sense of control never did him much good.

“Uh-eh-eh-alright,” he strained at last, unable to look his coworker in the eye. “Ull-I’ll try it.”

Now, Daffy lept all of the way out of his chair to ogle at Porky. He was constantly torn between whether to say thank you or to gauge the authenticity of his comments—thus, an amalgamation of breathless “Ya mean… do ya really…! Thank… are ya sure ya… oh, thank y.. ya really mean…”s resulted. Black, beady pupils ricocheted around his eyes in a frenzy as he wound himself up into a panting, chuckling, awestruck mess. Manners were not a priority at this moment.

So, as a compromise, Daffy heaved a loud shriek of “THANKS A LOT!” that almost sounded as terrified as it did jubilated. Porky observed in petrified awe as the duck immediately peeled out of the commons area, dashing back whence they came along the empty hallway with the same urgency one would have when hearing their house had caught fire.

It was the very same exit he had made the night before.

A clock hanging on the wall read 7:57. Filming didn’t start until 10:30, with Porky expected to be on stage at 10 to discuss any changes or skip through a brief “rehearsal” in an attempt to maintain the mandated “spontaneity”. Where Daffy was headed off to, he had no idea, but the thick slaps of webbed feet hammering against the wooden floorboards were all too quick to fade.

Nevertheless, Porky decided to preoccupy himself with his script some more, which was even more dire of a priority seeing as his other half just disappeared into thin air. A long day of filming and retakes and mistakes and miscommunications and insecurities loomed ahead; he didn’t want to think about it.

Rubbing his temples in resignation, he cast his eyes down to the page that was open on his lap. The script pad felt heavier at the top than it did at the bottom, meaning that it was towards the end—he must have been fiddling between the pages without even noticing it.

There, in fresh, mocking typeface, read a pair of stage directions:

“[PORKY waves a white flag and surrenders.]”

Chapter Text

It was approximately 9:02 and 36 seconds when Petunia arrived at the costume shop. Not that he was counting, of course.

Unable to quell his nerves and increasingly put off by Daffy’s refusal to return, Porky had taken his moping operations into the sanctity of the costume shop. It was a small, cluttered building nestled off to the side of the studio lot. There was barely any source of ventilation—no heat in the winter, no air conditioning in the summer, and the slightly smudged windows that lined the perimeter of the building all refused to budge open. Dozens of mannequins and piles of clothing strewn haphazardly across the interior made it nearly impossible to navigate; it wasn’t a spot that people visited unless they absolutely had to.

Upon discovering this, Porky promptly transformed it into a little safe haven of his own. He’d retreat to the shop between takes, whether to memorize lines undisturbed, chat with Petunia on the instances he had forgotten she was still there (he tried to learn her schedule so he could strategize the times of his breaks and retreat when she wasn’t there), or just take a breather.

So, with this in mind, it was incredibly peculiar of him to be relieved at Petunia’s presence; as she strode in, concealed by the mound of clothing materials proudly piled in her arms, Porky immediately threw himself off of his chair and heaved an audible, despairing groan.

“Ceh-cee-eh-ehh-ceh-cee-christ, Petunia, weh-eh-what took you so luh-lee-eh-long!?”

Unfazed by his acidity, she began sorting out the pile in her arms and strategically laying out assorted costumes on a long work table that took up much of the shop’s interior. Porky wondered how many of those costumes were for him and how many were for other actors he didn’t talk to.

The studio technically had two different series’ running: Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies. Though Porky had debuted under a Merrie Melody, he was soon enough attached to the Looney Tunes name, which he now practically owned. The Merrie Melodies often flaunted a series of rotating cast members—it was rare for someone to ever reappear for a second cartoon. Between the operations of the studio and his own busy schedule, Porky hadn’t had time to fraternize with the other actors unless they were directly working with him.

“Good morning to you, too,” was all Petunia said. She didn’t ask why Porky was loitering in the costume shop or why he considered 2 and a half minutes “taking long”. Instead, that permanent smirk that permeated her every action and every thought and every word and every everything ground itself against Porky’s nerves. He’d be more satisfied if she had thrown him out and yelled at him.

Instead, he huddled to her side, fidgeting furiously with his fingers as he watched her scratch out a smudge with her fingernail on a pair of particularly hideous overalls. Those were likely reserved for him for another short.

“I-I-I’m goin’ nuh-nih-nu-eh-nu-eh-nuh-nu—crazy,” he whined, making a point to look her in the eye so that she had no choice but to pay attention to him. Her pupils didn’t even think about flicking their way towards him. “Ehhh-theeah-eh-thee-eh-eh-that duck is a teh-tuh-tee-eh-ih-total leh-loon!”

Petunia was eying a button on a particularly expensive tuxedo that Porky knew couldn’t be for him. “What duck?”

“The-the-the-the one I toldja uh-beh-beh-eh-about last night!” Though there was minimal space reserved for such histrionics, Porky threw his hands on his face as he paced back and forth helplessly, weaving in and out of piles of cloth strewn on the floor.

While he knew Petunia wasn’t intending to ignore him—she had work to do, and was very clearly preoccupied with it—her lax off-and-on nature still managed to bewilder him. She bothered to breathe a “That’s right!” while reaching for a sewing needle and spool of thread, attending to the button in question on the fancy tuxedo.

And that was that. Guessing further conversation was futile (at least, the two sided kind), Porky returned to his chosen corner at the back of the shop, sitting on a creaky wooden chair to obsessively flip discontentedly through his script. Two clothing racks plumped with heavy, woolen jackets, fur coats, thick dresses, and so forth provided a comfortable, cushy buffer between the chair. It also provided Porky with an excuse to hide behind the articles of the clothing, secluding himself from the outside world.

Such escapism wasn’t as effective in this moment that it usually was; his mind was too busy with thoughts of filming, little room for rehearsal, struggling in adapting to his new coworker, and Petunia’s presence. He barely had a moment to decide on where to focus his his eyes on the script when a frilly coo cut through the stuffy, wooden air.

“Oh Porky! Come here for a moment.”

More “Oh Porky”-ing never meant anything good. He strained to bite the bile back in his throat as he weighed his options; obsess more over his script, or be subject to whichever scheme Petunia was concocting. Both were inevitable—it was a matter of which he wanted to succumb to first. He supposed following Petunia’s bidding would at least be something new.

As he hesitantly peeled himself out of the chair, he noticed Petunia held a pile of cloth to her chest. All eyes were on him now as she eyed him with her usual plucky attentiveness. He was the priority now. Thus, that meant that the pile of clothes pressed to her torso were meant for him.

“Try this on while you’re here, won’t you?” Before he could gather what it was he was to try on, Petunia thrust the bundle in his care. It felt stiff and starchy, occasional blooms of cotton interrupting the flow of the fabric.

Holding out the bundle in front of him revealed a disgusting mess: it was a hunting outfit colored a depressing, muddy brown. Streaks of tan breached the protocol thanks to a clunky belt hanging loosely around the waist, as well as an obtrusive, singular plastic button to match. Petunia had also wedged a hunting cap in his grasp with the same scheme in terms of both color and general repulsiveness. A tan bow extended from the cotton hunting flaps erected on the sides and was tied neatly on the top for added embarrassment.

Despite not even trying it on, Porky knew it was one of the ugliest costumes he had ever been faced with the misfortune of seeing.

Even worse was that he instinctively knew it was for today’s performance. Whether he liked it or not, it was his burden and his alone.

Arguing was fruitless, but Porky did so anyway on the off chance that he would be privy to a last minute miracle and swapped with a much less humiliating alternative. “Yeh-yee-eh-ya mean I-I have to wear the-thee-eh-this!?”

When Petunia “Oh Porky”’d him some more in response, he couldn’t help but moan audibly in woeful resignation. Everything had to be a plea, a bargain, a guilt with her. He screwed his eyes shut to avoid her puppy dog stare as she hovered over his shoulder. “You know you do!”

Just because she was right didn’t mean the sting was any less ferocious. Another ailed noise of desperation slipped past his tongue as he placed the cap down on the nearby table, shouldering the hunting jacket with as much passive aggressive tugging as possible. He was only wearing a rather thin white button down shirt and green bow-tie, so the jacket slipped on with insulting ease. A part of him had hoped it would be too small and that the whole outfit would be a bust.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be so lucky.

No, in fact, it was quite the result. If anything, the assemblage was too roomy—not an issue Porky dealt with often. After begrudgingly slapping the ridiculous hunting cap on top of his ridiculous head, wearing his ridiculous hunting uniform, he spared a hesitant glance at the full body wooden mirror nestled against the wall in front of him.

He was horrified at what he saw.

For one thing, his belt was giant. It was littered with empty holsters that Petunia reassured would be the responsibility of the prop department; just one more hurdle he had to jump through for the day. It covered about a third of his entire torso, and was strapped around his midriff on top of the shirt rather than around his waist. Thanks to the big size of the uniform, the belt seemed to hang flaccid around his middle.

Wrinkles and creases multiplied like a parasite with every movement he made. They were particularly prevalent around the belt and at his feet. Despite the belt hanging at his middle, it still possessed a miraculous ability to garner folds and wrinkles. In an enigmatic feat, he appeared to both suffocate the uniform and drown in it at the same time.

Boasting such a sallow, pitiful expression on his face certainly didn’t aid in boosting the ensemble. Especially juxtaposed against the vivacious energy exuded by Petunia, who put her chin on his shoulder excitedly, grabbing both of his arms as she forced his attention on the mirror.

“Oh, just look at you!” As she shook his shoulders in bubbly affirmation, he sought to sink deeper into himself. “You look so cute!”

How he hated that word. So enveloped in his frustrations, he didn’t even try to conceal the blush crimsoning his face.

“I-I-I-I’m eh-nuh-nee-eh-not cute,” he spat, maintaining the same vocal ferocity and authority as a pouting toddler. “I leh-luh-lee-eh-leh-look like a ceh-comple-eh-teh-eh-beh-complete idiot!”

As she always did, Petunia refused to pay any mind to Porky’s complaints. Instead, she playfully poked at his cheeks, prompting him to swat her away and cover his face.

“You’re just in one of your moods,” she sighed with an exacting flippantness. Frequent diagnoses like these, he certainly did not care for.

“Oh, eh-I-I’m seh-eh-so nervous uhb-beh-about this one…” Porky remained cemented at his post as Petunia left his side to retrieve something else. “We—uh-weh-well, I-I’m no—he’s… weh-we’re not prepared at-at-eh-at all, and they ehh-duh-dee-ehhh-don’t give us time feh-eh-for rih-reee-eh-reh-rehe-rehearsals, and he ran out on muh-mih-me, and now I-I-I gotta deh-dee-do this wink and-and-and make myself more luh-lee-eh-likable, an’—“

Petunia’s cryptic authority prevailed as she thrust a pair of black, shiny boots in Porky’s arms, effectively cutting off his rambling. He had no idea whether she had heard a word he had said or not. As he examined the boots in his possession, wincing as he could see his sour mug reflected in the shiny vinyl, he had hoped that the brief silence occupying the costume shop would lead to some sort of consolation or reassurance of his worries. At the very least, an acknowledgement.

But, as to be expected, that was too good for him. She merely ordered him to put the boots on—“then see what you think!”

His opinion stayed the same. In fact, it worsened. He still sulked in an outfit that was both too large and too tight—yet now, he looked even more ridiculous with his baggy pants tucked dutifully into his shiny, polished boots.

“I-it’s too big,” he whined, feeling just as stupid as his words. Resignation was dredging him down; his desire to be argumentative was fading. It was hardly 9 o’clock in the morning, and he had already been sapped of his energy for the day.

Clapping sounds interrupted his thoughts as Petunia seemed delighted. “That’s good! They wanted it to be a little roomy. Oh, you are such a darling!”

A darling was the last thing he wanted to be. It was also the last word on earth he would ever use to describe himself. Especially knowing that his buffoonish appearance was all a matter of director’s orders; he couldn’t stand being a laughing stock. It made him itch and writhe and squirm—there was a comedic artistry to it, sure, but it wasn’t one he could appreciate. He felt like a dress up doll more than he ever did an actor.

“I don’t eh-luh-lee-eh-leh-like this ceh-color,” he protested, wrinkling his snout as he observed himself some more. Between the browns and the tans, he felt like a walking mud puddle. “It’s depre-eh-deh-deh-pehh… eh-deeah-depresseh-eh-geh… i-it’s he-eh-he-eh-hid-hiduh-dee-ehh-eh-dehh… it stinks.”

Though he should have expected as such, his complaints refused to deter Petunia. She merely gave his shoulders a shake as she slid into her pouty voice. That wretched, ear shattering pouty voice. “But it’ll just pop in black and white! Nobody is going to know… oh, Porky, you know that!”

Unable to think of a contrarian retort, Porky resigned himself to standing miserably in front of the mirror. He looked like he could cry; seeing Petunia’s chipper, smiling mug beaming next to his own didn’t do much to boost his confidence. He hadn’t felt this viscerally insecure since he first began acting.

“When do you have to go?” Apparently Petunia had decided she was done toying with him, as she returned back to the interminable swarm of cloth and costumes on the table. He was just as grateful as he was offended that she didn’t ask why he was intruding on her space to begin with.

“Ten,” he moaned, wincing at the small blue clock hanging above the doorway. It was only 9:13. Conversely, it was already 9:13. Though he was thankful for the opportunity to bask in debatable solitude some more, a more desperate voice wished to get it all over with. Anticipation was always the worst part.

Petunia merely made a noise that was indiscernible in its intent. She seemed to do that often. More often than what allowed for Porky’s liking.

At the very least, she seemed to grow more receptive to “one of his moods”, as she asked if he’d like to help her sort through the costumes. Unable to concentrate effectively, he declined; at least he’d seem more productive staring at his script.

He didn’t even bother to strip himself of his costume—what was the use? Already was he thrown in the coffin. No use to make an escape when a shovelful of dirt loomed ahead.

Part of his malaise came from a general lack of attachment to the story itself. Spending hours noting and marking up his script, he came out of the other end feeling worse than when he had started. A few beats and gags were politely interesting—he was to throw a duck call on the ground, which would lodge itself in the mouth of his hunting dog, prompting a quack to substitute his every bark and prompt hunters to shoot at them. It would be interesting to see how they would pull that off. Likewise again with the scene where Daffy was to swallow an electric eel.

Other than that, however, the story was run of the mill at best and passively insulting at worst. He was to get punched in the nose twice by a crotchety neighbor after shooting a hole in his ceiling (twice), at one point he was to nearly shoot himself and capsize his boat after a swarm of ducks distract him from eating a sandwich—he had a particular disdain towards those kinds of jokes about his weight, especially when he had toiled to lose nearly half of his body mass; he had hoped that if he slimmed down enough, those jokes would stop. Evidently, that was not the case, even after they had asked him to lose the weight in the first place—and he was to deliver humiliating corny lines such as “There’s something fishy about that” after a school of drunken fish were to sing a song number.

Cartoons with much less cohesive writing certainly existed, just as he had certainly starred in them. However, after two years of getting accustomed to the routine, he was constantly searching for ways to elevate his performance. Whether that was making mental acting notes and decisions or running new gags and story points by the directors. Most of the time, he just allowed the shorts to exist on the surface level, growing exhausted with arguing; he was getting paid, he was paying his dues, that should be enough.

Yet, for some reason, he felt he had an obligation to this particular cartoon. It frustrated him that he couldn’t think of a grand way to elevate the writing. Still locked in the process of acquainting himself with the material didn’t prove to be incredibly helpful, either; despite the new “spontaneous” direction taken by the studio, he at least had a couple days' notice to pour over the script before heading to film. Whether this short needed to be rushed or they simply forgot to tell him about it (which, as absurd as it sounded, he couldn’t entirely discount), he didn’t know. In the end, it didn’t really matter what the case was—it posed a major obstacle regardless.

Being thrown into the lion’s den with a new face he had never seen before in his life certainly didn’t help, either. At least, not a face that was so obtrusive and high maintenance. While he always felt he had to make a point to watch how he presented himself to others, he hadn’t felt such a carnal desire to actually prove himself. Gabby didn’t seem to care what he did. He’d object to it regardless. Porky likewise didn’t talk as much with his previous costars to gauge their perception of him; it helped that he was still considered a part of an ensemble in those days and that they were all on equal footing.

Daffy was different. A staggering understatement, but one that was true. He couldn’t pose what it was about him that seemed so intimidating. His introduction as a fan? His impossible-to-discern nature? His ability to switch from 0 to 100 with absolutely no warning? His mischievous innocence? His all consuming attention? His all consuming lack of attention?

Daffy was different. He had a lot going on. And all of it, Porky found impossible to discern.

Minutes slowly trudged on, and Porky didn’t accomplish anything through any of them. Instead, he entangled himself in a ritual: flip aimlessly through his script, force himself to look at a line or a note, struggle to think of how he would approach it, get distracted by how much of a failure he was, suddenly grow exceedingly aware of his cravenness hiding in the costume shop moping over his lines, spare a grunt or a sigh or a moan or a curse, rinse and repeat.

Petunia tended to her work with surprising diligence—a part of Porky was hoping she would talk his ear off so ferociously that he’d be deafened and be unable to show up for filming. Or, as a more plausible alternative, be so distracted by her millions of conversations that he’d have to strain to remember what was bothering him in the first place.

Instead, physical silence suffocated and tugged at his throat. Mental cacophony drowned him.

So, when he spent ten minutes straight watching the clock move, he finally decided to meet his fate at the fresh time of 9:49 and 45 seconds. If he walked very, very, very slowly, he could approach the soundstage right at 10 o’clock. No more, and certainly no less.

“I geh-gee-eh-guh-gih-ih-guess I-I’ll be going…” His voice barely cut over the sound of Petunia's sewing machine. She was tending to a ridiculously small yellow dress that didn’t look like it would fit more than a mouse. Another article of clothing most decidedly not for him.

Petunia only nodded in response. Porky didn’t budge from his spot.

“I-I said I’ll beh-geh-be going,” he pushed again, unnerved by the lack of an audible reaffirmation. He knew he was stalling, but it was instinctual.

“I heard you,” Petunia hummed. Though Porky knew she hadn’t meant to come off as passive aggressive, rather just stating a fact, the reply still stung. What sort of response was he fishing for her to even give? He had no clue. Thus, it was unfair to act slighted when he didn’t get it.

It wasn’t until he stepped outside of the door frame that he heard a cheery “You’ll do great!” from behind him.

Whirling around, he hit his shoulder against the wall from the ferocity of his turn. All for naught, too; Petunia wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she was still fiddling with the buttercream dress in her possession.

Still, he had known he heard it. And while he couldn’t bring himself to thank her or even smile, a brief pressure tugged at his heart. A jolt—very slight, but noticeable—that almost seemed to steer him towards reassurance. The feeling wasn’t strong, but it was a feeling, and one that was present. For that, he was grateful.

“Eh-we-eh-we’ll see,” was his cryptic way of expressing thanks.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Carefully concocted schemes of taking his sweet time in order to approach the soundstage at exactly 10 were not realized. Not because he was gifted with a newfound confidence thanks to Petunia’s reassurance, and certainly not because he had overcome his arbitrary anxiety.

Rather, he had entangled himself so deeply in his anxieties that he had completely forgotten to monitor his steps. So, his trek to the studio was really only about three minutes rather than eleven. When he first came face to face with the wooden doors, he cursed audibly to himself; mainly because he knew there was no way he could escape now. Even if the soundstage was limited to crew only, it was still an area of concentrated foot traffic. Being the face of the studio likewise didn’t allow for easy camouflage—he’d make a bigger scene trying to hide than he would if he didn’t.

So, he took a breath.

He shut his eyes.

He counted to three.

…Four.

…Five.

He counted to ten, just to be safe.

…Eleven.

…Twelve.

Better make it twenty.

He took another breath. A shake of the head. A tighter screwing of the eyes.

…Four.

…Five.

Alright, this time for sure.

One…

Two…

Just as he began to concoct the next excuse as to why he wouldn’t be opening the door on “three”, a familiarly unfamiliar piercing sensation squeezed his insides.

The soundstage was infamously not soundproofed. All across the studio, the walls were paper thin and conversations lingered in every corner. There was never truly a quiet moment, unless you were to arrive or stay until some ungodly hour. It was another reason as to why he preferred to retreat to the studio so early.

A lack of soundproofing meant a lack of Daffy proofing as well. Even separated through the slabs of oak wood, Porky’s insides curdled inquisitively at the sound of the duck’s shrieking laughter emanating from inside the stage. It was the same crack he heard explode in his dressing room the night before when Daffy had introduced himself. A sensation more than a sound, it was a feeling that electrified Porky to his core, and not in a particularly pleasant way. Not in a particularly repugnant way, either. But a way that marked the unmistakable, indisputable presence of one Daffy Duck.

Thus answered his earlier question of where on earth he had run off to.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Porky supposed he had Daffy to thank for pushing him to go inside just as he had him to thank for his reluctance in the first place. He didn’t stop to observe the sets (though a giant vat of water meant to simulate a lake did catch his eye in passing), he didn’t stop to check if anyone was waving him down, he didn’t even check to see who was present.

His first and only priority was looking for Daffy.

Thankfully, his search didn’t take very long. Another spine tingling clap of laughter directed his attention over to the leftmost wall; Porky’s stomach dropped as he realized he was fraternizing with the director.

Their director for this particular short was a nice enough gentleman, and Porky always valued that the scripts provided for his cartoons were at least more interesting and rife with ideas than others—this particular cartoon being an exception. Likewise, he knew Daffy had just as much of a right to talk to the director as he did; he was starring in the short too. To enforce an embargo like that would be juvenile at best and insulting at worst.

Nevertheless, for some, indiscernible reason, Porky felt as though he were responsible for his deeds—if Daffy annoyed the director, then somehow that was his fault. If Daffy flubbed a line or ruined a take, that would be his responsibility, too.

Before he could drown in the potential responsibilities and “what if”s that weighed on his shoulders, a tickling sensation bore into the spot between his eyes.

Snapping his head up revealed that Daffy was staring right at him across the soundstage. As he had done when Porky forked over his signature, a smile seemed to slither onto his face in real time, eyes brightening, chest perking. It was when he started waving his hands and yelling “Hey, Porky!” that he knew he had no choice but to submit himself to his fate. It would reflect poorly on him to continue standing and sulking in broad stage light.

Porky shuffled forth, mumbling his share of “gee-eh-good morning”s and “eh-hi”s to the production crew as he passed them by and they passed him. Make no mistake, he was grateful for the amiability of the crew. Everyone he worked with ranged from reasonable to nice, and he would normally be pleased to be worthy of something as gratifying as a “good morning”. However, on days where he didn’t feel like talking (or, in today’s case, not being seen at all), it posed an impediment more than it did a polite gesture.

“Look at you!” Attempts to bury himself further into the sewer colored starch that hung on his body were futile, but that certainly didn’t stop him from trying as Daffy excitedly scrutinized his assemblage. “Ya look fit for the role!”

While he didn’t know what was meant to be implied by that, at least Daffy didn’t call him cute. Unable to coerce the words out, Porky just scuffed his heels and looked at the ground. “Hmm,” was his wildly fascinating response.

It was only until he asked an ambiguously friendly inquiry of “Are you ready for today?” that Porky even remembered the director was there, causing him to snap his head up once more and feign attentiveness.

“Yee-eh-yes, sir.” The lie warbled in his throat. He hasn’t uttered such stiff formalities since the infancy of his career; his words were as starchy as his costume.

Thankfully, the director thought nothing of it. “We’ll go through your scenes together first thing to make it easier, so see if there are any loose ends you need to tie up.”

Too many to count, Porky bemoaned internally. He had figured they would film together first—that was always how it went when filming with Gabby or any other co-stars—but hearing it solidified in the director’s words made his stomach churn.

Glancing at Daffy, a core detail that he had somehow completely missed until now rocked him off his heels. He should have known as soon as Daffy had flagged him over. His tiny, black, feathery hands were decidedly script-less.

“Wee-eh-weh-wuh-where’s your script?” The grip on his own script tightened as he cautioned his words. If he didn’t relax, there would be enough folds and creases and crumples to rival Daffy’s own pad of paper.

Daffy was completely oblivious to his tone, boasting a proud, matter of fact smile. “Don’t need it!”

Feeling his knees buckle, Porky strained not to put a physical voice to his mental anguish as he bit back a wordless exclamation. Overconfidence or sheer stupidity, he couldn’t decide which was the culprit. Both seemed likely; the insecurities that he struggled to write off as irrational completely ambushed his monologue.

“I-I reh-ih-re-re-eh-rih-really think you-you-you deh-do,” he warbled, tapping furiously at his own script as a means to physically release his anxieties. He realized just as soon as he was doing it that it could read as a passive aggressive gesture, but he didn’t possess the agency to really care nor stop. At the very least, Daffy’s grin refused to falter. “If-eef-i-if it’s your first teh-tuh-tih-tehh-eh-tuh-tee-ti-ti-eh-teh-time…”

When he said nothing, just staring at him with that penetrable, suffocating, smiley vacancy, Porky found himself unable to cork the verbal concerns spilling from his tongue. Sounds of pages flipping wildly in his grasp coagulated with his vibrating timbre as he tore through his script. It was as though if he were to stare at his own notes long enough, maybe he could somehow mentally impart that information into Daffy’s own head.

“Weh-why, I-I-I’ve eh-beh-been do-do-doin’ this for yee-ih-yeh-years, an-an-aa-and even I’m not rih-ree-eh-read-eh-rea… ehh… wih-we haven’t… I-I-I-I rr-really think… th.. yee-yee-yee-ih-yuh-you weh-eh-wanted tuh-to-to…”

A despairing noise that served as a cross between a laugh, a sob, and a whine lodged itself in his throat and wedged between his words. Daffy only continued to stare. It was impossible to gauge what was on his mind; it was impossible to gauge if there was anything on his mind at all.

One thing was for certain: Porky was not and would not get anywhere with him.

As such, he pardoned a gusty sigh, fiddling with his script as a means to mindlessly wean his anxiety. Filming was rapidly approaching, and he was in no mindset to get into character. Then, the portions of the cartoon he could control—or, at least, take accountability for, would be ruined through his lack of conviction and shattered nerves. That was arguably much more mortifying than any sort of unpredictability Daffy would toss into the short.

Edits could be made. The director was there to direct, after all. Even if the short wouldn’t be in pristine condition, and Porky would forever be known as the guy who starred alongside the crazy duck in that one film who seemed to have no idea what he was doing, and there was a possibility that legacy would tank his career in itself, and then he’d have to explain himself to Petunia, and then decide whether or not to live a life of solitude on the farm or dance on the street corners for scraps, at the very least, he would be in control of himself.

So, after he stuffed his script inside his hunting jacket (conveniently laden with inside pockets, a benefit if there were any to be had), he strained to contort a smile on his face. It wasn’t really a grin, but a sign that screamed “PHONY” in big, flashing letters.

“I-I’ll ehhh-seh-see you on set,” he pushed, sparing a curt nod. Whether out of the goodness of his heart or sheer oblivion, Daffy seemed oblivious to any and all indications that Porky was fighting for his life to twist the ends of his mouth into a curve.

Before Daffy even had a chance to speak, he excused himself with another shy nod. He cautioned a wave to the director—more accurately, he held his hand limp in front of his chest for a few seconds—to indicate that he can be called when ready. Hopefully that wouldn’t be too soon.

It’s not like he was impossible to find; Porky merely shuffled off to another corner of the soundstage, an area with less foot traffic and where conversations were more unintelligible. He could retreat to his dressing room, but a mental barrier prevented him from doing so—it was as though his reclusiveness would somehow be susceptible to suspicion only if he were to retire to the one part of the studio that was unequivocally his. Hiding in dark corners and obscured by an entanglement of equipment be damned, he was still in the presence of the people.

In a way, at least.

Leaning against the wall, Porky nestled himself between two standing lights that weren’t on, again aided his inconspicuousness. It was then that he allowed himself to survey his surroundings and familiarize himself with the set.

Of the most visual interest was the giant vat of water simulating the appearance of a lake. There were many instances in filming where Porky wanted to protest that shooting on location would be less of a hassle—surely finding a remote lake with reeds and slopes of dirt and cattails of true authenticity would be easier. Then again, Hollywood wasn’t exactly known for its abundant population of ponds. Attempts to bring the real into the fake were certainly impressive, and if Porky turned his head a certain angle, the mounds of artificial dirt and reeds strategically clustered around the water almost looked real when juxtaposed against the inky backdrops of hazy morning sky.

In another corner of the soundstage was a much more quaint set that Porky immediately recognized as his “home”. Blocky blobs of hideous, unstable furniture littered the perimeter, clashing against hideous, unstable fake walls. Many liberties were meticulously executed to make the set seem more lived in—painted cracks on the fake walls, ruffles in rugs on the ground, picture frames winking at a slanted angle, pillows strewn on a couch and a bed.

While he understood the attempts were to evoke personality, making the surroundings feel lived in, flavorful, it made Porky feel like a slob. He wrinkled his snout and chewed on a contemplative grunt.

There wasn’t much else to it. Most of the story did take place around that pond, clusters of reeds offering vague cinematic intermissions when necessary. A prop boat was nestled along a simulated bank, a combination of painted plaster and real dirt to render the environments natural. He wondered how forgiving it would be to his balance. Or lack thereof, anyway.

An indiscernible amount of time therefore slogged by—it couldn’t have been long, but it provided enough of a noticeable buffer for Porky to get lost in his thoughts. Thoughts thankfully focusing more on his cartoon work; the set, the story, what he could do to enrich his performance and feel more natural on set. Taking responsibility for himself and himself alone.

Despite his anxieties never quelling (that was just a given), he did feel somewhat more centered than he had all morning. Or, at the very least, more willing to face potential disaster.

Therefore, it was startlingly convenient for him to be jostled violently out of his thoughts. Metaphorically and physically.

It took him a few moments to discern what was happening, much less what he was even seeing. So caught up in his ponderings, he hadn’t noticed that Daffy had approached him and was now tugging and fiddling at the holsters hanging on his belt. He said nothing. He probably thought nothing, either. Just a permanent grin on his face as Porky felt a peculiar weight chafe against his hips. It never went away.

“Bullets,” Daffy grinned as he carelessly deposited the remainder of his supply. He didn’t seem to mind that Porky was gaping at him, face blanched, mouth quivering as no words refused to even entertain the idea of sneaking out of his maw.

Part of his stupefaction came from knowing the spontaneity was somewhat warranted. Petunia had mentioned the holsters, after all. He just hadn’t expected the prop department to be his personal little headache.

Thus, Porky only remained frozen, standing with his arms out, hands twitching to grapple some unknown stability potentially hanging in the air. Content with the lack of a reply, Daffy gave Porky’s sides a reaffirming pat—clearly not a believer in personal boundaries—before leaning back and admiring him like a work of art.

That insufferable grin.

“Oh yeah,” breathed the duck, grin immediately dropping as he snapped into diligent reality. Another curious indication of his off-and-on awareness. “You’re wanted on set! An’ that’s a good thing, ‘cause so’m I!”

He wondered if that was true, or if Daffy just wanted an excuse to hound him some more. He hadn’t heard any sort of indication that he was wanted. Then again, that was a purposeful decision—a consequence of his personal quest for solitude. Likewise, Daffy didn’t have much reason to lie. Or any at all, to that matter.

Forcing himself to cling to his on and off philosophy of accepting his fate, Porky cautiously ventured a foot forward. Then another. Then one after that. Slowly but surely, he found himself trailing behind his exuberant cohort—who was sparing eager grins past his shoulder with an unbridled air of confidentiality, like a kid about to get into trouble—and over to the director. Tapping his side reassured that his script was still with him. He ran through a mental recitation of his lines for safekeeping.

And, just as suddenly as he found himself start walking, he found himself halting. It was as though someone had breached entry inside his brain and given him orders he had no choice to follow. Just as calming as it was highly unnerving. He knew it was out of necessity, to get into the mental calm—or, at the very least, stagnancy—demanded for a cognizant performance.

“Alright, boys.” A firm, somewhat reassuring, more so incidentally commanding voice instinctively prompted Potky to stand at attention. He made sure to speed through his lines as best he could without losing focus; it was a skill he had learned to better in his short experience. “Any questions before we start?”

Whether he had them or not was irrelevant. Porky shook his head no regardless. More questions meant more time, which meant more stalling, which meant more agonizing. He was in the opposite mindset of where he started—get it done swiftly and quickly.

Interestingly, Daffy didn’t utter a word himself; a rather shocking revelation. A glance from his peripherals revealed that he was standing firm next to Porky, arms pushed behind his back, chest out, an amiable grin on his face to indicate he was listening.

The director shared their silence, as he only nodded. A stuffy pause wedged its way in as he stopped to analyze a laundry list of notes on his clipboard. A few lackeys and production assistants lingered behind him, clinging to their cameras and light stands with equal bated repose as Porky and Daffy. Porky used the downtime to run an accelerator through his lines once more, desperately trying not to fixate on how many eyes would be watching him. He felt like it was his first day of filming all over again.

“Now, Porky.” Before the director even finished his sentence, Porky instinctively snapped his eyes up in attention towards him. “The first scene with you two together is with the decoys. Would you like to start from the top, with putting the decoys in the water? Or would it be better to start with Daffy’s cue?”

Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even process them. He was in autopilot mode—taking and answering orders from the chief. There was a logic behind his thoughts, as he wasn’t spewing nonsense. His answers were genuine. But the inhibitions that had teased and chided him so cruelly just seemed to melt away; or, at the very least, retreat to the corners.

“Eh-theh-eh-eh-the top,” he answered dutifully, attempting to ignore the itch of Daffy’s eyes staring into his peripherals. “Please. It’ll help t’-to eh-warm up.”

Once more, he found himself chuckling without knowing why or how.

Thankfully, he was reciprocated with a smile from the director. A quick one, but a smile nevertheless. “You’re a responsible one. Go ahead, then. You follow him,”—he was addressing Daffy now, who perked his eyebrows up with a hungry inquisitively—“and wait for your cue.”

The mush mouthed “Yessir,” that emanated from Daffy nearly caused Porky to have a coronary. He didn’t realize that “sir” was even a part of his vocabulary.

And that was that. Sparked by momentary eye contact, an unspoken understanding between pig and duck was cemented. Slowly, Porky began to shuffle off to the giant vat of water, maintaining a glance over his shoulder to ensure Daffy would follow. Rhythmic, jovial slaps behind him indicated that he was rightfully being trailed.

“Are ya nervous?”

It was a repeat of the same question he asked the night before. Granted, Daffy’s inquiry was much more boisterous and curious than the former occasion. Porky felt as though he were being trailed by a curious puppy who wouldn’t untwine himself from his ankles.

Porky merely continued to stare down at his feet, jamming his hands in his pocket. He had a habit of fiddling and flexing his fingers when he was anxious—if his words wouldn’t betray him, his actions would.

“Eh-yee-eh-yeh-you’ll be feh-fine,” he mumbled, his cheeks burning.

Out of his good grace, Daffy didn’t respond. Porky could still feel his prickling stare burning into the back of his neck, the slapping of his feet continuing in rhythmic time. In that moment, he was exceedingly aware of his status as a role model; for him to concede to his nerves would set a bad precedent for Daffy.

Then again, Daffy didn’t seem like a fellow who knew what “nervous” even felt like.

With that, they approached the springboard for the cartoon. The vat of water was cleverly disguised through fake dirt, sand, and grass, plastic reefs and a painted backdrop sky offering enough of a safety net for the cameras to obey their trickery. Likewise, parts of the vat itself were visible to the crew—one side of the tub was completely exposed through a clear window that looked into the interior.

Porky figured that was to accommodate the needs of the script, which called for him to sneak along with his gun underwater, duck decoy tied to his head. The camera would use that glass to look in, following Porky’s movements in a pan before cutting to a more neutral angle as he rose to the surface. Not much of a swimmer, Porky had spent a hearty portion of the night before attempting to practice holding his breath. He hoped he wouldn’t look like too much of a boob on camera.

Thus, Porky climbed the metal ladder attached to the exposed side of the metal vat to get into his position. Each rung he grabbed with a shaking hand was a step closer to sealing his fate. With each movement, he could feel himself being pulled closer and closer to finality.

It proved difficult not to feel intimidated.

Daffy followed behind; his maneuvering of the ladder was much more deft and playful, a spring in his step as he hauled himself up with ease. A cocktail of admiration, apprehension, and plain confusion churned into a fine amalgam within Porky’s insides.

“Alright, boys.” The sound of the director’s voice immediately jolted him back to acting mode, “yes sir,” “no sir”, “thank you sir” mode.

Though they were at opposite ends of the sound stage, Porky could hear and see him just fine. No megaphones were involved in the production; everyone just settled for old fashioned projection of the voice. Most of the time, it was a bunch of men shouting from opposite corners—they got along alright.

A sour irony twinged at the corner of Porky’s lips as he mused about Daffy seemingly having no trouble with such accommodations.

“Daffy, you head off to the side. You’ll fly in once Porky’s gotten out of the water. Porky, the decoys should be right on the edge of the water. We’ll start once you’re in and you’ve got them steady.”

“Eh-thee-eh-theh-eh-thank you,” was Porky’s nondescript answer. He didn’t even know why he was thanking him. It just happened.

Just as he went to reach for the box of decoys nestled between some plastic prongs of cattails, the sound of a familiar, mush-mouthed voice snapped him back to reality:

“Break a leg!”

He started. Porky was slightly bent over, arms outstretched to grab the prop when he jerked his head up. Daffy was already making his way towards the other end of the vat, which was cushioned by the sprawling plaster ground. His arms were folded contentedly behind his back, his chest puffed as he swung his legs out, taking backwards steps towards his own designated starting area. He looked exactly how he did when he first burst into Porky’s dressing room—that same stance, that same smile, that same good nature.

And it was in that moment that Porky realized none of his other co-stars had ever wished him good luck.

Not out of ill will, of course. Gabby just wasn’t a guy who expressed sentiments of good tidings. Beans was amiable, but stuck to his own affairs just as Porky stuck to his. Outside of some “hello”s and “goodbye”s, maybe an occasional “good job”, they never really spoke much unless directed to.

So, as stupid as it was, he could only gawk. Just gawk at the duck traipsing away from him, eyes gleaming, not a single care in the world as he maintained his stare. Porky continued to stand like a deer frozen in headlights.

“Ooh-uh-okay,” was the only word that entertained the idea of coming out of his mouth. He was too stunned to even say a proper thank you.

“Lights up!”

That, too, snapped Porky back to his senses, permanently this time. Snatching the box of decoys, he immediately stared down at the ground.

“Look down,” he garbled to Daffy at a moment’s notice. He didn’t even know if he heard him—he didn’t care. The lights they used on set were blinding. At all times, but especially when they first blazed to life. Accidentally looking into them (or even in their general vicinity) would hazard a migraine more deadly than a gunshot.

Porky had discovered this the hard way.

As distressed as he had been over the entire ordeal of filming, the familiar hum of the lights and crescendo of brightness reflected off the artificial ground allowed him a chance to get sucked back into his role. No longer was he Porky Pig, bumbling fool extraordinaire, Porky Pig, professional worrywart. He was Porky Pig, smiling, befuddled innocent. Porky Pig, earnest comic relief.

It wasn’t a transformation he had any choice in.

Once the harsh blaze of the lights were finally tamed, Porky snapped his head back up. To his satisfaction, he noticed that Daffy had his head bowed—he had heard and followed his directions.

“Uh-eh-ooh-okay,” he urged again, which Daffy was thankfully able to interpret as intended. Porky could see Daffy’s eyes dart over to his direction before he snapped his head up; another proud grin spidered on his beak as he puffed out his chest. That was reciprocated by an approving nod from Porky.

“Quiet—we’re rolling.”

Caught up in the excitement of ensuring Daffy didn’t blind himself, Porky nearly forgot to position himself correctly. He was to start out standing in the “lake”, placing the decoys in the water like the good little hunter he never was. There was no time to worry about the logistics of getting soaked, how he would get dry, how cold or warm the water would be, how the water would react to his clothing. All of these were little details he would normally obsess about and calculate—they, instead, were all thrown out the window in fretting about Daffy.

Thus, he scrambled to stand waist deep in the water, gripping the box of decoys tightly to his side so he wouldn’t accidentally drop them. As he had guessed, the water was cold; the feeling of it sinking into his boots, his skin, crawling up his pant legs was truly heinous. Having to walk around with his costume sticking to his legs, boots squelching and squeaking, tracking water around the soundstage made him want to jump out of his skin, but he couldn’t afford to worry about that now.

Once he was settled, he made eye contact with the director, who nodded affirmingly. He tried his damnest to ignore the itch tickling the back of his neck from Daffy’s penetrating stare.

With that, the director gave those two faithful words:

“Okay, Porky.”

Grabbing the wooden decoys in the box, he dutifully placed them in the water around him. He bore a grin that screamed of disingenuousness to him, but of charm and endearment to the audience. The texture of the wooden ducks in his grip was the link grounding him to unreality—every time he wanted to protest, to worry, to fret, he thought about the glossy sleekness beneath his fingers, the way the bobbed in the water, the way the water licked and kissed his waist.

This ritual was sustained until he placed the very last duck in the water. Some were all white with a black finish. Some were all black with a white finish, not unlike Daffy himself. Others were a mix. The decoys were relatively crude and simple, but enough to offer a buffer for Daffy to blend in with. He wondered if they had buckled to the expense of mail ordering the decoys, or if they were the responsibility of the prop department.

Keeping all of this in mind was enough to slowly ease him into a state of unbroken concentration. What Daffy did or didn’t do was no longer his responsibility. Only he was his responsibility.

After untangling his fingers from the neck of the last wooden decoy, he took a slight beat to admire his handiwork, grin still plastered on his face. He tried to inject such pauses, such beats, such glimpses of humanity into his work whenever he could—a beat has emphasis, which has power, and allowing himself to linger just a second longer could allow just one more second to endear himself to the audience.

Likewise, it made him feel more in control. He got to decide where to put these beats, he got to decide how he would occupy them. In these moments, he wasn’t a slave to a script or a stage direction. These moments could be fleeting, but he liked them best.

He thusly marched out of the water, still staring behind his shoulder to maintain a coherent flow of action. The audience was following him—if he were to look off screen too soon, they would look off screen too soon. The decoys wouldn’t be the priority anymore, which would make Daffy’s entrance in the following scene seem fragmented and incomprehension.

Acting was a career of trial and error. Porky felt he experienced the “error” part much more than the former. Still, even in his limited experience, he had been able to teach himself these little quirks that, in his mind, enriched his performance. He hoped it would pay off.

When he finally took his last step out of the water, he knew that was the moment of truth. Daffy was to come in right then and there. Porky was conscious to maintain his grin—only faltering when he placed the box of decoys down—but the anticipation and apprehension inside of him was cacophonous. He forced himself to concentrate on the feeling of the set, the buzz of the lights, the stare of the cameras. There was no room to croak.

So, just as he was about to grab his gun (conveniently propped within reach on dry land), he took note of the flashes of black skipping out of his peripherals. Though he leaned toward the gun, the corners of his eyes were fixated on the space behind him; a gentle splash within the water indicated that Daffy had landed.

The alleviation of weight that followed regarding his chest was not lost by Porky. He hadn’t missed his cue.

Likewise for the snapping crackle of the quack that boomed right behind him. It was the same honk Daffy had demonstrated so proudly earlier this morning. If he didn’t know any better, he’d truly believe there was a feral duck hovering behind him.

But he did know better. Particularly because the script called for him to delegate his full attention to said duck. He did so, whipping his head over his shoulder. A blink for good measure to convey his artificial befuddlement. He kept his hands splayed out in the air, communicating the disruption to his regularly scheduled gun retrieving activities.

There he sat; with his wings tucked so dutifully at his sides, his posture rigid, he really did look like one of the decoys. Any differences were slight—he had his pupils cocked toward the ceiling to convey innocence, not daring to make eye contact. A sharp acting decision that mingled nicely against the vacant, wooden stares of the decoys. Likewise, he bobbed in the water at a marginally different rate of speed than the others. He was actually going so far as to imitate their bobbing motion.

A dull tug smarted in Porky’s chest—a guilt for doubting his acting abilities, and a guilt that would have to be processed later. Acting and cartoons took precedence.

He did have to admit, the second time Daffy repeated his quacking bit, Porky felt a slight twinge of confidence seep back into his body. This just might work out.

To accentuate his growing comfort, Porky spared the expense of scratching his head and casting a frown. A way to add a crescendo to his actions and ensuring his reactions weren’t repetitive nor dull.

It would serve as the perfect stepping stone to the moment of truth: the fated wink.

So, when the time came, Porky took a few beats to embrace the creeping frustration of the scenario. More befuddled blinks—quick and rapid this time to indicate more activity, more emotion—before cushioning his chin with his thumb and forefinger in contemplative disdain. Daffy seemed to pay no attention to him at all.

Thus, with that out of the way, Porky redirected his way to the nearest camera. Doing his best to disregard the wide-eyed expression of the unexpecting camera man, he directed a grin onto his face. A wink was urged to follow.

Immediately, his chest tugged in that same, cumbersome pinching sensation he felt after signing Daffy’s script upon hearing the chuckles and laughs scattered through the soundstage. Nothing uproarious or disruptive, but enough to indicate that there was a method to Daffy’s madness.

It had all paid off.

“Cut!”

Chapter Text

With that fated cue, Porky felt his real self leech back into his body. An involuntary sigh escaped him, his shoulders hunched, his knees buckled as he wiped his face with a heavy hand in relief. He thought he felt the tickle of a nervous, exhausted, relieved chuckle or two escape from his lips as well.

Even the director had to get a handle on his polite laughs. “That was fine, Porky! Just fine.”

He could only smile, awkwardly pawing at the air as words of gratitude refused to form. He couldn’t parse what it was he was feeling in the moment: Terseness. Joy. Apprehension. Appreciation. Embarrassment.

Relief.

Praises for Daffy’s performance soon followed from the director, which prompted Porky to turn his attention to him. He still sat bobbing in the water, as though apprehensive to break character—or, maybe he just liked being in the water. In spite of the distance between them, the shimmer in his eyes could be felt standing feet away. A boisterous, contented smile was stretched thin on the duck’s beak as he listened obediently.

When his gaze caught Porky’s, Porky spared a timid, affirming nod. While Porky couldn’t get the words out, Daffy seemed to get the message regardless. He beamed with an even greater ferocity upon Porky’s nod.

It was just as well, seeing that the director was quick to call the two of them back to attention. Porky once again assumed the role of a direction-taking automaton.

“Now Porky, you’ll tie the decoy onto your head and sneak into the water.”

Porky nodded. He had memorized the script rigorously—neurotically, even—and didn’t need the second reminder, but feigned intrigue regardless.

“The camera is going to follow you a ways. Swim out a little further,” The director was now pointing to Daffy, who Porky spared a glance out of his peripherals, “so the camera has more room to track Porky. Take the decoys with you.”

Porky would have offered to help, had consistency with keeping his outfit dry not been a priority. His previous excursion was only knee-deep, and the area where Daffy was to reside would at least go up to his midriff. He had to be precarious about which parts of his body he wet for consistency—he was already due for a good pat down after all these water scenes were finished. It was a mystery as to why they were filming the water scenes first, other than the benefit of accommodating Daffy, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He would be confused and listless regardless.

Instead, he observed awkwardly from the bank as Daffy retrieved the decoys and swam along with them. His status as an errand boy didn’t seem to be any cause of irritation for him. In fact, it proved the opposite: a proud grin stretched across his beak as he corralled his wooden kin into his arms in one, sweeping motion. Watching as he paddled backwards, the swarm of decoys secure in his arms, one would have thought that he was playing with them rather than tending to some cinematographic housekeeping.

“How’zis?” Daffy asked the director once the decoys were scattered in place, much further out from where they were before.

The director gave his affirmations, which made Daffy beam. Porky wondered if he had ever been told “good job” in his life from the way he reacted so proudly to such little acts. The pleasure he derived from the most menial of menialities was completely mystifying.

“Are you boys all set?”

Porky squeaked out another “yes sir”, standing at attention. He thought he heard Daffy do the same. He didn’t bother to turn his head to check; he was too focused on remembering his footing and what position he was standing in when the cameras cut.

Another nod from the director.

“Rolling.”

Resuming custody of his disingenuous but hopefully warm grin, Porky smiled as he traded in his muddy, starchy mess of a hunter’s cap for the much more sophisticated alternative of a duck decoy. Daffy’s words of it being a “pretty silly thing t’ do” lisped in his head as he tied the straps beneath his chin.

With that degrading act taken care of, he retrieved the prop gun lying on the ground and, with it, a frown. The gun felt cold and heavy in his hands. Even if it was for show and filled with blanks, the idea of touting this murder weapon proved intimidating. He certainly never had any aspirations of being a hunter. It all felt distinctly un-Porky like to him.

Then again, every day of his life for the past two years felt distinctly un-Porky like.

So, with the gun in tow, hoisted beneath his arms, Porky took the literal plunge. As he lowered himself into the water, ignoring the horrible feeling of the water crawling into his boots, up his pant legs, into his waist, past his belly, he took a large, heaping breath through his nostrils. He hoped his face wasn’t crimsoning from the effort, or that the camera wouldn’t pick up the clear amount of focus he was putting into this so as not to accidentally asphyxiate himself.

Swaths of cold water completely enveloped him once he was fully submerged. Straining to keep his eyes open was a tremendous struggle. He fought the urge to squint, just as he fought the urge to complain about how he could feel the water getting into his ears. It was a horrible, horrible feeling, rendering Daffy’s enjoyment all the more puzzling.

Part of the agony came from ensuring his footsteps were broad, slow, deliberate. The script called for him to sneak along, not rushing. Spotting one of the camera men following him through the glass panel out of the corner of his eyes only made him want to pick up the pace faster. It was hard to hear anything other than the idle murmur of water filling his ears, but he didn’t hear anyone screaming at him to stop, slow down, or speed up, so he assumed he was doing a satisfactory job.

As he creeped, he made a point to direct his eyes upwards so he could spot where Daffy and the decoys were at. They slowly crested closer as he approached—he could see Daffy’s spindly little orange legs tucked high, standing out against the yellow nubbins on the bottoms of the other decoys.

Once he was certain he was at a comfortable place to do so, Porky finally planted his footing and began to rise upwards. Resisting the urge to jump out of the water and cough up gallons of water was excruciating. He hated how cold he felt, and he hated the feeling of water in his ears, and he hated feeling the water inflating the crevices of his suit, and he hated how each time he thought about what he was doing, it made him feel even more out of breath. But to suddenly spring upwards and broadcast all of that would ruin the take, and it would be a hell of a take to redo. Especially since he would have to spend a hearty time drying himself just to get wet immediately after.

So, constraining every muscle and every tissue, every nerve, every tendon in his body to withholding from springing upwards and gasping, he forced himself to rise at a slow, gradual place. It was partially out of necessity, so that the camera could take in as much information as needed. Even in the sanctity of the water, all eyes and lenses were on him.

Remaining steadfast, he raised the gun once his head broke the water. He made a concerted effort to inhale through his nostrils rather than gasping for breath. Part of the scowl on his face was not entirely for show for the camera, but a reflection of his pondering that they really should have divided this into multiple takes.

Submerging the gun in water had made it extremely slippery, and it was hard not for it to slip out of his hands like a wet mackerel as he hoisted it upwards. His underarm grip was especially strong for this reason. That, too, was another feeling he hated–the sensation of the wet, cold clothing sticking and smacking and licking the slick finish of the gun’s arm rest. He longed to bury his face in the refuge of a fluffy towel.

Thankfully, Daffy was maintaining his vigilance to stage directions. Once the gun was steadied, he launched himself out of the water with a surprised honk, eyes wide. The ease in which he was able to throw himself up out of the water was genuinely impressive.

Porky found himself moving his aim in tandem with Daffy’s movements. When he jumped, he tilted the gun up. When he landed, he tilted it down. There was a bit of a delay in the motion, since Porky wasn’t entirely anticipating Daffy to jump, but he supposed it would look more natural on screen for that reason. Or so he hoped.

Just as the script constituted, Daffy flinched and plugged his ears, turning away. Porky felt a pang attempting to squeeze in his chest–in this moment, with his eyes screwed shut, his posture hunched, his hands up, Daffy really did look like a pathetic, cowering creature about to meet his demise.

This pang inflated once Porky squeezed the trigger.

As anticipated, a pathetic trickle of water was ejected out of the barrel rather than any blank or bullet. He had spent the night worrying about whether or not it would work, mostly because he was anxious at the idea of having to redo the entire take. A relieved, giddy tug smarted at the back of his throat instead.

Once the trickle had completely been deposited into the water, Daffy began to unbrace. He blinked a few times before committing to a full turn-around, inspecting the lack of gunfire. Simultaneously, Porky lifted the gun, impressing a particularly pathetic frown on his face as he inspected it. He couldn’t be too sure, since his eyes were to be directed at the gun, but he thought he could see Daffy grinning.

Daffy skirted himself along the water and into the reeds before Porky had a chance to verify.

“Cut!”

Before the last wind of breath left the director's mouth, Porky let himself go limp, slumping forward with a relieved sigh that curtailed into a cough, now free to regulate his breathing. He hadn’t even noticed that Daffy had swam back out to meet Porky, who was indeed smiling. Swiping a sopping wet glove over his sopping wet face, Porky reciprocated his beam with another shy, restrained, but reassuring grin.

“How’s the water, Porky?” There was a good humor in the director’s voice. This seemed to be a good sign.

“It’s cih-c-eh-ceh-cold!” was Porky’s response, his voice cracking as he both attempted to match the good humor and regailed in the opportunity to give a sincere answer. He turned his attention towards Daffy, who was still observing with great amusement. “I eh-dih-deh-dee-ihh-do-eh-do-don’t know how ye-you deh-do it.”

Daffy puffed out his chest not in pride, but glee, ecstatic Porky was making wise cracks and even speaking to him. “Didn’t ya hear about the water off a duck’s back?”

Giving a bit of a dry, shy but sincerely amused chuckle, Porky wiped a few more droplets of water off of his snout. He couldn’t wait to properly dry himself.

“Well, that was just fine, both of you,” said the director as he was looking through the script. “The wink was a nice touch, Porky.”

Immediately, Porky felt compelled to give due credit. “Eh-theh-ee--eh-the-that was Da-eh-Daffy’s idea,” he professed rather bluntly, shaking his hand in modest dismissal. He saw Daffy’s grin expand three sizes out of the corner of his eyes.

Now, the director peered approvingly over at Daffy, still flipping through his script. “Very good. You have good sensibilities, son.”

Daffy just continued to beam without a word. The twisting, pinching, giddy sensation Porky felt earlier that morning entertained the idea of making a return.

After that, Porky was able to settle more gradually into the acting routine. Pangs of anxiety still danced in his gut, but they were trumped by the sheer curiosity regarding Daffy’s next move. He had finally surpassed the initial shock and was able to get acclimated to the metaphorical and physical water.

“Alright boys. We’re going to jump around a little,” the director warned them, looking through his script.

Porky braced himself. Daffy still seemed smiley as ever.

"Porky, we’re going to have you fire the blank. We’ll film Daffy on the barrel and get someone else to shoot it.”

Porky couldn’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t be easier for him to just shoot the barrel. Of course, it wasn’t as if he wanted to. Even firing blanks was a hefty job, and he still felt burdened by a simple prop. Just as he did when he wasn’t sure or wasn’t confident enough to say or do anything else, he gave a curt nod.

“You boys clear out the decoys from the scene and free up the space,” the director told them, “and then we’ll start.”

It sure seemed like a waste to get rid of them so quickly, but made sense, given that they weren’t a priority anymore. Porky would be hard to focus on surrounded by a sea of bobbing wood.

Thus, after handing off the gun to an assistant so it could be filled with blanks and properly dried off, he and Daffy retrieved their respective handfuls of sopping wet dummies and carried them back to shore.

“Ah-are you nih-nee-ihh-nih-nehh-neh-nervous?”

Daffy’s question from last evening and earlier that morning were still on Porky’s mind as he returned the query right back. Even with his arms filled with decoys as big as himself, Daffy’s gliding across the water seemed effortless. Porky got a quaint amusement out of watching the way his tail feathers flicked back and forth as he propelled himself along.

“Not me,” Daffy said with a beam. Enthusiasm and confidence coated in his voice. He really seemed to love having something to do.

Not sure why he expected any other response, Porky submerged himself out of the water to neatly tuck his share of decoys behind some reeds. He placed them together so that the assistants would be able to retrieve them more easily.

Daffy, however, remained in the water. His means of decoy disposal was to carelessly toss his decoys next to Porky’s, which tumbled and knocked into each other like bowling pins. Out of habit, Porky arranged the decoys back to their proper place, poorly masking the quick glare he felt stretching on his face at such recklessness. As if Daffy had done that on purpose to get a reaction out of him, the ever present glint in his eyes reignited once more.

“Nice hat,” Daffy told him after Porky received his freshly loaded gun, the two of them now wading back to their positions. Porky had nearly forgotten about the ridiculous decoy tied to his head—he instinctively touched the strap around his chin as he flicked his eyes upward.

A hesitant, embarrassed, but bemused chuckle shook itself out of his lips. “Ih-i-iIt’s not much eh-seeahh-seh-si-eh-sihh-sillier than-than the uh-other one.” Again, Daffy perked up at Porky’s reciprocation of his joke.

With that, a decidedly decoyless Porky waded back to where he once stood. Daffy returned to his hiding spot in the reeds—he really had no need to, given that he wasn’t in the line of the camera’s focus, but Porky just figured he liked playing around and soaking up the set.

Rifle in hand, he turned affirmingly to the director.

“Alright, Porky.” His voice echoed across the soundstage. “Lower your gun and hunch over a bit before raising it up, so we can hook up to the previous scene.”

He obliged. As he did so, the director reminded him also to “look angry”, again keeping consistent with the persona of his broiling frustration. It was slowly getting more easy to manipulate his face and arms and body to fit the needs of the cartoon. Like a bit of putty, Porky started off each cartoon stiff, frozen, unbreakable, but slowly become more malleable and able to stretch and manipulate himself the more he sank into the security of routine.

Once he was in position, the director gave him the go-ahead: “Okay, Porky.”

Porky pointed the gun in front of him, cocking his head to the side. He waited a few seconds before firing to milk some sort of anticipation. Then, just as his inner voice was growing louder in panic at the intimidation of firing blanks, he pulled the trigger.

There was no way of knowing he had fired just a blank from the sharp crack and ring of smoke that emanated from the barrel. The sheer force of the blast was enough to knock him back a bit, straining to dig his heels into the ground below him. Though he tried his best to maintain his balance, he ended up having to catch himself anyway. He tried his best to keep his balance, but ended up having to catch himself anyway. He turned to look at the directors and camera men, a little pathetically.

Apologetic and pathetic, he turned to look at the director. His voice warbled, rippled from the shock of firing something so loud and bumped from the uncertainty of his words. “I-I-I ceh-can, uh… weh-we-eh… we-we… I-I-I ehhh-cehh-ih-ceh-can try again, ee-if–”

He was cut off by the director, who sang his praises. “We got what we needed.”

Despite remaining unconvinced, Porky spared an uncertain, appreciative tug of the cheeks upwards and thinning of his lips. His insecurities and nerves were trying to take refuge back into his chest.

The feeling of eels writhing in his stomach multiplied after the director told him that they were going to “jump around a little”. It was standard operating procedure, depending on the complexity of the shot flow, and very rarely did they ever film chronologically. Regardless, with Daffy and his unpredictability thrown into the mix, Porky was unsure of how he would react. Daffy, who had been hiding in the reeds all this time, perked his head up expectantly.

“Daffy, we’ll shoot your scenes on the barrel while he–” The director pointed to Porky, which made him feel nervous only for the way he felt that familiar prickle of Daffy’s stare crawl up his neck again–”dries off.”

Languishing at the opportunity to finally dry off, Porky gave a silent nod. Daffy took the honor of verbalizing Porky’s thoughts with another shrill, dutiful, obliging “Yes, sir!”

With that, the two headed to their respective positions. For Porky, it was scaling the ladder down the side of the tank and fraternizing with the towels he saw waiting for him on a prop table, tucked away in the corner. As he swung his waterlogged, soggy legs over the side of the vat, muttering apologies to the assistants below him for all the water he was surely tracking, he halted suddenly.

“Eh-deh-dee-ehh-ehh-dih-Da-eh-Da—Daffy!”

It was purely involuntary. He didn’t even know if they were on a first name basis yet. His tone was much more forceful, high, breathless than he intended, intending to accommodate the distance between them. Daffy was a ways off from him, preparing to fly over and land on the barrel as intended. He snapped his head to turn at Porky, the hungry fire in his eyes indistinguishable from such a distance. He was already alert for all of the commands by the director, but even moreso when Porky called over to him. This made Porky’s face tickle.

“Break a le-a le-a le-eh-geh-gee-eh… eh.. eh-good luck.”

For some reason, in spite of him being the one saying so rather than receiving the compliment, Porky’s first instinct was to grow bashful. Even with dozens of feet between them, the giant, bodacious grin that spidered onto Daffy’s beak lit up the entire soundstage. Porky observed as Daffy’s chest puffed up, his grin grew wider, his posture more proud and erect. Even his feathers were standing on end. From head to toe, he seemed positively ecstatic.

And he never said a word back.

Realizing that he was staring, Porky hastily shimmed down the ladder. That pinching sensation from before was certainly stubborn. He noticed that when he apologized to the assistants for tracking water on the floor, that he did so with a little less mumble in his voice. He didn’t flick his eyes away with as much immediacy as he normally would. His chin wasn’t buttoned as tightly to his chest. In watching Daffy swell up so much with glee, so much pride, Porky found himself caught in the tradewinds of that residual swelling, too.

Earlier, he had been so preoccupied with the disgusting sensation of being waterlogged, or the anxiety at how to properly fire the gun or hold his breath. All of that seemed like a distant sensation as he grabbed a handful of towels and buried his face in them. Little puddles were indeed left behind from his boots as he walked across the floor–he would clean them up after, instead too concerned on finding an area where he could get a good look at Daffy.

Ironically, he found more success the further he went back in the soundstage. He was caught in an awkward tango of pawing at his suit with the towel and attempting to get it dry, thoroughly scrubbing and attempting to stop the dripping of water onto the ground, as well as keeping an eye on the vat of water. His spot was picked out just in time, as the director had already resumed rolling.

With surprising grace, Daffy flew a short distance before landing on the prop barrel. He seemed to float as he landed on it. His gaze remained affixed to the spot in the water formerly occupied by Porky.

There was a long pause as Daffy remained motionless on the barrel; that was for the sake of film editing, so that they could make a clean cut between scenes once the shot of Porky shooting was spliced between them. Preparations were therefore made for the next scene, in which the barrel was to be shot open. Porky had assumed there was some sort of elaborate rig or illusion to make it look like the barrel would split open–seeing an assistant approach with what he assumed to be was a loaded rifle proved to be a bit concerning in comparison.

Porky couldn’t help but think of if they had him shoot after all and if, in his attempts to miss Daffy, he would accidentally hit him instead because he was such a bad aim. His stomach wrung in knots.

While difficult to read from so far away, Daffy didn’t seem frightened in the least. Rather, he seemed curious. His conversation was difficult to make out, but he could see Daffy’s beak moving in a smile as he conversed with the rifleman. There was some amiable nodding from both parties and Porky saw Daffy’s shoulders heave once in what was likely a quick laugh. His neck prickled at the remembrance of Daffy’s laughter in the dressing room the night before.

Porky was grateful for Daffy’s lack of nerves, but it didn’t do him many favors. He found that he had forgotten about patting himself dry—most of the drippings had stopped by then, and the material of his suit, wretched as it was, seemed to dry quicker than he expected. Regardless, he frantically gave himself a pat down, his gaze affixed to Daffy as everyone took their positions.

“Go for it,” said the director.

It proved difficult for Porky to see all the details. All he heard was the crack of the gun, followed by a fit of squawking from Daffy. Porky instinctively flinched upon the impact, but languished when he saw Daffy hovering over the now sinking barrel, squawking and flapping his wings with much less grace than displayed before. Especially so far away, it was hard to pin him down as anything but a feral duck.

Then, once the last remnants of the barrel’s visibility plunked into the water, Daffy glided away, approaching the side of the tank and closer into Porky’s line of visibility. His landing was smooth, confident, and contented, beaming as the director gave his effusive approval. Porky was equal parts amazed at his commitment to his role and his fearlessness. He didn’t even think Daffy flinched.

Daffy was drastically more responsive and attentive to taking direction than Gabby ever was, or any of the other ensemble members Porky had fraternized with. Daffy had a certain hunger about him. A real sense of belonging, like he wanted to be directed and regarded and filmed on a camera. He was just happy to be here. Even if that meant getting shot at while standing on a barrel.

“Okay, Porky.” Porky ceased his operation of patting and wringing out any remaining puddles, bending low to swipe any dribbles on the floor with his towel when the director regarded him. The director gave him a quick glance up and down, seemingly pleased with Porky’s operations of drying himself. Nervously and habitually, Porky smoothed any wrinkles out of his inherently wrinkly suit with a few quick swipes, readjusting the belt that sagged around his waist.

“We’re going to pick up on Scene 26 and run straight through with you up through Scene 31.”

Another momentary anxious pang hit him as Porky realized he didn’t have his script on hand to leaf through. He’d forgotten to nab it earlier–it was on the same prop table as the towels, but he had neglected to retrieve it in favor of observing Daffy’s stunt.

Rectifying that after giving his affirmations, he frantically flipped through the pages, carelessly wiping his hands on his pants when some residual dampness kissed some of the pages. He thankfully stumbled upon what he needed to pretty quickly, consulting the Porky from the night before with all of his hasty notes and circlings. Since these scenes actually involved some dialogue, Porky found himself reciting his lines for good measure.

After these frantic mumblings and reaffirmations of his stage directions, Porky shoved the script into the depths of his coat. All of the scenes he was to film involved being on dry land, so he didn’t have to worry about it getting wet. It was certainly clunky, climbing back up to stand on set with this pad of papers brushing and thumping against his chest, but reaffirming in the same way. A reminder that he had a safety net.

Per the director’s instructions, Porky approached a cluster of reeds that were to be opened by Daffy, who would come out and bite his nose. Not an exchange Porky was looking forward to, but intrigue at Daffy’s handling overwhelmed any anxiety.

First, though, he was to do a little speaking. It was right after a group of drunken fish were to have finished their performance, which Porky assumed would be filmed sometime soon.

Grabbing the prop rifle in hand waiting expectantly for him on the ground, Porky positioned himself to look squarely into one of the cameras. The script didn’t call for such, but given that the director liked his winking-at-the-camera bit earlier, he figured he would try it again. Battling an oxymornic boldness and anxiety, Porky tepidly pitched his plan:

“Ceh-ceeh-ehhh-ih-ceh-c-could we have eh-theh-this line said to-to-ehh–to the cih-k-camera?”

The director almost seemed surprised. Porky had made suggestions and tweaks before, but it was often well before he was in his position. Now, he was shrouded by an unconfident, uncertain but curious spontaneity, asking such a question in the company of the entire soundstage. He was very conscious of the blaze of the lights and the cameras pointed at him.

“Let’s give it a go,” was the director’s verdict after a lengthy pause. If it didn’t work, then they would have to do the take over, which cost money. Porky was already very conscious of this with how many takes he’d had to shoot over and over because of his stutter. That this would be his first spoken line of filming for Porky didn’t ease his concerns over this. It seemed small, but it was a risk. Nevertheless, Porky gave an equally uncertain–yet thankful–nod.

Positioning the gun so it hung beneath his arm, Porky shifted his footing and stood at attention. He waited for his cue to be given. And then,

“There’s ih-sih-sih-ih-sih-sih-ih-sih-ih-sih-something feh-feh-ih-feh-ih-ff-fishy abeh-uh-about eh-the-the-eh-the-that.”

As was always the case, the words were more difficult to get out with the feeling of the camera directly on him. He found himself straining to push the words out, attempting to shake them from clinging to his tongue and taking refuge in his cheeks. Figuring that if he couldn’t exactly emote with his face, which was contorted from the effort exerted in lodging the words out, he compensated by hoisting a thumb over his shoulder and gesturing off-screen.

This squinting morphed into a bit of a cockeyed wink, once the words finally entertained the idea of easing out. He felt embarrassed that he suggested directing his attention to the camera, only to have to squint and lean and push the words out and destroy the entire purpose of eye contact.

In spite of this insecurity and discomfort, he forced himself to remain in character. His gesturing off-screen soon turned into looking off-screen, burying his chin between his thumb and forefinger. A few contemplative blinks for good measure.

Then, per his cue, a quack jarred his attention away. Remembering to be youthful, spry, his turning around was more of a jump. A jump that prompted the rifle to fall away in the process. Part of the “charm” of the script–for the audience, rather than himself–was his zeal and energy and how that translated into a certain obliviousness. A good hunter would have whirled around with his rifle at the ready. Here, his character was to be so excited at hearing a duck call that he couldn’t even remember his mission to start with.

Just as the script demanded, he crouched down towards the reeds clustering him in. With slow, deliberate movements, he reached forward, ever so slowly, delicate in this separation of the reeds to search for the perpetrator. He was careful not to make a sound so as to alert the duck of his presence. Doing this, Porky found himself more comfortably losing himself in the role–he almost felt like a real hunter who was genuinely concerned with the threat of noise disturbing his prey.

Which meant that his accosted reactions to receiving a bite on the nose felt more genuine.

So caught up in preserving this quietude, Porky had almost completely forgotten that the script called for Daffy to do that. He swallowed a yelp as Daffy lunged forward and nipped at his snout. Partially from the invasion of boundaries, but likewise because Daffy bore a scowl on his face. His brow was furrowed and his beady, glittering eyes had transformed that glint of mischief and joy into ferocity and comtempt. For that split second, Porky had forgotten that they were actors on a set.

To Daffy’s credit, he didn’t bite down as hard as he could. He only used the very front of his beak to nip at Porky’s front of his snout. The act wasn’t painful so much as it was disarming. Regardless, Porky had to command himself to refrain from breaking character–his instinct was to whirl around and look at the director and ask if that was okay.

There was still the remainder of the scene to finish. Porky spent the time massaging his accosted snout to gather his wits and remembering his obligation of being a hunter. He did so oblingingly. Bending over, he wrapped his hands around the gun, making a move to raise it up…

“Cut!”

By now, he was much more attuned to the routine of starting and stopping. No need to lurch back into a relieved, deflated, slumped posture with each cut. Slowly but surely, he could feel the momentum growing.

The next scene called for Porky to shoot Daffy out of the air, and to–somehow–hit him. Of course, that would be actualized by Porky firing a blank and Daffy feigning the impact. Daffy would collapse into the water, and Porky’s hunting dog–who they were currently calling onto the set–would fish him out of the water. Mentally reciting all of this in his head, and hearing the confirmation through the director laying all of this out, Porky finally felt like he had some semblance of control again.

There was a little bit of shuffling around to accommodate such a change. Camera crews getting into position, actors in place, directions reaffirmed. Daffy, who was still hiding in the reeds, used these spare moments to sneak another word in with Porky.

“Was I gentle?” he inquired with a hungry, validation seeking grin.

A bit put off by Daffy’s consideration of this, Porky gave a small smile. He really did seem attentive to every little detail.

“Ih-jeh-jee-eh-eh-jehh-just about.” As he said this, he instinctively brushed the tip of his snout with his finger, as if doing so would enable his snout to have an opinion on the matter.

Yet again, Daffy seemed to inflate with helium, his eyes widening and his chest puffing and his feathers standing up. Every time he did this, Porky expected an outburst of some kind. It looked as though he were sitting on a pile of exclamations, bulging out of the cracks of the floorboards and threatening to explode at any given moment. It seemed as if he didn’t know if he had permission to talk to him on set. A far cry from their previous interactions, whether it be his interruptions or demands for an autograph or commenting on Porky’s weight or dislocating his arms with hearty handshakes. Their pedal pushing conversations on set–start, stop, start, stop–was, again, just as confounding as he was.

It was just as well, given that everyone had resumed their places. Porky straightened up, holding the gun high in his arms as he snapped to stage presence. Daffy retracted his head from poking out in the reeds. Attentively, Porky listened to the next set of directions.

“We’ll have two cameras on you for this scene, and we’ll be making a cut,” the director instructed. “We’ll be shooting you from the side so we can follow the dog, so make sure you’re not too big in your acting at that point.”

Porky gave a dutiful nod. Similar to his off and on conversing with Daffy, his off and on anxiety continued to pulsate. He knew he would be fine once they started rolling, but he supposed he was sitting on a pile of directions the same way Daffy was sitting on a pile of conversations. Both threatening to spill out and overwhelm swallow them whole. Instead, he redirected his focus onto how he would handle this next line.

After some last minute shuffling and adjustment making, they began to roll. Porky obligingly raised the gun up, cocking his head and squinting his eye. Daffy began to sail upwards, his little orange legs dutifully tucked upwards as he flapped his wings in soaring pumps.

Thus, when Daffy was an adequate distance away, Porky pulled the trigger. Pressure of the blast still prompted him to rock backwards, but was more prepared to dig his heels into the ground and prevent himself from toppling over. A wince compressed his face when the gun cracked, a plume of blank smoke erupting from the barrel, but opened his eyes just in time to see that Daffy was plummeting into the water. He dropped straight down, his wings limp as they were weakly extended upwards. If Porky didn’t know any better, he would have assumed that Daffy really was a goner.

Again swallowing the urge to ask if that was good or to actually check on Daffy’s well being, Porky forced himself to spit out his next line. With a deep breath, he pondered the motivation of his character: bumbling, impressionably excited, exuberant. He thought about Daffy’s exuberance and energy.

“I guh-guh-gih-geh-eh-geh-eh-g-got ‘im! I guh-uh-guh-uh-guh-uh-gih-got ‘im!”

Sputtering the words out, Porky hopped and traipsed and clapped and skipped around like an overgrown toddler. He pointed to where Daffy fell. He looked at his dog. He swapped the hands holding his rifle. He hopped and jumped and pointed and sputtered and smiled. It was degrading, embarrassing, childish, but he was contractually bound to be a stooge.

A part of him was playing up this performance out of defiance. He wanted to present a certain bombastic–or, at the very least, something to be impressed by–that justified all of Daffy’s grins and questions and chest swelling. That he wasn’t just a mild mannered, bumbling fool whose job was to look cute and smiley and amuse people through his vocal impediment.

Another defiant part of him hoped that his performance would be so big that the powers that be would have no choice but to give him a thumbs up. He was tired of flubbing takes and gently being condescended to and essentially told–not to his face, but skirted around–that his speech was a nuisance. Daffy could act big, and he wanted to demonstrate that he could, too. That Daffy’s praises and idolatry weren’t in vain.

Keeping the director’s instructions about calming down for the next cut, Porky decreased his hopping and jumping to a motion more comparable to excited waddling. He certainly felt far removed from Daffy’s litheness in his flying and skimming, but he supposed that would make his character here more endearing.

Now, as he eased his histrionics, Porky instead jabbed a finger towards the “lake”. Daffy was bobbing, convincingly lifeless, in the water. “Eh-eh-geh-eh-g-go get the dih-de-eh-dih-de-eh-de-eh-dih-duck, eh-Rin-gi-eh-ji-Gin-Gin!”

After the dog leapt into the water, the director again called cut. This was a “Cut!” that most certainly prompted Porky to lurch forward, making no attempt to conceal the audible “Whew!” breezing out of his lips. He rubbed his face, hunched over to catch his breath; the crimson on his face was shared from both exertion and embarrassment.

It was also a response to the scattered clapping he heard behind him. After taking a few more moments to suck up some air, Porky sheepishly faced his crowd of supporters–a few of the camera men and light crew and even the director were giving him approving grins and polite, playful claps of approval. Behaving like a buffoon had its benefits.

“Just fine, Porky!” The director told him. “You’re doing great. Both of you,” he added, his voice raising in volume to account for Daffy’s far distance.

Porky whirled behind his shoulder to look at Daffy. Splayed out in the water, wingspan extended to its fullest, bobbing on his belly, his neck was craned and he bore a smile that radiated from all that distance away.

“I-I’m geh-geeh-ih-geh-gla-eh-gla-ehh—-happy to hear eh-theh-ih-that,” Porky said awkwardly, still a bit breathless. Now, said breathlessness was a byproduct of his sheepishness. It’s not so much that he’d never received praise before, but he supposed he had more to feel politely embarrassed about in Daffy’s company. Everything seemed to swell in magnitude in Daffy’s presence.

The break between scenes was shorter this time, mainly to accommodate the camera crews getting into position. Porky was too far away from Daffy to converse with him, but the two shared brief glances–Porky’s timid but approving, Daffy’s hungry and starstruck–that accomplished just the same.

Once everyone was in position, Porky initiated the next scene by reciting his lines. Getting his voice to sound chipper and excited was an act of force. Instead, it came off sounding more squeaky and exciting in a way that alluded to nerves rather than glee, but it was at least emotional in some way.

“Eh-theh-eh-theh-that’s it!”, he sputtered to his hunting companion.

He stood with his arm extended, pointing at the spot where Daffy was floating in the water. Since the camera was to follow the dog, Porky kept his actions relatively stolid, so as not to distract or call more attention to himself. “Eh-beh-eh-eh-buh-bri-eh-bring him buh-back… eh-eh-buh-eh-beh-bring him buh-uh-buh-bih-eh-buh-back!”

Porky observed attentively as the dog obeyed his instructions. As he watched the dog dive for Daffy, he couldn’t help but wonder if Daffy had the same thoughts as he did when preparing to walk underwater. Was he thinking about how best to hold his breath? Did he even have to hold his breath? Had he practiced this the night before too?

Then again, Porky was likewise reminded that few people seemed to ruminate and obsess and plan about these things like he did–at least, that’s what Petunia had so frequently told him. Daffy wasn’t a fella who seemed like he overthought much of anything. Much less thought.

As the submerged head of the dog paddled closer to Porky, he remembered his stage presence and motivations. Spotting the camera man moving the camera on its dolly closer to him, Porky injected a hop in his step, pumping his fists and straining to capture his childlike glee at having bagged a duck.

When the top of the dog’s head and nose instead gave way to the head and body of a little black duck, the hopping and pumping trickled to a halt rather quickly.

It took a few moments for him to register what was happening. All he could do was observe in stupefaction as Daffy rose out of the water in place of the dog, who he instead threw, waterlogged, onto the banks from which Porky stood. The dog was disposed of like a piece of dirty laundry.

As Daffy did so, he bore a rather contemptuous scowl. It was as if the dog sent out to retrieve him was an inconvenience to his day, rather than a simple matter of logic. Duck gets shot. Duck goes down. Dog retrieves duck. He gave no indication that this was out of the ordinary, or if he had anticipated anything other than this reversal. Illogic was his logic.

Having disposed of the dog, Daffy rubbed his tiny, feathery little mits together, dusting them off to accentuate how much of an inconvenience Porky’s hunting dog was to him. The frown on his beak transmogrified from annoyance to haughty dismissal, throwing his head back as he turned up his beak to Porky.

And, as if nothing had ever happened, he swam back from once he came.

Porky could only blink in stunned silence. He just stood. Stood and basked in the complete disruption of the take.

Unsure of what to do, or say, or argue, he turned to look at the camera crews and assistants and director behind him. They said nothing. There was no call for a cut. There was no indication that anything had even gone wrong, aside from what Porky had witnessed with his own eyes. The only sounds audible to Porky could hear were the ambient buzz of the lights, the crank of the cameras and the gentle sloshing of water as Daffy continued to swim away. He showed no signs of turning back to swallow Porky with that all consuming, prodding stare.

Porky felt completely and utterly crazy.

To put his fears at bay–or, more realistically, to prove that he was the right one in this scenario, that this was not what had been planned–he fished inside the depths of his coat to unearth his script. He was certainly thankful he had thought to grab it. A worthwhile tradeoff for the irksome feeling of the pages bumping and chafing against his stomach.

Without wasting another moment, he flipped through the swaths of text and notes and frenzied cursive and question marks, past the underlines and through the prongs of circled notations. Given just how much he had drowned his text in his own neurotic scrawl, it proved difficult to easily find the scene that he was on. But, sure enough, he found it, plain as day:

Scene 29:

PORKY
I got him! I got him! Go get the duck, Rin Gin Gin!

[The DOG dives into the water to retrieve the duck.]

PORKY
That’s it! Bring him back! Bring him back!

[DOG brings back duck. PORKY grabs the duck and pats the dog on the head.]

PORKY
Good work, boy!

“Hey, eh-thih-the-the-eh-that wasn’t in the ss-ss-eh-seh-eh-script,” he protested stupidly.

Porky was too shell shocked to say anything more profound. Hee wasn’t quite sure of what else to do or say. Daffy was still swimming away. The crew remained locked in their positions.

In the vain hope that it would prove his point, he gesticulated to the script in his hand, holding out the page so that Daffy could see. As if he could see from all that distance away.

Not once interrupting the flow of his swimming, Daffy instead turned to face him. That beak tipped, eyes-closed expression of conceit once dictating his face was now absent as he instead gawked at Porky with a big, dopey smile. That smile gave way to huffy, dull chortles that sounded nothing like the harsh cackling and wheezing and snap of his voice that shook the walls of the dressing room the night before.

“Huh huh, huh-don’t let it worry ya, skipper.” Porky instinctively recoiled in surprise, blinking as he reared his head back. Instead of his usual shrill, mushy, pinched slurring, his voice was lunky, huffy, hollow.

Porky felt his face blanche as Daffy continued his statement, jabbing a feathery finger at his chest: “I’m just a crazy, darn fool duck!”

He had no time to ruminate on how Daffy was returning the serve on Porky’s well wishes that were immortalized not only on Daffy’s script, but in this ridiculous, phony voice. He had no time because he was too preoccupied by the duck’s next course of action: propelling himself out of the water and whooping like a maniac.

It was just that. Hopping and jumping and screaming. And yet, it was so, so, so much more than that. It would always be so much more than that.

Porky watched as Daffy extracted himself perfectly from the water and seemed to hop in place, like someone had skipped a stone across a pond. Only, instead of traveling over the surface, the stone instead skipped up and down rather than across. A stone whose hops upward were propelled through the force of the whoops coming out of Daffy’s mouth.

It was a sort of “hoohoo” sound–or, maybe it was a “woowoo” instead; Porky had never heard anything like it in his life and thusly was unable to properly diagnose it. All he knew is that it made his ears curdle. And his heart clench. And his face prickle. And his blood run cold. It was a magnification of the reaction he had the previous evening to Daffy’s hysterical laughter–this was a sort of hysterical laughter in its own right, but with much more emphasis on the hysteria.

A siren call of sheer, utter catharsis. He could hear and feel Daffy evoking these whoops, these shrieks, these cries with all of the might he could force from his tiny little diaphragm. Porky could feel each one push up through his belly, crawling out of his throat and exploding in a blossom out of his beak. That such a tiny little thing could make so much noise–and a noise this strange, this captivating, this explosive, this visceral–was confounding. Astounding, even.

And it never stopped. Instead, it picked up in its ferocity, just like Daffy’s movements. That graceful stone skipping in place soon gave way to cartwheels as he flung himself back into the water. His every movement was gliding. Just as you’d thought he’d stuck to one routine–say, swimming backwards–it would be interrupted by him throwing himself out of the water and spinning like a corkscrew in the air. Just as that seemed to be the next “step” in his plan, it would get interrupted by a sudden launch back into the water. He would swim a bit, hop up and click his heels together, skate on the water, click his heels, dive back into the water, pop back out as he kicked his legs and arms out, and so on. His movements were completely unpredictable. Seemingly controlled by complete and utter chaos.

That was the most perplexing thing. His movements were concerningly erratic, unpredictable, manic in every sense of the word, but perhaps the most impressive and startling aspect of his outbreak was the sheer sense of confidence, control, and trust in which every little movement occurred.

None of it looked accidental or even entirely spontaneous. Every litle action seemed calculated and planned. Perhaps that was where the catharsis of his whooping came in, which did feel much more visceral, much more spontaneous, much more sincere and uncontrollable and delightful in its expression. Suddenly, all of Daffy’s unpredictable running out and hungry grins that seemed to want to jump off of his face, his constant default of being like a tea kettle just on the verge of overflowing… suddenly, it all made sense. He was sitting on top of this very catharsis. Biding his mania and hysteria up for the most ideal moment where he could let it spill loose in the most calculatingly and beautifully messy, yet simultaneously lissom, explosion of whooping-induced gymnastics that has ever graced the soundstage.

As Daffy skirted and jumped and twirled further away, his noise making got more frenzied. Cackling chuckles found their way in between the larger, more demanding whoops, forced spontaneously as if someone had come up from behind him and and tickled him. His voice got more and more pinched, stronger in its echo, faster in its production of whoops and laughs and guffaws and chuckles. The more he did this, the more he really did sound like some sort of rambunctious lake loon squawking a warning call to avoid a hunter. Just the same, it sounded more and more like the native language of some being from outer space. A part of Porky doubted that even any aliens–if they were to exist–would have made such esoteric noises.

And that was the beauty of his routine. Porky was adamant in his refusal to believe in the paranormal or extraterrestrial or even esoteric. And Daffy was so transformative, so captivating, so inspiring, so utterly confounding, that he managed to evoke such wild mental comparisons from Porky. He could make him believe in the impossible.

He was the impossible.

Of course, this rumination on aliens and their noises was just one of the many thoughts buzzing around in Porky’s head. Any and all articulation or coherent thought or even feeling was trumped through Daffy’s shrieking and spinning and jumping and whooping. Porky was almost too afraid to think, because then it would divert attention away from watching Daffy, and he found himself wanting–hungering, even–every last little detail.

The way the water droplets shook off of his feathers as he twirled. The blinding fire in his eyes as he somehow managed to make eye contact with Porky this entire time as he zigged and zagged and skipped and hopped and lunged. The control in which he was able to fling his body upwards and sideways, watching how his spindly little legs would trail behind, how he would lead his next jump with his torso, or with his legs, or with his head. The manner in which his garland of chuckles would thread themselves through his whoops, and how they sounded echoing around the walls of the soundstage and drowning Porky’s every thought. The control. The charm. The chaos. The sheer viscerality and candidness of it all.

If one were to boil Daffy Duck to his barest of essentials, this is what would be awaiting them.

Even though he absolutely could not understand any of it, and even though he couldn’t even begin understanding that he couldn’t understand it, Porky knew, even in this moment–this moment as he stared, slackjawed, frozen in place, his ears pinching and rushing and curdling at the sound of Daffy’s hysteria, his breath running shallow because, in his haste and surprise, he found himself forgetting to even breathe, his chest squeezing, his stomach nestling into a pit, the feeling off his script slipping out of his fingers and clattering in a messy, papery heap to his feet, the pages getting wet from the residual water still tracked around Porky’s boots, and how he couldn’t even bend a tendon to think about retrieving it, as he was frozen solid–he knew just how important this moment was. How important it was to Daffy, who had just proved himself to be some sort of crazed genius of physicality, how important it was to the studio, who would be able to tout this never-before-seen act of unpredictability and show Daffy off as some sort of crazed sideshow act to entice all of the good folks streaming into the theaters.

And, most importantly, how important it was to Porky, who, in this moment, was stricken with the bludgeoning revelation that he knew what he wanted to do with his career and his life. He wanted-–needed-–this.

To watch. To get. To do. He didn’t care or know what capacity. But even in his petrified state, feeling dangerously close to keeling over from the sheer shock, he knew that this–-whatever “this” really was-–was what he wanted.

Chapter Text

After an indeterminable amount of time, Daffy eventually ceased his whooping. Porky didn’t exactly know when or how this was––he couldn’t see or hear or think. The extravagance and religiousness of Daffy’s performance–-which felt too shallow a description–-had forcefully shunted him into a tunnel vision of sorts.

This all consuming paralysis of awe was as painful as it was euphoric. Yet, just the same, Porky was slowly aware of the joy in what he did for a living himself: if Daffy could make him feel this way, completely bludgeoning his every sense in the kneecaps and incapacitating him with his manic, genius talent, then maybe-–just maybe–-Porky could possibly make someone else feel the same way. 

The blood rushing through his ears, his heart pounding in his chest and squeezing itself in his throat, knotting against his tongue and entangling his mouth in a snare of gauze. Cold pricks of perspiration kissing his forehead and excreting from his tense, gnarled palms. The pinch and chafe of his breath, the thud in his head, the vignette caving his vision and the squeeze of his temples. It was an overwhelming and, by all means, absolutely unpleasant sensation, but so powerful that Porky could only hope he would be able to make others feel the same. It was so ferocious, so strong, so bewildering that he needed to make sure he was not the only one in the world who could feel such a way. 

With great difficulty, Porky was eventually able to snap to his senses. Or, more aptly, clawing his way out of the fly trap of his figue: strands of glue still tangled his arms and back and shoulders, straining to pull him back and topple him over completely, but he was nevertheless able to boast the illusion of cognizance. He dutifully closed his mouth, he blinked the glossiness from his eyes, and tried in vain to take a breath that would calm the buzzing and thundering and shuttering of his heart.

No particular technique was very successful. His head continued to spin, and all he could think of was the majesty of Daffy’s production-—his majesty, his brilliance, his eccentric genius and sheer insanity. He couldn’t understand it. 

He knew he had to, nevertheless.

Knowing he couldn’t stand there frozen forever, Porky was greeted with effusive applause from the production crew as he timidly reacquainted himself with reality. They were all looking at Daffy, who had finally ceased operations and was swimming back to meet them, but Porky knew that some of the applause was for him, too. 

His confusion was only exacerbated.

When most of the chatter and clapping had paused, Porky gawked at the director, still attempting to blink himself free of his stupor. His voice was weak and reluctant as he managed to sputter “Ehh-wih-eh-w-wuh-wee-ehh.. eh-weh… wuh.. we-was that ih-geh-gg-geh-good?”

His query was met with some scattered laughter. Usually, this would have prompted Porky to turn a violent shade of red; instead, he continued to stand vacantly. He felt as though he were mere seconds away from fainting–the most important priority to him was keeping his footing steady, so that he didn’t keel over.

“Good! ” The words repeated out of the director’s mouth were coated with an incredulous good humor. “That was marvelous!” 

As he said so, he had gotten out of his chair to shake Daffy’s hand, now back on dry land. Daffy was positively beaming. Eyes wide, smile broad, chest out-–no trace of weariness seemed to cling to any feather.

Porky startled when Daffy gave him a look–-a validation craving ecstasy that begged to spur on greater conversation. His eyes glittered in an inciting way, his eyebrows raised and alert. His cheek folds creased above his orange little beak. Every ounce of him radiated joy and warmth and zeal.

Unfortunately, Porky was unable to respond in any way. No waves, no nods, no skillfully concise raises of the eyebrows. He just gawked and gawked, eyes wide, mouth agape yet again, frozen in place. He instead found his eyes scanning and devouring Daffy’s every single move.

Daffy didn’t seem deterred-–as customary–-but there was a layer to the way he looked at Porky that gave pause. A certain curiosity, perhaps, or a knowingness to Porky’s stupefaction.

Porky didn’t know. Daffy’s whoops still screeched in his ears. He was still hungering, clinging, clamoring onto the mental image of Daffy throwing himself in the air and skating and skirting. The effortlessness of his contortions, the pride of his spontaneity, the beauty of his unpredictability. 

Due to this fugue state refusing to detach itself, Porky only half-heard the director’s next onslaught of instructions. Something about filming more scenes with Daffy first, Porky can take a quick break, then they’ll both be on break as they film another scene–-something with fish–-and then they’ll both be back on set.

Thus, still locked in a haze, Porky was vaguely aware of his mental directions commanding his feet to go forward, one in front of the other. He was vaguely aware of the praises directed to his person. He was vaguely aware of the way he nodded and attempted a smile, which was moreso just twitching the corners of his agape mouth for a second, flattening it into a line rather than making a smile. 

Anyone else would be quick to mistake him for a zombie. Yet, nevertheless, all he could think about, all he could feel, all he could know was Daffy’s radiant excellence. 

Just the night before, Daffy had been begging Porky to teach him the tools of the trade. Then, before he could so much as lift a finger, Daffy ran out on him. Porky’s autograph, traded in similarly excitable circumstances, had become ammunition for his performance. For how anchored he had been to Porky’s validation, it was Porky who felt he needed to cling to him and beg him for his wisdom.

Porky would despair about this in most instances.

He would despair about how he was correct this entire time, his life and career really had been a lie, he really was stumbling into walls. He would despair at how he had so much more to learn. He would despair at how everyone had been stringing him along and humoring him for years, how he didn’t even have a fraction of the talent that he perceived he did have–-that is to say, not much.

But he didn’t.

Porky did not despair. In fact, he felt the complete opposite. He felt energized at the prospect of having something to learn. Inspired, motivated, reinvigorated–the mere idea that he could possibly make others feel the same dreadful, masochistic, delightful suffocation of awe that entrenched him now. A selfish part inside of him begged for more… but was it so selfish if he wanted to spread the wealth and make others feel the same? Or did he just want to feel this same sensation, over and over again? Did he just want something to strive for?

No matter the circumstance, the root cause was unanimous: a carnal desire to understand Daffy. What makes him tick. What makes him, him. 

Just as Porky had finally resigned himself to feeling like he may never truly understand what runs through that little black duck’s head, he craved and demanded the absolute opposite. Daffy had proven himself more unpredictable than he ever imagined, and he wanted to know how that was possible. Maybe he didn’t want or need to know how to hop on his head, or how to upheave such visceral whoops of joy from his diaphragm, but he wanted to grasp and caress that same zest and captivation and sheer magic that radiated off of Daffy.

Or, maybe he just wanted to be close to the source. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just knew that what he saw-—whatever it is that he did see, he needed it, and in spades.

Thus, with powerful aimlessness, Porky meandered off of the stage and found a place to sit, sequestered deep in the shadows and away from the light. He had already lost sight of Daffy in his daze–-the director and production crew were moving in a cluster, trading conversations and instructions, making it even more impossible to locate him. 

Perhaps that was out of necessity. Wisely, Porky decided to use this opportunity to catch his breath and remember that he had an obligation to fill and a role to assume. He just had to ground himself and allow the conversations to buzz impenetrably around him, for the fog of Daffy’s genius to clear.

Easier said than done, but no more surprising for it. 

Attempts to clear his head were more akin to steam rolling off of a pond rather than blowing it away. Porky just sat in the dark corner, stewing, unable to untangle himself from his confusion and anxiety and awe and amazement at the derailment of the script. 

The subsequent re-entry to reality wasn’t exactly by choice-–it was a phenomenon ushered in through a series of harsh, loud, echoing crackles and snaps that sent an icy tingle down his spine.

Though it was Daffy who was the victim, Porky felt like he was the one who had swallowed an electric eel instead. His attention was forced back onto set, where Daffy was shooting through the water like a torpedo. Frantic honks and quacks jumbled out of his beak as he lunged and twitch and convulsed; the violence of his movements and voice led Porky to believe that Daffy had genuinely been either stupid or brave enough to eat an actual electric eel. 

This, too, was enchanting. Porky could feel the vestiges of a panic rising in his gut, as it really did seem like Daffy was hurt–-but, just like his water ballet, deliberation and control completely smothered his utter lack of control. Perfectly attuned to when to jump out of the water, or when to convulse into a shockwave at the sharpest of increments. He had a firm understanding of when best to flap and swing and flutter his feathers. 

It was genuinely impossible to tell whether he was acting or reacting. His performance was so moving that Porky hadn’t even realized he had instinctively lept out of his seat upon the sound of Daffy’s quacking.

A cut was called soon after, which issued another chain reaction of waves and compliments to ripple through the soundstage. Porky was yet again unable to make out Daffy’s exact location, as throngs of people quickly closed in on the set. Nevertheless, that didn’t entirely matter–a shockwave was prompting Porky to convulse himself. Only just now did he realize that he never praised Daffy for his earlier performance.

Of course, he didn’t even know how to articulate what he could say–-what couldn’t he say? But, whatever it was he wanted to say, he knew he needed to. 

Just as electricity seemingly coarse through Daffy’s veins through his consumption of the eel, that same electricity crackled through Porky’s fingers, down his wrists and arms, reverberating all through his insides as his mind hummed with adrenaline. Daffy’s acting capabilities were simply unhuman. Porky needed to know more, to see more, to feel more, and he even needed to tell Daffy that he needed more. It was he who was the blubbering, excitable superfan.

Attempts to sidle closer to the pack were rejected, as the bustling crew seemed to move in a herd all at once. By the time the sidestepping and shoulder shoves and murmurs parted, Daffy was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t be that far off-–a soundstage is a soundstage–-but a pang of regret did nestle itself into Porky’s gut, wishing he had been paying more attention.

No director was yelling at him to get on set, so he didn’t figure himself to be in any trouble, but he still heavily disliked the dissatisfaction of floaty aimlessness. Especially when he felt like a ticking time bomb, each second closer to impact as the questions and praises and gasps and chuckles and sighs swelled within his gut.

Scanning his gaze against the entirety of the soundstage yielded no results for any visible ducks. What he did see was the director and some other crew members huddled around a piano, which, Porky realized was being tinkered with. A few shy notes were jarred from the keys, and then a glissando of a scale affirming the notes, and then a few bars of a melody. Pauses in the playing were substituted with idle chatter from the director-—Porky suddenly remembered the talks of a break in lieu of a music number. 

A musical number that Daffy wouldn’t be needed for. Porky’s chest prickled, his ears perking; the thought of him catching Daffy off to the side and spilling his praises there was enticing.

So, while Porky’s ambling through the soundstage was still largely aimless, it was a contented aimlessness. Aimlessness with a mission. He weaved through the backs of various sets, stepping over wooden beams and arches, snaking around various props, hyperaware of his foot registry so as not to trip over any cords. He listened to the indistinct chatter of voices—some laughing, some tones hurried, some amicably apathetic.

As he meandered through the soundstage, ducking in and out of props and people alike, keeping an eye out for that little black duck, a gradual realization gripped his chest: for perhaps the first time in his life, he didn’t feel as much like a stranger in his own home. 

There was something not exactly cozy, but communal about the atmosphere. A sense of community that he had largely shunned-—he felt it wasn’t his to claim. Yet, he realized, as he craned his neck to ogle at some backdrops for the scenes taking place in his “house”, he was a part of it. These sets, with their elaborate backdrops, their sturdiness, their extravagance-—how many tons of water were in that “lake”?—-were built for him. These directors, and musicians, and camera men, and sound men, and production assistants, and writers, and producers, and executives were all catering their talents and services to him.

Porky still did not believe he was as skilled or charming as he had been flimsily reassured through the years, and thus, knowing this was an incredibly daunting cross to bear. Yet, for the first time, he could see it. He could see why everyone, including Daffy, was here. After all, it was his own name in the cartoon’s title. 

In a way, this was all for him. 

Just when he considered dropping his search, he found his culprit: he should have assumed Daffy would have flocked to the heart of the action. 

Directorial duties were focused on shooting a scene of drunken fish singing a chorus. They transcribed the melody of the piano into beautiful, intricate barbershop harmonies, incongruous with the hokiness of their banjo strumming and row--boating and comedy through implied inebriation. 

And who stood off to the side in the shadows with a strategic vantage point to observe the whole thing unfold but Daffy. Hands tucked neatly behind his back, an attentive smile politely adorned his beak as he stood vigil with great intrigue. In this moment, he looked much more akin to a kid who had snuck onto set, sneaking a glance when he shouldn’t, as opposed to a performance artist genius.

Trying to remain as quiet and unobtrusive to the assistants around him, Porky shouldered his way through more sets and props and people as gingerly yet quickly as he could. His heart pounded louder in his ears with each strategic step, the bomb of praises in his gut dangerously close to detonating. Daffy never tore his eyes from the stage.

Porky was thusly able to maneuver his way behind Daffy, squeezing past a few speakers and lights. And, just as he ventured his mouth to say something, the little, polite duck in front of him spared a quick turn of the head. He hadn’t moved nor shown any indication that his attention was elsewhere-–his regarding of Porky, as quick as it was, felt like a sixth sense. 

It wasn’t even a full on grin or turn of the head, but an acknowledging side-eye. He seemed hesitant to commit to more, as though he didn’t want to deter any amount of his attention away from the performance in front of him. Sure enough, he turned his head back as quickly as he had started, the same unthinking confidence in his movements. What control.

A vacant blink substituted as Porky’s reply. He wondered whether or not he should say something, but when Daffy kept on watching the performance, he figured he should do the same. 

With some awkward rigidity, Porky mimicked Daffy’s stance. His arms were folded behind his back, his posture more erect, his toes facing straight to the stage. Standing attention for a metaphorical drill sergeant completely unaware of his existence. 

Despite the harsh buzz of the lights, the crank of the cameras, the throngs of assistants hustling and bustling, and the choristers on set, a peculiar intimacy shrouded the moment. Daffy seemed to absorb and thusly ooze every single chord, every note, every strum, every movement. Every modicum of an action or structure or purpose contained within that soundstage was rushing through Daffy’s every neuron, trickling out into the smile on his beak, the glitter in his eyes, the pride in his stance. 

For all of the great talents of the performers on set, which is where Porky’s attention should have been, his focus refused to budge from Daffy’s spectacle of spectatorship. Any praises and admiration Porky did hold for the choristers was moreso a domino effect; Daffy was impressed and in awe, and, thusly, so was Porky.

In an attempt to indulge in this same zest for the mundane, Porky made himself soak it all in: the revelation of Daffy’s virtuosity, the ownership Porky held over this cartoon, the collaboration from multiple fields and talents all working to bolster his own name and cartoon credentials. 

For perhaps the first time ever, he was able to wholly enjoy and appreciate the fruits of everyone’s labor. Perhaps that “everyone” would someday include himself.

And, once the song was over–once the fish had rowed off-screen, once the cameras had cut, once the crackles of applause rippled and echoed through the soundstage, Daffy whirled around to face him.

“You’re a lucky guy.”

Another bewildered blink from Porky. That same polite smile was etched onto Daffy’s face. Only this time, it wasn’t armed with the same craving or possessiveness as it had before. Instead, he bore an unfamiliar quaintness and reservation to him. A particular friendliness that was illuminating, warm, considerate of Porky’s slower pace rather than overwhelming. This was new for them.

A proper response refused to jar itself out of Porky’s lips. He had spent so much time wanting, craving, exploding to talk to him, agonizing how he had missed his chance before, and his mind was now an effusive blank at the perfect opportunity.

Reliability presented itself through yet another curt, acknowledging nod. 

It was just as well–before Porky had finished lifting his chin all the way back up, the director was ushering the two of them back onto set. This prompted Daffy to shed another hungry glance of indeterminate meaning to him before trotting over to the director, itching to tend to his duties. Porky was slower to follow, forcing his leadened legs to carry him over; for as shocked and inarticulate as he was, a pit of emboldenment was slowly sinking its roots into his chest.

There was no mention of the script having been completely derailed by the director. Porky found that, as well as the immediate resumption of business as usual, to be incredibly perplexing. Questions and arguments simmered in his gut the more he thought about it. 

Nevertheless, he abstained, more preoccupied with taking his next set of directions: he was to shoot at Daffy as he hid in the reeds, with the bullets narrowly missing and prompting Daffy to skirt around the lake. That would then lead him airborne, with Porky adjusting his aim–that, in turn, would allow for a gag in which he would rapidly shoot the gun, digging himself deeper into a fallaway hole that was rigged on the stage floor to make it seem as though he were actually descending into it. He and the director ran through the mechanics of it a few times just to be certain, Porky testing his weight to ensure he wouldn’t fall too quickly (or at all, for that matter). Everything seemed to be in order.

Both pig and duck alike headed to their respective starting positions: Porky, standing in the middle of the “lake”, gun in tow, Daffy opposite from him at the other end of the water vat, a cluster of land separating them both. Unlike the last few instances, this assumption of stage presence had no accompanying chit-chat between the two. The magnificence of Daffy’s performance still rung in Porky’s ears and prevented him from proper articulation of speech. Daffy himself seemed to be coming down from his own high, removed of his observational awe and instead trading praises with the fish choristers and even the director himself. 

Porky envied his sociability greatly. Maybe that, in addition to learning how to cartwheel and throw himself around, would be a skill that Daffy could teach him, too.

Swapping his hunter’s cap for his duck decoy-–in anticipation of replacing it with his hunting cap again–-substituted as Porky’s entertainment. Wading into the water, just to wade out of it again, no longer arrived as a shock to him. No longer did he fret over the continuous cycle of getting wet, drying off. Getting wet, drying off. Wet, dry, wet, dry. Daffy’s shrill whooping and dancing took all mental precedence. 

Once the decoy was tied to his head–-satisfactorily secure, but still loose enough to be pulled with a simple swipe of his fingers–-Porky turned his attention to the director, who had been keeping an eye on him. 

“Are you all set?” he asked him, amidst a throng of cameramen.

“Yy-ye-yee-y-yessir.” Porky’s reply bordered on stony. His expression neutral, face flat; he felt that if he wasn’t careful, if he shirked on his duties as an emotional watchman, then a plethora of whoops and cackles and shrieks would snap out of his own gullet. Daffy’s voice coated his tongue, lodged itself in his throat, and made an absolute whirlwind of his head.

The director gave his cue after a nod. Obligingly, Porky directed his attention to the island of prop reeds: among them was his hunting dog, signaling his presence with a series of gesticulations. With the camera on the dog, Porky waded his way over; he traded his duck decoy hat for his hunter’s cap as soon as he made contact with land, keeping a handle of his gun all throughout.

These transitionary scenes, the mortar, were always some of the most tedious to film. They were often prone to being some of the most troublesome, in spite of their brevity; they were all about condensation and problem solving. Nobody wants to watch a scene of Porky laboriously untying one hat and swapping it for another. He had to juggle multiple actions at the same time, and clearly, to quickly convey a bit of housekeeping that would allow him to tend to the next piece of business.

After he placed the cap on his head, the cameras were yet again cut, and production crews yet again shuffled to accommodate a different angle. Porky used this brief downtime as an excuse to peer at Daffy through the reeds—what sort of unpredictability awaited him this time? What importance did the rest of the script have to him? Was he about to pop through the reeds to bite him on the snout again? 

Porky was utterly clueless at what to anticipate. Usually, this would have wrung his stomach into knots. His uncertainty would completely incapacitate him.

But it didn’t. In fact, he almost wanted it; a sharp curiosity twisted his sides and tickled the back of his neck. Who knew what other brilliant contortionisms and subversions and grand displays were awaiting in Daffy’s playbook.

For the time being, it seemed like there were none at all: he bobbed patiently in the water, surveying the camera and lighting crews attentively as they got into position. Such a childlike fascination of what Porky had always taken as the utterly mundane.

You’re a lucky guy.

Before he could ruminate on what Daffy had meant by those words, his attention was stolen by the director. Both actors were told to get into position, which Porky did so obligingly: Porky, gun in hand, crouching amongst the reeds. Daffy, swimming lazy circles in the water, back turned against Porky.

The signal was thusly given. Porky rose from the reeds slowly, a scowl forced onto his face as he gradually lifted the gun. Daffy hardly seemed to be acting as he swam around in happy little loops, tracing the path of the ripples he left in the water. It was only when he reacted in surprise at the rifle that Porky remembered their respective roles: this was accompanied by another ear splitting cacophony of frantic quacking.

A more violent reaction to Porky’s earlier rifle confrontation. Daffy’s quacking was much more rapid, shrill, his wings splaying in the air and his webbed feet pointed upwards. It was truly remarkable, his ability to switch into a feral, defenseless little duck. How easily he was able to transmogrify between demeanors, emotions, even realities. Hungry curiosity in Porky’s stomach smarted. 

To further assert his versatility, Daffy seamlessly shifted to his regular self as he recoiled away from the gun, wincing as he plugged his ears. Posture hunched, eyes screwed shut, his pathos was made more comedic through how human and “real” it felt against his quacking fit prior.

Porky channeled his admiration through the tug of the trigger.

…or, he would have, had the blank actually fired like it should have.

Tugging the trigger only resulted in a dull click. Porky, having braced himself for impact, recoiled more at the lack of a blast than he actually would have if it fired. 

Stupefied, he made another attempt, tugging the forestock with greater urgency. Another dull, uninspired click answered his call.

He tried again. Same result.

And again.

And again.

How ferociously he wanted to garble out some sort of plea or excuse to the director, the stagehand, the prop department, the gun manufacturer themselves. But he didn’t. Steadfast, steely determination simmered in his gut and glued his fingers to the trigger and forestock. Or, more aptly, perhaps it was stubbornness rather than determination. A carnal desire to prove himself–to prove that he could be as transformative an actor as Daffy. He would fire off the loudest, most powerful blank that this soundstage had ever been witness to. The complete and utter nerve of the rifle to sabotage his plans.

Instead of trading pitiful glances and garbling for help as he may have done, Porky instead kept pulling the trigger and the forestck. Each click only accelerated his movements, his violence, his anger. Harder. Louder. Angrier. 

It got to the point where the tugging and pulling and clicking of the gun was a means to embody and release his anger rather than accomplish any sort of purpose. He could have taken the rifle and split it straight over his knee if he were just a bit more cognizant and a bit more stupid. He nevertheless refused to look up, refused to ask for help, refused to do anything but feed into the ca-chunk ca-chunk ca-chunk ca-chunk of his rifle. Any stage directions tossed his way were missed. He could explain himself and tend to a new take after he dislodged the blank. He had to shoot it off, he had to get it out; he had to make a case for himself first and foremost.

So entangled in this compulsive pattern of pulling and clicking, he completely missed that Daffy had strutted right up to him. He didn’t have time to, really. He just caught him out of the corner of his eye, his gait full of confidence and ownership and belonging. In normal circumstances, Porky would have said something—this also wasn’t in the script, have they stopped rolling, who’s responsible for making this blamed gun in the first place, and so on and so forth. 

But he just couldn’t. Anger and indignation and the desire to coax that blank out of the gun took all precedence.

The only thing that could get him to disengage was a series of condescending, haughty “tsk tsk tsk”s from his right.

Daffy stood with his spindly feathers jointed against his hips, a disapproving scowl furrowing his tiny little face. Porky gawked, stupefied; this same sort of control and pretension directly mimicked his earlier charade with tossing the dog aside. In fact, it seemed even more aggressive and commanding through how personal it all felt. If Daffy’s presence in itself wasn’t enough to make Porky remove himself from his clicking and pumping, this was. 

With sustained assurance, Daffy wordlessly thrust his little arms out. His palms were open–an unspoken gesture of “gimme”. His beak tipped up, the glint in his eye accusatory and fiery rather than mischievous, his arms commandingly outstretched. By all accounts, he resembled an indignant toddler.

Perhaps the only thing more confounding than his behavior was Porky’s willingness to fork the rifle over. It wasn’t exactly a willingness, but a hypnoticism of sorts; his mind turned to static, hooked on Daffy’s every movement, he felt as though he had no other choice but to feed into his charade. 

Though his offering of the gun was largely mindless, he still had enough awareness in him to be careful with it; Daffy was so small and the gun so big that he was afraid he would topple over the moment he made contact.

Nevertheless, Daffy continued to establish himself as being full of surprises, and hardly even seemed to buckle beneath the prop murder weapon four times his size. Security in his control and sense of commanding never faltered.

A scowl on his face, gun steady in his grip, Daffy was wordlessly able to free one of the blanks. Porky observed blankly as it spit out of the gun, plinking against the ground and rolling far away. Then, with equal vacancy, he ogled as Daffy lifted the gun upwards…

BANG!

The crack of the gun was skull splitting. Porky reflexively flinched, screwing his eyes shut and hunching up his shoulders even in spite of the knowledge that these were blanks rather than bullets. 

A moment passed before Porky unclenched himself from his recoiling. Daffy just stood there, rifle snug in his tiny arms. He eyed the trail of smoke hissing from the barrel with a leisurely apathy.

And, without any second warning, he forked the pseudo-murder weapon back to Porky. Not once did his bored and above-it-all expression falter. Neither did the stupefaction on Porky’s face. Instead, as if to accentuate the aggression of his bafflement, he found himself idly scratching his head.

Generously, Daffy filled him in. “Huh huh,” he heaved in that same, phony guffaw, “it’s me again.”

This explanation of the utter and confoundingly obvious only wanted to make Porky scratch his head more.

He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. Another series of nerve pinching, heart pounding, cold sweat drenching whoops and shrieks shocked Porky’s system. Exactly as he had before, Daffy engaged in an exacting reprise of his water-capades—-the jumping, the skipping, the flipping, the shrieking. Only this time, he seemed to make a point to stare Porky right in the eye as he did it.

Porky himself engaged in an exacting reprise of his prior reaction. The suffocating awe. The pinching inspiration. The fiery confusion. The borderline blissful helplessness. Yet again, he felt as though he had just been smacked over the head with a sharp, duck shaped bludgeon that splintered into a thousand whoops and hollers.

Despite his every nerve ending having been pierced, his blood rushing to his head, his temples squeezing, his gut churning, his palms sweating, his knees buckling, Porky didn’t drop the gun as he had the script. His grip had run cold, blood like ice as he was massaged, poked, pinched, tickled, smacked by the huffy, shrill catharsis spilling out of Daffy’s mouth and motivating his contortions across the water—-but he didn’t drop the gun.

Just like the first instance, Daffy’s performance ended with an unthinking frankness. His splashing and shrieking eventually trickled to a stop once the director had called cut. Porky just stood there, throat dry, mouth gawking, eyes wide, palms sweaty, nerves shot and mind blank. 

Also adhering to the previously established patten, the events thereafter moved in a thick blur. Porky vaguely recalled asking if the take was fine, and the director said it was more than fine, and the crew was applauding them both, and Daffy had snuck back up beside Porky before he realized, and he gave him a grin, and Porky just gawked at him and at the crew and at himself.

Just as he had thought he had recovered from the first instance, just as he thought he had learned to embrace the feelings of empowerment that stemmed from Daffy’s performance—he now felt like he had no idea how to do anything. Something as simple as remembering how to breathe proved taxing.

There did happen to be a bit of a difference between this set of shrieking and last. That is, Porky’s condition was evidently noticeable enough for the director to ask if he needed a break. Immediately he stiffened up, rapidly blinking away the paralysis of stupefaction. A quick jolt of his head from left to right to further shake any physical manifestations of his bewilderment free.

“I’m eh-fe-ih-feh-fi-eh-fah-fi-fi… feh-fi-ehh… ye-yeah,” he bumbled. His voice was breathless but loud, feigned in its sense of commanding to overcompensate for his reality of feeling the opposite. 

Without waiting for another beat, Porky gently flicked his wrist in Daffy’s direction. He kept his wide eyed stare affixed to the crew around him as he sputtered, his voice hitching with candidness: “He’s-eh ... eh-rih-ree-ih-reh-rr-eh-reh--really good! ”

Porky saw Daffy puff up in his peripherals. Riding on this, Porky turned his attention to fully direct his deer-in-headlights stare towards his pin feathered costar. Daffy’s own eyes were wide, inflated with pride and hunger and zeal rather than petrification. He seemed moments away from launching into yet another routine of zinging around the walls; had Porky reached out and put a finger to him, it wasn’t unlikely that he would have popped.

“Ye-eh… uh… ye-ih-yeh-ehh… eh-yih-you’re really geh-ih-gih-g-goo-ih-geh-good!” he repeated, his voice even more breathless and candid. The tone of his voice painted it as an accusation rather than a compliment, as if he had just witnessed Daffy in the act of committing a horrible crime.

A few chatterings of agreement mingled in the scattered laughter among the production crew, in spite of Porky making no conscious attempt to be funny. He couldn’t even be mortified at such-—he and Daffy merely continued to gawk at each other, different contexts of wildness coating their eyes. 

Daffy still seemed to have it in his mind that he shouldn’t speak out of turn, as if he was trying his absolute best to remain on his best behavior—perhaps a state of mind that was difficult for him to come by, and thusly something to embrace while he could. Even so, Porky could sense how much that he was dying to shower him in compliments and questions and exclamations. There was an amusing, oxymoronic, and borderline childish restraint to him that revealed a clear lack of restraint.

“Well,” the director began, doing a more effective job of redirecting Porky’s attention, “you only have one more scene left to charm us with your talent, Daffy.”

A dull pang ricocheted against Porky’s heart. Had filming really flown by that quickly? Frantic preparations for the cartoon had made it seem as though Daffy had more authority over the short than he really did. His presence was just that consuming.

Indeed, Porky had been rocked by Daffy’s talent—what an understatement—and it was manifesting itself in an incapacitating slew of psychosomatic symptoms. Even so, he felt like he could film 3 more cartoons with the two of them right then and there. The pang in his heart was motivated by the empty feeling that he hadn’t appreciated their time together nearly as much as he could have.

“We'll run through the remainder of your scenes, Porky.” The voice of the director forced Porky away from his mental mourning. “We’ll go through the rest of the hunting business before going back to the top. It isn’t unfeasible to stretch those scenes into tomorrow, either.”

“Nih-neh-ih-neh-eh-n-now’s good,” Porky interjected, a little too tight on the heels of the director. His face flushed for a moment as he caught himself. “Eh, heh, eh-theh-ih-the-theeah-theh-that is… theh-that is… uh. Ah-ah-I can do it.” 

He found himself looking at Daffy, nodding his head at him. Daffy stared in smiley vacancy. “Ah-I can dih-eh-do it,” he repeated, as if he expected either Daffy or the production crew to protest against him.

It was the truth, too. For as stupefied as he was, for as itchy as his palms were, for as heavy as his head pounded, the electricity of Daffy’s inspiration in his veins took full precedence. There was a part of him that was terrified that he would never regain that spark, should he let it slip out of his hands by resting on his laurels.

Another part of him, perhaps a more sensible part, dreaded the toll that filming an entire cartoon in a day with hardly any forewarning would take on his body. Maybe now he’d finally be emboldened enough to tell the studio heads that this was untenable. Nevertheless, the electricity in his veins that threatened to shoot out of his fingertips and through his mouth and his eyes and his ears and his hooves was too powerful and too precious to quell. He felt like it was his turn to cartwheel and skip and whoop and scream next. 

Porky’s slightly bullheaded declarations prompted Daffy to devour him with hungrier eyes. He seemed impressed at his boldness. Likewise, Porky assumed that the extended opportunity for Daffy to watch him perform fed into his delight—this was another deciding factor in him wanting to keep going himself. He wanted to feel those searing little pinpricks tracking his every move. He wanted to incapacitate and impress and amaze Daffy the same way he had him. 

Primarily, it was Porky’s own pinpricks who tracked Daffy’s every move as they filmed his swan song. A rather mundane sequence to end out on, just a simple shot of him flying into the air.

Yet, to Porky, it was every bit as gripping as his manic water gymnastics. He was overtly aware of every single movement and decision and interaction that Daffy upheld. His hungry glances at the director, his sprightly nods, the way he’d skip into position with a swivel in his step and a gleam in his eye. The way a curtain seemed to befall him, transforming this impish little figure into a no-name wild duck fleeing from the implied aim of a hunter. How amazing it was that he could snap on and off exactly like that.

Shooting said scene only took a few moments: Daffy got into position, flapped his wings when called, halted in mid-air when he was called cut, and swerved back onto land with equally calculating zeal. Resumption of his struts, his smiles, his grins as the director and crew all poured their praises onto him was imminent–Porky even saw Daffy and the director shake hands. 

Though Porky himself was unable to give proper congratulations–the production assistants and director and crew had their attention directed to himself, ensuring his costume was properly dry and in place for the next scene–he did catch a snatch of his eye contact above the crowd. A timid, slightly distracted but no less sincere smile prompted his cheeks to raise. Daffy’s own eyes brightened, his eyebrows raising in response.

That was the extent of their conversation before Porky was whisked away into tending to his forthcoming duties.

All of these scenes that he had so dreaded the night before unfolded with almost insulting convenience. For a rare change, he felt like he could communicate and understand the intent of the director more clearly. He likewise felt like the director was more receptive to his ideas and execution. Breaks between scenes seemed shorter, conversation more amicable. Only a few scenes had to be shot more than once (an occasion that always made Porky wince, as he hated being responsible for the studio losing money on retakes, no matter how tangential his involvement), but they were all for the better. Accommodating a stunt or ensuring a gag read more clearly. It was a simple side effect of the cartoon’s complexity.

So etched into this groove, Porky found that his anxiety at what Daffy was thinking about him had lessened considerably. Though Porky was unable to see him in the shadows due to the overpowering blaze of the lights, he could feel his presence and excitable admiration. He sensed those hungry, hot pinpricks tracing his every step, his every movement, his every gesticulation. 

This, in turn, fed into his desire to inspire. It inspired him to be more bold, more confident, more self assured in his own presence. Whether or not he truly felt these at the source was a different story, but he at least felt as though he could shroud himself in the illusion of them. Continual responses of enthusiasm from the director and crew seemed to signify his success in doing so.

Perhaps the greatest enthusiasm was directed towards a take at the very end of the script. The story had called for Porky to angrily throw his duck call onto the ground, which would lodge itself into the throat of his dog (which was included in one of the scenes demanding a retake, perfectly ensuring that it seemed as if the duck call was actually going into the dog’s mouth). Every time the dog spoke, a quack would come out of his mouth instead, and a hunter would shoot from off screen. 

This clear and present danger demanded the two of them to retreat home. Porky, thoroughly dejected, was to toss away his gear as soon as he got home–the demand to act pouty and petty came a little too easily than was comfortable for his ego.

A siren call of quacking would thusly detract his attention, as it would be revealed that the ducks have followed him home, taunting him from outside the window. In a hurry, Porky was to grab his gun and shoot out the window, only for his ammunition to be completely depleted.

Given his prior malfunction with the gun, it was easier for Porky to channel some of the same anger into the now purposefully hollow clicks of his gun. Just as he had done before, his movements accelerated in anger and frustration as the clicking only mocked him further. The control he had over this malfunction–again, in contrast to his previous affair–was reassuring, freeing, generous in allowing him to be in his acting element. 

Consequently, after a comfortable series of monotonous clicking and shoving the forestock, Porky turned to face the general vicinity of the camera. The gun lay in his hands like a limp animal.

“Dih-dee-eh-deh-dih-eh-deh-do-dehhhh-dih-deh--doggone it! ” 

Yet again, the feeling of the lights and camera and production crew all around him impeded his speech further. No matter how hard he attempted to push the words out with his tongue, spitting them past the barricade of his lips, they would still lodge themselves in the most inaccessible crannies. The roof of his mouth, the back of his throat, behind his teeth and within the folds of his cheeks. The harder he searched, the harder they hid. 

However, instead of succumbing or spitting out a sheepish apology and constituting another take, he instead thought of Daffy’s own spontaneity. His ability to completely roll with and control change. The way he displayed no hesitation, no qualms, no concern of any kind in doing so.

He also tried to think of himself. How the real Porky–not the publicity figure–would handle such a scenario. What it felt like to trust his own instincts.

Thus, his strategic recuperation of “Neh-eh-neh-eh-no more bu-beh-buh-bulle-eh-buh-bulle-buh-behh—shells!” brought the entire house down.

In fact, the applause and laughter was so loud and scattered that Porky feared it bled into the take and would have to be shot again. After a moment’s pause and some checking with the cameramen, he learned he was in the clear; that allowed him to succumb fully to the same side twisting, glee inducing feeling in the crook of his waist that had prodded him as he signed Daffy’s script.

The director even made a point to tell him to “do that more often”, which Porky reciprocated with an unsteady but grateful, coy nod. 

His voice was huffy with his own meek, embarrassed chuckles as he managed to croak out a whelmed “I’ll eh-sih-eh-seh-see what I ceh-ck-can dih-eh-deh-dee-ehhh… eh… heh, eh, ah-ah-I will.”

This was his own personal hoohoo-ing exit. It seemed so insignificant in comparison, too–he wasn’t running or jumping or squawking, just saying a line, but it was met with almost the exact same enthusiasm. 

While he couldn’t physically spot him, red hot prickles at the back of his neck and, conversely, the giddy carbonation within his chest told him that Daffy was feeding into the same frenzy of praise and excitement somewhere in the soundstage. This only made the twisting sensation in his side pinch harder.

A break was called shortly thereafter. Porky had completed the remainder of the script. There were only 8 more scenes at the top to run through, with a bit of stunt work–the scene of him capsizing his boat by way of shotgun–saved for last, and then he’d be done for the day. Fatigue gently patted him on the back and amicably brushed his shoulders: his feet were sore, he felt every ounce of the suit’s weight hanging off of his body, and his hunting cap was soon turned into a fan as he attempted to curb the sweat beading his forehead.

Awaiting him for his lunch was a rather unglamorous, hastily made sandwich, packed as an afterthought amidst his earlier bout of nerves; it was the most delicious meal he had ever had the benefit of scarfing down in the wings of the soundstage. 

For as exhausted, achey, hungry and depleted as he was, Porky had never–dare he say it–felt happier while in such a state. Despite his ailments, the adrenaline mined from Daffy’s extravagance had not once run its course. In fact, it only seemed to inflate with each scene he filmed. 

Any residual nerves were all but put to rest. Warmth and the illusion of confidence pillowed his tone as he made passing conversation with the director and crew. Speaking up about the intent of certain scenes and his acting was much less daunting than it usually had been for him. And, best of all, he still couldn’t shake the prior feeling of belonging on set. All of these people and sets and props were there for him. 

You’re a lucky guy.

Speaking of, Porky found it peculiar that a certain web-footed imp wasn’t hovering over him, breathlessly gushing about their performances or grilling Porky on what he was eating and if he always packed sandwiches for lunch and if he always sat in a dark corner and did ya see me and am I doin’ good and are ya nervous. 

Admittedly, he hadn’t done a very thorough search of the soundstage in looking for him to begin with–having a moment to sit took precedence. A moment to sit secluded in the shadows, idly flipping through his script and scanning the notes his anxious self had written to his current self the night before, all while nursing his sandwich. This certainly wasn’t any way to attract or search for his company. 

Contrastly, Daffy had fulfilled his obligations. There wasn’t any reason for him to hang around set anymore–he was one and done. Still, knowing his exuberance and invasiveness, Porky assumed that he would have stuck around to gobble down Porky’s every word and movement. Surely those prickles licking the back of his neck were from Daffy searing his wily eyes into his every move. Could he have already left? Had he missed his chance to spew his praises to Daffy, to tell him what a talent he was, to have another chance to observe his every little movement?

Finishing the remaining bites of his sandwich was a chore. His stomach caverned into a deep, dread-filled pit; desperately did he hope that he hadn’t been foolish enough to let Daffy slip away so easily. 

Nevertheless, something told him that, deep down, he was being irrational. Daffy wouldn’t have given up on observing and hounding him for the world–not the same duck who barged into his dressing room after hours or demanded Porky give him his autograph.

This thought was maintained in a loop as Porky maintained his acting obligations. Daffy or no Daffy, his presence and his genius was instilled into Porky’s own being. A bit of a tepid march flounced in his step. His chin remained unbuttoned from his chest. Ears perked, eyes alert. The soundstage gradually flooded with idle chitchat as the crew returned from their break, prompting Porky to reciprocate a few smiles and nods and how d’you do’s and aw, shuckses. It was true; he did feel a bit more at home.

Eventually, the idle chatter from the crew was corralled into hushed business talk and attentiveness to the director as everyone resumed their positions. Porky ran through some last minute clarifications with the director: show me how you’ll shoulder arms–just a bit higher, Porky– hold it before you change to the other shoulder, that’s fine, let yourself go slack when you do fire, etcetera. What once paralyzed him with uncertainty and self loathing had now become another piece of business; a certain trepidation still lingered in his chest, but Porky felt more willing to take accountability for his sense of direction and his input.

And, to his credit, it seemed to show. The scenes at the very beginning with Porky showing off his new hunting duds (which had received a generous pat-down, ensuring no indication of waterlogging was present to ruin the chronology of filming) ran swiftly and without conflict. Even the intimidating stunt of firing a hole through the ceiling–something that could really only happen once–didn’t require a retake. The illusion of the blast was startlingly convincing, and Porky had managed to let himself go slack just enough to allow himself to be thrown into the air, getting great laughs at his bumbling but endearing ineptitude. 

It wasn’t even the stunt of firing the gun and throwing himself to the ground that garnered the most praise from the director, but his “energy”.

“You seem happy,” he had observed between scenes. The culprit of this was likely Porky’s first line of the short, where he was to laugh at his dog and reassure him that the gun–which most certainly was loaded–was not. He had worried about that scene, wondering if he would be able to force his jolliness in a way that felt authentic and charming rather than exactly as it was: forced. But the happy reassurances and huffy chuckles that came out of his mouth seemed to have an easier time freeing themselves than he had anticipated.

Now, Porky’s chortles towards the director were much more bashful and candid. “I eh-geh-geh-eh-guess I’m jih-just inspi-eh-peh-pi-eh–i-in-seh-eh-peh-inspired, ‘s all,” he fluttered, his tone tapering off as his lips inadvertently buttoned themselves. Another cold chill crawled up his back, through his neck and squeezed his skull as he could still hear the sound of Daffy’s whoops exploding against his ears.

For all of the director’s praises of his newfound confidence, his words only seemed to score the opposite. Porky really didn’t feel confident–yet. Instead, he felt more conscious to project the image of confidence. 

He sincerely felt like he had something to prove.

Even despite the absence of his target. In all of the brief breaks between scenes–sets being rearranged, staging plans enunciated, costumes adjusted–Porky was never able to locate Daffy. Occasionally, the dull pit in his stomach would tug at him like a lost child in the supermarket. A reminder of his loyalties to his anxieties. 

Yet, just the same, another voice continued to reassure him of Daffy’s fanatical loyalty and how there was absolutely no way he had flaked out on such an opportunity to see Porky perform. 

To wit, what did it even matter if he was there to watch? It wasn’t as though he was putting on a one-man show for him, much less anyone. The title of the short was not Porky’s Hunt Dedicated to a Duck. Slowly but surely, Porky was acquainted with the realization of his irrationalities. It was silly for him to behave this way. 

Especially when he couldn’t exactly parse just what way he was behaving to begin with.

With this in mind, filming the remainder of the cartoon went smoothly. Almost insultingly so. Capsizing his boat was a bit nerve wracking to set-up, thinking of the logistics of having to spend an exceptional amount of time drying off should he need to redo the take. Everything nevertheless went just as planned: he didn’t fire a blank onto himself, the jerry-rigging of the boat beneath the vat of water correctly gave way to the illusion of the blast, and, while Porky came out of the ordeal positively soaked from head to toe, he now boasted the feat of filming an entire cartoon’s worth of scenes in a day.

Porky did have to wonder, as he scrubbed a scruffy towel over his soaked head, how the film editors would navigate some of the flubs that they had captured, such as his gun jamming or Daffy’s improvisation. There were often shortcuts and tricks to the editing that could still salvage a short–tricks he was completely ignorant to, but he remained curious. Surely Daffy’s water ballet wouldn’t land on the cutting room floor.

Daffy’s water ballet. It was thanks to that that Porky was able to shoot all of his scenes with such confidence and acceptance.

Though Porky was technically finished with the cartoon, there were still a few one-off scenes not involving him nor Daffy that had to be filmed. Those were to be pushed to another day: he already had more cartoon commitments. A little glow of heat dwindled in his chest as he felt more emboldened to eventually express his frustration with the brass about the spontaneity of these filmings, and how ridiculous their expectations were to film on such short notice.

Yet, in a convoluted, twisted way, it was fitting. It certainly fit Daffy’s own bragadocious spontaneity. His impulsive means of living perfectly fed into the cartoon’s impulsive production. Without these fly-by-the-seat-of-one’s-pants changes, Porky wouldn’t have been thrust into the contentment and flirtation with confidence that he currently felt. Perhaps there was something to learn from that.

It was mid-evening when Porky’s day officially ended. He had spent a generous amount of time drying himself off, pouring the water out of his boots and wringing out the thick, starchy fabric that hung on his body like a dead weight. There was no greater pleasure in peeling it off in favor of his usual peacoat and bow-tie; the colors, the textures, the style all exactly as he wanted. 

Still, he found himself preoccupied with the residual puddles of water that he had tracked onto the soundstage. Upon catching him mopping the floor with a rag, crouched to his knees, one of the production assistants laughed and told him that being janitor was much below his paygrade. 

“Go on home,” he had said as Porky awkwardly gave him the towel, cheeks blooming in timorousness, “and be proud to do it.”

Porky chewed on the kindness of those words, but was unable to fulfill them just yet.

Petunia had already headed home before Porky, as the costume shop was shrouded in darkness when he arrived to return his clothes. Such solitude of the shop after-hours was always a great comfort. It meant that all chatty conversation was postponed until he arrived home, which therefore meant more time to bask in his own company. Yet, this evening, the darkness was hollow rather than comforting. It reminded him of the gaping hole nagging and tugging in his chest–Petunia wasn’t the only conversation starter missing.

Thus, for “insurance”, as he so told himself, Porky meandered back to the studio rather than his car in the parking lot. Most of the crew were trickling out by now, exchanging nods and smiles and, for Porky, “the-eh-thank you”s as he received praises in passing. 

But no sign of a duck. Circling the halls and soundstages, craning his neck and straining his ears for any pitter patter of webbed feet or the slurp of a lisp wrought no results.

His leadened stomach grew more heavy and mournful with each passing second. He even made a return visit to his dressing room, nursing the irrational and foolish hope that perhaps a little black duck had been waiting to spring him behind the door. Scripts neatly stacked atop the wooden vanity and the strategically hung newspaper clippings served as his only company. 

Porky took this moment to straighten up one last time, grabbing the script he needed for tomorrow’s rehearsal with Gabby. His thoughts were not on the script. Instead, he spied at his meek, nervous face in the photographs and news clippings. The uncertainty and even fear in his eyes. The lack of commitment drenching his face.

A familiar broth of carbonation ate at his insides once more as he thought about how Daffy had made him feel earlier.

Perhaps there was no greater reminder than when he made his exit from the dressing room. His chin was tucked to his chest as he carefully stowed his script away in his jacket, resembling the timid, reserved porcine of this morning. With his gaze averted, his awareness of Daffy’s presence was all auditory; it couldn’t be anything else from the echoing cackles and jubilated, shrill spitting nestled deep within the studio’s hallways. 

Porky instinctively chased the source. His pace quickened, his heart jolting, his script slapping against his thigh from the depths of his coat pockets as he hobbled in an aimless jog. A stupefied grin had subconsciously fluttered its way onto his face that he had to fight to keep at bay.

Just as he had first found him on the soundstage, Daffy was chumming it up with the director. Porky was unable to make out the details of their conversation; it nevertheless seemed amicable, judging by the good humor dictating Daffy’s voice. 

Their conversation had just ended when Porky substituted the silence. The jubilant “Ihh-deh-dih-deeah-eh-de-eh-de-Daffy!” that cracked out his mouth hadn’t intended to be as loud nor as forceful as it was—it hadn’t even intended to slip out of his lips at all. He just couldn’t help himself. 

Daffy was a fair ways ahead of him, heading towards the same exit that he was; his gait stopped on a dime at the sound of Porky’s voice. Instantaneously, he whirled around: the neutrally curious expression on his face blossomed into a sheer catharsis of glee as the two made eye contact. 

Cordial embarrassment shrouded Porky’s face as he heaved an unconscious, apologetic chuckle—he still wasn’t quite sure whether or not he had the privilege to refer to him by name—but that was quickly trumped through his quickening pace and, with it, quickening excitement. Hurried walking turned to strutting turned to jogging as he finally flagged down the target that had so eluded him for hours. 

Though he said nothing, Daffy’s gleaming eyes and wide smile communicated his eager sentiments unstead. He observed intently as Porky scuffed to a halt in front of him, huffing yet another sheepish chortle as he caught his breath. For hours, he had been starving to see him—when suddenly confronted with his share, he found himself starstruck all over again.

Porky merely stood there, slightly hunched over as he regained his composure, cheeks dancing with a flush, heart thudding out the jolt that had carried him over to Daffy with the jolt that had motivated him. Daffy just stared and stared with that interminable, smiley vacancy. Calculating something deep within the recesses of his feathered little head that Porky was clueless to. Eyes bright, focus centered, he seemed completely unbothered by Porky hounding him over, just to pause and gawk in his face. 

“Ah-ah-I-eh-I… heh… eh…”

Articulation of his words was a privilege he did not receive. Instead, they only grew more coy as Daffy eyed him expectantly. At no point did he falter or lose the glint in his eye. He seemed to have full trust in whatever it was that Porky was floundering to push forward; this only exacerbated Porky’s bashfulness, unaccustomed to such patient regard. 

All the usual tricks to assist—such as squeezing his eyes shut or pumping his fists, aided by the feeling of physically shoving the words out—failed him. He wasn’t able to locate any alternatives lingering in the crevices of his cheeks. It wasn’t his speech that failed him, but his exhausted, overexcited, stupefied brain. 

An alternative was therefore in order. If he couldn’t get the words out to express his gratitude, then he could indicate them in other means.

So, instead, Porky observed somewhat powerlessly as his twitchy, nervous hands awkwardly made their way towards Daffy’s. He knew that he wanted to show his gratitude, but the manner in which he did so felt foreign, alien, out of his control. He was a witness to himself as he observed his pudgy hands take Daffy’s spindly little mitts into his own—bony, feathery, puny, he was exceptionally careful not to squeeze them too hard. Daffy’s ferocious display of strength from the night before didn’t even occur to him. 

Rather, Daffy watched in starved amusement as Porky leaned over, took Daffy’s hands, and gave them a shake.

Upon the first shake of the hands up and down—an awkward shove motivated by Porky’s shoulders—a timid huff of a laugh was pumped out with it. That helped to clear the air. The next shake came more freely, and so did the one after that. His movements loosened in their woodenness, his huffs gaining more traction and tangibility. 

So they stood in the middle of the hallway. Porky awkwardly hunched forward, shaking his hands up and down in a gratefully robotic motion, a slew of nervous, aimless huffs of air slinking out of his mouth with each shove. Daffy only stared and smiled. Porky would look down at his hands, jerking his head up at Daffy, slink into himself with a chuckle, and repeat. The charade was repeated for much too long without any elaboration or justification of any kind, but Daffy maintained his patient, gleeful reception. 

“Eh… eh-yih-you were mih-ma-mar-eh-marveh-ehhh… eh, heh, ye-you were fanta-eh-ta-seh-teh…feh-eh-fantas-tehh-ehh-geh… t-tri-treeah-eh-tre-tremih-meh-eh-men-de-ehh…”

Getting nowhere fast, Porky traded the shaking of Daffy’s hands for the concentration in expressing his sentiment. Daffy’s feathered little hands continued to brush against his own as he recoiled and scrunched his face, idly fidgeting with Daffy’s hands within his own as he struggled to conquer the ferocious battle with semantics. 

And, finally, with a final pump of the arms:

“Gosh!”

With this declaration breathed from his lips, Porky was able to untangle himself from Daffy’s grip, only now aware of how he had kept him in a stranglehold. Daffy bore no indication of minding; he obligingly allowed his arms to drop back to his sides, eyes crackling with electricity, chest feathers spiking with elation. 

It was his turn to return the favor, scrunching his hands into tiny fists as he leaned forward in Porky’s direction.

“Ya mean it?” His voice was back to normal, completely divorced of his dopey guffaws or puzzling bouts of politeness. No stage presence to burden his manners. “Ya really, truly think so?”

Porky was a bit too quick to respond as he succumbed to Daffy’s energy all over again. His own eyes bore a jolly spark, his cheeks blooming as he refuted with great confidence “I’ve eh-nih-ne-eh-nev-eh-neh-never seen anyih-theh-thing like it! Heh, eh-shih-eh-shee-eh-eh-sheh-shucks, ah-I… eh, y-you, eh, heh… well, eh..”

This next pitfall of verbal trappings, he was more prepared for. He was able to extract his praises with a quick pump of his fists, repeating “Gih-gee-eh-g-ih-gosh, ye-you’re good!”

Yet again did Daffy inflate: smile broadening, shoulders raising, chest puffing. He bloated with gratitude and admiration, which enabled Porky to swell a bit himself. An amicable pause lingered as both basked in the attentions and amusements of the others.

Granted, Daffy was still Daffy, and Daffy was unpredictable. His well-established pattern of impulsiveness continued as his swelling was suddenly replaced with a curt deflation. Just as he was so quick to transform into a feral duck or a guffawing buffoon, he adopted a comparatively calculated sheen of mischief. His gaze softened from hunger to knowingness. The glint in his eye knew something that Porky didn't.

That was cemented as he began to turn on his heel, still maintaining eye contact for as long as possible until he lurched forward. A broad step, more akin to catching oneself from falling rather than putting one foot in front of the other, marking the beginnings of an exit.

“…said the pot to the kettle,” he hummed over his shoulder.

Porky answered the best way he knew how: a disoriented blink. The vacant hallway was idly filled with the sound of webbed footsteps slapping against the wooden floorboards. Daffy was gaining ground as he walked away, his gait shifting in gears–not unlike Porky’s reintroduction. A gait shifted into a strut shifted into a jog and, before Porky knew it, those webbed feet were smacking rapidly against the floor as Daffy rushed out down the hall, out the door, and out of sight. Just as he had done the night before, and just as he had done that morning.

That morning. What an eternity it felt. 

And, as he stood frozen in the empty hallway, Porky could have sworn that somewhere outside of the thick oak doors was a residual crack in the night–the shrill, gut wrenching, wind whipping siren song of a “HOOHOO!” The blood that rushed through his ears, the tickle that snaked through his ribs, the ice through his spine and the bewildered, weary, yet awestruck and elated rush of air caught in his throat certified that he hadn’t imagined it.

Gosh, indeed.

Long, strenuous days such as this one were prime candidates for a surly Porky to return home. All he craved was solitude–no conversation, no obligations, no nothing. With how sore and argumentative and cranky he was prone to be in these moods, Petunia had taken to dubbing him as “Polar Bear Porky” (“You grunt and growl and want only to hibernate”, she’d explain with an insulting objectivity, as if Porky were a complete fool for taken any offense or confusion at such a demeaning nickname).

By all accounts, that day was a prime candidate for his alter ego to appear. The unpredictability and rapidity of the cartoon’s filming, the broken structure at the mercy of Daffy’s chaotic spontaneity, the energy spent mulling over Porky’s many revelations of his career, the physical exhaustion of a stunt-heavy film. It certainly wasn’t inaccurate to say that Porky wanted to retreat into an undisturbed solitude for a long, blissful time.

However, the moment he got home, the entirety of the day’s events, start to finish, spilled out of his mouth in an effusive babble. He didn’t hang up his coat or even take off his hat. He didn’t stop for a bite to eat, despite running on an empty stomach and an exhausted will for hours. Instead, he burst right in, his mouth opening as soon as he shoved the door open, forcing both Petunia and Penelope to listen without any room for objection. Many a bewildered and bemused glance was spared between them as they listened to Porky rant and rave and gush.

“Ah-a-an-a-an’ he was just ih-seh-speh-spee-ehh-spectaculeh-lee-ehh–spectaculuh-lih-eh-leh-lee-ehhh–-he was meh-mar-eh-marvelou–-eh-sih-stu-s-seh-steh-stupendih-deh-eh-ehhh–-just swell,” he was sputtering. 

His face was flushed, his eyes wild and full of life. As he spoke, he made a concerted effort to look both Petunia and Penny in the eye, often shaking his head between each party rapidly, struggling to distinguish who he should look at for longer. Gesticulations with his hands and arms were broad. His head shook and his shoulders jolted and his hands waved, he leaned back in his chair, he lurched forward, he idly rocked in place. 

Petunia and Penny shared another glance of indeterminable meaning.

“I’ve never seen you this happy!” Petunia breathed amidst a rare moment where Porky captured his breath. This, in turn, prompted Porky to squeak out a chuckle–another bemused snap of air, but one that was coated in a rare fondness rather than his usual desperation or indignation.

“Ih-yeh-eh-eh-y-you shoulda sih-eh-seen ‘im–-like neh-nee-eh-nih-eh-neh-nothin’ you-you-you ever saw beih-feh-eh-fore, the way he just leh-eh-ih-leh-le-leapt out of ih-theh-the water… ye-ih-yeh-you’d think he’d pih-eh-planned it all the teh-teh-eh-ih-time, b-but it was so quick an’-an’ so honest , Petunia, eh-like nothin’ you ever saw… aww, dih-de-eh-don’t gimme that, Penny, ah-ah-I’m ih-serious! An’ his ih-ve-eh-vehh-ih-voice… eh-it was like a.. weh-we-well… i-it was suh-sorta… ck-ih-keh-eh-geh-kinda like a-a-a leh-laugh, ih-see, bih-but it almost… i-it was a…”

Porky’s voice hitched amidst his raving, his face contorted into a scowl, eyes slightly crossed as if he were attempting to mimic this same esoteric noise. An effort he quickly gave up.

“Sheh-shee-ih-eh-sheh-shucks, ah-I can’t ih-deh-deeah-ih-do it. N-neh-no one can do it. Bih-eh-but he can ihh-eh-deh-dee-ih-do it. Boy! Ck-c-can he do it! You shoulda seh-ih-seen it, ye-eh-you woulda leh-eh-loved it… like nothin’ you eh-ever saw… a-an’ the-the-the way he jeh-jee-eh-jeh-just lept rr-right out there…”

Chuckles and gasps and orations and proclamations refused to cease. He kept going and going, eyes widening and his brows furrowing and his cheeks thinning with a grin as he ran the full gamut of the emotional whirlwind that he had experienced through the entire day. In discussing Daffy’s brave derailments of the script, Porky would lean across the aluminum table with his tone hushed, eyes wide. When he discussed the praises from the director–directed either to himself or to Daffy–he would lean back and throw his arms in the air, his eyes gleaming and his voice boisterous. 

“Have you ever seen him like this?” Petunia asked Penelope with great obtusity. Penelope shook her head.

Normally, Porky would have taken offense to their diagnosis of his “condition” right in front of him, but he couldn’t be bothered now. A halfhearted flick of the wrist as he waved them off was all he mustered before repeating the same part of his spiel for the fifth time. Petunia was convinced that he would only stop when he dropped from exhaustion (which, by all accounts, should have happened much sooner.) Not a single bite of his dinner had been touched in front of him. 

“I eh-weh-we-ih-weh-wish you coulda sih-eh-seh-seen it. He seemed so peh-pee-ehhh-eh-preh-eh-pro-eh-proud of himself. A-An’ he ih-shih-should be! Weh-heh-why, eh-anyone would be ih-peh-pre-eh-proud’a themselves, ah-I mean thee-the-eh-theh-the way he threw himself out there–ah-I-I, ih-gosh, ah-I was so weh-eh-worried he wouldn’t take a… a lick of ih-deh-deh-eh-reh-direction, I mean… he’s so unpredictabuh-beh-ehhh-—s-so unpredih-eh-deh-deee-ihhh…”

“Ye-ih-yeh-you know how he is,” he urged at last, completely ignorant to the fact that Petunia and Penny had never met nor seen Daffy in their lives. “I ihh-neh-ne-eh-neh-never saw anything leh-ih-like it, honest, eh-jeh-just the way he…”

He stopped. 

Or, rather, it seemed he was stopped. In a thin, pathetic vapor, the words dissipated out of his mouth mid sentence, his jaw hanging slightly open. He froze, his fingers splayed as his hand was locked in the air mid-gesticulation. Pupils the size of pinpricks, his cheeks fell in accordance to every bit of color draining from his face. Petunia and Penny assessed the matter through more side-eyes.

Said side-eyeing was soon interrupted through a loud, resounding THUD!  as Porky slammed both of his fists on the table before him. Up went his fork and knife into the air, clattering ferociously against the aluminum surface. It was a wonder he hadn’t upturned his meal with it.

With eyes wide, blanched face now a violent crimson, Porky voiced his vexations with great tactfulness and grace: “SHIT! ”

“POR-KY! ” 

Petunia’s aghast rebuttal was just as violent. Both outbursts from either party invited Penny to succumb into a violent giggling fit, tittering as Petunia scowled at a zombified Porky. Face blotchy, eyes distant, fists furled. A sailor mouth was a bad habit that would occasionally sneak up on him-–usually, he would apologize to everyone in the room by name before continuing with his profanities intact (“Ih-see-eh-seh-sorry, Petunia, meh-ih-Miss Penelope…”), but he displayed no signs of decency or even awareness that he had even said it in this particular instance. 

Following a belabored vigil of gawking silently, Porky directed his unfocused, neurotic stare at Petunia’s own accusatory glare that, in reality, wasn’t all that accusatory at all. A part of her was struggling not to laugh in Porky’s face at the ridiculous display he was putting on.

They locked eyes for an unsteady moment, Porky’s hand muscles twitching and his lips quivering and his pupils trembling in unsteady, anxious flicks. He was slowly warming up to the idea of moving again.

When he did, he compensated for it greatly: just as quickly as he had froze, he lurched forward in his chair and threw his head into his hands. A string of unintelligible curses and grunts cushioned the impact of his forehead landing in his splayed, knuckled palms; this only enabled Penelope’s laughing fit.

“Porky!” Petunia leaned across the table to shake Porky’s shoulder, who refused to budge. He was still muttering to himself. He seemed to be trembling. “What’s gotten into you!?”

“I ehhh-deh-dee-ih-deh-don’t know, ih-behh-ehh-but I want it ah-ah-out of ih-me!” he shot back, ripping his clawed fingers off of his face to glower at her. Face redder than ever, his eyes were slathered in a potent sheen of furor and panic.

Violently unsatisfied with this non-answer, Petunia gave his shoulder another gentle yet commanding shove. “What’s the matter?”, she clarified.

All of the manic energy that had flooded him seemed to drain just as quickly. Unhunching his posture, he slowly sat up in his seat, eyes wide and unseeing. Then, with great unceremoniousness he flopped back into his chair–his arms dangled in limp defeat, serving as a companion piece to the mournful, unfocused gaze he directed at the ceiling. Idly did his head loll against the back of the aluminum chair.

“I eh-deh-dee-ih-deh-eh-deh-didn’t ask him,” he croaked cryptically after a beat. His voice was deflated and distant, just like his gaze. ”Ah-I-I didn’t eh-seh-ask him.”

“Ask him what? Who?”

No answer. Porky remained frozen, distant, unseeing and unthinking, which encouraged Petunia to click her tongue in impatience. Poor Penelope was still entrenched in a fit of the giggles, flicking a tear from her eye.

“Ehh-heh-eh-eh-how could I be so ih-seh-steh-see-ih-seh-stupeh-–eh.. so ih-steh-eh-steh-stupeh.. eh… ah-I-I’m a rih-re-eh-reh-regular tom fool!” he moaned, adjusting his posture once more. A pinch squeezed his face and voice alike, seemingly seconds away from bursting into tears. This, again, only exacerbated Petunia’s bafflement.

“What did you do?” she urged.

“I ih-deh-eh-dehh-de-eh-deh-didn’t do nothin’!” he spat back. “The-eh-that’s exactly it! I-i-it’s what I eh-deh-eh-dih-didn’t do that ih-geh-eh-gets me!”

Another exasperated sigh made its way through Petunia’s cherry lips. “Porky, sometimes I can’t for the life of me understand you-–”

“Eh-mee-ehh-eh-m-me neither!”

It was now Petunia’s great honor to acquaint her head with her own hands, swallowing a vexed sigh. Penelope almost considered excusing herself from the table with how her laughter refused to quell itself.

Finally, succeeding a deep sigh, Petunia yanked her head up to glower at a mummified Porky. “Tell me what you did or didn’t do!”

A handful of agonized moments creeped by before the words jarred themselves out of Porky’s mouth. His voice was pitchy and hoarse, speaking with the same horror as though he were confessing to a murder: “...I eh-deh-dee-ehh-deh-eh-didn’t get his ee-ih-ih-information!”

Petunia had to steady herself tp keep from falling out of her chair. Penelope was a bit less successful.

Had Porky been more cognizant, he would have chided them both for laughing at him (granted, Petunia’s reaction was related more closely to a strangled, infuriated gasp herself). Instead, he continued to sit and stare limply, his head gently shaking back and forth as his pupils darted listlessly.

“Neh-nih-nn-ih-no phone number… no address-ehh-eh-deh-address… I eh-deh-ih-didn’t ask if that was his only ck-cih-eh-ceh-cartoon, ah-I mean it eh-heh-eh-had ta be, the-the-eh-the director ih-seh-said he only had one scene left, I… the-theeahh-ih-they woulda ih-ee-ih-introduced us sooner ih-if-if he was eh-seh-stayin’, I… geh-gih-eh-geh-gosh, Petunia, ah-ah-I’m never gonna see him again. Weh-wee-ih-weh-what if I nih-eh-nev-eh-never see him again? Jeh-jeeah-ih-jeh-ust like that! A-ann’ it’s all my feh-ih-fault!”

When he had concluded his monologue, Petunia interjected with an incredulous “That’s all?” Such sparked a momentary return of the old Porky, who flared his nostrils and regained some of the direction in his gaze as he glared at her.

“‘Eh-theh-the-eh-theh-thee-ehh-eh-theh-eh-that’s all’! Ah-ah-I’m ihhh-neh-ne-eh-neh-never gonna see him again! Ah-I eh-never even got to eh-theh-thank him, all I seh-see-ih-eh-said was that he was g-guh-ih-geh-eh-geh-good… he said he wih-we-eh-weh-eh-wanted me t-to-eh teach him, an’ now I ih-neh-never will, an-an-an’ now he’ll ih-neh-never teach meh-me-eh-me…” 

Desperation gradually usurped his anger once more. “Ah-I’ll neh-never hear his voice agee-ih-gain. Gosh, weh-wee-eh-weh-ih-what if I feh-eh-forget it? Yee-you could never forget it, Petunia, honest, the-ehh-eh-the way he just ih-threh-threw himself out there… ye-ye-eh-yeh-you’d have to ih-seh-see it an-an-an’ hear it yourself, ah-an’ now you ih-ck-cih-eh-keh-can’t… an’ it’s all buh-bih-eh-beh-because I-I didn’t do nothin’!”

Penelope had finally regained control of her laughter, but was seconds away from breaking as she continued to alternate her gaze between Porky and Petunia. When Petunia didn’t say anything more, still clearly attempting to wrap her head around it, Porky used the downtime to excuse himself from the table. He had taken to mumbling under his breath again.

“Eat your supper!” Petunia told him, pointing to his plate.

“Neh-nee-ih-nih-no.” Juvenility of his response was strengthened through the pouty warble in his voice. As he said so, he shouldered past her spot at the table, heading for the seclusion of his bedroom. This invited Petunia to leap from her chair and grab a hold of his shoulder.

“Come now, you’re just spent after a long day–”

“I’m never eating any ih-seh-seh-see-ehhh-eh-sih-seh-seeah-seh-peh-ehh-ehh-supper for as long as I leh-lee-live!” 

Penelope had fully resumed her cackling fit.

“Is that any way for a grown man to behave?” Petunia still had a hold on Porky, who was fruitlessly attempting to elbow her away.

“Ah-I’m not ih-geh-ge-gonna behave eh-any sort of way unless I see dih-dee-eh-deh-eh-ih-Daffy again.”

Porky had now taken to shoving her back as Petunia placed both hands on his shoulders. “So then why are you behaving like a toddler?”

“‘Weh-wee-ih-why!’” he squeaked, his tone dripping with childish fury. “Why’, a-a-a lot of things! Why deh-ih-deh-dee-ehh-deh-didn’t I ask for ih-Daffy’s number? Weh-why don’t you ehh-seh-ask me that neh-ne-eh-next? Why don’t I geh-ih-give you a-ann-seh-eh-answer?”

Now, Petunia turned her attention to ogle at Penelope. She remained in her seat at the table, elbows on the surface as he hands were folded beneath them. A poor attempt was made to hide her grin beneath her knuckles.

“You’re not making any sense! ” Petunia breathed at last, following a lack of commentary from Penelope.

Porky whirled around to face Petunia this time as he spat “Eh-theh-thee-eh-thih-thi-ehh-theh-there’s no sense to give!”, the crack in his voice sending Penelope over the edge. His tone was frank, factual, bewildered, offended that Petunia hadn’t come to this same conclusion herself. “Ih-jeh-ee-eh-jeh-just like there’s no ih-deh-dee-eh-deh-eh-Daffy to-to give me his nehh-eh-neh-nee-eh-nuh-number!”

With this, Petunia finally relented and allowed Porky to shove himself out of her grip, completely at a loss. He did so with a furious grunt, scrunching up his face like an overgrown toddler as he made a great display of turning his back to her. A great effort was made to make as much noise as possible as he stormed out of the dining room and down the hallway–clomping footsteps, snarled curses entangled in his teeth. 

The entire display as concluded through a flimsy attempt at slamming his bedroom door shut; he wanted to make a point with his anger, conveying a metaphorical “so there” where his words did not, but he was always too afraid to commit to the inconvenience of an actual door slam. Instead, it came off as someone loudly closing a door.

Courteous histrionics continued from the sanctity of his bedroom as he made a display of shuffling his dresser drawers open and closed. Inflated as his slamming and shuffling thetrics were, the low, muffled din of mutterings and grumblings and snorts and self-inflicted conversation was most certainly authentic.

Petunia and Penelope listened to Porky carry on for a few more moments before the shuffling tapered away. Quite clearly, Petunia could picture Porky standing in the middle of his room, scowl softened, eyes wide as he listened for any commentary from the outside parties. This stalemate of silence brought no such luck. Instead, the end of Porky’s argument was marked by the faint squeak of the bedframe as he seemingly sought refuge for the night; a mournful sigh came with it.

So did a sigh of Petunia’s own as she threw up her hands. Penelope observed quaintly as she grabbed Porky’s uneaten meal–-a slice of chicken pot pie that had been leftover from the night before–-and returned it to the icebox.

“Why doesn’t he ask the studio for his information?” Penelope asked her once Petunia sat back down. The faintest warble of a titter still hitched her soft spoken tone.

Hopelessly, Petunia shook her head. “Because then he wouldn’t have something to fuss over.”

Chapter Text

“ Everything happens t’ me! ” 

There was an enraged, fiery glint in Gabby’s eyes that fueled the harshness of his voice. Charred, shredded remains of an umbrella’s skeleton were forced down onto the bed with a loud, wet “ THWAP! ”, breaking the puddle on the sheets into airborn fragments.

Some of those fragments found their way onto Porky’s cheeks, but he didn’t pay any mind; he was too distracted with stifling a laughing fit, unsubtly obscuring his face with his hand. It was always difficult not to be amused at Gabby’s outbursts. The flare of his nostrils, the screech of his voice, the way his beady, angry eyes practically seemed to leap out of his head–anyone would be locked in the bitter battle of trying not to guffaw at such a display.

Another loud, less wet but no less ferocious “ THWAP! ” broke Porky out of his stifled titters. This time, it came from the sound of Gabby smacking the side of the bed that they shared. Through gritted teeth, he continued to grouse: “I might as well try sleepin’ under Niagara Falls!”

And so, with divine timing, a vehement, rushing plume of water answered Gabby’s prayers with cruel obedience. Pouring straight from above, the cold water ruined any further chance of ranting, umbrella slinging or stifled laughter–the only objective now was trying not to swallow the gushing gallons that prompted the bed to collapse in on both boys. 

…or, so the scene would go when they filmed it tomorrow.

Following that beat, the director–a new hire that Porky had seen occasionally around the studio, seemingly having just worked his way up to the director’s chair–gave his unanimous approval to Porky and Gabby alike. This was their first, only and final rehearsal before filming was to begin the next day.

Not a single aspect of Porky’s encounter with Daffy from the day before had left his body. Adrenaline seemed to coarse in an almost sadistic, unrelenting cycle within his bloodflow; it wasn’t that he had unlimited energy, but that the energy refused to die down. Instead, it cycled itself over and over within Porky’s body, running constant laps and, with enough luck, would hopefully tire itself out and trickle out at some point. As a direct consequence, Porky desperately wished they could film today instead. Just to get it over and done with.

Granted, that would have nullified his early morning talks. Whether it was dumb luck, true bravery or leftover adrenaline, Porky had lived up to his word and approached his bosses about the untenability of his schedule as it were. He tried his best to think of reasons that would appeal best to the suits–monetary reasons. More time means more rehearsal, which means more familiarity with the script, which means less probability of flubbing a take, which meant less money spent in retakes. Sure, there was something to the spontaneity of their current method, but he could learn to be spontaneous. He could learn a lot of things if he just had the time.

Even luckier than his courage to speak forth was the receptiveness of his cause. The suits were largely sympathetic; there was some corporate jargon that Porky didn’t have the mental receptiveness to really parse over, but he was assured that, in the case of Daffy’s surprise hiring, it was an outlier and not indicative of Porky’s filming schedule going forward. Something about special circumstances that weren’t elaborated on further. 

As long as they gave their blessing, which they did, that was all he needed to hear.

Porky was aghast at how easy of a solution it was. So much so that in the hours following, he spent most of the day between lines and rehearsals wondering if he was just being strung along. There was still a bit of hustling to do with this current cartoon he was hashing out with Gabby, but nothing to the extent of filming with Daffy. Especially considering that Porky had known about this cartoon for a few weeks now.

Given that he spent so much of his time off the set finagling with his scripts or brainstorming ideas–a direct consequence of his tightened schedule–this sudden burst of free-time would be a baffling relief to navigate. In fact, it almost seemed to cause him more anxiety than it did respite.

Because of that, a nagging, lingering itch lodged itself in the back of Porky’s throat. It would periodically catch, scratching the roof of his mouth and clinging onto his unrelated words and thoughts: a feeling that he wouldn’t be accomplishing enough. Just yesterday he had been shooting himsef into capsizing his boat, getting his snout bitten, having his nervous system shut down as he watched Daffy skate and leap over the water and swallow electric eels and shower him with on and off compliments.

Today, the most action he could attest to was reviewing how to break the breakaway prop bed for a scene in tomorrow’s filming.

Another contributing factor to the itch was Gabby’s surliness. Had Porky not spent the entire day with Daffy yesterday, whose receptiveness was even more disarming than Gabby’s lack of receptiveness, he wouldn’t have paid any mind. But now, having a taste of what could have been, what it could be like—it was difficult not to take notice to the aggression of Gabby’s apathy. Low grunts or indiscernible hums that refused to make a commitment meant that Porky often had to speak on Gabby’s behalf when conversing through the director. 

It wasn’t anything that he wasn’t used to. So why did he have to be used to it in the first place? 

“You’re doing a fine job. Both of you,” the director was saying. It was the end of the day, and the soundstage was littered with the dull hum of lingering conversations from stagehands preparing to head home for the day. Porky timidly reciprocated a few waves shed in his direction; Gabby received no such privilege.

“Porky—“ Now, Porky instinctively snapped his head up to look at the director, disentangling himself from the distraction of passersby—“while I don’t think we’ll go through with the shooting business, it’s a nice idea.”

A cordial nod was given in response. He had expected as such; it was on short notice, and a rather lofty suggestion to give on short notice—the script called for him to smash an alarm clock with a hammer upon realizing too late it had woken him up on his day off. With a wild look in his eye and a frenzied tempo in his voice, Porky had babbled that morning about shooting the clock with a gun instead. 

Clearly, the influence of the day before was still deeply entrenched in his skin. His suggestion was largely propelled by genuine enthusiasm and a desire to be bigger, funnier. But, just the same, it was an equally broad consequence of the sleepless night that ushered him into the day. Adrenaline from the day before and hopelessness at Daffy’s absence would do that. 

Daffy’s absence.

The more Porky thought about it, the more he pushed himself to make up the difference; he wanted to suggest stronger gags, broader actions, and learn to harness the same mischievous energy that Daffy had so impressed him with before. It was a struggle, and one that he was forcing every bit of the way—especially on three hours of sleep—but results were tepidly blooming. Just that morning, the big boss Leon himself had commented on Porky’s more forward demeanor. Perhaps a manic hunger was driving him more than genuine chipperness, but the drive was nevertheless there.

More pleasantries between Porky and the director were exchanged, with Gabby lingering in discontented aloofness, before they were dismissed for the day. A smile was twinged onto Porky’s cheeks as he put up a hand to wave; conversely, Gabby wordlessly drifted ahead of him, leading Porky to his own dressing room. 

Gabby technically had his own dressing room, reserved for rotating members of an ensemble, but he much preferred to barge into Porky’s and sit in his chair, fidget with his scripts, take up his space. Such intrusiveness could get irritating, especially on days when Porky wanted nothing more than to be left alone; still, he couldn’t entirely blame him. He couldn’t say that his presence wasn’t welcome. 

So, as they usually did after rehearsal, the two set up camp in Porky’s tight but homely nook. Gabby flopped wordlessly into Porky’s chair in front of the vanity, just as he always did, and Porky halted mid-step, reconciling with the idea of not getting a seat in his own dressing room. Just as he always did. Instead, he stood somewhat awkwardly in front of Gabby, almost towering over him as Gabby sat with his arms folded and legs crossed. A perturbed expression was etched into his brow.

“Eh-eh-the-that was a nice ihh-re-ehhh-re-he-eh-rehearsal, wasn’t it, eh-geh-geh-eh-Gabby?” Porky finally asked in an attempt to get some of the air circulating. 

“Yeah,” Gabby snarled, the sarcasm in his voice laced with an acidity so strong Porky feared he would get burnt. “And it’d be even nicer if you hadn’t stood me up yesterday! ‘ See you tomorrow, Gabby!’ Remember that?”

Usually, Porky had enough manners to bite down on the sigh that instinctively shoved its way out of his lips, but he was still too wired and perhaps even emboldened to mind them. This made the scowl on Gabby’s face deepen.

There was some truth to his words. They were supposed to be having this rehearsal yesterday, until a little black duck squandered the plan. Porky, so preoccupied with juggling this entirely new cartoon dumped into his lap with an entirely new co-star who seemed to have entirely new neuroses not yet discovered by the medical field, was unable to tell Gabby not to come in. Instead, he naively assumed that Gabby would be happy to have the day off. That much was true. Gabby had casually confessed as such amidst the fifteen minute lecture Porky received that morning.

Seeing that Gabby had no plans to get out of Porky’s chair anytime soon, Porky instead leaned against the wall next to the vanity, hands folded neatly behind his back. Unable to think of a proper response—he had sputtered out his fragmented apologies and explanations that morning—he stared down at his hooves. 

Unsatisfied that Porky hadn’t taken his bait, Gabby pressed further. “And what’s with you talkin’ about a gun? Huh? You nuts or somethin’?”

“Well, after fe-ih-feh-ehh-filming with dih-de-eh-deh-Daffy yesterday, ah-I thought—“

A furious and anguished bleat cut Porky off in his tracks. An equally furious rouge tinged Gabby’s face, as it usually did in his fits of anger, as he leaned back in Porky’s chair—a pair of hands soon concealed the red on his face as he clawed at his cheeks.

“Daffy, Daffy, Daffy!” he spat, knuckles bulging as his fingers flexed deeper into his face. Then, after a beat, he kicked the chair forward, practically lurching into Porky. “ YOU’RE DAFFY! All day it’s been Daffy this, Daffy that! He can’t be that great!”

A hot flash rushed behind Porky’s temples. Without meaning to, he had been making repeated mention of Daffy—gushing about how talented he was, how confounding he was, how Gabby just had to meet him. Throughout the day, Gabby’s reactions had gradually evolved from bitter confusion to raging aggravation.

“He is so,” was Porky’s meek but indignant counter. It was impossible to explain Daffy’s effect on anyone who hadn’t spent even a minute with him—Porky knew, because he had spent the day trying.

Gabby choked on a mix of a grunt and a spit. “Anyone you praise is bound to be a nut!” 

There was some truth to that, at least in Daffy’s case; he wasn’t not a nut. But Porky merely stared indeterminately; Gabby’s expression was fierce, irate, his scowl tight and a snarl on his face. Even so, the glint in his eye wasn’t entirely of fury; there was the slightest spark of accomplishment behind it. He was just trying to get a reaction out of Porky. 

“We-eh-well,” Porky started, his voice catching. He was exceedingly aware of Gabby tracking his every movement, his every facial expression. “Ihh-ye-you’d agree if you ih-see-eh-saw him.” 

Now, his voice began to pick back up, that breathless, naive awe pushing his words forth: “Gosh, Gabby, he was just rih-remarkabih-beh-bee-ehhhh–beh-eh-buh—“

Gabby cut him off with apathetic immediacy. “Yeah, yeah,” he droned, folding his arms once more, “the way he threw himself out there.” 

Half of a smirk tugged at the sides of his mouth as a scowl briefly flickered across Porky’s face.

That scowl, paired with an indignant spark in his eyes, was quick to soften: a remorseful frown took its place. In his eyes, mournfulness. 

When Porky said nothing, Gabby pressed further. “You really that burnt up you let ‘im go?” 

Porky jerked himself back to attention with a flash. His earlier scowl made a comeback as he instinctively spat  “I eh-deh-dee-ehh-di-ih- didn’t let him go! ” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, he caught himself—his eyes widened, his pouting grimace melting back into an embarrassed frown, and he resumed his staring contest with the floor. An amused scoff huffed from Gabby’s nostrils. 

Of course, Gabby was right on the money, which was responsible for Porky’s outburst. His lack of sleep from the night before was largely due to excess adrenaline from the day’s events… but guilt at neglecting to ask for Daffy’s information played a rather important part as well. 

Even that morning, he had clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he would run into Daffy in the studio. Maybe he had forgotten a script, or wanted to talk to the director, or just wanted to spy on Porky some more. For the first hour or two of rehearsal, Porky strained his ears for the familiar slap of webbed feet nearby. It never came. 

That was also a guiding force in Porky’s decision to negotiate—he hoped that, in addition to the flexibility of his filming, he’d be able to get confirmation on Daffy’s whereabouts. Unfortunately, the only confirmation he received was that the worst had been true: no contract was signed. 

Daffy was just a one-off freelance actor. He had already received his payment upfront, so there was no billing address on file. The odds of Daffy having been dragged off the street were increasingly likely. Or, even more likely, the odds of Daffy barging in on the studio and demanding a job. 

Whether out of denial or a hunger for justice, Porky still refused to believe this. Surely Daffy wouldn’t have introduced himself as a new co-star if the situation wasn’t permanent. However, another part of Porky—the more reasonable part, and a part that Porky often found himself skirting around—chalked that up to Daffy’s knack for hyperbole. Technically, he was his co-star… for that single cartoon. It was likely that he didn’t mean anything by it. 

Porky had spent about fifteen minutes that morning asking other figures of authority for their input. Managers, secretaries, production assistants, even a director or two: all of the responses turned up with resounding ignorance. How someone could seemingly appear and then vanish off of the face of the earth just like that was completely incomprehensible. The disorganization of studio management was maddening. 

In fact, the entire situation was so maddening that as the day crawled on, Porky became more and more convinced that he had dreamt up the entirety of the day before. Nothing relating to it made any sense at all. 

Thus, unable to come up with a satisfactory follow-up to his outburst, Porky forced his manners.

“I’m ehh-geh-eh-glad you got the-eh-th’ day off,” he ventured at last. His voice was rigid, steely, awkward—Gabby seemed to sense the insincerity of the statement almost immediately. He swallowed a scoff.

Sharing the awkwardness of Porky’s statement was the silence that followed. Gabby, sitting in Porky’s chair, rocking it against its wooden heels and dangerously close to toppling backwards. Porky, once more staring down at his feet, fidgeting in his skin. There was no more conversation to be had, but Gabby didn’t seem inclined to leave anytime soon. The two of them merely stewed.

Gabby’s stewing soon manifested in rifling through Porky’s belongings, evidently bored with the dead-end the conversation had run into. The stack of scripts that lay on Porky’s vanity were once neatly organized—now, it had looked like a storm had blown in the way they were strewn across the desk. Some were close to falling off the edge; others were flipped open to a random page, the result of an incomplete tangent that had once run through Porky’s mind. The adrenaline of yesterday’s events had been particularly potent early that morning.

By far, the most battered of the scripts was the one for the duck hunting cartoon. Gabby had taken one look at it, noted its many mark-ups, and hissed a very audible “Jesus,” through his teeth.

Once he had been bored by that sideshow, he opted to peruse one of the other circus acts. Porky, who had timidly separated his chin from his chest, caught that the script currently in Gabby’s confession—victim to lazy, haphazard page turns, the dressing room filled with the papery clatter of his hand smacking against the script—was one of theirs.

Evidently, this script captivated his attention much more than the duck hunting script. Porky noted the way that Gabby’s eyes transformed from bored to bulging in a matter of seconds: the resting, slightly perturbed furrow of his brows zipped up into his forehead, creases poignant. His expression was now of bewildered fury. 

“What the hell is this?”

A twinge instinctively tugged at the corners of Porky’s lips. Completely oblivious to Gabby’s sudden mood change, but no less prepared for another scolding session, his voice retreated into a pathetic whimper as he—perhaps unwisely—replied “Weh-wee-eh-what’s wha-ehh… eh.. wheh… h-huh?”

A loud smack practically cut Porky off as Gabby thrust the back of his hand against the papers in his hand. “There’s more of your sissy writing here!”

Porky was so clueless that he couldn’t even find it in him to take offense at Gabby’s insults. 

“It is my sih-eh-seh-seh-scri—“

“Don’t you think I know that?” Gabby retorted, jumping on Porky’s words. Just as swiftly, he crinkled the bridge of his nose, tossing his head back and rolling his eyes. The “‘It’s my script, it’s my script’” that came out of his mouth was shrill, mocking, nasal.

Then, before Porky had time to process any more wounded feelings, Gabby forcefully shoved the script into Porky’s face. “What the hell is this?”, he repeated.

Defensively, Porky glowered at Gabby before cautiously casting his gaze to the script. 

A heated flush squeezed his insides as he suddenly realized what Gabby meant.

The script—currently held in a stranglehold in Gabby’s bulging fingers—has been flipped open to a page that was drowning in Porky’s serif. Originally, the scenario had called for the outboard motor of their car to have gone rogue after Gabby accidentally pulled it free from its binds. A polite string of gags followed, detailing the two attempting to avoid the destruction caused.

Said destruction was uninspired at best, and humiliating at worst; there were a few moments that called for both Porky and Gabby to get grazed on the rear by the motor’s blades. In general, it was to be a rather stream of consciousness bit of filmmaking. Even Porky had enough self respect—or something adjacent—to know that they had long since evolved past these kinds of gags. 

So, still fueled by the magic and mania of Daffy’s performance, Porky had rewritten the entire sequence. Instead of the motor making pathways in the grass and cutting up their belongings, it would soar into the sky—Gabby would then attempt to shoot it down with a gun, but the force of the blow would propel him backwards, causing him to land on a car horn that had been discarded in their attempts to unpack the car. Then, the horn would launch him forward; another blast from the rifle would send him right back, getting him caught in a ricocheting loop. 

A final blast of the gun would carry him further: this time, a pair of mattress springs would break his fall, propelling him high into the air in the process. One of the springs would get caught on his tail—then, when everything was all said and done, Gabby would end up caught in a tree, dangling from the spring as the motor still taunted him from above. 

Porky was beginning to see Gabby’s point. That wasn’t even counting a separate scene in which Gabby was to use two tall, wobbly trees as a pair of stilts. 

The prospects of filming something so demanding were more realistic the night before, when Porky had written the revisions in a sleep-deprived fugue. So practically tortured by the thought of Daffy—the thought of never seeing him again, the thought of never understanding him—he had used that anxious and awestruck and adrenaline-fueled energy to motivate those rewrites. It showed.

However, just that morning, Porky ran through the suggestions with the director slated to helm the short. He had received resounding approval. So much so that filming would be pushed back, allotting more rehearsal time to ensure these stunts were doable. Considering the director seemed enthusiastic, Porky was, too. Or, at the very least, not as worried about the tenability of filming something so lofty. 

Nevertheless, the flush coating Porky’s face grew as he recounted all of this—how he neglected to let Gabby know was beyond him. 

Gabby, who had been observing with a bitter scowl, chewed on another grunt before he ripped the script away from Porky.

“I-eh… th-the director leh-ehh-luh-li-eh-liked it,” Porky managed. A shy, unsteady chuckle warbled the croak in his throat; this only made Gabby tighten his grimace. 

“Peachy,” he muttered, ogling the papers in his hand with disgust. That low, sarcastic growl soon ricocheted into a screeching bleat: “NEXT TIME YOU MIGHT COME TO ME WITH THESE THINGS!”

“We geh-eh-got an extension,” Porky countered unconvincingly. His voice faltered as Gabby only widened his eyes further; no matter what Porky said, good or bad, it only seemed to make him more angry.

Now, Porky lowered his chin once more, fidgeting with his thumbs. The “Ye-ehh-yih-you’ll be feh-fine,” that trickled out of his mouth was the most flimsy and uncertain phrase he had suggested yet. “I-if Daffy could—“

“ WELL, I’M NOT FUCKIN’ DAFFY! ” Gabby cut Porky off with a violent shriek. He directed the outburst into his hands as he slapped them against his face, tilting his head back. Porky, meanwhile, struggled to swallow a comment on how right he was. 

Instead, he occupied himself by leaning against the desk–rather as a way to lower his guard and relax, it was a maneuver that was very rigid and cautious. It was his own dressing room, and yet he felt like a single wrong move would prompt Gabby to explode into more hysterics.

“Aw, c’mon, gih-eh-Gabby.” Porky’s tone slipped into an unintentionally patronizing lilt, one that tended to slip out when he found himself trying to talk down another tantrum. Usually, that only made Gabby even more irate; his eyes did contort into a suspicious, disdainful squint as Porky continued: “It’s jeh-ehh-jee-ih-ju-just for that ehh-leh-little bit. Shucks, ee-i-if I could do what I did yee-eh-ye-yesterday–”

“Do WHAT!? ”

Gabby slingshotted back into Porky’s face, dramatically kicking himself upwards as he held onto the bottom of the chair, straddling it with white knuckles. 

“I’m the one who’s gotta shoot the gun! I’m the one who’s gotta get stuck in a tree!” His voice was cracking now, his face blotching with fiery crimson. “How about when you hit me with the car, huh? Was that your bright idea too? Do it! See if you can put me out of my misery!”

Missing the rhetoricism of Gabby’s statement, Porky’s meekly indignant retort of “Eh-that was already in the ehh-seh-ih-scre-script,” coaxed another gargled bleat from Gabby. With it, a loud, resounding stomp against the floorboards beneath him.

“I hate this acting business! I HATE IT! What a lousy way to make a buck! I’d rather starve on the streets!”

At least this time, Porky knew better than to follow his impulse of saying that if he did, to keep an eye out for Daffy. 

There was nothing more to be said. Gabby would just shriek and argue and stew some more, and Porky would only have a half-baked response that served no purpose other than to give him some sort of last word. So, knowing further mongering of this discussion was futile, Porky delicately extracted the script out of Gabby’s hands. He sat slumped over in the chair now, having spent the remainder of his rage-fueled energy. His head was bowed, his hands limp–a disapproving hiss exhaled out of his nostrils after Porky damaged leafed through the script, now suffocated by Gabby’s stranglehold.

Rushed, frenzied scrawl of blue ink coated the pages. It was a far cry from the uncertain, almost sad cursive that qualingly lingered amidst the margins of his duck hunting script. In Porky’s handwriting here, there was a shared current of manic inspiration and anxiousness; a part of him hoped that, by scribbling down these proposals for wild stunts, Daffy would be summoned out of thin air at the prospect of chaos afoot. 

As Porky analyzed the script, fatigue–or perhaps growing apathy and resignation at Gabby’s reactions–seeping deeper into him, he noticed something out of his peripherals. Gabby sat frozen in the chair. He had lifted his head up with a sudden jolt, his eyes wide and wild, just as they were before. Only this time, there was a certain pinch to his face–Porky couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like he was entertaining a smile.

“Hey,” he breathed. Porky was shaken by how subdued his voice was–a low, gruff grunt. “I got somethin’ for you.”

Feelings of unease from Porky were exacerbated. Considering how acidic Gabby was before, his willingness to melt into this twisted form of gregariousness unique only to him made Porky’s stomach churn.

Before Porky could think of another sarcastic comment that he’d have to muzzle himself on, Gabby rose from the chair and shuffled wordlessly out of the dressing room. Yet again, Porky found his mind defaulting back to Daffy–he would have peeled out of the room in two seconds flat. Gabby walked bent into himself, shoulders hunched, in no real hurry to stay or leave. He was only moving because he had to. 

And for the first time that day, Porky basked in the solitude of his dressing room. His script hung limply in his tepid grip. The air was quiet. Stale. Having spent the entire day with Daffy yesterday and the volume threshold within, the subsequent silences of today were positively deafening. Porky normally would have relished in the momentary isolation; now, the mere thought almost made him jump out of his skin, the stagnation was such an irritant. It felt too good to be true.

Porky made a few uneasy attempts to distract himself with his script. He tried to keep an ear out for the gloomy, halfhearted clopping of Gabby’s feet down the hall, but was met with nothing. Nothing but the mocking rattle of papers sliding against each other as Porky idly fidgeted with the pages.

A proper distraction did eventually arrive. In fact, it even exceeded Porky’s expectations for what constitutes a satisfactory diversion. Perhaps there’s no greater way to rip away one’s attention by throwing a projectile in their face.

Instinctively, a strangled, shrill “ HEY! ” squeaked out of his mouth as something forcibly smothered his vision for a split moment: relatively sturdy, slightly glossy, this cardboard-esque object hit him square in the snout. That was all Porky was able to process, as he threw his arms in front of his face two moments too late, screwing his eyes shut. Whatever it was, the projectile clattered at his feet.

Another moment passed before Porky recovered. Upon doing so, he was more concerned with shooting Gabby an offended glower than identifying what had just been thrown at his face. Gabby himself lurked in the doorway, hands lodged into the depths of his sweater pockets. The only thing more upsetting than a something-to-the-face was the tense, bitter, almost vengeful sneer crookedly warped on his face.

“Weh-wee-ehh-weh-eh-weh-wuh- what’s the-ehh beh-big idea! ?” Porky managed at last, now clamoring to pick up what had been launched his way. Gabby’s lips curled further.

“You forgot t’ tell me about the script, so I forgot t’ give you this.” Though the crooked grin on his face faltered, an anticipatory gleam lingered in his eye—it was a look that Porky had never seen out of him. His stomach somersaulted in protest.

Porky siphoned his nervousness through huffy annoyance: a gusty sigh slipped through his lips as he leaned over. The papers scattered at his feet were a bit more than that—they were a magazine. 

On the front cover was a rosy, apple-cheeked woman that Porky assumed Petunia would recognize. Her red sweater matched the red typefacing branding the booklet as Hollywood magazine. To the left of the woman, bylines of various names and celebrities that bore no recognition to Porky. The helpless frown on his face deepened. 

He transferred that helplessness to Gabby through a sad, confused, yet annoyed gaze. Irritability of his situation—no Daffy, no cooperation from Gabby—was latching deeper into his skin.

That manifested in the loosening of his filter. When Gabby stared wordlessly, anticipatorily, at him, refusing to elaborate or even apologize for decking Porky in the face, Porky gave the cover one last look. When he couldn’t parse what Gabby wanted, he choked out a bewildered squeak: “ Ah-I don’t wih-we-eh-wanna win Robert Taylor’s mih-monogreh-gree-ehh-greh-eh-gram prize! ”

Gabby bit on another grunt before exploding: “Inside, you dolt! Read the inside!”

Heaving another accosted glance, Porky indulged in a mildly childish display of sighing before peeling the booklet open. Expectant, sleazy eyes continued to stare at him from across the room. 

Porky was clueless as to why: the inside didn’t yield any particularly clarifying results, other than a slew of shallow, grabby bylines. There was one particularly egregious tease about someone’s death by scissors in a cutting room–a haunted tickle gnawed at Porky’s ribcage as his mind suddenly wandered to the studio’s own cutting room. Something else to fret over. 

Evidently, Porky’s inspection wasn’t thorough enough, as Gabby didn’t break eye contact. A judgemental, pensive but slightly mischievous expression continued to paint his face. Thus, Porky–his already frugal patience wearing thinner by the minute–continued to press on. Words melted into an incomprehensible stew as he forced himself to scan the page. Something about a bashful actor, something about a person named Margo, talks of a Chinese epic…

It was the second byline about a bashful actor that finally caught Porky’s attention. Whereas prickling, harsh ice trickled down his spine, branching into his every bone and nerve, a hot, crackling oil broiled behind his temples. A hot, suffocating smog scuffed his throat and made it catch. The ice along his back ran up to his neck, elbows, and even knuckles, liberal in their pricking little kisses. This second bashful actor was one he was exceedingly well acquainted with. It was the one actor whose filmography was as familiar as the back of his hand.

How Porky the Pig Became a Star!.........................................................................................30

Now you can learn how animated cartoons are made!

He knew this bashful actor because he was this bashful actor.

Mouth agape, Porky gawked helplessly at the page. His once apathetic, tired, noncommittal grip had tensed so much that creases were beginning to hug the pages–not dissimilar to Gabby’s own creases and folds born into his script amidst his fit. 

Now, he cautioned a frenzied, perplexed look at Gabby. Porky found himself instinctively searching for his approval, as if Gabby was the one who had written the article or had specific instructions on how Porky should handle this. Hungry, bemused eyes answered back–moments later, a defensive flicker of the eyebrows. His signal for Porky to keep going.

Porky stared some more, dumbfounded, before spring back to the contents of the magazine with no warning. Loud fwip, fwip, fwip sounds of the pages turning mingled with the anxious, astounded, and perhaps even humble huffs that clumsily tumbled out of Porky’s lips. His poor attempts at a chuckle both fueled and responded to the peculiar, paternal pinching sensation that twisted his sides once more–that same sensation he had flirted with and craved so much the day before.

“Ah-I… I-I ih-deh-don’t believe it,” he was gasping, still flipping the pages. His slack-jawed, wide eyed expression fleetingly contorted into a smile, escorting the chuckles still rumbling out of his lips. His tone was breathy, flustered: “Ah-ah-I ehh… th–theh…, they took ihh-phe-o-photos a-a few months ago, bih-but I thought… ah-I eh-deh-didn’t… gosh, a-an article! An article, Gabby!”

The lack of response that followed would have bothered Porky in different circumstances. He had no time to be bothered–he maintained the momentum of rapid thumbing through the pages, eyes growing wider, heart pounding louder. Gabby observed in bitter amusement as Porky flipped through the end of the magazine, halted, looked visibly confused, then rapidly thumbed his way back the other way. Confusion turned to annoyance as he fought to peel two pages that had gotten stuck together. The way his face bloomed shortly after–cheeks pinkening, ears perking, eyes glimmering, chest puffing–indicated that he had found what he was looking for.

A spring-loaded silence ensued, the air tense with repressed enthusiasm. Then,

“It’s meh-mi-me!”

Sputtering inanely to himself, he whipped the magazine around to show off with a little too much zeal. “Look, Gabby!”

It was a full page spread. Text swam in blocks all across the page–little squiggles of dried ink that had been mass reproduced, all in service of bolstering Porky’s name. His face, too; right in the center was a photo of himself, contentedly holding a copy of Hollywood magazine in a rather unsubtle shilling attempt. Even then, during the photoshoot–which was taking place in the middle of filming another cartoon, as the porch he was sitting in front of was a set used for that short–Porky felt particularly ridiculous about the whole affair. He had pigeon-holed the experience out of his memory pretty quickly. 

The bottom third of the page was dedicated to his smiling mug, too. All six of them. If Porky hadn’t felt ridiculous shilling the magazine, having subsequent photos taken of him taking a leaping jump clinched it. Six different photos of himself were stitched together in a panorama, with a photo of an inkwell blown up beneath him–the resulting image made it look like he was leaping over the bottle. It was a bit corny, but Porky couldn’t say he was unimpressed. His ribs pinched approvingly.

Given that the shooting was months and months and months ago, closer to the beginning of the year, the thought of looking for the magazine once it was out had never even crossed his mind. He certainly hadn’t received any word that it was out. Perhaps that was just as well. 

Or perhaps not. Had the events of the day prior never happened, Porky may have been more forward in his refusal to engage with the article. The embarrassment and bashfulness that still found itself nipping at his ankles, sinking its teeth into his throat, crawling beneath his skin wasn’t as strong as it had the potential to be. A desire to thrust the magazine back to Gabby, convincing him to read it instead so he wouldn’t have to look at his phoned-in smiles was still present…

…but not all consuming. A newer, cautious but palpably inquisitive part of his subconscious embraced it. His face and his story was emblazoned in ink. Who knew how many hundreds, if not thousands of people had picked up that very same issue that day? And, of course, there was the little matter of Daffy’s perceived savviness and ability to get around. He was so loyal to catching Porky’s every film. Perhaps even he managed a copy from the newsstand–there was a nonzero chance of him even reading the magazine at the very same time Porky was reading it. 

How Porky wished he could ask his thoughts about it. Would he brag that he knew this star, as so referred to by the forces at Hollywood magazine? That he himself had gotten to star alongside him, that he had been able to bask in his presence, that he made Porky feel things physically and emotionally that he had never felt before in his entire life?

His first article. Publicity photos and vague snippets in the newspaper hung around the studio and, in the case of the latter, pressed nearly into his vanity mirror. For as strong as his embarrassment was in regards to such paraphernalia, his desire for sentimentality and even guilt won out. Having a true, honest to goodness full page spread article all about him was new territory. It was so impressive that he couldn’t even afford to be bashful about it.

“How many times do I hafta tell ya to read it?” 

Gabby’s harsh words jostled Porky out of his ruminations. The half grin on his face had faded to his usual default of a scowl. “Read it, for Chris’sakes!”

Porky lingered in his held position a few beats longer, breathlessly holding the magazine out to Gabby before whirling it back into his possession. Sitting in Porky’s chair, Gabby observed him intently: the way his pupils darted back and forth, the twitching and flexing of his fingers that sent a gentle rattle through the pages in his hand. A quiet yet rushed flow of air bumbled out of his lips as he frantically muttered the words on the page under his breath. 

Yet, just as he was quick to gush and blubber over the magazine, the deflation settling on his face arrived with equal speeds. Porky’s face melted from manic jubilation to hesitant amusement, to confusion to betrayed offense in a matter of seconds. Gabby resumed his twisted grin.

“Neh-never expects a seh-sa-sa…” 

Trickling off into a pathetic whimper, Porky’s voice faltered. He jutted the papers close to his face, contorting his face into an angry squint, as if he wasn’t entirely sure of what he was reading. That ritual ended after he parroted in a shrill protest “I do ih-seh- so expect a seh-sa-leh-salary!”

Gabby didn’t even have to yell at Porky to read more—he cut off his gawking at Gabby to bury his snout in the magazine once more, tracing a finger along the typeface. His expression melded into a sullen yet frantic amalgam.

It was when Porky’s face blanched that Gabby was unable to repress the fit of shrieking laughter growing in his chest any longer. Shrill, bleating laughs only doubled as Porky practically shrieked “Wehh-eh-wih-with all of his ih-cleh-eh-ceh-clever ways, ihh-peh- Porky can’t read!? ” 

In contrast to before, when he brought the papers close to his face to ensure he was reading it correctly, Porky now thrust the magazine far away from his face. He turned his head away, screwing his eyes shut—it was as though he couldn’t even bear to be in its presence. 

This little ritual was also temporary. His posture melted, lowering his extended arms as he gave Gabby a defeated, aggressively astounded stare. Gabby was now smacking the side of the chair. His bleating laughter refused to reside.

“How…ah…” 

The words caught in Porky’s throat. He cautioned a glance at the magazine cover in his hand. 

“Heh-eh-how d’they suppose I’m rih-rea-ehh-reh-readi-deh-dee-ehh… ah-I… the… ah-I’m eh-holdin’ the magazine ri-eh…eh… huh?? ”

Bleating laughter was now shrieking laughter, tears lining the rims of Gabby’s eyes. 

“There’s more!” he choked, kicking his legs. “G’wan and read it!”

“I ehh-deh-dee-eh-deh-don’t want to!” Porky’s indignant retort was pure instinct; he was already back to staring, mortified, at the pages in front of him.

“Read it!” Gabby urged, struggling to shift into a more threatening tone.

“Neh-ne-no!”

After a few unsteady gasps, Gabby–with great trouble–was able to contort his laughter into a dishonestly exasperated sigh. He leaned forward in the chair, extending his arm; he made grabbing motions with his palm.

“Give it here,” he hissed, a vibrato from the leftover chuckles still hitching his words. “I guess if ya want something done around here, you gotta do it yourself.”

“No,” Porky repeated. He looked terrified. “Ah-I eh-don’t want t’ read any more.”

Gabby mumbled a few curses through his teeth as he ran a palm over his face. “C’mon!”

“Ne-no!” Porky urged again. His tone was forceful, unrelenting… but his actions were not. The magazine was soon shoved back to his snout as dreadful curiosity prevail. This, again, prompted Gabby to sigh audibly.

Pinpricked, startled eyes scanned through a few more lines of text before the magazine forcefully slammed shut in his face. Just as he had done earlier, he screwed his eyes shut and thrust the magazine out in front of him.

“Teh… eh-take it,” he moaned, sounding ill. The papers in his hand shook–he held it out so far in front of him that one would have thought he was holding a wild animal, ready to strike at any moment.

Normally, Gabby would have made a production out of Porky’s fickleness. He instead obliged with a jubilated hunger: the magazine was forcefully ripped from Porky’s grip and quickly found a home in its new hands–hands that tore through the pages with much greater enthusiasm. Porky substituted the empty space in his hands with his head.

Gabby wasn’t the type to play games. Everything that required some sort of commitment, even for a joke, was “stupid” or “lousy” or some other tangential, borderline incomprehensible remark of excessive apathy. However, he was clearly basking in Porky’s fit and the existence of the article in itself–he allowed himself to indulge in the act of clearing his throat, milking the suspense and prompting Porky to hunch deeper into himself. Gabby proceeded in a bored, gravely tone, tinged ever so slightly by the dry laugh that lingered in his throat.

“‘With all his clever ways, Porky can't read’—“ 

An audible moan came from beneath Porky’s hands. This fueled the nasal bite in Gabby’s voice as he pressed on, reading with a satisfied grimace: “--’so when fan letters are sent to him his boss reads them and whenever possible, tries to fulfill the requests of the fans’”. 

A quick pause to see how Porky was faring. He leaned against the vanity, shoulders hunched, head in his hands. That twisted grimace grew.

“‘Porky's greatest appeal seems to be the fact that he's always a good little pig’—“ 

This time, it was Gabby who interrupted himself. His voice broke as he bit down on another laugh. Porky, meanwhile, ripped his face from his hands to gawk at Gabby with wide, petrified eyes. 

“‘An’... heh, ‘an’ manages to dispose of the villain in his pictures’.” 

Porky continued to ogle at him for a few moments more. His bottom lip quivered, a quick tug in his cheeks–both indications that he clearly wanted to make some sort of smart or defensive comment, but was an obligation that he didn’t have the heart or energy for. Protest was broadcasted in the mournful, humiliated and angry pout that flickered on his face instead.

“Ihh-keh-ck-kee-ehh–keh-eh-keep going,” he lamented miserably.

Gabby adjusted the article in his grip to give it newfound attention. “‘Cartoons are so popular with children that…’ yeah, yeah…”

Evidently, there was nothing particularly juicy in that paragraph about Porky. His voice tapered off, his mutter bearing an irritated hum. Porky was petrified at what sort of information he was withholding to begin with–Gabby was quiet for an awfully long time, creases growing on his forehead as his scowl deepend, evidently unsatisfied.

“Eh, buncha boring mumbo jumbo crap,” Gabby told him, not once tearing his eyes off the page. He seemed too bored to try.  “But they say, uh…. what do they say… they say, eh. They say you’re ‘a genius at stuttering’.”

Face flushing red, Porky retreated back into his hideout via palms to the face. Gabby, however, was rejuvenated by this fresh bout of fuel for embarrassment; he grinned at Porky with a sleazy, amused expression before returning back to the text. Another string of halfhearted, inaudible, bored mumbling continued.

It was a snort of laughter that broke the comparative silence. Porky yet again reared his head in renowned terror, his fingers extended like claws in front of his chest as they mourned the weight of his head.

Gabby made futile attempts to stifle the vibrating chuckle in his voice, disrupting his nasal, mocking tone:

“‘Modest Porky, who has always been so untouched by all this sudden fame will throw out his chest proudly when he sees this, his first magazine story.’”

At the very least, Porky figured this was the end of it through the way Gabby collapsed into another cackling fit. The magazine was carelessly thrown onto the vanity next to him–it slid a few inches, teetering on the edge before succumbing to gravity. The way it collapsed and clattered right back at Porky’s feet wasn’t unlike of Gabby resuming his own hysterics. Instead of gasping, shrieking, bleating laughs, the pages tittered excitedly to one another in their quaint, papery flutterings. 

“I’ll be ihh-theh-eh-thre-throwing somethin’ out, alright,” Porky groused at last. His tone grew more forceful with shared curiosity and aggreivance as he proclaimed “Weh… wuh-why do you seh-ehh-s’pose they’d ih-go an-an’ write a thing like the-thee-eh-that? W-why?”

Porky wasn’t one to ponder rhetorics. Indeed, he seemed like he wanted a real, genuine answer; the childish sadness and immaturity in his eyes welled as Gabby, wiping tears away with his knuckles, refused to provide.

“I’unno,” he gasped, laughs leaping out of his chest and crunching through his teeth as he struggled to speak, “but it’s funny as hell!”

More vicious laughter overtook Gabby, closing off further avenues of conversation. Porky miserably eyed the magazine spilling at his feet. Gently, he bent over to pick it up, movements so ginger and slow that one would assume it was contaminated. It might as well be.

The empty trash can next to the vanity caught his eye. He almost considered making it a permanent home…

His gaze drifted back to the cover in his hands. The smiling, apple-cheeked woman grinned mockingly at him with her vibrant brunette curls and confidently lax stature. How could anyone be so happy at a time like this? Was she mocking his inclusion in the magazine, or welcoming it? Was she too good for him, or was she trying to tell him that he was her equal? He wasn’t on the first page, or even the tenth page, but he was on a page. Evidently, he was likable enough to have an entire article written about him–and so brazenly and confidently written, too. Just like the confident celebrity staring right at him.

Sentimentality overwhelmed.

Escorting the action with a sigh, Porky halfheartedly opened the bottom drawer to his vanity and added it to the collection. The overflow. Neatly stacked in the drawer were copies of publicity photos, posters and advertisements for his cartoons. He hated to look at them and think of them–used to, anyway–but he hated the idea of not having them on hand even more. Tucking them out of sight was the best compromise he could come up with.

By now, Gabby had adjourned his session with the court jester–he eyed said jester with a bemused expression. Moments later he rose out of Porky’s chair and lazily kicked it behind him; Porky flinched as the chair gave its protests across the floorboards. 

“Well,” Gabby posited, slowly shouldering past Porky, “I guess I gotta go before you turn me into putty with your stupid stunts.” A good humor crept behind his blunt words.

Porky dutifully assumed his place on the now vacant chair, flopping into it miserably. “Fe-eh-fine,” he muttered.

“Maybe I’ll break my leg to get out of it,” Gabby pressed, unsatisfied with Porky’s answer, “since I’ll break my leg doing these lousy stunts anyway.”

A frown turned into an ever familiar scowl on his face as Porky refused to take the bait. Instead, had swiveled around to face the vanity, elbows on the desk as he massaged his temples with a hanging head. His halfhearted mumble of “That’s ih-feh-fine, Gabby,” only made Gabby huff in contempt.

It was only when Gabby realized that Porky wasn’t going to fall for any more of his bait that he finally let it go. With a dramatic shove, he threw his arms up into the air and headed for the doorway. 

“I’m surrounded by crazies!” he lamented to an audience of none.

Again, Porky remained silent. With a strangled bleat, Gabby took off in a huff down the hallway, laden footsteps clamoring and clopping along with him. Among the string of obscenities he weaved through his teeth, Porky also caught wind of him muttering–once again–about how acting was a lousy way to make a buck.

He was almost inclined to agree.

His first magazine article. An entire page dedicated to him, his legacy, his image–and he was reduced to a goody two-shoes who could do no wrong and loved to shill magazines in spite of an apparent inability to read. 

It’s not that he would have been able to come up with much better, but was it so difficult for them to have asked him some questions himself? Even Daffy had done a better job of interviewing him, pressing him for his favorite cartoons that he had worked on. Having words shoved into his mouth, and with such confidence… was this really how he was perceived? A smiling, compliant face, existing solely to be shown off like a prize pig at the county fair, all the while talking about how good he was, even if he couldn’t read or talk right?

A part of him almost wouldn’t have minded as much, had this article come out before he had met Daffy. It would just be another source of embarrassment that could be dismissed as being more of the same. Before yesterday, he didn’t have something to prove. Before yesterday, he hadn’t had a taste of what he could be, what his career could be; he hadn’t the understanding that it doesn’t have to be this way, that he could be respected, that he could be innovative, that he could surprise and go against the mold.

But Daffy was gone. Yesterday was gone. Everything surrounding the production of the duck hunting cartoon seemed to be a miraculous, mocking flash in the pan. Porky could try to suggest all of these crazy, innovative, manic ideas–and he was trying, though not to a great degree of reception, going by Gabby’s reaction–in an attempt to live up to or honor Daffy’s legacy… but he could never be Daffy. Nobody could. 

It wasn’t just that he was chasing the unattainable–he didn’t even know exactly what the obtainable was and, by proxy, how he was lacking it.

Just that morning, the change in his demeanor had caught the casual attention of his superiors. In reality, it was residual from the day before, still coming down from the high that was experiencing Daffy Duck. Did that alter his perception as an obedient goody two-shoes? Or did it only enhance it, with his chipperness making him come off as a corporate suckup? Was he really just trying to be someone he wasn’t, and failing so miserably at it that everyone had no choice but to humor him for it?

Daffy was the exception and not the rule. Boy, what an exception. An exception that Porky himself knew he could never live up to.

But how could he just settle back into his old ways? How could he resume his image as a smiling do-gooder–per the magazine–when he knew that there was something else out there? Something else that he could do, or be? 

Conversely, how could he recapture that something else, when he couldn’t even understand what that something else was? Especially when the harbinger of that something else had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth?

Most anybody would have been proud of their very first magazine article. In Hollywood magazine, yet, accompanied by pretty ladies and stories of gruesome deaths via scissors. And, truth be told, a very dull, contradictory tug still lingered in the recesses of Porky’s gut that felt this way. If this magazine, this feat, were as disposable as he wished it were, then he would have thrown it away in the trash can. 

But he didn’t. 

Porky cautioned a look at himself in the vanity mirror. Sitting across from him was a dull, frumpy, exhausted pig. His eyes were tired and sad. His cheeks were pallid and drooping–everything seemed to droop. His ears, his face, his demeanor. Even the clothes off of his back seemed to hang limp against him, purely out of obligation. His bow-tie sagged and his shirt wrinkled and his suspenders sagged and so did his spirits.

Looking at his sad, docile, confused expression, he felt just as he did when he first arrived in Hollywood. Isolated. Lost. Without any sort of identity or security. Only this time, he knew had sampled a taste of the other side–he knew that freedom, independence, even mere contentment existed, and that he was without it with each growing second.

That just made it worse.