Work Text:
“Dook, c’mon this... c’mon, I love ya man, but I’m not contributing to this. This is freakin’ dumb.”
The Rock-afire crew sans Dook, Rolfe, and Earl, had all been told to come to work a few hours early, and instructed to gather around the main stage by the dog in question. He’d called them over to “see something important” or at least, that’s what they’d been told.
What the band members actually saw upon arrival was a large bulletin board. It was covered in hastily scribbled-on pieces of paper, multiple brightly colored strings, and a large photo of Rolfe’s iconic puppet, Earl Schmeerl, pinned dead center like some kind of crime drama evidence wall.
Dook looked like he’d skipped at least two nights’ sleep as he hunched maniacally over his creation, eyes wild.
“It’s not dumb, Beach Bear,” he snapped. “It’s about finding the TRUTH.”
He practically barked the last word, jabbing a dramatic finger toward the conspiracy board.
“I mean, we’ve all seen it, right? The way that thing moves its arms all dexterous and whatnot? Talks when Rolfe's talkin’? It just ain’t right!”
Dook jabbed at the board again, visibly worked up.
“But... he’s a ventriloquist, right?” Mitzi piped up, voice uncertain. “Isn’t that just what they do?”
“Ooooohoho if only it were that simple Mitzi.”
Dook grinned wide, rummaging through his pocket and pulling out a photo. It had a thumbtack already jabbed through it (which could not be comfortable to keep in there), and he slapped it on the board.
“Exhibit A!” he declared.
The photo in question was of Rolfe and Earl singing together during a show, and as dook reminded them by playing a bit of audio from said show via tape recorder, rolfes puppet was somehow providing backing vocals for him while he sang lead.
None of them had really noticed in the moment. They were all caught up in the heat of performing. But now, in hindsight, it struck them all as... a little weird.
There were murmurs among the band as Dook grabbed another tack-pierced photo from his apparently quite dangerous pocket and pinned it up with dramatic flourish.
“Exhibit 2!”
This one showed Earl lazily plucking the strings on one of Beach Bear’s guitars.
Beach Bear let out an offended noise, apparently unaware that this had happened but it was ignored. The murmuring grew louder.
“A gifted puppeteer Rolfe may be,” Dook continued, pacing like a deranged professor, “but gifted enough for THIS?
He pointed to the photo again, tail wagging with intensity.
“I don't think so.”
Now Dook could tell he was starting to win them over. His whole body practically buzzed with sleep-deprived excitement as he pulled out more photos, multiple, this time. He flinched briefly, accidentally pricking his finger on one of the thumbtacks, but didn’t let that stop him. He was a dog on a mission.
“Exhibit 4!”
The final set of photos were pinned to the board, and these were the most irrefutable yet: a series of snapshots showing Earl taking a bite out of an apple. Not just pretending either, actual chewing and swallowing. The food had entered the little yellow puppet thing's mouth and seemingly disappeared.
Mitzi and Billy Bob both gasped audibly. Dook’s tail wagged harder.
“As y’all can see,” he said, now pacing proudly in front of his “masterwork,” “the evidence of my claims is irrefutable. I don’t know what Earl is, but he’s clearly not just a normal puppet like Rolfe claims.”
He turned dramatically. “Now, do y’all have any further questions?”
A white-furred hand shot up.
“Yes, Beach Bear?”
“Are you okay? Your hand’s like… bleeding.”
“Next question.”
A large black-furred hand went up next.
“Yes, Fatz!”
“So if Earl really is ‘alive’ like you keep sayin’... then why’s he spendin’ all his time with Rolfe? Ain’t no way nobody would willingly spend that much time with him.”
“Maybe they’re married!” Mitzi chirped.
Beach Bear visibly shuddered at the thought, eyes wide in horror at everything that would imply.
Dook, unfazed, quickly scrawled “gay married?” on a sticky note and pinned it to the board.
“Our first theory!” he said cheerily. “Who’s next?”
Another white hand shot up.
“Beach Bear?”
“Okay, seriously dude, you NEED a band-aid. Like, now.”
“I’m seeing… Looney Bird raising a wing?”
Beach Bear groaned and went off to find bandages as Looney Bird chimed in, “Have we ruled out the possibility of Earl being some kind of sentient robo-whatzit? Perhaps one built by me?”
“That a confession?” Dook asked suspiciously.
“No, it’s a theory. If I had a nickel for every time I woke up from a night of drinkin’, surrounded by failed attempts at sentient mechanical life I don’t remember buildin’, I’d be rich.”
Everyone stared at Looney Bird.
Dook, still committed, added “robot (Looney Bird)” to the board.
“Alright, who’s next?” he asked as Beach Bear quietly passed him a box of band-aids on return.
“Billy Bob? C’mon, you haven’t said anything yet. Surely you’ve got some kind of theory?”
Billy Bob sputtered, clearly not ready to be put on the spot. “W-well... I just don’t think it’s right to be speculatin’ ‘bout Mister Rolfe and Earl like this. Ain’t there somethin’ else we could be makin’ up theories for???”
Dook, undeterred, scribbled down “aliens” and pinned it up with a grin.
“For the record,” he added, “I’m very open-minded.”
And then for the third time that night, a white-furred hand was raised.
“Beach Bear. Please tell me you have an actual theory this time?”
The bear grumbled before finally speaking. “Okay, so as dumb as I think all this is, and believe me, I do think it’s dumb... have we considered that it’s just, like... a guy in a costume?”
Everyone stared at him, waiting for the bear to elaborate.
“I mean... Mitzi, some of your family’s real small, right? Like wild mouse size?”
Mitzi nodded slowly.
“So what’s to stop Rolfe from just gettin’ one of those guys, payin em however much, and stickin’ ‘em in a little yellow Muppet suit? Bam. Instant ventriloquist act. No learnin’ required.”
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that comes with collective realization, not that rolfe was some kind of secret genius pulling the wool over all there eyes, or that beach bear was a master theorycrafter uncovering some kind of hidden truth, but that rolfe was the exact kind of person willing to go through with a ridiculous plan like the one beach bear had just described.
More theories followed including but not limited to:
“Parasitic twin.”
“Just what Rolfe’s hand looks like.”
And “Collective shared delusion somehow being caused by Rolfe.”
But none had enough evidence to be declared as truth.
Eventually, the conspiracy board was loaded into Dook’s truck (he really had to force that thing through the door), and after spending the rest of the day entertaining guests, everyone had gone home for the night.
Everyone except Rolfe and Earl.
The two had stayed late, practicing what Rolfe described as their “killer new routine.” At some point, the wolf passed out with a script in hand, clearly exhausted from all the nonstop practice.
The next morning, Dook, true to form, came into work a couple hours early.
He wasn’t expecting anything weird. But then again, he never expected anything weird.
And yet... there it was. A sound.
Scraping.
Dook’s ears perked up. He looked around the restaurant, every bit the reluctant protagonist in a horror movie.
Flicking on lights as he went, he followed the sound.
And then he saw it.
Earl.
More specifically: Earl dragging Rolfe.
The wolf was still passed out, dead asleep, script crumpled in hand. But Earl was awake. Still attached to Rolfe’s arm. Still moving. And dragging the gray-furred canine along like the world’s fuzziest ball and chain.
The yellow… creature… was casually chowing down on a slice of cold pizza from the ShowBiz kitchen.
Dook watched, wide-eyed, as Earl visibly gulped down the food, the implications of this thing having a stomach not being lost on the frightened canine.
The two locked eyes.
Silence.
Then Earl finally spoke.
“Trust me, kid. There’s some questions you just don’t want the answer to.”
And Dook, trembling, was inclined to agree.
He didn’t know what Earl was, or what he’d just seen that morning. But from that moment forward, he was done trying to figure it out.
Because whatever the answer was… it was bound to be way more upsetting and confusing than simply not knowing.
Sometimes?
Sometimes, it’s better not to know.
END.