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“I’m sorry Max, there’s nothing we can do.” Dr. Mama Bosco said, her voice soft and delicate like a mother’s should be. “Sam is... Sam is gone.”
The people around him, people he called friends, all looked mournful. Flint patted his back, saying something Max couldn’t recall. Abe and Superball each gave their condolences, regretting the loss of such a kind soul, before encouraging Max to give himself some time off from the presidency. Even Stinky, in his new ape form, gave some semblance of encouraging words before shuffling off somewhere.
And Max? Oh Max.
Max could only smile.
...
Max had always wondered what would have happened if he had gotten the psychic powers instead. Would he be dead instead? Could Sam even kill him like he killed him? No, he figured. No, Sam wouldn’t have been so cruel.
To his credit, Max really did try. After the eldritch influence reshaped his partner into a monstrosity of cosmic destruction and wrath, he had summoned everyone he knew at the point of his gun with demands for solutions. Superball, ever the traitor, had begun the preparation for a nuclear assault with the fully reformed Abe Lincoln leading the command. Mama Bosco offered the alternative he would attempt, using the Desoto to enter Sam and try to remove the alien presence in his mind.
With a team in place, they entered Sam. After an onslaught of wacky hijinks and pleasant reminiscing that should have been foreshadowing, they were on the brink of saving him. But Sybil went into labor, and Sam had almost forced them out of his body. Save Sybil.
With nothing left, Max could only watch his best friend be struck with a nuclear warhead. In his final act in kindness and a roar that sounded too much like Little Buddy , Sam disappeared with the bomb.
And that was the last thing he had ever seen of Sam.
The days dripped on afterwards. The city was repaired. His friends all went forward in their lives. Sybil and Abe had a bouncing baby bust that lavished in the White House under the care of the new president. He had won in a landslide, the American public no longer content with the antics of Max’s lack of restraint. Not that he really cared.
Stinky was thriving. His new ape form allowed him to experiment in cooking and restaurant management, and somehow those two combinations made dining in his restaurant actually palatable to the general public. Flint had retired to his lodge in Washington, taking on more international cases as a CIA agent. Jimmy Two Teeth re-established his casino. The COPS had formed their own rival detective agency, with surprising success.
Everyone had moved on. Everyone was thriving. So why couldn’t Max?
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t let go of Sam. He would still wake up, arm hanging from his bunk as if he was reaching to the bed below. Reaching to where he knew his best friend would be snoring. He never thought he would miss that terrible slumbering habit. Eventually he just cut out the middleman and started sleeping in the lower bunk. He would cuddle the pillows, feeling comfort in the lingering smell.
But that too faded, and he felt himself fall deeper. But he still smiled.
The phone would ring, and he would hop excitedly forwards anticipating the large hands of Sam restraining him and getting to the phone first. But there was no restraint, and he would answer the phone with a lacklustre “Hello?”. The commissioner would have a case, something juvenile and outlandish. Max would agree. How couldn’t he? He was a part of the Freelance Police. With his toothy grin and pistol in hand, he would go out and solve the case.
There was some truth to why he kept doing what he was doing, to keep the Freelance Police alive. But he would be a liar if he said the pain he inflicted on the criminals of New York didn’t feel incredibly satisfying.
Crime went down a significant percentage with a drop in re-offenders; those who survived fled town and those who didn’t... Well Max had no sympathy for them. Sam had always seen the best in people, wanting to give them second chances and the hope they would reform into better citizens. Max held no similar belief. To him, they were just target practice.
The Desoto slowly became his home, spending less and less time in the office. In those days, he would drive from case to case with a fiendish fury towards whichever poor soul had found himself on the warpath. At night, when Max couldn’t sleep, he would aimlessly drive around the nightlife. Sometimes he would monologue to himself like Sam did, describing his thoughts in a sadistic version of noir drama. Sometimes he would pretend Sam was still with him, laughing along and calling him his little buddy. Max would tell him all the things he wished he had said earlier.
Things like I’m glad I’m your friend and You’re very important to me. On one particular night, when the wind was cold and Max felt himself wanting for the warmth of something soft, he whispered to the seat beside him “ I love you, Sam. ”
He never answered back, but Max knew that he loved him too.
Months dragged on like this, until it was almost a year since his demise. Sybil had come around occasionally, offering her advice and grief counselling. She encouraged Max to move one, to find new things. Surrounding himself with the ghosts of his partner was unhealthy and was keeping him back. She suggested moving, selling the Desoto and starting a new life. Max, with his now permanent smile, felt himself agreeing with her. Maybe she was right.
Sybil was never a good psycho-therapist. If she was, then perhaps she could have anticipated the fallout of what Max interpreted as “moving on”.
First to burn was the office. He had taken care to evacuate the building before torching it, so the only things that died were the echoes of the past. And maybe Lenard, he didn’t remember if he had released him or not. Once the ashes of what once was had swept into the air, Max salted the earth. Literally. Whether that was because he felt that if he couldn’t grow then nothing else could or simply because he liked the phrase, he couldn’t say for sure. In a place where his heart once was, he felt like Sam would have been disappointed in him. But Sam was dead. And Max wasn’t.
Next was the TV studio. They kept playing reruns of Midtown Cowboys with a disingenuous In Memory of Sam in the credits. The director didn’t even recognize him when he walked in, taking well over a minute before recalling his name. Mr. Featherly was more curt, greeting the lagomorph with his oxymoronic British charm. There must have been something in the eyes of Max that clued him into the mindset of his former co-star, pulling the fire alarm and getting the building empty. Max didn’t bother torching this place this time, simply taking his frustrations out on the set pieces and expensive camera displays. Teeth and claws and bullets tore apart fabric and walls with manic vigor and recklessness. There wasn’t even glee in his rampage anymore, it was only rage.
The surviving tapes were sent to news programs, and the American public were disgusted. They demanded recourse and justice against their former president, a call that the COPS took with stride and determination.
Max didn’t think twice about destroying them. They were only machines after all; obsolete, stupid machines. The only hesitation he felt was when pointing his luger at Buster Blaster, the blinking lights and frantic codes pleading for mercy. Sam had designed Buster, gifting it to Max on his birthday. He was so proud of them.
But memories are memories. And Buster Blaster was eliminated.
That was the turning point. Those still sympathetic to Max could no longer excuse and tolerate his behavior, and Max was declared a wanted rabbit.
Several cops attempted to arrest him, but Max evaded their capture. He was decent enough not to kill them outright, leading them on long chases that eventually ended in several car crashes. The wind in his ears and the sound of sirens became addicting, his chest pounding for the first time in what felt like eons. His smile was brimming and wide, teeth sharper than they had ever been before.
People he had known once before tried to reach out to him. Bosco made his pleas, Stinky gave his beratements, even Harry Moleman asked for peace. Think about Sam. They had said. Think about how he would be feeling right now! He wouldn’t want this for you.
They were fools, Max decided. He was thinking about Sam. All he thought about was Sam.
Sybil reached out again, almost begging Max to surrender. She could speak to Abe, offer a plea deal. He would be taken care of, he would be safe. All he needed to do was surrender. “You can’t change the past Max, you have to face the now. Please, please don’t make us kill you too.”
Max hung up the phone, not bothering to respond. He considered paying her a personal visit, but the remaining humanity within him reminded him that she was a mother now. But something else resonated within him. The past. The now. Like the horns of Gabriel, the ghostly melody of the Mariachis’ melodies playing in his ears.
He might not be able to change the past, but he didn’t need to stay in the present either.
It was difficult, finding a way to get another time machine. The first one was lost in the beginning of the universe, something he regretted allowing. He managed his way into Hell, using one of the many tokens that he had collected in his time of ramage. The staff in Hell were quick to avoid him, averting their eyes and whispering amongst themselves about the demon in rabbit form that walked past them with empty eyes and permanent smile.
Satan, fearing another hostile takeover, was quick to agree to Max’s demands. He asked for no payment, motioning to the back rooms that held the souls of Max’s carnage. “You’ve more than supplied enough of a deposit.”
Max resisted the urge to ask if Sam was in the back rooms as well; he didn’t like the thought of Sam spending the rest of his life in a cardboard box with a Peepers partner. Better to live in ignorant bliss than dreadful certainty. Max only took the time machine from the workshop of all accursed inventors. He entered the elevator with a cool demeanor, not bothering to turn back.
This time, the time machine was more streamline. He had access to a multiverse of possibility and time on a simple corporate smart tablet. There was no needlessly pedantic voice either, only a soft tune that played a familiar song. Max scrolled through the different realities, briefly reading the descriptions that popped up. There were alot of realities where Sam died and Max was left alone. Somewhere they both died. Somewhere they never met. Each felt like a stab to the throat, a pain he had almost forgotten.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for. He selected his destination and let the rumbling of the device flow through his feet into his bones and legs. Time and space zoomed by him in moments that could have been hours, and he travelled in days that felt like seconds. His mind jostled and spun with the feeling of eternities passing him by. But he kept smiling.
The device eventually stopped, and he felt it settle into the earth. The doors opened, and he took his first steps out. There, standing with his mouth agape in awe, was Sam. His Sam.
“Hiyah Sam!” He smiled.
...
“I can’t believe that you managed to find a way to a reality where I had survived but the other version of you didn’t.” Sam remarked, tugging at his tie. Their apartment, still standing and unburnt in this timeline, seemed more homely than Max recalled. He swung his legs on the top bunk, watching Sam get ready for bed. He found a new appreciation for all these little rituals Sam had. “I am glad that you're here, I don’t know how I could have handled being alone. How did you manage, little buddy?”
Little Buddy. The ghost of Max’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, I was fine. Barely noticed you were gone. Just got bored after a while.”
Sam shook his head, torn between disappointment and amusement. He replaced his suit with pajamas, settling into the bottom bunk. “I think we’ve both had a long day. We’ll talk more in the morning, okay?”
“Okay Sam. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, little buddy.”
The light near their beds flicked off, and Max was suddenly plunged into a dark room. The sound of the city passing by made for a familiar lullaby and the comfort of knowing his best friend was back with him, sleeping safely below, was bittersweet. A part of him felt guilty, leaving behind the real Sam he knew. But another part of him, the terribly selfish part of him, was content.
If there was any time his smile could have been genuine, this would have been it. But in the shadows of a room that looked identical to his own, his face fell.
Sam wasn’t snoring.
Max wondered if this Sam didn’t snore. He tossed in his blankets, listening below. He heard breathing, irregular and light. No, Sam wasn’t even asleep yet. Max wondered if he was thinking the same things he was. Reliving the losses. Wondering about missed chances.
It didn’t take long for the lagomorph to crawl out from his bunk and climb down to the lower bed. Sam was awake, staring at the wall with a distant expression. He didn’t even register Max until the rabbit crawled into the bed with him, jumping slightly as Max settled his head into the crook of Sam’s neck and paws firmly gripping his fur. He had almost forgotten what Sam smelled like.
“Max, wha-”
“I’m glad I’m your friend, Sam.” Max interrupted. For the first time in years, tears began to fall from his eyes. “You’re very important to me. I- I love you.”
Words he practiced night after night to an empty chair fell from his lips like a sinner's confession. There was a pain in his chest that ached and bruised as the heart he worked so hard to destroy regrew. He was shaking, chills running down his spine.
“Max.” Sam whispered, his voice so filled with endearment. He wrapped his arms around his friend, holding him tight against his fur so that he stilled. “I love you too. So much.”
“Don’t... don’t die. Okay Sam? Don’t ever leave me alone again.”
“Never, little buddy. Never. ”