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It was a good day, all things accounted for. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and no sight of any drowsiness on the horizon. Fiddleford walked through the forest, taking his pipe out from his back pocket.
Today was the same as the rest, Fiddle taking a morning walk through the forest to clear his mind, while Stanford sat in the shack, refusing to leave until he achieved what he deemed necessary.
Fiddle stopped in his tracks, taking a long drag off his now lit pipe. He was back at the shack, the normal faint blue glow emitting from a small ventilation window down in the basement. He just stood there, seemingly doing nothing. But his mind was racing back and forth, thinking of what he was to say when he got down there. Truth is, he’s had the hots for Stanford. He only just realized a few weeks ago, but it's been there since college. Of course, he wouldn't actually make any type of move. But he wished. Oh how he wished.
He shook his thoughts from his head, pulling out the door keys to the shack as he resumed walking. He opened the door, entering the damp, dark building. It never changed. Boxes and all, it looked like someone just moved in despite the dust. Fiddleford locked the door behind him with a creak and a click, taking another drag before putting his pipe out. Sighing to himself, he pocketed the keys and his pipe, and put in the code for the machine.
3, 2, 1
4
7, 8, 9
It hissed as a lock clicked inside, and the machine moved to reveal a small passageway. Fiddle pulled the machine back into place as he made his journey down the glowing, narrow staircase.
Stanford was nose deep in thought, pacing around the lab. He mumbled a string of barely coherent words as he scribbled down god knows what in that journal. Fiddle placed a hand on His shoulder, causing Ford to Jump and jerk his shoulder away. Holding his pen up in a way you would hold a knife. “WHO ARE YOU? HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?”
Fiddle took his hand away, stumbling back a few steps. Ford looked manic, his eyes wide and eyebags deep.
“Jesus stanford, did you get any sleep?”
Ford set down his journal and pen on a scattered pile of papers, rubbing his eyes as he sat at his desk. “I can't sleep, Fiddleford. I have work to do.”
Fiddle leaned on the desk, standing in silence. The two thinking hard on different subjects.
Sighing, Ford got up and started rearranging the papers on his desk.
“At least take some sorta break,” Fiddle pulled a shiny, silver flask out from his coat. “You really need one.” he took a swig from the contents of the flask, offering it to Ford after he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat sleeve. Ford looked at the flask, and then at Fiddleford. Tired, and way too exhausted, Ford ran a six fingered hand through his hair.
“Fine, but not long.”
He reluctantly took the flask from Fiddle’s hand, lifting the cold metal up to his lips. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he shut his eyes and swallowed hard. Ford usually doesn't ever drink voluntarily, but he had a long week of sleepless nights. Who was he to refuse?
Handing the flask back to Fiddle, he compliments the taste.
“Better than the last. Did you take my advice?” Fiddle dabbles in making whiskey -illegally- in his backyard, and has been experimenting with different techniques and flavours. “Thanks, n’ yep. Used more honey this time”
They exchange conversation for a while, before Ford finally decides to sleep. Fiddle, relieved that Ford is finally taking care of himself, even just for a bit, sits down at his desk. He toys with the internal wiring of one of his “personal computing devices” for a good half hour, before pausing for a bit to listen to the shuffling of feet a couple rooms away. He decides to investigate.
He walks into Ford’s personal lab, finding him… taping a live snake into his journal.
…?
“Stanford? You never usually wake up this early, are you feelin’ alright?” Fiddle asks hesitantly. He knows something is off, yet he can't place his finger on it.
Ford stops, turning to fiddle. His eyes had an eerie yellow glow, and an uncanny smile plastered across his face. It looked almost cartoonish.
“Why if it's not sixer’s OLD PAL FIDDLEFORD H. MCGUCKET!!” Ford’s body fell, step by step, towards him in a nonhuman way. Fiddleford’s eyes widened, taking a step back.
“Look, i don't know what you are, but-” Before he could say anything else, Mcgucket was pinned to the wall. His arms held in a tight, painful grasp.
“Why, i'm your pal! Your FRIEND! Good old STANFORD PINES!”
“Y-” A hand covered fiddle’s mouth.
“SHhhhh shh.. I know what you want!”
Fiddle furrowed his eyebrows, trying to rip Ford’s hand from his mouth with his only free hand.
“You just want SIXER to realize your mushy, goopy, feely thoughts. RACE for HIM.” The unwavering yellow eyes do not blink, only stare. Staring through Fiddle. Straight through his soul. This was not ford, Mcgucket knew that by now.
“You want him to reciprocate these DISGUSTING thoughts.”
Fiddleford narrowed his eyes, his breath hitching. How did he know this? He never said a word to anyone.
“DON'T YOU?”
Fiddle felt his body sink, his grip on ford’s arm loosening ever so slightly. He was right. They both knew that but who was he? Fiddleford returned to trying to pry Ford’s arm off. That was, until Ford's cold lips met Fiddle’s. His thoughts, and heart stopped.
Then he remembered that this was not ford. This was whoever- whatever was inhabiting Ford's body. He jerked his head to the side, Ford’s hand slamming his head to the wall. BILL grasped fiddleford’s jaw, forcing him to look his way.
“What's wrong, MCGUCKET? I thought this is what you WANTED!” Bill snickered, hatred filling each word with venom.
“You.. are not. him.” Fiddleford forced through his teeth, seething with disgust.
That ceased to matter as ford’s hand drew back from his other arm, landing a punch to fiddle’s left eye. Fiddle tried to yell, he thrashed and soon landed a knee straight into Ford's gut. Bill hunched back, that smile never fading.
“You'll regret that, FIDDLEFORD. But that's NOT going to stop me.”
Bill smashed ford’s lips back onto mcgucket’s, this time biting down on Fiddle's lip hard. Fiddleford tried to get away, but to no avail. Bill forced Ford's tongue down fiddlefords throat as far as he could, choking him. Fiddleford gagged and almost threw up, but Ford's tongue was still halfway down his throat. Once Bill was done with that, and bile filled fiddleford’s lungs, Bill slammed Mcgucket down onto the ground.
“Oh I can't WAIT to see the look on sixers face after i'm DONE WITH YOU.”
I’m your puppet, by James and Bobby starts playing from fiddleford’s radio.
Bill balled Ford’s hand into a fist, landing a blow to fiddle's face. Fiddle tries to yell and thrash, but is unable to make much of a noise as acid sticks to his vocal cords, let alone get any hits in. Bill Lands punch after punch to fiddle's face, his left side now bloody and bruised.
He shoves Ford’s hand into fiddle’s eye socket, fiddle trying to scream in agony as bill tears his eye out, blood pouring from the socket. With one long tug, the eye snaps from the socket. Holding it up like a prize, Bill's smile widens.
“How does THAT feel? Is it AGONIZING?”
Bill knocks another blow to fiddle's nose, after tossing the eye, hearing a crunch. Fiddle can barely breathe, his screams cease to exist. Bill shoves Ford’s hands into mcguckets open mouth, ripping the jaw from his skull, the muscles and fat slowly tearing apart. Blood spilling everywhere, and unable to think, breathe, or see correctly, fiddle falls unconscious.
Bill doesn't stop there. He stands up, licking the blood from Ford's hand. He walks into the lab in search of something sharp, finding a scalpel.
“Oh fordsy. I TOLD you to get rid of Him!”
Bill walks back to fiddle’s lifeless body, a mix of blood and bile surrounding Fiddleford. Bill stabs his chest with the scalpel, carelessly slicing his front open.
“And now LOOK at what I have to do.”
He throws the scalpel to the side, digging his hand into the cut and tearing out his small intestine. One after another, fiddles organs are removed. Spilling out. Surrounding his corpse. Bill finally rips his heart out, taking a bite out of it and shoving the organ into fiddle’s empty eye socket. He spits out the piece, taking the liberty to break and crush each one of fiddle's ribs. Once done with that, Bill picks the scalpel back up and starts cutting out the right radius and ulna bones. he snaps those out, stabbing them into fiddles right eye.
Stepping back from fiddlefords corpse, Bill admires his work.
“One last touch, and then sixer can see the RESULT of his own doing!”
A few minutes later, bill leaves the controls of Ford's mind.
Ford sits up, yawning, in his bed. He rubs his eyes, putting his glasses back on as he makes his way to the machine, down the stairs, and into the lab. He decides to head into the room where fiddleford’s desk was, following the sweet tones from their radio.
“Good Morning Fiddleford.”
Stanford leaned over Fiddleford’s shoulder, Fiddleford turned around, smiling.
“Mornin’, have a good nap?”
Ford chuckled, looking down at what fiddle was tinkering with.
“Yeah, I feel way more energized.”
Mcgucket set his electronics down, standing from his chair to give Ford a kiss. Ford returns the kiss, placing a hand on fiddle’s side.
Ford awakens, turns onto his side, his head and hands throbbing. He opens his eyes, finding that he is on the cold, metal floor of his lab. Confused, and blind, Ford adjusts his glasses to find blood.
Blood on the floor.
Blood on his hands.
His shirt.
His legs.
His glasses.
Blood from what?
“Fiddleford..” Ford groans.
“Fiddleford, are you here?”
He sits up, frantically searching the room. On the wall he is facing, there are big red letters. Written with blood, the sentence “LOOK WHAT YOU DID” and a line drawn from the words, leading into fiddleford’s workspace.
“No.. no. FIDDLEFORD!”
Stanford rushes to stand, briefly ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his body. Stumbling into fiddlefords workroom, his breath stops. Everything stops.
There on the floor is a body. A corpse which he can only think to be Mcguckets. Mangled and gutted.
His only friend.
Dead. right before him.
He stared at the corpse, tears pricking at the sides of his eyes.
“..no.. no…no no no no…” he repeats, falling to his knees at the side of his friend’s body, once full of life, barely recognizable now.
Ford stays there, by his side, staring at the blood on his hands. He did this.
He did this.