Mortimer stands on the other side of police and caution tapes, holding his can of near empty ginger ale. Cops are guarding the area while construction workers are chipping away at structurally compromised sections of buildings that have been struck with rockets.

“This Bazooka Bunny chick is nuts, I tell ya,” says a cop to a tired, older rabbit wearing a worn-out long jacket and faded suit.

Said older rabbit absentmindedly sips from a Klumsy K’s to-go coffee cup. “Yep.”

“We really need to arrest her and that Hobo. They've been wrecking property left and right in their fight against Mama Bear,” says the cop.

“Take the complaint up to the people in charge. They write and approve the laws, not me.”

The old rabbit continues sipping his coffee and walks away, leaving the cop to grumble to himself.

Meanwhile, Mortimer looks around some more, and when he sees a cracked store window near the scene of the crime, he approaches the building and inspects the area. He finds a splash of yellow tinted vomit on the sidewalk, hardened by sunlight, but that is about it.

He finishes his drink, crushes the can in his hand and tosses it in a nearby garbage can as he walks away. His stomach still churns, sickly hiccups pop from his mouth every now and then, and sweat clings to him as he aimlessly walks the streets of Bliss Town.

Try as he might, he cannot think of anything. His brain is fogged. Mental images are warped and faded in a haze, spoken words are muffled, and numbers are jumbled messes. There is nothing he can do to analyze what he is seeing or what he saw earlier. He barely even registers himself going to a vending machine at the Sam & Mann Supermarket.

One buck in. Two bucks in. Three bucks in. Four bucks in. Five bucks in. Punch the button for ginger ale. Click. Whir. Down the can tumbles. It bangs against the retrieval area’s wall, and Mortimer pulls out the can and studies the label.

It’s a Diet P-Cola.

Mortimer frowns and looks at the vending machine. Then he exhales through his nose, opens the can and turns around while taking a swig. He hates the taste. Everything about it is fake and leaves a nasty after taste that leaves his tongue feeling sticky. But, he spent five bucks on it. And there’s no way he is going to toss five bucks away.

As he drinks the disgusting soda, he notices a ram going through a midlife crisis staring at him from a van, munching on a massive protein bar. But before he can make a decision on whether to confront said ram about his creepy staring, he notices something more annoying and borderlining creepy.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Howard Hall and Harold Hale are staring at him, stiff as boards with broad smiles and dilated eyes.

Mortimer looks at him, and the pair of rabbits remain focused on him, unblinking, even when a fly briefly lands on Howard’s eye.

“Can I help you?” asks Mortimer.

“Dude... Why does your face look weird?” asks Howard.

That is when Mortimer realizes that he forgot to put his raccoon mask on. He swiftly sets down his drink on top of a garbage can, pulls his mask out from his inner coat pocket and slips it on.

“Dude... His face changed,” says Harold.

“Bruhhhh~” says Howard and Harold in unison.

Mortimer grabs his drink and points at the pair with it. “Alright, you weirdos. Have any of you seen a rattle snake around here? Female. Early twenties. Easy on the eyes and rocks the mobster look.”

“No, but I'm seeing an angel wearing demon skin. Real trippy, dude,” says Howard.

“Dude, like that monster with angel wings,” says Harold.

“Dude, you're right. Are you friends with the monster with angel wings, face changing thingy?” asks Howard.

“No,” says Mortimer. “Have you seen a snake? Yes or no.”

“I haven’t, but maybe the butterflies have,” says Howard.

“Yeah, the butterflies see everything,” says Harold.

“You should ask the butterflies, dude,” says Howard.

Mortimer shakes his head and walks towards the odd van, muttering under his breath, “Freaking tweakers.”

As Mortimer walks towards the van, the ram revs its engine and calmly drives away. Mortimer watches them go, his frown remaining. But as he watches the vehicle, his eyes spot Peter Piper’s Pawn Place, and outside its door is the camera.

Mortimer’s frown turns upside down, and he hurries towards the pawn shop. When he enters the place, the hot afternoon temperature is replaced with cool air being blown by multiple fans, and Peter Piper stands up from his spot of watching a movie. The old rabbit holds up his hand while eating a snackable bell pepper.

“Hold on, bud. No masks allowed in here,” says Peter.

Mortimer holds up both of his hands and slows his steps. “I don’t want any trouble, old timer. I'm just looking for a friend. She has gone missing. I need to see your camera feed for clues.”

“Get the cops involved.”

“Have you seen the cops around here?”

“Yep.”

“Then you know they suck.”

“I know. But I don’t know you or your missing friend. For all I know, letting you see my cameras will get me tangled up in something I don’t want to be a part of.”

Mortimer is at the counter at this point, and he lays his hands flat on the glass, staring intently at the old rabbit.

“Give me a break. This isn’t a movie. No one is going to come after you if you help me find my friend,” says Mortimer.

“Sorry, I’m not going to help you. Go to the police and file a missing persons report,” says Peter.

Mortimer bangs his fist on the glass counter, growling. “Look, you patchy flea bag, this person is important to me, alright? I need…”

Mortimer’s voice drifts off, and he tilts his head slightly as he moves his fist aside. There, in the display case, is Claribel's radio with a "40b" tag tied to it.

Mortimer clenches his fists tightly, goes to the store entrance, and flicks the lock while flipping the sign to “CLOSED”. When he turns around, he sees Peter drawing a pistol from his back holster.

“You’re just asking for trouble at this point,” says Peter.

“Where is she?” says Mortimer heavily.

Peter Piper cocks his pistol. “I don't know who you're talking about, so you best leave before I put a bullet in your skull.”

Mortimer's eye narrows. “Where is she?”