May-Gucket Monthly

Bad Color

We have had Stanuary, and Forduary, so I think it's only fair that we have May-Gucket.

I mean, technically it could also be May-bel, but let's be honest, McGucket doesn't get enough love.  Literally, he spent years living by himself at the dump because his family abandoned him when he lost his mind.

So I am therefore declaring this the start of May-Gucket Month, and offering my contribution.

There is angst ahead.  You have been warned.

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It had been one of his better days.

Things were clearer; he could remember his first name, Fiddleford, instead of just Ol' Man McGucket, like ever'one else called 'im. He could remember the name of the town he was in: Gravity Falls, where he lived in the dump. He almost thought he could remember his wife-no, wait, she was his ex-wife now, had been fer a long time. That was why he had the raccoon livin' with him, right? But he didn't want ta think 'bout that right now; it was one of them things he didn' wanna remember no more (not like the things he wanted ta remember but couldn't no matter how hard he tried; he hated those).

As a matter of fact, as Fiddleford meandered down the main street of town, he was thinkin' instead 'bout some possibilities fer newfangled doohickeys he could slap together fer some attention. The pterodactyl-tron had been a fine piece-a work, an' so had the SHAME-bot, but he oughta give his next critter a biomechanical brainwave generator, ta give it a little class. An' he wondered jus' what kinda critter it oughta be; mebbe another flyin' one, he'd liked that pterodactyl-tron-

An' then he bumped head-first inta some feller goin' t'other way with a basket'a groceries, an' ever'thin' went south.

He stumbled back, nearly trippin' over his own feet afore regainin' his balance.

"Hey, watch it! You're gonna bruise the lemons!"

Fiddleford looked up at the feller-

The face, it was someone he knew, or at least used ta know, 'cept it weren't quite right, fer some reason he was thinkin' it needed a differnt chin, an' somethin' 'bout it said it was one a them things he didn' wanna remember too well, 'specially when he saw he was holdin' a bindle a yellow lemons-

Yellow

Bad color bad color bad color

No no NO

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"Git away! GIT AWAY!" Fiddleford shrieked like a frightened pig, throwing his hands out and knockin' the bindle from the other feller's arms. Unfortunately, this meant it broke open, and the bad color began to scatter ever'where 'round him, comin' ta git him!

"What the-! What's the matter with you?!" The feller what looked like someone he used ta know stumbled back, tryin' ta escape the onslaught. He didn' unnerstan' that Fiddleford was tryin' ta save him from the evil!

"Gotta-gotta git it away!" In a mad frenzy, he grabbed up a nearby stick, began smashin' the bad color, tryin' ta git rid of it 'fore it could hurt him again. Even though that just made it start splatterin' every'where, gettin' bigger, he hadta figger out somethin' else-

T'other feller let out a stream o'real impressive cussin' an' tried ta grab his arm; Fiddleford squirmed away, and no matter how terror-fyin' it was fer him ta touch it, he stamped his feet down on some more-a the evil, lettin' out a slightly hee-sterical cackle when he felt it squash unner his heel-

"Dad! Stop!"

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Fiddleford blinked, slowly lowerin' the stick an' turnin' towards the voice.

"Tate?"

Then his son was there, catchin' him by the wrist an' the shoulder an' gently tuggin' him away.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Pines, I'll pay for all this, I promise."

The feller-Mr. Pines, yeah, that was right, he owned all them thingamajigs at the devil house-was starin' at them, still purty mad but tryin' ta calm himself 'cause they were in public. Iffen he said anythin' Fiddleford didn't hear it none, 'cause Tate was leadin' him away towards the lake.

"Tate?" he asked again, feelin' juice from the bad-no, the lemons, they were jus' lemons-leakin' through the bandages on his feet.

"Yeah, Dad, it's me." His son sounded powerful exasperated, but also kinda sad. It hurt whene'er he sounded like that, but also felt kinda good, 'cause it reminded him his boy still cared. "C'mon, let's get you home. You need rest."

"Home?"

"Yeah, just for a little bit. Nobody's at the shop right now so you can hang around, and maybe we can catch some dinner."

Good ol' Tate. He'd look after him-except wasn't it supposed ta be t'other way 'round? He was his son, after all.

Fiddleford shook his head, tryin' ta clear out some-a the fog. Focused on the warm hands on his wrist and shoulder, helpin' him feel safe again.

Slowly lettin' the fear over whatever-it-was he'd almost remembered drift away.

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I reckon there had to be at least a few times over the years where Tate would at least try to take care of his dad.  At least, I hope so.

Happy May-Gucket.