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Late into the 1930s, America and the rest of the world had yet to recover from the horrific stock market crash of 1929. The Warner Bros. studio in Los Angeles, California, was struggling as well – not in terms of filmmaking but the three hellspawn that was locked in a tower. No matter how much those in charge of the studio tried to contain the wacky siblings, their zany antics could not be caged, no matter what. Frankly, those in charge were at their wits’ end. There was only so much the studio could take – how was Warner Bros. supposed to produce award-winning films if they had to stop a child from committing homicide? It was time to put the Warners’ antics to an end.
Jack L. Warner, the reigning president and driving force behind the studio, called a select group of people into his office one day, keen on putting an end to the Warners’ antics. Unfortunately, everyone seemed as clueless (and secretly fearful) as he was. It seemed like they would never come up with a solution for their dilemma.
Then, a ray of light in the darkness:
“Sir . . . what about a lobotomy?”
Jack Warner swiveled around, looking around the room in confusion. It wasn’t until he heard a meek down here that he realized the man who spoke was right in front of him. He had never seen this man before, but he was wearing a suit and tie and had a nice mustache, so he must have been a credible source.
“A lobotomy?” Warner asked, furrowing his brow. “What in God’s name is that?”
The meek suited man cleared his throat. “Ahem . . . it’s a procedure created by– by Dr. Walter Freeman, I believe. It supposedly . . . tames the mentally ill. Cures them.”
“What? How?” Warner was intrigued now.
“Well . . . this procedure is brand new, I believe, but the psychology reports I’ve read say it’s very effective. Essentially, the surgeons – or whomever – take something that looks like an ice pick–”
“An ice pick?!”
“–Yes. An ice pick.” The man cleared his throat, then continued, fiddling with his tie. “They take the ice pick, and they insert it through . . . through the subject’s eyeball and–”
Warner recoiled in disgust as the image entered his head, and he heard the other men in the room make noises that voiced his feelings. It sounded excruciating, but if it worked . . . .
“Where did you hear about this?”
“A psychology journal,” the man said. He stiffened in posture. “A credible one, I assure you. The work was published by Dr. Freeman and his partner, Dr. James Watts.”
“Hrm . . . .” Warner turned around to face the large windows in his office, scratching his chin. “Psychologists are experts . . . and if the procedure was created by a psychologist then . . . .” He spun around to face the men in his office once more, beaming: “Then it must be credible!”
The meek man looked relieved. “Then . . . ?”
“Contact this Dr. Freeman for me, will you? I want to speak to him pronto.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Another suited man whom Jack knew as Bob spoke up, a skeptical look on his face. “Even if this . . . procedure . . . works, Mr. Warner, we can’t possibly afford to have it done on all three Warners? If it’s new, that must mean it’s costly.”
Warner frowned. “Hrm.” Bob had a point . . . as ugly as that shade of green on him was. “Right. Well, we will lobotomize one of them, though.”
“But who, sir?”
Warner huffed. He was getting frustrated. He looked back at the man who suggested the lobotomy in the first place and cocked a brow.
“You. Who do you think should get the lobotomy?”
The man’s face reddened to the tips of his ears, clearly surprised at being put on the spot. After a moment, however, he mustered up the courage to give a response:
“Er, what about the loud one?”
“Yakko? Why him?”
“Well . . . he seems to be the leader of the bunch, doesn’t he? If the procedure is a success, perhaps his siblings will fall in line.”
Warner raised his brows. “You might be onto something!” he exclaimed. “Say, what was your name again?”
“Oh, uh, Ziggy.”
“Ziggy?”
“Yes, sir. Ziggy Freud.”
“I see–” Warner spun on his heels, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, “–well, Ziggy, you’re getting a raise. Buy yourself something nice, will you?”
Ziggy made sputtering noises which fell on deaf ears. Warner approached his window and stood in front of it; he gazed outside with a scrutinizing look. Anyone who followed his eyes would tell he was staring at the tower in which the Warner siblings were caged.
“Soon, Yakko,” he muttered to himself, “your reign of terror will end.”
***
It was always a cause of suspicion when the Warner siblings were called out of their constraints by someone from the studio – especially when it was only one of them. The three scarcely separated, and if they did, it always felt like they were missing a link. Yet when Hello Nurse came to fetch Yakko, Yakko decided that it must have been alright. Despite their fervent protests, he assured his siblings that he would be back soon and not to worry.
“Anyway, where are we going, Nurse?” Yakko asked, bouncing around like a ping pong ball as he walked.
Hello Nurse remained stoic, making Yakko frown. It wasn’t like her to say nothing to him. What was up with that? However, Yakko’s attempts to get a response out of her were in vain. Before he knew it, they were standing outside a door he had never seen before – and he had gone all around the studio. The door was metal and had a “DO NOT DISTURB” sign hung up.
Yakko frowned up at the nurse. “What’s in there?”
Hello Nurse looked . . . pale. “It’s unimportant,” she said. When she looked at Yakko, her usually bright eyes held a sadness in them. “I’ll come to get you later. Be on your best behavior.”
Yakko opened his mouth, but before he could start yakking, the door was thrust open, and Hello Nurse punted him inside the mysterious room like he was a soccer ball.
After Yakko gained his bearings, he found himself in a strange room – stranger than him, even. It was small and cramped, with stained white walls and metal flooring. There was no window in sight, and the door behind Yakko let no light in, so the air was stuffy and the room dimly lit save for the singular overhead lightbulb fighting for its life as it dangled above . . . an operating table? There were only three people in the room: one man he recognized immediately as Jack Warner, and the other two he didn’t know. One looked nervous and was wearing a suit, while the other had a cold, calculated look on his face and a long white lab coat. A sense of dread fell over Yakko.
“Uh . . . what’s going on here?”
A cruel smile crossed Jack Warner’s lips. “Ah, Yakko. My favorite of the Warner brothers.”
(Back in the tower, Dot crumpled to the ground in pain, sensing something was off with the universe. Wakko was looking into space, no thoughts behind his blank eyes.)
Yakko blinked. “What? Where am I?”
“That isn’t important,” Warner said. “I’d like to introduce you to two of my friends.”
“You have friends?”
Warner narrowed his eyes. “. . . Anyway.” He pointed to the nervous-looking suited man next to him: “This is Mr. Freud.”
“Mr. Fraud?”
“No. Freud.” Warner motioned to the man in the white coat. “. . . And this is Dr. Freeman.”
“Ohh, I see – he’s a doctor! That explains the tacky coat.”
Dr. Freeman looked down at his coat, frowning deeply. A vein bulged on Warner’s forehead.
“. . . Right. Well, Yakko, I hear it’s been a while since you and your siblings had a proper doctor’s check-up,” Warner continued, pulling his shoulders back. It was a poor attempt to make himself look confident and in control.
Yakko gave Warner an odd look. “A doctor’s check-up? Uh . . . I mean, yeah, I guess, but what does that–”
“Dr. Freeman will give you a routine check-up,” Warner interrupted in a curt voice.
Yakko blinked. “Oh. Well – why aren’t Wakko and Dot here, then?” He planted his hands firmly on his hips. “We always get check-ups together.”
Warner faltered. Yakko narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t work with more than one patient at a time,” Dr. Freeman butted in.
Yakko eyed Dr. Freeman suspiciously. There was something off about this guy, but maybe he was just a harmless creep.
“What about him?” Yakko pointed directly at Fraud. “What’s he doing here? He doesn’t look like a doctor.”
“Ah–” Freud stiffened and began to speak, but Dr. Freeman cut him off.
“He’s here to assist me.”
Yakko narrowed his eyes. “. . . Uh-huh.”
“Right!” Yakko and the two weird strangers looked at Warner, who was suddenly at the door next to Yakko. He beamed down at Yakko in the way that always had shivers running down the boy’s spine. “I’ll go see about fetching your brother. I trust you’ll be on your best behavior for Dr. Freeman and Mr. Freud.”
Yakko cocked a brow. “That’s a stupid idea.” His quip fell on deaf ears because with the swiftness of an abnormally fast and thin horse, he slipped out of the room through the metal door, leaving Yakko alone with the two men. Immediately, Yakko’s fight or flight response kicked in, and he spun around to try the handle, only to find that it was–
“Locked.”
Yakko swung his head around so fast he heard a crack in his neck. It was Dr. Freeman. His posture resembled some villain – and there Yakko was, standing like a deer in headlights. His wit failed him, and even if he had been able to conjure up some whacky insult, what good would it do? He had neither Wakko nor Dot there to help him.
Yakko gasped. That must be why–
Unfortunately, Yakko’s inaction led him to be put at an even greater disadvantage than he already was. Dr. Freeman strode over to Yakko with long strides and punted him into the air, so the top of his head hit the ceiling, and he got a concussion, knocking him out instantly.
***
When Yakko came to, he groaned and winced as the light blinded him. He tried to move his head and limbs, only to find he was strapped down with thick leather straps – the operating table. Panic bubbled up in him, and his eyes searched around frantically until a head popped up above him. He yelled.
“Ah, you’re finally awake.” Dr. Freeman.
“You–”
“Now, now, Yakko,” Dr. Freeman said, “there is no need to talk. I need you to stay perfectly still so we can start the procedure.”
Yakko looked up at the “doctor” in horror. “What procedure? What about HIPAA?!”
Dr. Freeman chuckled. “HIPAA won’t be enacted for another sixty years, you dunce. And besides, that’s the wrong patient protective policy you’re looking for.”
“What–”
“I’ll explain,” Freeman interrupted: “Mr. Warner is at his wits’ end with you and your siblings, and he called me to help.”
“‘Help’? With wh–”
Freeman made a noise of disgust. “Now I see why he chose you – you never stop yakking, do you?” He paused. “Ohh, that’s why–” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Nevermind, here’s the TL;DR–”
“The what?”
“I’m going to take this orbitoclast and stick it in your eyeball.”
If Yakko were a cartoon character – which he certainly was not – his eyeballs would have bulged out of his head and made wacky sound effects. “You’re going to stick a what in my WHAT?”
“An orbitoclast,” Dr. Freeman repeated, holding the pointed tool up proudly. He gazed at it, brow furrowing. “Although, I used to use an ice pick instead.”
“A WHAT?”
“Ugh, Sigmund–” Dr. Freeman looked at someone Yakko couldn’t look at because his head was forced in place, “–can we figure some way to shut this kid up?”
“I could use anesthesia?”
“Ah, yes, that would work.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa–” Yakko felt himself break out into a sweat, “–what, uh . . . what do you need anesthesia for? Why are you sticking an ice pick in my eyeball?”
“It’s an orbitoclast.”
“I don’t– I don’t understand what I did! I’m just– I’m just a little boy, just a little goofball, a little–”
“Here.” Suddenly, Dr. Freeman’s head was replaced by Mr. Freud’s. He held up a comically large syringe with an even larger needle. Yakko’s eyes bulged in his skull, and his mouth fell slack. “That'll shut you up.” Before Yakko could get anything out of his mouth, Freud jabbed him with the stick a few times all around the area of his mouth and jaw, and for narrative purposes, the anesthesia worked with a lightning speed that had Yakko’s whole mouth feeling numb. He tried to talk, but he couldn’t get any words out; he probably bit his tongue several times trying to spit out words, but he couldn’t feel anything, so how would he know? Dr. Freeman poked his head back, so both he and Freud looked down at Yakko; they smiled at each other. Yakko felt like his heart was hammering in his throat.
Something terribly, terribly wrong was about to happen – and Yakko couldn’t even sing a silly song about it. He only hoped they weren’t going after Wakko or Dot next.
(Meanwhile, Wakko and Dot were playing Monopoly because Monopoly was invented during the Great Depression. Dot’s previous feeling of dread had disappeared as soon as Wakko brought out the game board. Now, they were on the verge of starting the Second World War in a cutthroat game of Monopoly.
Little did they know that somewhere in Europe, Adolf Hitler was planning an invasion of Poland. . . and little did they know that Wakko would be drafted. But that’s a story for another time. Now, where were we?)
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Yakko tried to scream when Dr. Freeman put the ice pick/orbitoclast/sharp pointy object near his left eyeball. Except he didn’t scream at all – all that came out was a bunch of pathetic gurgling noises. To add insult to injury, Dr. Freeman and Freud smiled at his noises of agony.
Why were people giving doctoral certificates and licenses to practice medicine and psychology to absolute sociopaths?
“Now, Yakko, there is no reason to throw a fit,” Dr. Freeman said, taking on a condescending tone. “This won’t hurt a bit. I’m only going to stick this orbitoclast through your eyeball and jiggle it around to turn your brain into soup! It is perfectly humane.”
Yakko made a noise that vaguely resembled that of a distressed sea lion.
Dr. Freeman glanced at Freud. “He seems on board to me, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” said Freud. “I only wish I could have gotten to talk to him about his relationship with his mother first, but it seems he is too far gone. You might as well make this quick.”
“Yes, yes, you’re very right, Sigmund.” Freeman looked back down at Yakko, his face going cold. He held the tip of the orbitoclast up to Yakko’s cornea, eyes squinting in concentration as he brought up what looked like a tiny silver hammer. He brought the hammer against the back of the orbitoclast a few times to test his aim before finally slamming it down.
If Yakko had been able to move or speak, he would have. The amount of pain that shot through his body was impossible – but clearly, the worst was yet to come. Tap, tap, tap! Each hammer tap against the ice pick drove it deeper inside Yakko’s skull. The worst part? The poor lad lay paralyzed and mute on the operating table as two crusty white men lobotomized him. Yakko felt what he could only imagine being blood drip down his face, or maybe it was some other mysterious liquid coming from his eyeball. Tears, perhaps? Whatever it was, the urge to puke was high, and Yakko could feel his stomach lurching in his throat. He could only describe the sensation as having a broomstick pushed into his brain; he felt like his head was splitting apart.
With the orbitoclast mostly inserted through Yakko Warner’s eyeball, Dr. Freeman could get to the real fun. After swapping anticipatory glances with Freud, Dr. Freeman looked back down at Yakko and began jiggling the orbitoclast around, stirring what could only be the boy’s brains. Yakko’s pain was displayed freely on his face, and Dr. Freeman could tell he was nauseous and on the verge of throwing up, but he kept going. Did Yakko throw up a little? Maybe, but who cared? This was all in the name of science!
Oh, and shutting some kid up, Dr. Freeman supposed. Either way, Dr. Freeman felt invigorated to know that he could finally put his genius and hard work to good use. He knew for a fact that Jack Warner would be impressed.
***
Six months later.
Half a year after Yakko Warner’s operation, Jack Warner decided to pay him and his younger siblings a visit. Dr. Freeman and Freud had deemed the process a success, so Warner had paid them both handsomely and bid them on their way. Dr. Freeman performed more lobotomies, and the practice seemed to take off quite a bit in the United States and other countries around the world. Freud had said something about needing to develop further his theory on why infants got sexually aroused from shitting their diapers. Warner had decided to gloss past that part carefully.
When Warner arrived at the tower the three Warner siblings were stored in, he smiled to himself instantly: no loud noise or banging sounds. Stepping inside, he was met with quite the scene. Wakko was stuffing his face with a forlorn expression, and Dot was staring blankly at the pages of Sigmund Freud’s Joke’s and Their Relations to the Unconscious. Warner frowned for two reasons: first because neither of them greeted him; second, where was Yakko?
“He’s over there,” Dot said glumly, her sad voice startling Warner out of his thoughts. Had he asked that aloud?
“Yeah,” Wakko said, mouth stuffed with food.
Warner cringed a little. Gross. He followed Dot’s gloved finger and gasped at the sight before him. Sitting and looking thoroughly out of it in the corner of the room was Yakko himself. There was no sign of that familiar childlike joy or snark about him, just apathy and static. Warner looked from Yakko to his siblings.
“How. . . how long has he been like this?”
“Six months,” Dot said, a note of irritation in her voice. She glared at him accusingly. “He won’t move. Won’t eat. Won’t speak. Nothing. It’s all because of that – that lottery you got him!”
“Lobotomy.”
“Oh, whatever!” Dot broke into tears, throwing Freud’s book aside and crying into her hands.
Warner flinched. He looked over at Wakko, only to find him in a similar state to Dot: depressed. Warner began to feel an unfamiliar feeling creep up in him for a moment, characterized by a large pit forming in his gut. Was that. . . guilt? He looked at Yakko.
Hesitantly, Warner approached the eldest Warner sibling. Even standing in front of Yakko, he got no response, just a blank stare. Warner crouched down, so his face was directly in front of Yakko’s. No response. He waved his hand in front of Yakko, even snapping a few times. Still nothing. Warner frowned deeply.
Had he. . . messed up, somehow? He had wanted Yakko to chill the fuck out and maybe stop victimizing innocent civilians, but had this been too far? The little tower the Warner siblings resided in was devoid of joy or even life, for that matter. The whole world seemed deprived of pleasure, what with news of Adolf Hitler’s invasion of Poland (even though he had said he wouldn’t do that. Why would a dictator lie?).
Jack Warner bit his lip. He stood straight, staring down at Yakko’s emotionless face before looking at Dot and Wakko. They were crying no more, only staring at him with a look in their eyes that had him feeling even more guilty.
Clearing his throat and standing straight, Warner said, “I’m sorry, children, but it was best for him. I am sure of it.”
“How can you say that?” Dot asked, eyes wide with disbelief. “He’s – he’s not even Yakko anymore! He’s just a shell.”
Warner shook his head. “Well, it isn’t like I can get him. . . de-lobotomized. This is the new Yakko, so. . . so you’re both best off dealing with it.”
Dot and Wakko gaped at him. Before they could get in another word of protest, Warner fled out the door and slammed it behind him. He pressed his back against the door and looked up into the heavens. Then, Jack's unforeseen emotion welled up, and he sobbed, collapsing onto his knees.
“Oh. . . oh Yakko, what have I done?”
Fin.