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Barnaby hovered his blue pen over a legal pad, willing a punchline to form itself. Piles of crumpled yellow papers and the now-thin notepad made him painfully aware of his failure, but his frustration gave way as he acknowledged that it was time for a break. He pulled out his paper shredder, plugged it in, and collected the discarded papers. The most cathartic part of a joke-writing session.
He dumped them all in a pile on the desk next to the shredder and started to smooth the first one when he heard someone knock, clearly not bothering with the doorbell. It was so violent and urgent that it shook the flower vase next to the door. So, probably Frank coming to rave at him again. He sighed, unplugging the shredder, and scooped all of his materials into the wastepaper basket. Might as well not give him another excuse to judge him.
Frank, or whoever it was, knocked more forcefully. He rolled his eyes.
“I’m comin’, just gimme a minute!” They knocked again. He took the last stride to the door and flung it open. Frank did not glare up at him; Wally’s perpetual smile greeted him at the door, hands folded calmly behind his back.
“Wally? What are—”
“Oh, hi, Barn,” he said in his measured monotone. He tried to seem unfazed, but the blue neighbor had learned to discern the difference. His orange eyelids sagged as though he was fighting sleep, his infamously immaculate pompadour was lopsided and frizzy, and his peaceful grin seemed more forced. His voice was slower than normal and more pained. Barnaby didn’t want to alarm his friend, so he plastered a smile over his concerned expression.
“Are you—”
“Do you have two D-cell batteries here?”
“Yeah, sure I do, but—”
“Can I have them?”
“Of course, Walls, but are you okay? You can talk to me—”
“I just need them. As soon as possible, please.” This was the closest Wally ever came to demanding anything. Frank, while keeping his precious manners, always. Sally, sure. Even Howdy could get impatient sometimes. But Wally? He rarely even asked for things, and he never interrupted someone while they were talking. Something was deeply wrong.
“…Anything for you, little buddy,” he said, leaving the doorway. “Come in.” He descended into his basement and checked a few boxes for the requested items. Wally hovered behind him, anxious smile never leaving. When he coughed, he sounded like he would throw up a lung and croak. What worried Barnaby more was his friend’s distasteful look into the side of his hand and the dark flecks at the corners of his mouth. Despite that, he tried to keep up his cheerful facade.
“Aha! Here they are. There’s two, just like—”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course.” He ran faster than Barnaby had ever seen him run. Since he was still concerned, he followed him upstairs and knocked on the door.
“Is everything okay, Wally? Ya seem off.”
“Yes, Barnaby, I’m okay,” he said, but his placating words did not match his pained tone. He heard the sound of… fingernails scratching something? Despite his concern, it felt creepy to be standing right at the door, so he backed up.
“Ya know you can tell me if everythin’s not okay. Just… call if you need anythin’.” Barnaby heard Wally mumble assent from behind the door. His speech was slower than other neighbors’, but he always spoke cogently. He had little time to dwell as he heard a bang like a metal box being hit. Was Wally trying to change the batteries to the device here? He had not seen him bring it inside the house.
“Wally? I heard bangin’, you okay?” He approached the door again.
“Just… a minute!”
“You need to tell me what’s going on.”
“Come on, dammit.” Wally didn’t hear him. He heard the sound of fingernails scratching and more banging. That was the final straw; the vain man rarely used words like “darn” and “heck,” let alone “dammit.”
“Wally, open the door, or I’m going to come in.”
“No, just a second!” He hesitated for a moment before opening the door. Wally leaned over in front of the mirror, buttoning his shirt.
“Oh, hello, Barnaby,” he said. While still measured, his voice was quicker than before, and his eyes were wider despite still being relaxed. Wally washed his blood-coated hands, freeing rust from under his nails.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean this up,” he said. The dog took stock of the room. Two rusted, dirty, gory batteries lay in the basin surrounded by blood and grime. They were so grotesque that it was impossible to tell whether or not the batteries were cracked. Wally tutted at the mirror upon looking at his hair. It lay smooth and deflated on his head, bobby pins scattered across the counter and floor. Where did these batteries come from, and why were they in such a state?
“I’ll, uh. I’ll leave ya to it.”
“Okay.” Wally wiped whatever he coughed up from his mouth. Five minutes later, he descended the stairs.
“Wally, what happened? Are you okay?”
“Of course, Barnaby. Why wouldn’t I be?” His piercing stare turned the question rhetorical.
“Uh. No reason. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”
“Thank you for having me.” He paused, eye caught by the paper shredder. He refocused.
“I'm going home, now. You're the most!"