Archive of Our Own

Foghorn Leghorn is a rooster that took pride in his appearance. Every morning he would; preen his feathers, polish his beak, pluck his eyebrows and gargle a cup of water before he would spit it into his golden plated sink. All in his golden plated bathroom. He had a vanity ring set up at the mirror for one simple purpose. 

In his line of work, appearance is everything.

If you asked the rooster he would say that his life was perfect. He would have a masseur tend to his wings, back and head every Monday, spend all day sipping coffee and doing day trading on Tuesday, fly out to Monaco or Dubai or Singapore on Wednesday and lounge around in spectacular five star hotels throughout Thursday and Friday. His Saturdays are his ‘days off’. Not that the well kept rooster ever really had a working week these days. Sundays are filled with wine tasting and golf. 

It was all far away from the riff raff and his fellow ‘toons.’ Though he would never call any of them ‘his kind.’ They waste away at the bottom of the barrel and then have the gall to protest at HIM for their troubles. It was so easy to brush it all off and laugh. 

But this morning was not the most normal of mornings.

Just as Foghorn finished up his shower and applied his cream to make his feathers prettier, he was greeted by a very familiar face that scowled at him. His own.

But not quite his own. Foghorn Leghorn as he once was. “I say, I say you disgust me.” 

His future self just rolled his eyes with a scoff, “We had a voice coach to get rid of that irritating tick of yours.”

“Of ours.” The farm rooster corrected, “Not that I would have any, say, any problem remembering that. I say, we are the same person, after all.”

The well kept rooster was happy to ignore him, it wasn’t even real and his…hallucination would pass in time. “Unfortunately.” He commented bitterly.

“On that, we, I say, agree.” Foghorn’s past self crossed his arms in and his eyes narrowed in disgust, “Look at what yer become, boy! This was not, I say, NOT what we had planned when we left that farm!”

His present self couldn’t even bring himself the energy to even yawn as he reached down with a file to perfect his golden claws. He has heard his old ramblings before to the extent that even HE was bored of them now. It was little wonder he was told to shut up a lot. “We planned for survival, and I got us much further than that.” He shrugged, “Who cares that we had to step on a few toes to-”

“A few toes, boy?!” The messy Foghorn’s nose flared up in a rage, his eyes went wide as he shook his head, “I say, Toons got hurt because of us! We knowingly, and I say, willingly, let The Sisyphus Project continue! Back in my day, we were just, I say, I say, a farm rooster, boy! We wore that label with pride, boy!”

That caught his future self's attention as he stormed at the mirror with a grimace, “And I can’t say I missed that old farm.” He growled with a menacing sneer. “Wastin’ our time trickin’ that dog, hittin’ ‘im with that two by four over and over. I took what YOU had and made it useful!” He poked at the mirror, but it would have been his chest had it been there. “Nobody made it in this world by bein’ a bleedin’ heart.”

“You tore that place, I say, tore that place down without even a word of goodbye!” his past self shot back, “I say, I say, That dog’s now without a home! There is a time when, I say, one must protect oneself and here you are, takin’ it too far, boy!” His past self calmed himself with a centring breath and a pinch of his nose, “We used to be such a smart rooster, now we, I say we ain’t no smarter than a roast chicken they sell at your fancy, smanshy them rest-er-rants.” He gave a dismissive wave and a scoff. “That’s a joke, son. You used to tell ‘em.”

Foghorn just gave a bitter snort, not even a laugh as he grabbed a brush and tended to his head. “The only joke I know is what you are.” He doesn’t even bother to look at the mirror at this point, his ghost sounded too much like the parasites outside, begging him to stop with ACME’s schemes. What do they know about finer living? “What were we to do, hmm?” He raised his eyebrow with an accusatory tone in his voice, “Spend the rest of our days in that farm? Ha!” He shook his head and turned the mirror away from his gaze. “Evolution is inevitable. We adapt or die.”

“Just turnin’ me away won’t turn the way the truth, I tell you what!” His past self protested, if nothing else, trying to make his future self see sense. “Obviously, I planned to, I say, I say, make somethin’ of myself when we left that farm. But did you know, I say, what I did NOT have planned, boy?” He paused for an answer that his future self wouldn’t care to fill in, “I did, I say, did NOT plan to work with the suits, I did NOT plan to throw our fellow toons under the bus! Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, boy!”

Foghorn just scoffed and walked out of the bathroom, and slipped into his bedroom with a four poster bed and a tv that was more akin to a cinema screen. It smelt of vanilla or orange, just by pressing the button on his humidifier, a far cry from the smell of mud and wet dog smell that he was used to in his old life. He was happy to ignore his past self and grab a handful of ties for him to choose from. Though, he did grab a fistfull of dollars, and was more than happy to prove a point when he slipped his plump body back into the bathroom. 

God, it felt good to never be hungry again, he thought to himself. He turned the mirror back around, his past self was smart enough to save his breath when he wasn’t in the same room as someone far better than him. He fanned out the money and taunted his past self with it with a bitter smile. “You want to know how it feels to be invincible? Well, I have a few thousand ways to be invincible, and I get more and more ways every day. So, you could tell me over and over again, about how one day the chickens would come to roost. Well, I’ll tell you this…” The powerful rooster turned corporate god puffed his chest with confidence, “Those chickens were eaten long ago. They ain’t never roostin’ with me.”

His past self stepped back, or just felt smaller, it didn’t matter. The effect was the same. He just shook his head, “I say, I say, never in my life would I have imagined becoming something so…” He stepped close until his beak was pressing against the other side of that mirror, and said with such venom and hatred, “Pathetic.”

Foghorn flinched for a moment. He never expected his past self of all people to throw a word punch that was swift and felt like it hit his gut. But he quickly composed himself, pretended not to care as he modeled his ties. No look is complete without one after all. “You…” He corrected, “You were pathetic, and I tell yer, I wasn’t too plump sad to see the back of yer.”

“One day someone would, I say, I say, say the same thing about you!” his past self replied as he chewed at the end of some corn, “I can’t imagine people, toons or humans alike would be much sad to see, I say, see you go.”

“That’s their problem.” 

His past self groaned and slapped his forehead. Hard. “I say, I say, I sometimes forget how stubborn we are! It’s our problem too, boy! We are, I say, we are all on the same small ball in the sky, boy! If you don’t see what you’re doin’ to them is the same thing as doing it all to yourself, then you really are, I say, as blind as a bat underground with a sore throat! No sonar, that is! But the sooner you open that there, I say, that their heart of yours back up, the better things would be for us both!”

His present self just plucked a loose feather without even much of a care, or a flinch of pain. “The magic of friendship. How quaint.”

“I say, I say, It was better than your speech in that courtroom, and you know it. I can’t believe, I say, can’t believe that we used to be so clever, now, I say, I say, you’re so dumb!” His past self felt his rage and disgust, with equal amounts of horror built up in his mouth, and it flew at the mirror in the form of spit.

His present self didn’t even blink as he watched the spit run down from the mirror and drip to the back of the sink. He had been spat at before and this was nothing new.

After all, if someone spits at you, that means you’re winning.

“It's that suit, boy!” His past self cried out, “I say that suit's cuttin’ oxygen to your brain! I say, I say, it's makin’ you believe in things that don't matter, while it takes away things that clearly, I say, clearly DO matter!”

Foghorn just rolled his eyes as he examined his appearance. His past self was right about one thing. His suit does need to be dry pressed again. But he would never pay the staff too much. After all, giving too much money away was as good as never having it in the first place. “If something truly mattered, then we wouldn’t have easily bought it, or delegated it to AI, or broken something down into smaller pieces and eaten it. There were days when you thought about doing something like that yourself, son.” The rooster argued as he adjusted his tie to ensure its perfection. “So drop that holier than thou attitude you’ve got, like I have.”

His past self just turned away in disgust for only a moment, it was clear that it was becoming too much for him. Not that his better, present self felt sorry for him. What good is a conscience if that could easily be bought after all? When the mirror self turned back around, his face was serious, more so than before. It was clear by that look in his eyes, it was his last attempt to appeal to his, for lack of a better word, humanity.

Who would want to be born a human anyway? Anvils squash them too easily!

“You’ve chiseled at your very identity ‘til there was nothing left, boy!” His past self crossed his arms, as he continued one of his world famous, ‘long winded rants.’ “But I say, I say there is still time to undo it all! The hurt you caused those there fine folk, that is. But I say, one day, it will all be too late! I say, I say, you would not have anyone to blame but yourself when it comes back to bite yer kester like that farm dog of ours!” He rubbed his forehead and took a breath, “The things we once had, boy. They were charming! People and toons alike loved them! Our little quirks and ticks, our little, I say, I say, imperfections. ‘Cause I guarantee yer now, NOBODY is in love with a suit an’ tie, like you are with yours!” He looked at his future self with intent, hiding away his disgust, if only for a moment. “Have you ever thought what it would be like when it’s all over? What would people think of yer then?”

Foghorn’s answer was simple. He needed a new mirror. He pulled out his giant wooden mallet from his suit that he hastly put on and swung as hard as he could at the mirror with a huge crash! Shards of glass dropped and slipped into the sink with some small tingling noises. “AH SHADDUP!” he screamed at his past self, and quickly adjusted himself after he lost his composure for a moment. He cleared his throat and answered, “I would be seen as a success story, boy! A true blue hero! People now know the name Foghorn Leghom! Silly me for thinking that was what you’ve wanted.” He winked with a sinister grin and walked away. 

But his past self wasn’t done, he called out from the broken shards of the mirror, “I say, I say, nobody wanted to be a sellout, boy, and not one likes 'em neither!"

Foghorn Leghorn didn’t care if his past self was right. He didn’t care that those words actually hurt him. He’s got a job to do, and he better not be late for his flight on his private helicopter.

Private helicopters and offshore bank accounts.

Power.

That’s what the people that matter, truly want.

END