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yandere-toons · 4 years

Note

Yandere Mark Beaks with a darling who could not give less of a hoot about their social media presence or Waddle Tech. Bonus points if they have no clue who Mark is when they first meet.

Yandere Mark Beaks (Romantic Scenario - "Headliner")

Warnings: abduction, implied death, cyberstalking, violence, alcohol use, blood, toxic mindset.

The sequel can be read here.

A.N. - Wow, I really got into this. Also, buckle up because Mark is about to lose his mind.

A bizarre light invaded your field of view from above, causing you to recoil and raise an arm to shield your eyes. Euphoric and energized screams raged in every direction and reverberated through the area like cymbals as a popular disk jockey spun an electronic dance mix, but your focus drifted to the wobbling overhead stage lighting rig.

The apparatus was drooping heavily on one side with the fibres of numerous wires exposed to the world.

Many of the bolts and cables attaching the lights to the rig had slackened and ripped, resulting in the lights rocking back and forth precariously like church bells. Others remained attached by a single cord or loose nail on the verge of tearing or splitting.

You glanced at the disc jockey and the overhead rig, imagining every possible landing position and judging whether they would be crushed or not when it inevitably detached from the ceiling and collapsed onto the stage. The entertainer was stationed far enough towards the posterior that they would most likely escape with minimal injury, but your fleeting solace was soon torn from your grip like a toddler having their favourite toy stolen.

The person next to you suddenly bumped into your side and broke your concentration, prompting you to peek over your shoulder and gawk upon beholding an African grey parrot crowd surfing to the stage.

He wore a tan fringe vest and sported a bright pair of purple sunglasses, sticking his tongue out in a goofy smile as he held his phone in front of him and snapped multiple pictures. The throng carried him forward and placed him on the front of the stage in a swift diving motion, where he began to prance around and snap photos of himself like he owned the place.

The nearby security guards regarded the tall parrot with distaste but made no move to expel him from the premises.

As the booming tunes swelled and achieved a crescendo, you watched with horror as a wire on the overhead lighting rig finally succumbed to years of excessive use and snapped like a twig. The entire apparatus abruptly dropped several feet before clumsily catching itself, and you glanced at the parrot to see him posing directly underneath the failing equipment.

He slid his colourful sunglasses down his beak and extended his phone towards the ceiling, making a peace sign and smiling from ear to ear.

You frantically looked back and forth between the lighting rig and him, wanting desperately to bellow out a warning but knowing the animated crowd hooting and hollering on every side would drown out your voice like pebbles in a waterfall. Noticing that another cord was on the verge of giving out, you hurriedly began to shove past the rows of people standing between you and the stage.

The parrot showed no signs of moving, merely turning and leaning in various directions for his seemingly endless stream of photos.

You came to a halt at the foot of the stage, hesitant to clamber onto it and potentially cause a scene with the entire security division in full view of thousands of people.

If you screamed bloody murder and attempted to move the parrot but the lighting rig did not fall any further, you would most likely be branded as one of the dime-a-dozen kooks that the festival attracts. No one would heed your warning until the mechanism collapsed and flattened someone like a pancake.

The nagging feeling of being watched prompted you to peek over your shoulder, and you spotted a security guard tracking your movements with a suspicious eye.

They were only a few steps away.

You briefly considered informing them of the imminent threat, but the distrust in their gaze left a foul taste in your mouth. All contemplation was thrown out the window when you heard multiple cables split and rip all at once, followed by the grating screech of the lighting rig detaching from the ceiling and barrelling to the stage below.

The grey parrot paused in his vain photography and slowly looked up, smile faltering and thumb hovering over a large, red button on his phone screen.

The overhead apparatus descended from the ceiling like a hawk, aiming directly for his lanky figure.

The nearest security guard made a mad dash to seize your leg as you scrambled onto the stage, thinking you were an obsessive fan trying to attack him. You were sent careening forward when they swiped your limb out from under you, but you managed to grab a fistful of the parrot's fringe vest and yank him towards you before being jerked backwards.

Gasps erupted in the crowd when you collided with the ground and slammed your back into the dirt, people quickly leaping out of dodge and forming a small clearing around you.

Already disoriented from your pull, the parrot jumped and squealed when the lighting rig crashed into the floor mere inches from him.

Sparks flew from the detritus as the exposed fibres crackled and popped, the birth of fire looming dangerously close to becoming a reality.

Fearful cries reverberated through the crowd when the parrot teetered on the edge of the stage before falling off entirely and landing on top of you, his purple sunglasses banging painfully against your face and bouncing off his head.

As concerned and envious murmurings surrounded you from all sides, the rambunctious music gradually quieted until it ceased completely. Roars of confusion and disapproval echoed from the areas of the throng too distant to be aware of the incident. Many began to encircle the two of you, but multiple security guards rushed to the situation's aid and ordered everyone to stand back.

As they formed a makeshift wall, the guard who had caused your current predicament began to apologize profusely to the grey parrot, who was merely staring at you with wide, yellow eyes.

A smile of wonder and astonishment slowly spread across his face, and he opened his mouth to thank you before suddenly being shoved aside.

You calmly rose to your feet and brushed some muck off your clothes, sparing a glance at your previous spot only to find the parrot sitting there and looking up at you like a child basking in the presence of their hero. "Watch where you take your pictures, bird."

His starry-eyed expression suddenly shifted to shock.

Smile now strained and confused, he raised a finger to correct you, but you spun around and strode in the opposite direction. The parrot hastily called out for you to wait, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him rummaging through his pockets.

A look of terror crossed his face, and he began to scramble across the ground and swipe the grass and dirt with desperation.

You watched him uncertainly for a moment before attempting to reenter the crowd and hit the road.

"Wait, my phone! Did anyone save my phone?!" The parrot scurried to his feet and leapt onto the stage, frantically scouring the debris for the electronic device. Cries of joy soon turned into requests for his saviour to come back as he hopped down and scampered after you.

A security guard noticed you making your escape and had begun to pursue you when he abruptly darted in front of them and extended his phone in your direction. The parrot snapped numerous pictures of the back of your head and held his arm out like a barrier, waving it dismissively at the guard every time they tried to maneuver around him.

While he complained that they would ruin the shot, they finally pushed past him and dove into the throng after you.

Left to marvel at his obscure photos, a smug yet dreamy countenance settled on his image. The parrot crouched and snatched his colourful sunglasses off the ground, shaking them to dispel any dirt before slipping them back on. He turned and began to waltz away to a more private location, a new spring in his step as he dialled his secretary.

* * *

Your phone had not known rest ever since.

Upon returning to Duckburg, every day was marked by a myriad of calls and text messages from an unknown number. You ignored the former and sent a message in return, inquiring about who they were. They never answered the question, acting as if you already knew their identity and were simply joking around.

The texts mostly attempted to make small talk, while the voicemails were predominantly requests to meet up. It was a voice you did not recognize in the slightest, so you eventually ceased to interact with them altogether and blocked them.

Not even an hour had passed before you began receiving messages of a similar nature from another unknown number, and it did not take long for you to conclude that it was the same person. So began the cycle of you blocking them only for another to pick up where the previous one left off in a matter of seconds. It was as if the culprit had all the time in the world and an infinite supply of phones at their disposal.

The messages and voicemails became progressively more desperate and insistent with each block until you ultimately had your number changed.

* * *

"Are they here yet?" Mark Beaks hastily dug the pointed teeth of the pocket comb into his coiffed hair and maneuvered the instrument with precision, curling the ends of his plumage while inspecting his face on the phone's live camera feed. He leaned towards the screen and opened his mouth before tilting his head at various angles and contorting his countenance with random expressions.

Falcon Graves shifted his focus from the bar to his recurring employer, arms stiffly crossed as he regarded the lanky parrot with distaste. "Not yet," he uttered with subdued contempt, raising an eyebrow when Mark tore into a bag of breath mints and popped a few into his mouth with haste.

Noticing the spy's wary stare, the billionaire shot him a careless smile and shrugged. "It's their favourite flavour."

Falcon recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing with revulsion. As the parrot stuffed the remainder of the packet into his pocket and resumed examining himself with a renewed confidence, the corporate saboteur felt a seed of perturbation sprout in his stomach.

Earsplitting music reverberated through the nightclub, beat rebounding off the walls and bouncing in rhythm with the crowd. It was the type of song that made Falcon wish he was deaf and baffled him by how no one in the establishment was banging their head against the wall or attempting to tear their eardrums out. Rows of multicoloured strobe lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the otherwise dark lounge in a series of flashes that left the spy's tired eyes burning.

He felt a mild headache begin to take shape.

The falcon lowered his head with a quiet groan and spared a glance at his employer, mentally noting the billionaire's growing impatience. The pocket comb had long since been discarded in favour of rapidly pressing a number of buttons that threw the corporate saboteur for a loop. Falcon caught a glimpse of a map of Duckburg and a brief email before the phone was shut off, prompting him to turn his head.

Sporting a scowl, Mark muttered about unreliable secretaries and shoved his phone into his pocket with a huff. He peeked over his shoulder at the spy, who was pretending to be eyeing a patron seated at the bar. The parrot watched him with slightly narrowed eyes before abruptly leaping onto his back and following his gaze.

Falcon lurched forward and let out a startled grunt, peering up at his employer with a mix of bewilderment and indignation.

"Did you see them?!" Mark swerved his head back and forth, eyes sweeping across the dance floor with all the eagerness of a child in the toy aisle. As the corporate saboteur lurched in various directions and demanded that he remove himself, the billionaire's smile gradually turned into a frown.

Wide eyes becoming half-lidded, he bent his neck forward to scrutinize the falcon. "Are you sure you didn't just miss them?"

Falcon grasped his forearm and flung him over his shoulder.

Mark belted out a brief yelp as he collided with the floor, back smacking against the wood.

The spy towered over him, meeting his bored and puzzled visage with a glare. "I can assure you," he enunciated, speaking with deadly intensity, "I did not 'just miss them'." The corporate saboteur repeated the parrot's phrasing with a quiet disdain, eyes narrowing to slits.

The billionaire stared at him, limbs splayed and not bothering to stand up. "Are they here now?"

Falcon crossed his arms with a sigh and withdrew his gaze to the bar. He had looked merely to silence his employer's incessant questions, but the sight that met him left his mouth ajar. The falcon's eyes widened for a fleeting moment, spurring Mark to sit up and observe him curiously.

The spy quickly reverted to indifference and shifted to peer in another direction.

An exaggerated groan escaped the parrot as he hung his head back, planting his hands on the floor and propelling himself to his feet. He clutched the front of Falcon's suit, earning a growl from the corporate saboteur. "I can't wait," howled the billionaire like an impudent child.

Eye twitching slightly, the falcon yanked his hands from his outfit and pointed to the bar.

Mark stared up at him with a pitiful frown. "You can have your drinks later, Gravesy. I need you alert for this."

The spy barely repressed an enraged screech and narrowly stopped himself from wringing his employer's neck. Baring his teeth, he gripped the parrot's head and lifted him off the floor.

The moment he was turned to face the bar, the billionaire squealed. His face lit up with euphoria, and he hastily dug through his pocket for his phone.

Falcon plopped him on the ground and watched with displeasure when he stood on his toes and snapped a photo of you.

Mark's yellow eyes darted between the screen and you, ensuring that the picture lined up and captured as much of you as possible.

As he hugged the device to his chest, the corporate saboteur shot him a flabbergasted look. "We came all this way for a picture?"

Sensing the falcon's seething vexation, the parrot waved a hand while staring at his phone with a smile. "Of course not, Gravesy." He wiped away a stray tear, eyes glimmering. "I just want to remember this moment."

The billionaire snuffled and bobbed his shoulders before raising a finger. "And new wallpa-"

Falcon slowly rose an eyebrow.

Mark's unblinking gaze had locked onto a previously unseen detail in the image, adoring smile twisted into a malevolent mockery. His pupils shrunk to the size of pinpricks as his feathers puffed out.

The spy eyed his tech-savvy employer with apprehension, glancing back and forth between the phone and him.

Flashing a sneer, the parrot's eyes narrowed into slits. The hand gripping the phone tightened to the point of quivering, and a look of unadulterated malice settled on his countenance. The billionaire's breathing increased in speed and intensity until he spun around and shoved the device in Falcon's face, pointing out the person who was walking with you and had their arm around your shoulder. "Get rid of them."

The corporate saboteur would have been lying if he had said that he did not feel an inkling of fear at that moment.

Mark's expression was downright murderous.

It was a sight he had never seen before nor was it one he ever expected to, and it left him with a momentary loss for words.

With a slight shake of the head and a straightening of his tie, the falcon exhaled lowly and regained his composure. "As you wish." A tired frown tugged at his sharp beak as he turned in your direction. Falcon had begun to amble towards the bar when a fistful of his suit was snatched and jolted backwards.

The spy grunted and clenched his fists, forced to stoop to be at eye level with his employer.

Mark stood nearly beak-to-beak with him, bright yellow eyes narrowed and brimming with malignant wrath. "No," he breathed, "you're not listening to me, Gravesy." The nickname was uttered more out of necessity than affection. "I said-" he looked the corporate saboteur in the eyes "-get rid of them."

Falcon gawked for a moment before frowning and plucking the parrot's fingers off his uniform, shoving him back. "What do you expect me to do," he questioned with a scoff, tone incredulous. "Kill them on the dance floor?"

The blatant absurdity was meant to dissuade his employer from his homicidal ideation, but the billionaire proceeded to chomp at the bit for him to carry out the suggestion.

A smile broke out across Mark's face as he nodded vigorously and held his fists to his quivering chest like a child receiving a present.

The spy's eyes widened in disbelief before he raised his hackles and angrily proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, "I'm not going to murder someone in full view of a hundred people!"

The parrot stamped his foot and swung his head around in a juvenile show of disapproval before lowering his gaze to the floor, fists shaking with rage. After a moment of panting, he peered up at the falcon in high dudgeon and partially conceded. "Fine, you don't have to do it here."

Feeling a tandem of tension exit his body, Falcon allowed his shoulders to relax and a short breath to escape.

"But," the billionaire added through clenched teeth, "I want them out of my sight by the time I get over there." With that said, he whirled around and began to brush any dust or loose feathers off his clothes. As the corporate saboteur regarded him with aversion, he whipped out the pocket comb only to discard it after one stroke in favour of running his hands through his plumage.

"Why are you still here," snapped Mark, shooting the spy a furious glance from over his shoulder. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of an unnaturally dark grey feather drifting to the floor.

"You hired me on the basis that this was a matter of life and death," recalled the falcon, voice rising with indignant perplexity, "so why are you wasting so much time on beautification?!"

The parrot jerked his hands out of his now fluffed hair and spun around, several tiny feathers hovering near his head and cruising through the air. "Graves, I've spent weeks preparing for this moment, and if anything--one little thing--is out of place, my life is over!"

With a sneer, Falcon crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes in skepticism. "You met this person once-" he raised a finger for emphasis "-for fifteen seconds. I doubt they even remember your name." His voice dropped an octave. "If you told it to them at all."

The billionaire reeled in shock and umbrage, acting as if the corporate saboteur had debased his life's work. "Excuse you," he hissed, turning his beak up and pressing a hand to his chest, "Mark Beaks needs no introduction."

The spy watched with bored incredulity as his employer leaned forward and flashed a haughty smile. "Everyone knows who I am, Gravesy."

Gaze flickering to the dance floor, an unimpressed yet slightly bemused frown rested on the falcon's visage. "Then I suggest you hurry-" he observed the parrot from the corner of his eye "-because they're leaving."

Mark's supercilious attitude shattered in an instant. In its place was a look of pure horror as if he had been informed that McDuck Enterprises had bought Waddle and fired him from his own company effective immediately.

"No, no," shrieked the billionaire, scrambling into the throng of partygoers and shoving aside anyone who made contact.

Shouts of unrest reverberated through the nightclub as multiple people collided with one another or were knocked to the floor.

Sensing the impending catastrophe, Falcon plowed through the crowd like a bull in hot pursuit. The lanky parrot received glares and retorts from the largely resistant partiers, while the hulking falcon was met with looks of fear. A path quickly revealed itself for the latter.

The spy paused in the centre of the throng, spinning on his heels and swivelling his head in every direction. He started several times only to hear Mark's voice in a different section of the crowd. Someone hit the floor behind him, and he whipped around to spot his employer tumbling through a recess.

As a fresh wave of outcries followed him, the billionaire tripped over a partygoer's shoe. He plummeted past the edge of the throng and landed on his stomach, extending an arm and screeching for you to wait.

Coming to a halt in front of the entrance, you cast a suspicious glance over your shoulder.

Mark's countenance was instantly illuminated by joy and relief, but his prior malevolence resurfaced the moment the person from the photo strolled up to you from behind with a smile.

They asked if something was wrong while handing you a small, plastic cup, to which you responded with a shake of the head and turned to open the door.

Heart palpitating and heat rising to his face, the parrot leapt to his feet and had begun to dash forward when he was yanked backwards and hoisted into the air by his hood.

"Attack them now, and your career is over." The falcon's tone was frigid, any patience long exhausted.

After a moment of struggling and frantic whines, the parrot froze as you exited the building with the photobomber in tow. He watched with wide, pleading eyes before slumping once the two of you disappeared.

"That was my last chance," he muttered, face crumpling with despair.

Falcon groaned and pinched the end of his hooked beak. "Would you stop with the theatrics? Just find them again tomorrow."

The billionaire's head snapped around. "They're moving to Cape Suzette tomorrow, don't you get it?!"

Chest heaving and fists clenched, Mark fixed the corporate saboteur with a malicious glare. "I had one shot," he shouted desperately, voice cracking towards the end. It tapered off and fell to a deadly whisper as he looked at the entrance with a quiet vengeance. "But that commoner-" he spat the term with such a degree of animosity that the spy retracted his arm slightly "-they've ruined everything."

The parrot pressed his palms against his face, head drooping as his fingers curled around his plumage and ran down the sides of his head. He hung limply in the falcon's grip, swaying like a corpse in the wind. Falcon regarded his employer with a stern, callous expression but could not deny the twinge of pity in his gut. He mentally cursed himself for stooping so low as to feel even a hint of sympathy for such an unrepentant selfish and arrogant sham of a person.

With a sigh, the spy released him and stepped back, crossing his arms.

The billionaire landed with a plop but made no move to celebrate his freedom, merely staring at the floor with an introspective frown.

Silence reigned between the two of them for longer than the corporate saboteur was comfortable with, and he opened his mouth to voice his thoughts before Mark cut him off.

"I had it all planned out, Gravesy." The parrot cooed wistfully and wrapped his arms around himself, a smile creeping onto his face. It felt empty somehow as if the happiness meant to accompany it had been stripped away, and only a shell remained. "Our reunion. The friendship that came with it. Then," he breathed, cheeks flushing, "more."

Mouth twitching open, he began to rock back and forth on his heels as numerous fantasies swirled within his psyche. "They'd realize we were meant to be, and it would all be so perfect."

Falcon stared at him in nonplussed disgust, gaping while his mind reeled in an attempt to form an adequate response.

"But that's all gone now," the billionaire lamented, arms falling to his sides and ecstasy sinking into the depths of his resentment. "Because you stopped me." He whirled his head around, the fury from earlier making its grand return. "Why did you stop me?!"

The falcon snarled and lunged forward, looming over his employer with a wrathful scowl. "Don't think I didn't notice how you were looking at their friend. If I had let you go, we would both be in handcuffs."

Mark clenched his fists and gritted his beak before turning away and lifting a hand to the side of his face. "I wasn't going to do anything," he huffed, shooting the spy a look of disappointment, "that was supposed to be your job."

Eyes widening at the audacity before narrowing in simmering indignance, the corporate saboteur stomped forward and whispered in a tone of barely suppressed rage, "Do not place the blame on me." His voice abruptly evolved into a roar, garnering a flinch from the parrot. "I'm not the one who spent weeks stalking someone I hardly even know just to wait until the last possible second to speak with them!"

The billionaire gawked, momentarily rendered speechless. A rare look of humiliation crossed his face before promptly being replaced by a desperate need to defend himself. "I wanted to talk to them! I was going to on several occasions, but whenever I get near them, I just-" he paused, arms extended in front of him and trembling violently "-can't think."

Mark lowered his limbs with a frustrated sigh, and as his throat began to well up with another whine, Falcon bellowed out a howl of displeasure.

"That's it! I can't take one more moment of this pathetic display!" He seized his employer by the front of his hoodie and jerked him forward, only an inch or two separating their beaks. "We're going out there and ending this. Now." The falcon marched to the entrance and through the door, undeterred by the parrot's questions about his destination and intentions.

Mark began squirming when the dark recesses of the parking lot came into view. The area was littered with a number of vehicles, but the owners were all inside partying. The reign of the moon had frightened away most pedestrians.

* * *

"Is something wrong with our ride?" You trotted to your friend with a curious countenance, having disposed of their cup in the nearby dumpster. They stood next to a stout, round car with a glistening white paint job that almost glowed in the night. A rich blue 'W' was proudly displayed on the side of the vehicle.

You took one look at it before slowly turning your head to frown upon your friend's idea of transportation. "What is this?"

They chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of their head, glancing at the automobile with a confusing mix of exhilaration and embarrassment written across their slightly inebriated face. "I can't seem to find my keys and don't really trust myself to drive right now anyway, so I hired a robot."

Eyebrows furrowing, you stared at them in discontent. "You could have just asked me to drive, and your keys are probably on the bar."

When your friend merely glanced between the car and you with a dumbfounded expression as if the two concepts were entirely foreign to them, you sighed and turned to head back into the nightclub.

"Tell the-" you hesitated to say the word, finding the notion of a mechanical motorist ridiculous "-robot to go home. I'll see if the bartender found your keys."

You had only taken a single step when your friend clutched your arm and clumsily pulled you closer to the vehicle. "Wait, wait! I know you don't like this sort of thing, but I wanted to treat you."

Frown softening, you glanced at the luminous, compact automobile with uncertainty but allowed them to continue.

"I've been saving money to buy a B.U.D.D.Y. ticket ever since you told me you were leaving. They're crazy expensive, but their inventor, Mark Beaks--you know, the guy who owns Waddle--, finally did a promo for them, and-" Your friend trailed off, noticing your look of utter disinterest.

"It-It doesn't matter," they conceded, waving their hands and shaking their head before slumping in shame. "Look, it's your last night in Duckburg. You shouldn't have to spend it nursing me through another hangover. Just get in and go wherever you want. It's on me."

You gazed at them in surprise and mild confoundment for a moment before asking, "What about you?"

They laughed and began strolling to the entrance of the lounge, walking backwards as they playfully retorted, "I do have other friends, you know."

Spinning around with a chuckle, they paused when a hulking falcon emerged with a lanky African grey parrot tucked under his arm.

The former immediately zeroed in on your friend with deadly precision, while the latter's wide, frantic eyes darted back and forth between every nook and cranny like a pair of metallic balls in a pinball machine.

If it were not for the alcohol in their system, your friend would have been intimidated by the falcon's threatening stare. Instead, they simply blinked and lowered their gaze to the parrot, a look of awe soon spreading across their face. "Mark Beaks?! What are the odds? I was just talking about you!"

On any other day, such a statement would have inspired the utmost pride in the billionaire. Coming from them, it aroused nothing but hostility.

Your friend's astonishment wavered when the parrot's bright, yellow eyes locked with theirs and shot them a look of pure hatred. He opened his mouth to deface them but a groan sounded from above, and he suddenly found himself sailing through the air and faceplanting in a rain puddle.

"Pardon me, but I believe I found something of yours at the bar." The falcon's voice was smooth, and your friend quickly nodded.

"That would be my car keys."

The large bird placed a hand on the entrance and held it open slightly, music blaring and strobe lights peeking through the crack to illuminate a sliver of the asphalt. "I suggest you retrieve them with haste." He cast a disapproving glance at the parrot, who was sending a glare in return while lifting his damp form out of the water. "Unfortunately, we cater to more than our fair share of dishonest types."

As the two of them reentered the nightclub, with the falcon placing a hand on your friend's back and guiding them inside, you peered down at the billionaire rising to his knees before you.

As he angrily ran his hands down his clothes, checking to see if his phone was broken and muttering a myriad of insults, he felt someone grip his forearm and pull him to his feet.

"Sorry about him. The bouncers here aren't the most forgiving."

Mark looked up only to be paralyzed on the spot. Butterflies fluttered in his throat and constricted his airway as he broke into a cold sweat, the quivering in his limbs growing more intense with every second of sustained eye contact.

"Still, tossing a big shot like you into a puddle? He must be new." You flashed an amused smile and released him, stepping back and turning around to examine the stout, white vehicle your friend had gifted you a ride with.

"Hi," the parrot whispered, but his voice came out so shaky and strangled that it was easily carried away by a gentle breeze.

"Say, this is one of yours, right?" You whirled around to face him, pointing a thumb over your shoulder at the automobile only to recoil in fright a second later.

Mark had inched closer and was now hovering directly in front of you, wide eyes gleaming with disquieting mirth. "I can tell you don't remember me, and that hurts so much. But I'll give you a refresher. I don't mind."

You tried to retreat but felt the cold metal of the car press against your back all too soon.

"Remember Crowchella? You saved me. Sure, I was wearing a vest and sunglasses--those broke in the fall by the way--, but it was me."

As the billionaire followed and never allowed more than a couple of inches to come between the two of you, a plan formulated within your mind.

"Think about it. No one else was going to do anything. They hadn't even noticed! But you, you risked everything--your life, your image, your reputation--all for me! Suffice to say, I knew right then that we were made for each other."

Thinking fast, you tapped the window of the vehicle, and it immediately began descending to reveal a predominately grey and white robot at the wheel.

The machine had a cylindrical torso and a head that resembled a computer monitor. A green smiley face decorated the otherwise black screen, which spun around to face the two of you. "Please enter the vehicle and state your destination," the mechanical driver instructed with a chipper tone, earning a gasp of delight from Mark.

His gaze left yours for what felt like the first time in hours, and an immeasurable amount of weight was lifted from your shoulders. "You're using a B.U.D.D.Y.?!" He ditched his mission to continually invade your personal space in favour of rushing to his creation and planting his hands on the windowsill, a childish gaiety evident in his movements.

You had begun to creep back towards the nightclub when he turned and looked at you expectantly, spurring you to pause and throw out a response to delay his suspicion. "Actually, my friend bought the ticket. They're just letting me borrow it."

His smile faltered momentarily, whether it was from the mention of your friend or your apparent lack of enthusiasm for his invention you were uncertain, but the answer was not something you wanted to stick around for.

The parrot faced the robot and reached inside the car, pressing various buttons on the dashboard. "There's a lot of cool tricks you can make it do that most people don't know about. I can show you how to use them." He straightened and glanced between the smiling machine and you. "Here's an easy one. B.U.D.D.Y., compliment me."

The screen swivelled towards him. "That's a nice grey cardigan, Mr. Beaks." It displayed a picture of the apparel and his face to accompany its words.

The billionaire grinned. "I used that one on a crowd once. They loved it. Now, you try it."

The entrance to the lounge was only a few well-timed strides away, but you had no knowledge of this bird's physical capabilities. Judging solely by appearances, you would assume that he had little athletic prowess, but as you were currently learning, it was best to not place all your bets on a first impression. For now, it was time to play the waiting game.

You did as he asked, but the mechanical motorist remained silent, not moving its head or making any indication that it heard you at all.

Mark's patience began to crumble like a fragile, ancient tower. "Say it again. Louder this time."

Still nothing.

"Maybe you're not close enough." He marched forward to stand behind you and placed his hands on your shoulders, effectively pushing you towards the automobile.

You hesitantly repeated the command for the second time, and when silence greeted you yet again, the parrot stamped his foot and growled in frustration.

He made a beeline for the window and demanded that his creation answer you, but its screen merely flashed a question mark.

You spun on your heels and raised a leg in the direction of the nightclub but froze when your phone was snatched.

"Here's the problem! This isn't the Waddle phone," the billionaire announced, euphoric that the issue was not with his invention. Sporting a thinly veiled grimace, you slowly turned to see him holding your phone in the air with a triumphant grin.

His newfound elation gradually shifted to a mix of realization, disappointment, and sorrow as he slowly lowered the device. "Do you not like my inventions?"

Your indifference to Waddle at large did not stem from any vendetta or past trauma. It was simply a company that capitalized on and was rooted in social media, something you never bothered to spare a second thought about in the first place.

"Do you not like my company?"

Society's ever-growing obsession with media platforms never made a lick of sense, so you always ignored the portion of the world that fixated on it.

"Do you not like me?"

The truth was on the tip of your tongue, but there was a high probability that honesty would spell your demise. "I'm not a big fan of social networking." It was not an outright lie because while you picked up on Mark's gushing ego, you knew he was no fool. There was far too much evidence to the contrary for him to buy anything less than a watered-down version of reality.

Even with your attempt to soften the inevitable blow, the billionaire reflected a twisted, broken heart rebuilt with all the vigour but none of the sympathy. "You don't? That's fine." He sniffed and raised his head, looking you in the eyes with an unnerving smile. "I can fix that."

You kneed him in the gut and whirled around, sprinting to the entrance of the lounge.

He fell to his knees and clutched his abdomen, shouting, "B.U.D.D.Y., initiate plan B!"

The stout vehicle's engine roared to life, and the glare of headlights illuminated you and the door in an instant as if the machine had been waiting with its finger on the trigger. "For your safety, please remain still and wait to enter the backseat." The robot's voice was as chipper as always as it floored the gas pedal and barreled towards your figure.

When the light became blinding and the roar of the motor reached your heels, you dove forward and hid your head under your arms. Instead of the crushing sensation of tires and a mass of metal running over your bones and squishing your skull like a ball full of air, you were met with the grating sound of the automobile screeching to a halt. Waves of heat rolled off the engine and swirled around you.

The moment you uncovered your head, your arms were seized by an ironclad grip and yanked upwards.

"It's getting late, so we'll stay at my place tonight. Tomorrow, I'll take you by the offices and show you-" The billionaire was rattling off his plans with glee only to cut himself off with a yelp when you headbutted him. He staggered backwards, dropping you and gawking with shock and betrayal written across his face.

"Why would you do that," he cried, pressing a hand against his now slightly bleeding forehead.

You paid him no mind and scurried to your feet.

He tackled you after one step, opting to hug you in a desperate attempt to weigh you down. "I'll give you everything! Anything you've ever wanted, it's yours! If I can't, I'll-I'll steal it from someone who can!"

The parrot whimpered each time you kicked him and continued to plead but knew you were reaching the end of your energy reserves.

As your movements became progressively more sluggish and erratic, he stood up and proceeded to drag you towards the nearest backseat.

He was reaching for the door handle when the entrance to the nightclub burst open, and your friend strolled out with the falcon from earlier in tow. The former held a drink in one hand and their car keys in the other, while the latter sported a visage of boredom and irritation.

The hulking bird's eyes widened with disbelief, and he slapped a hand against his face.

Your friend was speechless at first but hastily collected their thoughts and yelled for Mark to release you, the sobering situation combating their intoxication.

The parrot stared at them with an expression that said he wanted to put them six feet under himself, but you jolted forward in a sudden surge of adrenaline that nearly thrust him off his feet. The fresh umbrage stemming from narrowly avoiding making a fool of himself was enough to compel him to shriek, "How many times do I have to tell you to kill them, Graves?! Do it! Now!"

The falcon immediately grasped your friend by the throat and planted a hand over their mouth, lifting them off the ground and disappearing behind the dumpster.

"Stop fighting me! We were made for each other, can't you see?!" His voice was hysterical, feral even.

You howled in objection and continued to flail your limbs as the billionaire opened the car door and struggled to force you into the seat.

He shushed you repeatedly and started to speak to you as if you were a child throwing a tantrum, smiling and responding to your scathing insults with a sly, "I don't think you mean that."

He received a swift kick to the chest for that, one that sent him tumbling back a foot or two from the automobile.

You attempted to leap to safety but multiple seatbelts shot out from every crevice the car possessed and pinned you to the seat, tightening to the point where all you could do was move your eyes and breathe. It was akin to an episode of sleep paralysis, except you never woke up. If you tried to speak, the seatbelt lying across your neck would strangle you for a second before slacking.

"Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times." The mechanical motorist was watching you from the driver's seat, screen swivelled around at an almost one-hundred and eighty-degree angle and displaying its usual green smiley face.

Something about its blank stare, devoid of any life, made the pit of your stomach drop.

While one side of you wanted to dismiss it as nothing more than a mindless automaton adhering to a script it had no genuine control over, another whispered that the machine before you knew exactly what it was doing and was revelling in it.

Mark hopped in and plopped himself next to you, and the robot instantly faced the road. It started the engine and began the trek presumably to the billionaire's home.

You peered at the parrot in the corner of your eye, noticing that he was concealing his face with his hands. Catching glimpses of the many scrapes and abrasions you had endowed him with, you figured he was ashamed of having his beauty tarnished.

That is until he spoke.

"Home hasn't felt like home in a long time, but you're making it better already." He lowered his quivering hands and glanced at you with flushed cheeks and a dreamy expression. Slipping a slender arm through the seatbelts and looping it around your neck as best he could, Mark pulled out his phone and leaned towards you to take a picture.

"Commemorative reunion selfie!" He made a peace sign and smiled from ear to ear, while you could only widen and narrow your eyes in silent protest. As he returned to his original position and began typing away on the device, he gasped and shot you a bright smile as if struck by genius. "We can tell people we got into a fight protecting each other!"

You were striving with all your might to tune out his voice, but the billionaire's next words were deafening.

He gazed at the new photo and let out a blissful sigh. "I can't wait for the wedding."

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

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viralhottopics · 8 years

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Viola Davis: Im pretty fabulous

Her extraordinary performance in the upcoming Fences has seen Viola Davis tipped for an Oscar. But her success has taken a huge amount of self-belief. She tells Alex Clark why it is only through demanding respect that you get the parts you are due

Its the run-up to Christmas and everybody in Los Angeles, which to a Brit feels unseasonably sun-drenched, is bemoaning the chilly weather; as we settle down in the Beverly Hills hotel, Viola Davis draws a warm jacket around her shoulders. Not that shes complaining: throughout our conversation, she is determinedly upbeat, celebratory, optimistic. She radiates a sense of excitement and satisfaction that, at 51, all the hard work is really beginning to pay off.

Five years ago, when Davis was playing the role of the maid Aibileen in The Help, for which she was nominated for an Academy Award, she told me that, as a dark-skinned actress in Hollywood, she had done what it was at my hand to do, even if that didnt give her as much scope for her talents and energies as she would have liked. Ive had to sink my teeth into a role that was probably a fried-chicken dinner and make it into a filet mignon.

Now, with film roles coming out of her ears, the lead in the TV drama How To Get Away with Murder and her own production company, she is opposite Denzel Washington in the film adaptation of August Wilsons Pulitzer prize-winning play Fences. (After our meeting, she begins 2017 by winning a Golden Globe for her performance, saying in her acceptance speech that the film Doesnt scream moneymaker, but it does scream art and it does scream heart.) Surely the role of Rose Maxson is a filet mignon.

She bursts out laughing. This is absolutely a filet mignon a medium-well filet mignon. And Davis clearly relishes every bite: her performance as a wife and mother in 1950s Pittsburgh, struggling at every turn to hold her family together, to absorb the rage and disappointment of her husband Troy and to protect her sons innocence and ambition, is electrifying so involving that it invokes an almost physical response. We watch as Rose is beguiled and charmed by the charismatic, storytelling Troy, unable to chide him for his excesses without dissolving into mirth, and as she seeks to intercede on others behalves to limit the damage his temper and pride cause. It takes almost the whole film, however, for Rose to voice her own feelings and desires.

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That was the role of womanhood in the 50s, says Davis. You were an instrument for everyone elses joy except for your own. The 50s in America had the highest rate of alcoholism and depression. There were whole manuals out there that were being passed out about how to make your husband happy put on make-up when he walks through the door, after a long day of work, dont weigh him down with any of your problems, ask him about his problems, greet him with a smile, make sure the children are fed and theyre clean, his favourite meal is on the table, and nowhere in that manual is anything about her joy, and the centre of her happiness.

She has been here before, and with Washington; they are reprising the roles they played in the 2010 Broadway revival of the play, for which they both won Tony awards; and they are rejoined by Russell Hornsby and Mykelti Williamson as Troys son and brother respectively. Part of Wilsons 10-play Century Cycle, in which the playwright chronicled the experiences of African Americans decade by decade, Fences transition on to the big screen has taken so long because its author, who died in 2005, insisted that its director be black a simple demand revealingly hard to accomplish in Hollywood.

Now, Washington himself directs, and his key artistic choice is apparent the moment the film begins: he has preserved the works theatrical origins, with nearly all the action taking place in a confined domestic space, and dialogue ranging from quick-fire ensemble scenes to extended soliloquies. The effect is disconcerting we rarely see such unfiltered staginess on film but always riveting; there is not an inch of slack, a word wasted.

Davis herself has two show-stopping speeches, in which she first rails at life and at last attempts to make her peace with it. What was different about playing Rose this time around? She replies that she had been sitting with this narrative for so long and never quite got the ending until I did the movie. And I keep saying to myself that the reason I didnt get the end is because she is at a place that probably most of us as human beings never get to, and that is a place of forgiveness and grace. I think that most of us spend a lifetime holding on to the past, even when we feel like were letting go a bit.

Maid in Hollywood: a scene from The Help with Viola Davis as Aibileen Clark, and Bryce Dallas Howard and Ahna O Reilly. Photograph: Dale Robinette/DreamWorks

She holds close to the advice of psychiatrist Irvin D Yalom that one must give up all hope of a better past. Davis herself grew up in extreme poverty; she has spoken powerfully about the series of makeshift dwellings she, her parents and five siblings occupied in Rhode Island, about hunger and lack of sanitation, about her fathers violent abuse of her mother. The letting go seems to take two distinct but related forms: allowing herself to feel good about what she has achieved, and building platforms that will help broaden the possibilities for a new generation of actors, writers and directors of colour.

She cites her delight at seeing Shonda Rhimes, the producer behind Greys Anatomy, Scandal and How To Get Away with Murder, accepting a Norman Lear achievement award in Television last year. She said: I happily accept this award because I deserve it. I LOVE IT. Absolutely love it. Its the waking up and understanding that OK, you may not be the best person out there, but youve put in enough work to understand that you deserve what youve got, that that is what is at the end of hard work. The happily ever after comes after youve done the work. And to literally understand, especially as a woman, that a closed mouth doesnt get fed, youve got to ask for what you want and expect to get it.

I remark that its noticeable how often women play down their successes; how they will even deflect minor compliments on appearance. Why does she think that happens? I think tapping into ones power and ones potential is a very frightening thing, she replies. And for women its a very new thing. It is. I always used to feel that self-deprecation was an answer to humility that people would see me as a humble person the more I put myself down. And people do say that: Oh! I ran into so-and-so and they kept saying, Oh, my work in this really sucked, and they were great! I just thought it was so refreshing that they said that! And I often think to myself, what if someone says, You know what, Im confident, Im really happy about the work I did. I really felt like I gave it my best and it came out great, the same way men do. Why is that not seen as humble?

Motherhood has given me a different telescope to look at life: with husband Julius Tennon. Photograph: Tibrina Hobson/Getty Images

Her increasing ability to feel comfortable with her achievements is linked to an awareness of her emerging position as a figure of influence. The more Im pushed in a position of leadership and I know I have to be the mouthpiece for so many other people who cant speak for themselves, the more confidence Im gaining. And that extends to the way she views her own past and the more she shares her story. She explains: I can hear myself say, Oh yeah, I took the bus five hours just to get to the theatre, then took it five hours back, and Im listening to that, Im being an objective observer, and thinking to myself I did that? Its like looking at an old picture of yourself when you felt like you looked bad, and you go, Wow, I was fabulous! Thats how I feel about my life now that Im looking back at it, and Im like, Im pretty fabulous. I really am. Im pretty fabulous.

Back in 2011, when we talked about Daviss commitment largely via JuVee, the production company she founded with her husband, Julius Tennon to addressing the limited opportunities afforded people of colour by the entertainment industry, she expressed her hope we wouldnt be having the same conversation in five years time. Naturally, because challenging entrenched privilege takes time, we are, but it has shifted ground. Davis herself is scheduled to play the part of Harriet Tubman, who liberated slaves in the Civil War era, and to star in Steve McQueens Widows, a revisiting of Lynda LaPlantes TV series co-scripted by Gone Girls Gillian Flynn. Its not even a role that would be necessarily written for an African American, but not according to him. Hes like: Why not?

Davis brings up The Help, and says that although she loved making the film, she understands the criticisms levelled at it that women of colour were once again placed in the role of maids, and not portrayed as tapping into their anger as much as they could have. Tapping into all the things they could have been other than the maid. Partly, she thinks, that relates to the image of the black maid as a nurturer, a second mother, so that even within the movie, there are certain things that are not going to be explored, if it somehow messes up the memory of what the audience had, that perfect mother. She couldnt be angry. She couldnt be sexualised. Shes gotta stay that image that brings us comfort and joy knowing that we were loved and nothing more than that.

Davis loves the riposte to that one-dimensional figure provided by the character of Annalise Keating, the firecracker law professor, ambitious, potent and flawed, that she plays in How To Get Away with Murder. Its blowing the lid off everything that people say we should be, especially as a dark-skinned woman, that you cant be sexual, you cant be unlikable, you can be angry but with no vulnerability, you cant be damaged, you cant be smart. It blows the lid off all of it. And even if its not executed all the time in ways that people like, it doesnt matter. What matters is that shes out there. Thats it. Shes out there, shes on screen, shes making an impact.

In the 1950s women were an instrument for everyone elses joy except their own: Viola Davis with Denzel Washington in a scene from Fences. Photograph: David Lee/AP

Another fundamental has changed in the past five years; in 2011, she and Tennon adopted a baby, Genesis, who is even as we speak frolicking in a nearby hotel room. When Davis and I are done, her babysitters release the six-year-old to bound along the corridor and leap into her mothers arms, asking whether she can go and buy a swimming costume in the hotel boutique and head for the pool. Her mother observes that in such a luxurious joint, its a purchase that could easily come to a couple of hundred dollars, but concedes that theyll work something out (you imagine somebody might be despatched to Gap).

Davis combines motherhood which she says has changed her utterly, and given her a different telescope through which to see life with work by clever stratagems and good planning; often taking Genesis with her, only making one film a year, having a TV shooting schedule that allows her days off and free weekends. She claims to live by two mantras Im tired, and Im doing the best I can but she doesnt look remotely weary. And things might be about to get a whole lot busier. She was the first African American to win the outstanding lead actress in a drama series Emmy award for her role as Annalise Keating; alongside numerous other awards, she has hitherto been nominated for two Oscars for The Help and Doubt. But now her role as Rose Maxson is being spoken about as a cert for nomination and a very strong contender to win her an Academy Award come February. Has she allowed herself to think about it? She pauses, laughs, parries.

You know what I know about that? Because I dont know if thats going to happen or not. But what I will say about this is, and this is how I keep my perspective, whatever happens, Ive gotta go back to work. The carpets are going to be rolled up, the people are going to stop calling like that, and Ive gotta go back to work. And you cant bring that Oscar on a set, and that Oscar cant do the work for you. You gotta do it. Thats what Ill say.

Fences is released on 10 February