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Luck of the Duck

"Better an ounce of luck than a pound of gold." - Yiddish Proverb.

Scrooge McDuck, ever the opportunist, pulled out an oversize telescope as he sat amongst his riches. As an unspoken ruler, of sorts, and definite economic leader of Duckburg, Mr. McDuck felt it a wise policy every so often to observe the on goings of the town and its citizens. To disconnect from such a reality, he feared, would lead to a gradual yet irreversible decline of his fortunes.

Putting an eye to the telescope and slipping its end out a small lone window carved humbly from the monolithic concrete walls of the McDuck money bin, Scrooge began his acquisitive venture. First he began with the bank - as he always did. Finding nothing askew there (The sight of a beagle boy here and there concealed poorly in the bushes was no call for alarm. As of late their plans had become imaginatively lacking and - ah there! A guard had taken notice and took chase by waving a baton threateningly behind them.) he turned his attention otherwise to the citizens strolling through town and the general air of purpose they exuded. The park came next to his concern where he found Huey, Duey, and Louie flying matching color-coded kites under the guidance of Donald. It appeared however that they were less in need of guidance than their uncle as his own kite struggled to produce a flutter. Scrooge, heartened to see his three young nephews about in the fresh air yet exasperated by his older nephew’s absolute incompetence, nevertheless turned his attention upon the other residents of the park. Who else did he find than none other than Duckburg’s greatest oaf: Gladstone?

Swiveling his attention once again to Donald and the boys, Scrooge huffed irritably and pontificated aloud as he witnessed Donald’s losing battle against the elements in a piteously valiant effort to lift his kite above ground level, “If only Donald had even a tiny sliver of Gladstone’s luck he could make something of himself. Not that Gladstone ever uses his luck for anything other than reading those darn comic books in the park” Scrooge studied intently as the kite finally gave up its struggles. In its final death throes it dove sharply down to blunder straight atop Donald’s head and send him tumbling to the ground in a bundle. Scrooge shuddered, “Or perhaps even Gladstone’s luck cannae save that walking wreck.”

Unbeknownst to the illustrious McDuck however, he was not the only one spying upon the denizens of Duckburg. In a cloud of black fog his image distorted; encased within the glassy orb of a waxed crystal ball. The face of Magica De Spell wavered upon its surface as she cackled, “Oh Scroogey. You think you are so crafty but I am being the sneaky one here! Tonight I will take your lucky dime and melt it in Mt. Vesuvius. Then I will be most powerful duck in all of world! But now,” she clutched the crystal bull ans she leaned in deep, “now I will watch...and listen.”

And just that she did.

Scrooge continued to contemplate aloud, “Oh if only I had a bit of that luck now.” he abandoned his telescopic gizmo to sift his way over to his number one dime. Cradling the glass case that sheltered it with great tenderness, he sighed acutely, “Even with you business hasn’t really been booming,” he stumbled over himself as he hastily added, “not that I don’t appreciate everything. It’s just that...” he sighed once more.

Magica pondered this. If what she just saw was true - and how could it not? Scrooge had no idea he was being watched - then perhaps there was a force in the world luckier and more powerful than Scrooge’s own dime! Impossible! Yet how could she overlook it? She must see for herself; if only to quell such notions of absurdity.

The image in her magical artifice wavered, contorted; stretching alarmingly before it relaxed once more into another scene. Here before her lay the projection of Gladstone who still seemed absorbed in his (not-so) literary reading. He then absentmindedly discarded his comic book and stared longingly at his gut. A pained expression crossed his features - an obvious indication of hunger. Without a sign of provocation the wind picked up at that most convenient moment and PLUNK! An apple fell into his outstretched hand as he yawned lazily. Amused, but without the slightest hint of surprise or that things should have turned out otherwise, Gladstone began exuberantly working his way through the fruit as he resumed his eating.

This was all it took to convince Magica wholly of what she had just seen. Had she not heard Scrooge himself err longingly for this power and had she not just witnessed the uncannily fortuitous good luck for herself? No, this, is what she had been looking for! Scrooge’s luck (and that of his dime) seemed to be running out just as Magica’s - with the finding of Gladstone’s - ran thick. But with the appearance now of power through a live vessel, she was faced with the problem of how to harness such a thing. If she were to use this “Gladstone” then how would she melt him down in the bowls of Vesuvius and affix him to her amulet? She might try to convince him to go willingly along with her plans but home was already starting to feel too crowded and she felt far too busy at present to start spring cleaning. Not that it ever felt like spring around here; the constant cloud of smog and rain of ash kept that from happening too often.

It doesn’t matter. She concluded. I will be figuring out way when time comes. And with that a pother of windless fog broiled around her. A neat twirl of her wand and she was gone.

Gladstone was in the process of leaving the Duckburg General Store, finding it difficult with the unruly amount of boxes, knick-knacks, thingamabobs, withchamacallits, and whezadoodles, gibbously protruding in his grasp, “Lucky for me the place had to give away all these free things! Who would have thought that I would be the first one to walk in and get all the overflow? It’s about midday!” He announced to no one in particular, an undeservedly proud smile upon his beak, “But -, ” he began irritably, “they didn’t even think of a way for me to carry all of this! How inconsiderate some folks can be. That’s funny...I thought the forecast was for sunny skies today.”

Unperturbed, he watched (from behind the shadow of towering goods) as a thicket of fog arose from the blue. Nestled within the haze a figure lay or, perhaps, just a trick of the eyes?

“I have found you! Oh how happy I am!”

Bored, Gladstone continued to stare as a figure did indeed procure from the rapidly dissipating smaze. He quickly perked up though as he realized what must have obviously been the reason for this oddly out of place woman’s sudden appearance, “And I am just as glad! Here!” he dumped the contents of his hands upon her being and began walking ahead.

“What are you doing!” Magica stamped one heeled foot, her face flushing in anger.

Gladstone stopped and turned on one heel. A look of surprise - quite uncharacteristic of himself - shot his features, “That’s why you’re here, right? To carry my things.”

“What!?” Magica fumed, dropping the bags immediately.

Now he expressed only a look of annoyance, “I just said that I wished I didn’t have to carry around all of these things and then you appeared. So obviously you’re here to carry my things.”

“I will be doing none of this,” Magica whisked out her wand in defiance, “but you will be coming with me!”

“Yes,” Gladstone shook his head happily, believing he had gained the upper hand as usual, “I will be - wait, what?”

Magica grasped him by the arm with more than a little hint of acerbity. Gladstone, mildly affronted, nevertheless retained a look of barely contained apathy; sure of the fact that as long as he remained Gladstone Gander - the luckiest duck in all of Duckburg - nothing could go wrong. The fog returned and with a brilliant display of light (Magica indulged herself in the show - she did have an audience) they were off.

High above the park, above the reverie of air-borne kites (and one not-quite-so), above the bustle of the town and its people, Scrooge McDuck stood once again at his infallible post. His eye glued to the telescope, a glum smile cracked his features as his brow creased in thought. It was a wonderfully beautiful, peaceful day in Duckburg. And that was precisely what bothered him. It was the thought of some sort of ominous happening and the cloud of mystery he had so recently observed that served to sour his mood. He suspected something or more accurately someone lay behind this. For now, however, he would wait and watch.

“This is definitely not my lucky day.” Gladstone complained openly as the cotton haze in front of his eyes pulled apart to reveal a sinister looking lair.

“I would not be complaining,” Magica tightened her grip upon his limb, “you are being swept off feet by beautiful woman.”

Gladstone took one look at her figure, blanching silently. He seemed ready to contest with her last point but decided better against it to take umbrage with another annoyance instead, “yes, but now my plans for the day are positively ruined.”

Magica released her hold to involve herself with the knick-knacks of the room. Pouring over a large, weathered book that appeared to detail magical intricacies, she began tossing objects of a suspect device into a large black cauldron. They were neatly labeled inside jars atop a creaky wooden shelf. She paused momentarily to smirk, “What plans?”

“Well, I was thinking of catching up on All My Ducklings.”

“Ha!” Magica laughed - still busying herself with the contents of the book and pot, “you will be doing now such thing now! I am keeping you here until I can figure out how to melt you in Mt. Vesuvius. But that is being more difficult than I thought.”

“Melted?” Gladstone gulped, “This most certainly is notlucky day.” He slumped forward and seemed about ready to give up; never having had to face such an idea before he didn’t know quite what else to do, “Oh!” his face suddenly regained its original austere glow, “I guess my luck really hasn’t run out.” With invalidated pride and self-assurance he picked up a shiny dime - no less - from the floor.

Magica, at first sour, smiled deviously as she came to realization. For if his luck kept up, so would hers. However she realized then too that Gladstone Gander was no lucky dime and if she wanted a moment’s piece, she could not keep him up here to run his mouth off. This little problem would have to be taken care of and she had just the idea, “Come!” she commanded, tearing away from her fervent study.

Gladstone didn’t budge.

“What are you doing?” The frustration returning to her voice.

He responded simply, “If I had to go that way, I’m sure something would come along to do that for me.”

“But all you need to do is move yourself!”

“I could...,” he considered the possibility, appearing to languish over the very thought.

“Then I will be making you do it!” Magica barreled over near tearing her hair out in frustration. Positioning herself behind him, she forcibly pushed him in the direction of an ominously dark hallway.

Click! The key turned in its oversize lock before being carefully removed by the slender fingers of the black sorceress, “You are staying here,” she explained, “until I figure out what I am doing with you.”

Gladstone stood primly about - the conditions of his barred cell spartan enough that there remained no provision of seats - cheerily commenting, “Cozy.”

“You are not feeling upset?” Magica felt only inquisitive now that she was assured the upper hand.

“Of course not!” he laughed, “if I ever need to get out, I’m sure it’ll happen.”

“Well...,” Magica contemplated upon such logic, “I will make sure that it will not be happening.” Caught between her desire to once again witness the mysterious Gander luck and her desire to keep Gladstone locked up, she nonetheless turned to retreat down the corridor and attend to pressing duties.

Gladstone observed her disappearance before, quite unsure of what to do with himself, pulling a silk handkerchief from within a hidden compartment nestled in his jacket. He bawled in a most piteous fashion, “Why me? Why Gladstone Gander? Why,” he pitched his chest out and tossed an arm out in front of his eyes dramatically, “why couldn’t it have been Donald?” He dabbed his eyes at the very injustice of it all.

All this soon ceased however when a new problem arose. He held his stomach as it growled in its protests, “I could use a turkey sandwich about now. With cheese, tomatoes and lettuce on warm bread. Mayonnaise,” he salivated, “peppers and onions...” His comments made no immediate effect however, “I said, I sure could use a turkey sandwich right about now.” Dismayed, he took the effort to push against the bars and put most of his most concentrated thought into wishing her were on the other side, “Oh,” his lamentations forcing him physically down, slumping pathetically upon the cell door, “it’d be a one in a million chance if I were to ever get out of here.”

The door creaked and with one final sigh - relented upon the duck’s weight, “Hmm,” Gladstone lost all pretense of misery, “lucky me! Oh great, wonderful, lucky me!”

Yet he found himself not so lucky when he was forced to find the kitchen and with no indication of where it might be. He was not even sure if there was a at all. But didn’t that witch keep a large pot boiling where she had first dropped him off? Surely she could share a bit of whatever it was she may be brewing in there.

The first stone floor piece that took his weight sunk down upon it. Gladstone found this occurrence odd but chalked it off to the poor quality and taste of the place’s design. However he was most mistaken and it was due to this error in judgement that there came a WHOOSH! Rushing behind him of which he most naturally took no notice of.

It had been a flurry of arrows - a trap set by Magica de Spell and sprung by his own ignorance. It was his luck, however, that caused it to bounce harmlessly off the stone wall.

But this wasn’t the only one. In fact, the farther he walked the more he ran into. Defiant, ignorant, or perhaps both; he traversed the rest of the way down setting off a multitude of traps. All of which, as luck would have it, missed him soundly.

“Craw! Prisoner’s escaped!” Ratface stammered, whirling about Magica’s head in a flurry.

“What!?”

“I said,” he now perched atop a skull laden with melted wax. The contents of which dribbled forth from its orifices, “the prisoner’s - CRAW! - escaped!.”

“I heard what you said,” Magica swatted at the silly thing, “I am just not believing it!”

But of course that was a lie. She would have been disappointed had he not escaped. What harm could cause anyway? He was here, right? And as long as he was here he couldn’t leave no matter how many prisons he escaped. Even his luck didn’t run deep enough to cross the even deeper depths of the encircling ocean.

At least it couldn’t have, right?

“Hello!” Gladstone Gander had made his way up behind her and was now leaning over her shoulder to get a better view of the cauldron’s contents, “What have you got here? I hope its my favorite; chicken soup!”

“What are you doing?!” Magica fussed him off his perch.

“Hmm...,” he leaned in closer towards the cauldron to test the aroma, “Uch!” he gagged, “You could use some pepper in that.”

“I will be doing no such thing!” Magica felt herself longing for the familiar disturbances of Scrooge McDuck. Certainly she could deal with that - not these nincompoop!

“Oh sure you can,” he continued on unperturbed. Surprisingly proactive, he nonetheless was driven more by the knot in his stomach than any wish to help, “I’ll show you. It’s easy!”

Eyeballs plucked from the skull of a ragnagorak, newt’s toes, hair from the back of a manticore, and many other an unidentifiable object arced into the broiling pot with a hiss, jostled from their glass abode on the shelf. Gladstone never was one to dabble in the art of cooking - there had been no need before. So it was with a self-assured smile born completely from ignorance that he tossed the ingredients in, “Just a bit of this and some of that. We’ll throw a bit of spice in there for flavor and...”

Magica stammered as he dangled on particularly grotesque artifice above the mixture, “N-No! You fool! Don’t-”

“VIOLA!” And down it went.

“You idiot - you stupid beast! You - ”

BOOM!

Magica’s face, blackened and windswept from the explosion, contorted horribly and managed to turn several shades of red despite the soot.

“You don’t look too swell.” Gladstone pointed out the utter obvious. However his aloof and still pointedly removed manner made it apparent that he found this to be a profound insight.

The sorceress’ mood spoiled further as she quaked in fury. Then as if a switch had been pulled she calmed, returning to a normal color (which at this point remained a pasty grey) and - if one were to listen close enough - emitted a soft pop! as internal gears unwound. With a gentle smile that hinted all too well at devious intentions, she calmly took his one hand, “Come. I am going and you are being taken with me.” It was clear there was no room for argument.

Gladstone Gander however, felt he could make some, “You mean after lunch, right?”

She said not a word but began the incantations necessary for magical transportation. It was unclear whether or not this was in some small part due to the Gander luck; for surely if he were to have even a small taste of the vile concoction, he would be quite unable to be going anywhere.

“Sure is hot in here,” Gladstone pulled on his collar indicating just how much of an understatement his words were.

“It will be getting much hotter for you soon.” Magica’s mood had improved significantly since they had left the lair and she even managed to indulge in an evil witch-like cackle.

Gladstone didn’t pick up on the clue and failing with that direction of conversation, opted for a more tried and true subject for small talk, “Weather doesn’t seem too good. Looks like it will rain,” he procured a sharp blue umbrella that complemented smartly with his appearance, “Huh...that’s funny.”

“What is so funny?” Magica inquired irritably as she was currently engrossed in fussing with a large elaborate amulet.

“It can’t rain. That would be unlucky.” He held out his hand as if testing the air and opened his umbrella to weather the elements.

Magica ignored this comment and continued to study the amulet. It was this artifice that compelled her to offer this foul sacrifice. With it she hoped to become the most powerful duck in all the cosmos! But its potential was limited only by its function as solely a vessel; she herself had to find a force strong enough to power the darned things. And as luck would have it - after the many countless attempts at the McDuck fortune - she now held that power. But could she be wrong in this method? Sure, with a dime it was easy enough. To take its power all she had to do was remove the outer shell. The answer remained simple enough: melt it down and harness the energy. But would the same work for a live vessel? The remains would be...messy, at best.

Gladstone peered over the edge quite unperturbed by the cacophony of the burning liquid. The fire bubbled and belched grotesquely; slapping eagerly against the stone walls of its prison. Leaning to on side dangerously close to the edge, arms crossed, he remarked aloud, “So how does this thing work?”

She slunk close beside him. With one quick glance a subtle look of disgust overtook Gladstone’s face. A look of cruel delight came upon Magica’s in return, “Well...,” she conferred once more with her book, “like this!”

With a push and a whoosh he fell.

Gravity pulling him down, Gladstone’s countenance tested as it was, refused molestation, “This certainly doesn’t look good,” he remarked. His fortunes however, were to soon begin looking up as a harsh wind picked up and the storm that had remained nonexistent only moments before fueled the rolling gust’s fury, “Oh!” Amused, but not showing a hint of surprise, Gladstone rode the gale to its fullest - umbrella engorged as it pulled him up and away from certain doom. Gladstone alighted upon the rim of the bubbling volcano as the wind died down conveniently to make his landing a wholly gentle one.

Where Magica had just recently thrown herself into a victorious gloat, her jeers were replaced now with gurgles harsh and halting.

Gladstone pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe away the sweat that had begun to appear upon his brow, “My! Well, wouldn’t you say that lucky.”

Yes, she would. But she would not entertain him with such concessions, “Drat it! You are being too lucky! How am I supposed to be making amulet work now?”

“Amulet?” He peered around seemingly unfazed by his would be murderer’s attempt upon his life, “What amulet?”

“This one!” She held it aloft.

“Let me see that,” he grabbed a hold of it and appeared very interested by its design. He studied intensely upon the instrument’s construction and then neatly tossed it behind himself; on an air of casualty, “It’s a hunk of junk is why.”

Panicked, Magica ran swiftly towards the physical manifestation of her one sole drive in life. To see it tossed so casually away like that: no, she stroked the thing gently and cradled it within her arms. Nothing was broken, at the very least. Except perhaps her patience with that arrogant duck. This amulet may not have much use as a magical artifice but it certainly did in other ways.

Wielding it like a bludgeon above her head, she began to stalk Gladstone as he was making himself busy staring apathetically ahead. Green light shone around her as she neared. Not now. She thought. What? Green light!

Again she cradled the stone as it began to shine brightly. Raindrops - small and beaded - fell upon its cold surface as the light intensified. Gladstone fussed with his umbrella as the storm brewed and Magica - the shine in her eyes tandem with the torrent swirling wildly in the gem.

A/N: Hmm, reading over this again, I noticed that my ending is quite a bit like one of Commander30's stories (All of which you should really check out). I apologize for the similarity - it just feels organic to the story flow. I would like to point out, though, that in most of my stories I have some sort of reference to cooking poorly. I've also been told that some appreciate Gladstone's one-minded desire for lunch. I'll admit - he's not an easy character to write for. He's, how best to put this, flat? I believe even Carl Barks admitted that there wasn't too much you could do with such a singularly-focused and self absorbed character. But, oh well, I'll try.

Also, I apologize for any misspellings - I believe I typed this up in what? two hours? For me, that's quick. I did read over it however, but I'm not sure I caught just everything.

And before I leave; I am thinking of adding more to this story. I don't feel as if this idea' has quite gone out of my head yet. However because I thought that this would just be a one-shot (as are all of my other previous stories - although Thee Caballeros at least for now still stands as my longest one), I'm really going to be shooting in the dark here. You know, it's probably best to plan all of this stuff out beforehand. But what'chya going to do?