Buu-da-bump, buu-da-bump, buu-da-bump, buu-da-bump, buu-da-bump.

The sound of the van’s wheels striking the evenly-spaced cracks in the road was a familiar paean to the white-clad asylum attendants. They had driven along this road many times, and in their profession, they were used to hearing far worse. The screaming and cursing, whispered threats and sinister statements; and of course, repetitive muttering. This stretch of the highway didn’t last long. It was recent work, and already finished.

But today, it couldn’t end fast enough.

Because almost as soon as the sound started, the prisoner had begun to speak.

“Shut-up now.”

And not just once.

“Shut-up now, shut-up now, shut-up now.”

His words came in time with the pulse of the tires.

“Shut-up now, shut-up now, shut-up now, shut-up now, shut-up now.”

With nothing more being said.

As soon as they were past this place, he would stop. They knew that. When the pavement was clear for a few seconds back there, he had cut off. But as soon as it started up again, so did he.

The attendant in the passenger seat glanced back unwillingly. He knew what he would see.

That screwy-looking eye staring at him, while the other one focused fixedly on the wall in front of it.

He turned back about. No sense asking it to stop. They had both been doing this for long enough to realize that wouldn’t work. As if this maniac would just look at them and say, “Sorry, is this bothering you? I’m sorry, I’ll just stop now. Sorry again.”

Instead what he did was turn to his cohort behind the wheel, and spoke.

“Can you go a little faster please?”

The driver complied without question.

Beneath them, the tempo of rubber against asphalt cracks increased.

Bu-da-bump bu-da-bump bu-da-bump, bu-da-bump.

“Shut-up-now shut-up-now shut-up-now shut-up-now.”

“All of them!” Frankie hissed. “Throw them all in the incinerator! There can’t be a single paddle-ball in this entire house!”

Yogi Boo-Boo complied, hauling the heavy heap of hum-drum hand-toys down the hall.

The morally-burdened caretaker of Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends quickly returned to peering over the diminutive shoulder of Jackie Khones. “Okay, show me what you’ve got.”

Her accomplice looked up, blinking his single eye miserably. “Why am I the one who has to do this?”

“Because aside from Bloo, you had the worst penmanship in the house!” she snapped back. “Now hurry up with that, my Grandma can’t keep Mac occupied with family albums forever!”

“I just think this is revolting,” Jackie asserted in his deep baritone.

“Look me in the eye and ask me if I care!” the angry redhead pressed a clenched fist against her throbbing temple. “Would you rather go down there and tell that sweet little kid the truth?!”

The popsicle-stick Cyclops winced, then nodded his head forlornly. She knew that would get him. If you could count on one thing from imaginary friends, it was their innate concern for little children.

Well, most of them. And Mac was certainly the type of kid whom it was easy to care about.

“All right then. Concentrate! Try to think as idiotic and selfish and inconsiderate as you can!”

With a sigh, Khones once again wrapped his arms around the blue crayon almost as tall as he was, and began to drag himself across the paper.

“Heard…about…World’s…Biggest…Chocolate…Paddleball…in…Africa.” he grunted across the page. “Going…to…break…world… record…with…it… then… eat… it…Taking…Wilt…to…carry…my…stuff…for…me…Tell… Mac… to… tape… my… favorite…show…See… you… later… Signed… The… Great… Blooregard.”

“PERFECT!” Frankie exulted. “Now I want you to do it exactly the same, only this time, misspell every word.”

“AW C’MON!” The crayon was flung to the desk. “Mac saw Wilt being carted out of here! Do you really think he’s gonna fall for this? How stupid do you think that boy is?”

She drew away and assumed a grim-faced posture, arms crossed over her chest. “Judging by the intelligence of the friends he imagined, pretty stupid. But even if we know for a fact that isn’t true, it’s not about how smart Mac is. It’s about how willing he is to believe Bloo would do something this dumb!”

A weary sigh came from the green toothpick, and he retrieved his writing implement.

“Deur…Fawstrs…fur-ends…Dew…nawt…luke…four…mi…”

One glance at her watch told Frankie that time was running out for them. But so far, everything was proceeding according to plan. The whole house had been sworn to secrecy, even the Scribbles, and all trace of Bloo would soon be wiped away. Now all they needed was for nothing else to go wrong and…

“F-Frankie?”

Glancing down, the anxious red-head felt her stomach twist into knots at the sight of Fluffer Nutter’s big glistening eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, hoping against hope that it was nothing but dreading to hear it either way.

“Th-th-the k-k-k-kitchen…”

“What about it? Are you done cleaning? Did Mac see anything?!”

Frankie felt like she was going to start hyperventilating any second from the strain of this gruesome affair. Or just from imagining how things could possibly get any worse. Everything from judicial inquiries to copycats had already passed through her brain.

But instead, the trembling pink squirrel looked up at her, and said, “We…we f-found a…a pot… on the… on the s-s-s-stove.”

The architect of this elaborate cover-up gazed bemusedly at her cohort, trying not to imagine where this was leading.

“So what?”

Trembling, Fluffer wrung her tiny paws, casting timid looks over her shoulder. “You see… No one else… has been in there… to c-c-c-cook… since… since it happened. And C-c-c-creaky P-P-Pete… he swears he saw W… Wi… you-know-who carrying that pot… downstairs… before the… before IT h-h-h-happened.”

A shiver went through Frankie’s frame.

“Did you look inside it?”

A shake of the head told her no. She then blew out her breath, causing her bangs to flap. At last Frankie knelt and placed a reassuring hand on the frazzled little creature’s shoulder.

“Okay. I’ll look into this. Stay here and wait for me to come back. Help Jackie with his work while you’re at it. You’re good at that, right?”

A miserable nod of confirmation from the cuddly rodent, and the faintest hint of that cheerful, tender smile they all knew. Then their legal guardian stood and exited the room, calling out over her shoulder, “And make sure you spell his name wrong, too!”

“OH, MAN, NOW YOU TELL ME!”

She left the close-knit pair to their work, and proceeded into the unknown.

A weird silence hung in the halls of Foster’s. Only from the private room of a certain loathsome and Cubist excuse for an imaginary friend could there be heard the tell-tale sounds of a wild party that most agreed was in very poor taste. Several pairs of eyes peeked timidly from scarcely-opened doors, and Frankie tried to put on a brave and reassuring face for all of them.

The only people she passed in the halls were those few entrusted with actively pursuing her plot. For once, there were no imperious calls bellowed over the intercom demanding her attention to this or that overblown faux-pas. But strangely, Frankie found herself wishing there would be. Against her unrecognized hopes, however, in what seemed no time at all she found herself at the entrance to the house kitchen.

There was a small knot of friends assigned to the cleaning crew farther down the hall. They did not draw any closer, only waived eagerly when she came into view. Their savior favored them with a confident smile, and then stepped into the scene of their nightmares.

Were she not well-informed, Frankie would have found nothing untoward within this culinary cul-de-sac. The place was actually spotless for a change. Not a single bit of dust or scrap of food to be seen on any surface. You could eat off those floors, she thought with a weird sense of pride.

But it didn’t take long for that surreal appreciation to be dispelled.

Across the room, she could see it.

On top of the stove.

A large black pot with a lid.

She swallowed against the lump of fear rising in her throat, to find that her mouth had gone dry. Idly the girl wondered if there was anything handy she could use to wet her whistle at that moment.

Frankie froze.

Off to the side, by the sink, there was resting a freshly scrubbed, sanitized, and heat-seared glass pitcher.

For some reason the young woman forgot all about quenching her thirst, and without further ado, proceeded to approach the stove.

The heat was turned on for one of the burners. She could see that now. Steam rose in faint wisps from around the lid, and there was a peculiar odor in the air, mixed with the smell of something burning slightly.

Frankie drew closer. Her imagination seemed to be working overdrive right now. What could this unremarkable kitchen utensil possibly contain? Was it something that had occurred before or after Wilt snapped? And did she really want to know either way? Before such thoughts could drive her to distraction, the determined soul resolved not to let these worries have the last say in this matter. Everybody was counting on her to get them through this. And with that, the normally law-abiding citizen reached out and turned off the stove.

The little red light blinked out.

She stood there then, looking at the simple black iron bowl.

Frankie Foster took a deep breath.

And grasping the handle of the lid, she pulled it off.

A cloud of steam arose, and she waved it away, dispersing the temporary obstruction to her vision.

With pounding heart, the steely-nerved heroine looked into the pot.

And what she saw there was…

Goop.

A thick, vanilla custard-looking goop, bubbling and spitting away.

Nothing more.

Frankie felt her pounding pulse start to subside, just a tad.

Maybe Wilt had whipped up some dessert prior to his murderous episode. But still, in consideration of its provenance, there was absolutely no way anyone in this house was going to come near it. Of that, she was most definitely certain.

Having decided this, Foster’s multi-purpose maid picked up the pot by its long handle, and carried it over to the sink. Turning on the water, she then flipped the switch for the garbage disposal. The grinding noise came on, like music to her ears, and she slowly tipped the sludgy contents of the pot down into the drain.

The first big glob of goo fell in, and immediately, there came a horribly loud grating noise, like someone had shoved a spoon down in there. Frantically Frankie dropped the pot on the counter with a clatter, lunging to turn off the machine before it could damage itself.

She stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily. What could have caused that? Against her better judgment, the daring redhead rolled up her sleeve and reached down into the hole.

Her fingers encountered something small and hard. More than one, actually. Withdrawing them, Frankie held her palm under the water, allowing the flow to reveal to her what it was she held.

For a moment they looked to be two big tic-tacs. As more was uncovered, however, it slowly dawned on her just what they really were.

Teeth.

Square, jagged white teeth.

At the exact moment this revelation was made, there came a ‘blooping’ sound from the pot.

Frankie turned her head without thinking.

There was something floating on the surface now.

She looked at it.

And it looked right back at her.

It was an eye.

A big round eye, with a little red dot for a pupil.

The blood in her veins turned to ice. The teeth fell back into the sink.

Frankie Foster then drew breath and screamed.

“WIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLT!”

_________________

Finally they passed onto the old road, to be greeted by a smooth uninterrupted ride.

At the same time, the mumbling behind them stopped.

Both men breathed a sigh of relief.

They continued on for a few more minutes.

Then in the back of the van, the prisoner spoke.

And giggled.

Each exchanged a quick questioning glance. But no more came from the padded confines of their vehicle for the rest of the trip.

The driver felt himself starting to sweat all over again. Without taking his gaze from the road, he asked his fellow, “Did you catch that?”

Stock still in the passenger seat, the other occupant darted a swift glance backward, then quickly averted his eye from the sight of the wonky one.

“I’m… not sure. It almost sounded like…”

“What?” the visibly disturbed driver demanded, knuckles showing white on the wheel.

His coworker’s brow creased in a puzzled frown.

“ ‘Cheese Fondue’.”