//------------------------------// // Looney Toons. // Story: My Little Blueblood // by Chuckward //------------------------------// It's been about two weeks and this thing already knows how to speak basic sentences. I considered getting his voice box cut out, but I'm not a surgeon, and I don't want a team of doctors to know I'm harboring this thing. I'm sitting in my lounge room, channel surfing on my Jumbo-Tron with Blueblood sitting on the floor, cleaning his hooves, getting his saliva on the cloud carpet. Yeah, that's right. A carpet made out of clouds. If you wanna know how much it cost, it's more than all your family have ever made in their poor lives, but only a week's pay for me. I'm rich, if you didn't already know. I stop briefly on a children's channel playing some obnoxious cartoon and see if I can stay on it for ten seconds without vomiting. Nope. After throwing away a vomit-filled solid gold bucket, I look up and see Blueblood fully focused and staring at the screen still playing the cartoon, his two dimensional face in awe of this garbage. His face turns to a pout when I pick up the sapphire-encrusted remote (Worthless, but still damn pretty) and continue on my hunt for a decent show. "Change it back" His whiny voice hurts my ears. "No, this show sucks." I continue flipping. Hopefully National Treasure is on tonight. I can show this marshmallow brat true acting. "Yes." "No." "Yes." "No." "Yes." "Yes." "No. I mea-" "Ha, tricked you." He may be a talking animal, but he still isn't that bright. I feel a sharp pain in my arm and I turn to see the offender, who is none other than Blueblood. That bastard is biting me again! I swing my arm, trying to flick him off, but he just bites down harder. "Geroff!" "Mot unbil yew hange et beck!" He mumbles, still biting. His grip loosens as I punch him on the nose. Before he can even start wailing, I grab some diamond-encrusted duct tape, tape his muzzle shut and stuff him inbetween the couch cushions. "Nicolas, I heard screaming, what's going on?" My maid, Donald Trump walks down the platinum spiral staircase. "Oh yeah, I'm working on my scream, in case I need to scream in my next movie." I lie, stepping in front of the moving lump in the couch. "Huh. Well, I gotta go home. See you tomorrow." He says before heading out the door. I pull Blueblood out from between the couch cushions and remove the duct tape from his muzzle. He isn't crying anymore, it's not like I punched him hard anyway(I'm not a monster, well I was, but even then I was the good guy) so it makes sense. Honestly, I'm much more worried about my hand. As I've mentioned before, Blueblood is two-dimensional, so I got a wicked papercut. I look at the long, thin cut that goes across my fingers. Wow! It goes all the way across now, my little guy is growing up. I don't especially care how big he is though, as it only means I have more problems. Anyway, I'm shooting a movie in six weeks, so I'll have to get Donald and Oprah to watch him. I look at Blueblood, then at my diamond encrusted, holographic watch. Uh oh, it's 9:30, I suppose I should put him to bed. "Come on kiddo," I get up,"It's time for bed." I turn to him to see that he's already sound asleep. You know what? He's almost cute when he isn't talking or looking at me. Maybe I can get used to him. I pick Blueblood up, gently carrying him to his mansion/bedroom. It's dark, and I have to feel my way to his bed. I don't want to turn on the lights, lest I wake him, and suffer the wrath of his screeching. I stub my toe on the platinum cadenza, the pain is overwhelmingly excruciating. Why is it that an enormous gash pales in comparison to a stubbed toe or a muscle cramp as far as pain is concerned? Oh well, at least it isn't as bad as getting kicked in the balls. That's like taking a sledgehammer to the waist. Reaching his bed, I gently place Blueblood down upon it. He sighs softly in his sleep, shitting a bit as he gets comfortable. I slowly creep out of his room, it's time for me to go to bed as well.