Chapter Text
Mr. Cody’s kitchen looked like a chicken coop. Sawdust and wood covered the floor, not that you see any of the dank tile underneath. In the center of the room resided a nest, about the size where it would be comfortable for a large cat. The cabinets were not all there. It looked like a family of termites had a plentiful feast, but had to rush out after an overexcited sweaty boy got his hands on a magnifying glass. What was left of the cabinets was hanging, dilapidated, and threatening to fall. The pantry doors were wide open, revealing a torn apart scene with spices, rice, and other dried goods dumped out haphazardly on the shelves and floor, as if a decidedly unmannered hog had had its way. The only missing good was a container of toothpicks, which at this point had been thoroughly consumed and digested.
But yet, this crime scene only had one agent of chaos. It was not an insect, nor a mammal, nor a bird. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure what he was. There were two things he knew for certain, 1) his name was Warmbo and 2) he was having an existential crisis. It’s all Mr. Cody’s fault, really. “The holiday special will be fun” he said, “It is your name day” he said. The fact that it had been his special day was really irrelevant now; Mr. Cody had infected him with a thought that refused to leave.
It lingered in his mind, no matter what he did. And when he did try to think about it, well, Mr. Cody definitely won’t be making dinner anytime soon. He called him a puppet. Apparently he had a hand in him. It felt so viciously wrong, but in the core of his being he knew it to be true. He was a walking contradiction, a flesh-boned monster, an abo-
“Warmbo! I beg of thee, what the actual fuck?” Mr. Cody shouted at him and oh boy he seemed mad. All the telltale signs were there: his tie was more askew than usual, his hair was fluffed in a way that made him seem like an emotionally constipated kitten, and he was really starting to resemble a cherry version of Violet Beauregard.
“Well Mr. Cody,” Warmbo’s high pitched voice rang across the room. “After you revealed the truth of my oh so feeble existence to me, I’ve been filled with a millennial-esque existential dread,” his arms flailed around him. “And drinking your piss and attempting to French with Ms. Katie really isn’t cutting it anymore!”
“Wow, that’s just incredibly horrific. But I don’t see what that has to do with my nonexistent kitchen, you little pervert.” Mr. Cody replied.
Warmbo shot him a hurt look, how was he not getting it? “I have a gaping hole in me that only wood can satisfy!” He enunciated each syllable, to make sure he was understood despite his typically shrill voice. This was a very serious matter.
“Oh my god, You’re a little pervert and you don’t even realize it! Jesus Christ” –he put his head in his hands–”You know what, you little sad sack of balls you, this has turned into an intervention.”
Warmbo looked at him with apprehension. He had heard of “interventions” but only in terms of drugs and alcohol. Who needed drugs when you were high on life and the fear of your inevitable demise. He also didn’t drink. Well he drank piss. And also Swiss Miss. But as far as he was concerned those were booze free.
Despite Warmbo’s shift in demeanor, Mr. Cody plowed on: “I’m going to give it to you straight. I have given you everything you have ever needed.”
(Warmbo was going to bring up the distinct lack of warm, warm, delicious piss but this didn’t seem like the time)
“I made you star. I gave you a litter box. I have given you a steady diet of expired moon pies. And do you know how I am repaid?” He growled, “With a disappointment of a puppet. You ruin everything I give you and you have ruined me.”
Warmbo, for all of his undetermined years of existence, wasn’t prone to many different emotions. He felt them occasionally. But being around a man baby of a person for as long as he could remember really stunted his emotional growth. This crisis of his really opened up a floodgate of feelings. But during his entire crisis, he hadn’t once cried. He had screamed, oh he had screamed; desperate for some kind of emotional release that never came. He would lay on the floor for hours, surrounded by the destruction he caused, and ponder what the purpose of it all was. But this was the thing that tipped him over.
A single tear fell from his eye, sliding down his cheek, leaving a glittering streak in its wake. And he too, fell. He fell into the unforgiving ocean of release.
He could feel every grudge, burden, and fear twirl around him. Snagging at his brain, snarling in his stomach. Pounding from inside his head and out from his heart. He was completely submerged. And so he broke.
He didn’t know what Mr. Cody was saying anymore, and frankly he didn’t care. He left the room. He left the building. He left his life in shambles.
Eventually he made his way to the public library. It was crusty and it was old but most importantly it was away. He was drowning in himself. He needed help. And so he headed towards the computer. Mr. Cody worked on the internet and often spoke of the many things there. Surely it would contain some type of solution.
(Could he trust what Mr. Cody had taught him? It was like his whole world had woken up, still unable to distinguish reality from nightmare.)
As the computer booted up he wondered what he would search. There’s a hand in me? Help! No, no, that seemed too vague. What if someone woke up with a baby hand in their mouth? A completely different situation. I don’t know who I am please dear God help? Well he didn’t want to sound desperate.
His thoughts were interrupted by a swoosh. Warmbo squinted at the brightness of the screen. He took a moment to get used to the new light, using this time to finalize what he would look up. He decided on the term Puppet support group. It was simple, to the point, with little room for confusion. He skimmed over the options, deciding against the first few that seemed more aimed at humans. About halfway down the page he found a promising link, it read: “Puppets Supporting Puppets. Specializing in Puppets in Crisis and those Recently Back from War, Partial Death and/or Resurrection. Run by the Professor.” He wasn't sure how the latter three applied to him but he was certainly in crisis.
And so he made a decision that would alter his life (although he didn’t yet know it). He clicked the link.