Eric stomped out of the office building and across to his car. It had been another hard day of trying to convince people that it wasn't HIS fault thier charge card was overdrawn. Customer service was not the most fun job around, especially for one of the largest store chains in the country. And he'd only been in the country, and at the job, for about a month.

As he drove towards home down Interstate 95, he realized that it would be another long night of staring at the TV. In the month since he had moved to St. Canard from his native Canada, he had been unable to make any friends, just bare acquaintances.

He pulled into the yard of the small minihome he had bought. Once inside the house, he threw a TV dinner in the microwave and switched on the TV. The news was on...more stuff about Darkwing Duck. Apparently he was a crimefighter of some kind. Eric had never heard of him before he had moved. He flipped the channels. Nothing. Not even any hockey this time of year.

Eric was lonely beyond belief. His family was scattered across the continent. All his old friends had moved away from his neighborhood long before he finally left. And his inherent shyness made it difficult to just go out and meet people. Maybe someday...He switched off the set and went dejectedly to bed.

It was clear and sunny when Eric arrived at work the next day. He noticed something odd the minute he walked in the door. It was strangely quiet, and those who were around were huddled in small groups, just talking.

A man looked at Eric. "Did you get yours?"

"Get what?" Eric was completely puzzled.

The man threw a glance in toward the main work area. "Go take a look. You'll find out."

Eric went in and to his desk. There was an envelope on it. Inside the envelope was a paycheck-and a pink sheet of paper.

Feeling weak, Eric slumped in his chair. This couldn't be. He couldn't have been fired. What on earth had he done?

"Almost everybody got one." said his co-worker. "We've all been laid off."

"Why?" said Eric numbly. "In God's name...why?"

"Our company was bought by the Swine Corporation. They're downsizing. Getting rid of the dead weight. That means us."

An unknown time later, Eric walked out of the building with his few possessions he had had at work in a small box. One month. He had been at this job for one month. What was he supposed to do now? He didn't want to have to return home-he had moved to the States because the job oppurtunities were better here. Now he was going to have to find another one.

Not bothering to go home, Eric just drove. He drove for miles out of St. Canard. He drove down the Interstate highway to Duckburg, and then cruised the streets aimlessly there. Looking at Scrooge McDuck's money bin, which was easily visible, he thought how unfair things were. Granted, Scrooge had not gotten his fortune easily. But at least you don't get laid off digging for gold in the Klondike or drilling for oil. Eric didn't even get a fair chance.

Eventually, it was early evening. Eric went into a bar, and even though he rarely drank, this was a good time for one. And one led to another, and another...

"Don't you think you've had enough?" asked the bartender.

"Leave me alone and pour me another." mumbled Eric.

"I think you'd better go." replied the bartender.

Eric climbed off his stool. The door to the bar seemed miles away. He felt an arm take him in a firm grip and lead him towards it. The bouncer then pushed him out.

"Get in your car and sleep it off." he said. "We're closed."

Eric managed to stumble over to the car and crawl in. He fell asleep where he lay.

An unknown time later, Eric opened his eyes. He slowly rose to a sitting position. His head was pounding, and he could barely read his watch. It was nearly 11:30 p.m. The bar had long since closed, and the street was pitch black except for streetlights. Eric figured he might as well head for home.

Soon, he found his way out of Duckburg and was driving back up the Interstate towards home. He still felt dizzy from the drinks he had had, and the road was hard to see. He also felt angry. Yes, he was going home. But tomorrow he'd have to go out and find another job, which wouldn't be easy. Few things were for him. His childhood hadn't been easy...he attracted bullies like flies all through school. Even his friends teased him sometimes. And it had been a struggle convincing his parents to let him move here. He thought he might have been able to do something, if he'd kept that job. But even that was gone.

Eric slammed on the accelerator as the exit for St. Canard approached. He yanked the wheel over and the car whipped down the offramp and onto a smaller side road that would take him straight into town. He sped up, wanting to take his frustrations out on something, anything. It was still fairly remote out here, but Eric glanced the shadow of a large building well off the road ahead of him. Then he looked at the speedometer. He was traveling nearly 100 m.p.h.

And then an animal ran out in front of the car.

Panicked, Eric whipped the steering wheel over to the left to avoid the animal. He did so, but quickly found himself out of control. The car was weaving wildly as Eric desperately tried to reach the brake pedal. It swerved violently back to the right, then shot across the road and onto the shoulder, straight for a metal light pole.

Somehow, Eric pulled the wheel over. But not fast enough. The corner of his car glanced off the light pole, smashing the headlight and fender and sending the car shooting back across the road and off it altogether.

The last thing Eric remembered seeing was the massive form of a fir tree in his remaining headlight rushing up to meet him. Then the world exploded.

Reginald Bushroot sat bolt upright in bed. He had been sleeping soundly, but was now wide awake and sweating. Two things had awakened him-the sound of a massive crash, and a jolt of pain that had ripped through his head like a knife. He looked around wildly-but there was nothing wrong in his greenhouse. He climbed out of bed and made for the door, grabbing a flashlight as he went.

It didn't take him long to find out the source of both sensations. A car was crumpled against the huge fir tree that stood not far from Bushroot's greenhouse. That explained the crash-and the sensation of pain. Bushroot's telepathic link with all plants had allowed him to "feel" the agony of the tree being hit. And he was angry. Some careless fool had lost control and hit it.

Not caring if the driver saw his plant-like form, Bushroot ran down to the car, his Venus flytrap dog Spike close behind. The driver's side door of the 1980 Camaro was hanging half open, but Bushroot yanked it open anyway.

"Listen, you stupid..." he started to say, but was quickly silenced by the sight that met his eyes. A male duck was lying across the front seats. His seat belt was on, but torn nearly in half. His face was bloody, and Bushroot noticed blood trickling from his beak as well. There was also blood on the leather jacket and khaki pants he was wearing, and his left arm was hanging in an odd angle that told Bushroot it was broken.

Reginald looked at the windshield. It was smashed, and there was a big hole with blood around it. The driver's head must have hit it. The steering wheel was twisted out of shape, and the dashboard had been mangled. Bushroot was amazed to see the man's chest slowly moving, amazed that he was alive. He felt for a pulse, too...it was weak, but there.

He stood up. This person clearly needed help. But he was probably a citizen of the city...probably one of the ones who had persecuted him and run from him. Bushroot didn't owe him any favors. But then he looked into the man's face, or what he could see through the blood. Something told him he should help this person.

He unfastened the seat belt and managed to get his arms around the man's waist. Slowly, gently, he pulled him out of the wrecked car and laid him on the ground. Then he removed the leather jacket and saw an ugly, large cut on his right arm. It was seeping blood. Moving quickly, Bushroot tore the man's shirt off and used it to press on the cut. But he knew that the man needed more help than he could give him there.

"Spike." he said. "Get my phone from the greenhouse. And hurry." Spike rushed to obey, as Reginald kneeled on the ground by the injured man, pressing on the cut, stopping the flow of blood.

Reginald Bushroot, Spike, Scrooge McDuck, St. Canard and Duckburg are the property of Disney. Eric Smith is my property. (C)2000 Eric Smith.

Part 2