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Yellow #2

Title: Hatred of Yellow Knows no Bounds but the Suffering is Necessary in Order to Properly Portray the Anatomy of the Fractured Mirror's Reflection Number 2. (AKA Yellow Number 2)
Rating: General
Fandoms: Darkwing Duck
Characters: Splatter Phoenix
Wordcount: 530
Synopsis: Splatter Phoenix uses her art to try and prove a point
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own Darkwing Duck, Disney does.

Everyone thought they were identical, maybe clones or twin brother. They looked exactly alike in every way to everyone else.

But not to her. She had a discerning eye. She was an artiste.

She was no Sidney Pollquack, more of a Salvador Ducki, a Joel-Peter Chikin, a Pluckasso; a student of expressionism and Dodoism to begin with. But she would deny it if anyone asked because a true artist needed no teachers, no mentors, all they needed was a soul, a paintbrush and a vision. Paint, ironically, was optional.

She had paint right now though, because she wanted to get the colours just right.

Because they were not identical and she would prove it.

The plebes didn't get her work and that rather ruffled her feathers. But they would. She would get the recognition she deserved. She would prove she was the world greatest, most fearless in-your-face artist St. Canard, no, Calisota, no, the world had ever known.


By painting public enemy number one (Or was it two? No, no it was one. The public opinion is a fickle thing that moves fast.) himself.


He and Darkwing were similar but so different. She noticed the slight tint of blood red in the orange of his bill and tiny chip on the left side of it, the slight peek of a scar over his eyelid, his shark-like teeth, the mottled dingy grey of his ruffled feathers.

Darkwing was pure, unspoiled. Negaduck was well-worn and coarse.

She liked her subjects to be ugly. She was unafraid.

She stretched her entire body as high as it would go, ash from a burnt down mall powdered on her hands and she slapped her palms onto the canvas, dragging them down to mix the texture with the greyed feathers. She rubbed and pressed, working the ashes into the canvas's fibre, embedding it. With her fingernails she scratched out the scar over his eye, with a pallet knife she cut the chip into his bill. Working on this painting made her angry and that was good. Art should make a person feel, and she felt rage, which she knew he embodied anyway.

She turned to her table of tools and selected the raw bloody steaks. She slapped them into where she blocked in the neck of his sweater and the blood splattered everywhere like she had severed his carotid artery. Magnificent! The rawness of the steak mimicked the rawness of her emotion and the rawness of his very being perfectly.

She knew him well. She got him.

Except for one thing.

That stupid yellow jacket. Yellow? Why yellow? Yellow was such a detestably happy colour. She never used yellow, not even with fire. She barely knew how to paint with yellow! Black would suit him so much better.

But yellow it was, because she wanted to get it right. Where did she put that sulfer...

Late into the night she had finished. She sat, panting heavily and enjoying some nice green tea while admiring her opus. Realism wasn't her chosen style but she approved of this.

Now to display it somewhere where it would be the most shocking to the bourgeoisie masses.

Where was the nearest hospital...

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