Funeral Requiem for Mordecai

The air in the park was usually filled with the sound of a lawnmower’s drone, the rhythmic thwack of a rake against dead leaves, or, more often than not, the explosive screaming of Benson Dunwoody. Today was no different. Benson stood on the front porch of the house, his glass exterior glowing a violent, incandescent shade of crimson.

"I don't want to hear it, Rigby!" Benson bellowed, his gumballs rattling violently inside his chest. "I told you and Mordecai to have those hedges trimmed by noon! It’s two o'clock! Where is he? Where is he hiding while you’re sitting here playing video games?"

Rigby slouched on the steps, hugging his knees. He looked unusually subdued, lacking his trademark snark. "I told you, man, he said he was feeling lightheaded. He went to get some water like twenty minutes ago. He’s probably just... taking a long dump or something."

"He’s taking a long 'fired' is what he’s taking!" Benson stepped down, pointing a finger at the raccoon’s nose. "If both of you aren't at those hedges in five minutes, you’re—"

"Benson! Benson! Oh, heavens, please come quickly!"

The high-pitched, frantic waver in Pops’ voice cut through the tension like a knife. The eccentric gentleman came sprinting across the lawn, his giant head bobbing precariously, his face pale and streaked with tears. He wasn't skipping. He wasn't laughing. He looked genuinely terrified.

"Pops? What is it?" Benson asked, his anger evaporating into immediate concern.

"It’s Mordecai!" Pops wailed, pointing toward the side of the house near the kitchen entrance. "He’s fallen! He won’t wake up, and his eyes... oh, his poor eyes won’t open!"

Before Benson could even process the words, the distant, rhythmic wail of a siren began to crest over the hill. Red and blue lights flickered against the trees, casting a nauseating strobe effect over the park greenery.

Rigby was the first to bolt. He scrambled on all fours, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Mordecai? Mordecai, quit playing, man! Benson’s actually gonna kill us this time!"

But as they rounded the corner, the world seemed to stop.

Mordecai was sprawled on the pavement. His lanky blue frame looked unnervingly still. Skips was already there, kneeling over him, performing chest compressions with a grim, mechanical determination. Muscle Man and High-Five Ghost stood a few feet back; Muscle Man’s shirt was tucked in, and he was uncharacteristically silent, his lower lip trembling.

"Come on, Mordecai," Skips grunted, his voice straining. "Don't do this. Breathe."

The paramedics swarmed in moments later, pushing everyone back. Rigby tried to shove past them, screaming his best friend’s name, but Benson caught him by the shoulders, holding him back. Benson wasn't red anymore. He was a ghostly, translucent white.

They watched in a horrific, slow-motion blur as the medics worked. There was a defibrillator, a series of shouted medical terms, and then, a heavy, suffocating silence. The lead paramedic looked at his watch, then at his partner, and slowly shook his head.

He walked over to the group, removing his gloves. "I’m so sorry. We did everything we could. It looks like a sudden cardiac event. He’s gone."

The silence that followed was louder than any of Benson’s screams. Rigby’s grip on Benson’s arms loosened. He took a step back, his large eyes scanning Mordecai’s still form as they draped a white sheet over him.

"No," Rigby whispered. "No, he’s just tired. We stayed up late playing 'Strong Johns.' He’s just sleeping."

"Rigby..." Skips started, his voice breaking.

"NO!" Rigby shrieked, the sound tearing through his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his head. "MORDECAI! WAKE UP! IT’S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE! WAKE UP!"

He collapsed into unconsolable sobs, his small body shaking violently against the grass. Benson didn't tell him to get back to work. Instead, the manager sat down on the dirt next to the raccoon and placed a trembling hand on his back, staring at the empty space where a piece of the park’s soul had just vanished.

***

Two weeks later, the park didn't feel like a park. It felt like a cathedral.

The wide open space in front of the main house had been transformed. Rows of folding chairs were filled with people in black. It was a testament to the life Mordecai had led that the crowd was so diverse. In the back rows, past enemies like Death and even the Guardians of Eternal Youth sat with bowed heads. Near the front, the atmosphere was thick with grief.

Margaret sat in the second row, her eyes red and puffy behind a black veil. Beside her, CJ sat, her cloud-like hair a dark, stormy grey, tears raining silently from her wispy form. They weren't fighting. They weren't competing. They were just two people who had loved the same man, united in a tragedy they never saw coming.

The procession began with a heavy, rhythmic drum beat. The park workers walked slowly, acting as pallbearers alongside Mordecai’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Blue Jay looked aged by decades, their faces etched with the unimaginable pain of burying an only son.

Rigby walked at the front, carrying a single rose. He looked smaller than usual, his fur unkempt, his eyes staring blankly at the polished wood of the casket.

Once the casket was set upon the dais, Benson stepped up to the podium. He adjusted his tie, his hands shaking so much the paper in his hand rattled. He cleared his throat, looking out at the sea of mourning faces.

"Mordecai was... he was a slacker," Benson began, his voice cracking immediately. He took a breath and tried again. "He was a slacker, a terrible groundskeeper, and he drove me crazy every single day. But he was also the heart of this park. He was a loyal friend, a peacemaker, and a man who always tried to do the right thing, even when he was terrified. The park is quieter now. And I hate it. I would give anything to scream at him one more time."

One by one, the others spoke. Skips talked about Mordecai’s hidden wisdom. Muscle Man told a story about a prank gone wrong that ended with Mordecai saving his life, ending the story with a choked-out, "He was my bro, man."

Then, Margaret stood up. She walked to the podium, her steps heavy. She looked down at the casket, then at the crowd.

"I spent so much time wondering if the timing was right," she said, her voice a fragile whisper that carried in the still air. "We went back and forth, we stayed friends, we tried to move on. But standing here now... I realize how much time I wasted being afraid."

She took a deep breath, tears streaming freely down her beak.

"I loved him. I never stopped. I had this crush on him from the moment he walked into the coffee shop, and I was too scared to just say it when it mattered. Mordecai, I hope you knew. I hope you knew you were the best thing that ever happened to me."

She leaned down and kissed the top of the casket before retreating, buried in CJ’s supportive embrace.

The final trek was to the hill overlooking the lake—Mordecai’s favorite spot to sit and do nothing. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and purple, colors that Mordecai would have spent an hour trying to describe.

As the casket was slowly lowered into the earth, the finality of it hit everyone like a physical blow. Mrs. Blue Jay let out a piercing wail, leaning into her husband’s shoulder.

Rigby stepped forward last. Everyone else had thrown their handfuls of dirt. Rigby held a worn-out video game controller. He looked at it for a long time, then gently placed it on the lid of the casket before it disappeared into the shadows of the grave.

"I'll keep the high score for you, man," Rigby whispered, so low only the wind could hear him. "But you better be ready for a rematch when I get there. Don't think you're getting out of it that easy."

As the last of the dirt was shoveled in, the park felt colder. The "Regular Show" had reached its final credits, leaving behind a silence that no amount of noise could ever truly fill again.