Ooe at the park

The sun was high over the park, casting long, mocking shadows across the lawn. It was the kind of day that usually involved a golf cart chase, a monster from another dimension, or at the very least, a heated argument over whose turn it was to buff the statues.

"I don't care if you think the rake is 'cursed,' Rigby! Rake the leaves or you're fired!" Benson’s voice reached a fever pitch, his glass canopy glowing a violent, pulsating red. He stood over the small raccoon, who was currently trying to balance a rake on his nose while lying in a hammock.

"Dude, I’m telling you, the wind is just gonna blow them back! It’s a futile cycle of labor!" Rigby argued, crossing his arms. "Besides, Mordecai was supposed to help me, but he’s been slacking off all morning. Go yell at him for a change."

Benson took a deep breath, his gumball organs rattling with fury. "Mordecai is actually doing the gutters! At least he has the decency to—"

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

The frantic cry cut through the tension. Pops came sprinting across the grass, his oversized 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! He’s... he’s by the stairs! He won't wake up!" Pops wailed, pointing a trembling finger toward the main house.

A distant, low thrumming sound began to grow louder. From the park entrance, two sets of flashing lights—red and blue—sliced through the afternoon haze. The siren’s wail felt like a physical blow to Rigby’s chest. He dropped the rake, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Mordecai?" Rigby whispered.

They ran. Skips was already there, his massive shoulders hunched as he knelt over a still, blue form slumped at the base of the porch steps. Muscle Man and High Five Ghost stood a few feet back, Muscle Man’s usual bravado replaced by a look of hollowed-out shock.

"Move back! Give him air!" Benson shouted, though as they reached the scene, he froze.

Mordecai lay on his back. His eyes were half-open, staring at nothing. There was no rise and fall of his chest. The paramedics scrambled out of the ambulance, their boots thudding against the dirt, but the way Skips looked up at them—slowly shaking his head—told the story before the doctors could.

Minutes felt like hours. The paramedics worked with a grim, mechanical efficiency, but the silence that followed their efforts was deafening. One of the medics stood up, wiping sweat from his brow, and looked at Benson.

"I'm sorry," the medic said softly. "There was nothing we could do. It looks like an undiagnosed heart complication. He was gone before he hit the ground."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Benson stumbled back, his hand over his mouth. Muscle Man let out a strangled sob, burying his face in his hands. But it was Rigby who broke the silence in the most haunting way.

"No," Rigby said, his voice small. "No, he’s just... he’s playing a prank. Mordecai! Get up, man! We have to go to Cheezers! It’s Tuesday!"

He rushed forward, grabbing Mordecai’s wing and shaking it. "Dude, stop it! Benson’s not even mad anymore! Just get up!"

"Rigby, stop," Skips said, his voice cracking as he pulled the raccoon back.

"Let go of me! Mordecai! MORDECAI!" Rigby’s voice broke into a raw, guttural scream as the paramedics began to lift the stretcher. He fell to his knees, clawing at the grass, sobbing so violently that he couldn't breathe. The blue jay, his best friend, his brother, was zipped into a black bag and driven away under the indifferent afternoon sun.

***

Two weeks later, the park did not look like a place of recreation. It looked like a cathedral of grief.

Black drapes hung from the porch of the house. Rows of folding chairs were arranged on the lawn, facing a polished mahogany casket that rested under the shade of the ancient oak trees. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies and the stifling weight of unspoken words.

The guest list was a testament to the life Mordecai had lived. In the front rows sat his parents, their faces etched with the kind of agony that only comes from outliving a child. Behind them, the park staff sat in a line, all dressed in ill-fitting black suits.

Even those who had once been rivals or fleeting flames had come to pay their respects. CJ sat near the back, her cloud-like hair a dark, stormy grey, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Death sat in the very last row, his scythe leaned against a tree, looking uncharacteristically somber. Even the God of Basketball stood in the shadows of the trees, spinning a black basketball silently on his finger.

The processional began with a slow, rhythmic drumbeat. The park workers stood as pallbearers, their faces grim. Rigby walked at the front, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, looking as though he hadn't slept since the incident.

They reached the podium set up in front of the house. Benson stepped up first. He looked older than he had two weeks ago. He cleared his throat, his hand trembling as he adjusted the microphone.

"Mordecai wasn't just an employee," Benson began, his voice wavering. "He was... he was the heart of this park. Even when he was slacking off, even when he was driving me crazy with some magical artifact he’d accidentally unleashed... he was a good man. He was a loyal friend. The park is quieter now. And I hate it. I would give anything to yell at him one more time."

One by one, they spoke. Muscle Man shared a story about a prank gone wrong that ended with a heartfelt "I’ll miss you, bro." Skips spoke of Mordecai’s wisdom beyond his years. Pops talked about the "jolly good times" they would have again one day in the great beyond.

Then, a flash of red moved toward the podium. Margaret climbed the stairs, her movements stiff. She looked down at the casket, then at the crowd. Tears were already streaming down her beak.

"I had a lot of things I wanted to say to Mordecai," Margaret whispered into the mic. "I thought we had time. That’s the lie we all tell ourselves, isn't it? That there’s always more time."

She took a shaky breath, clutching the edges of the podium. "Everyone knew we were complicated. We were 'just friends,' then we were more, then we were nothing, then we were friends again. But the truth is... I never stopped. I had a crush on him from the moment he walked into the coffee shop and spilled his drink because he was too nervous to look me in the eye."

A fresh wave of sobs broke from her. "I loved him. And I was too scared to just say it when it mattered. Mordecai, I hope you’re flying somewhere beautiful."

She stepped down, nearly collapsing into Eileen’s arms.

Finally, it was time for the burial. The procession moved toward one of Mordecai’s favorite spots—a small hill overlooking the lake where he and Rigby used to sit and watch the sunset while eating grilled cheese sandwiches.

The casket was lowered slowly into the earth. The sound of the ropes creaking was the only noise in the park.

Rigby stood at the edge of the grave. He held a crumpled wrapper from a "RigJuice" bottle in his hand. He dropped it onto the lid of the casket as it settled into the dirt.

"Don't start the game without me, man," Rigby whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll be there soon enough to beat your score."

Mordecai’s mother leaned against his father, her cries echoing across the water. The park workers, the exes, and the rivals all gathered in a tight circle around the grave. It was a strange sight—Muscle Man standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Thomas, and Benson standing beside CJ.

Skips stepped forward, bowing his head. "Let us pray," he said, his deep voice grounding them all.

"May the paths you walk now be easy," Skips recited, and the others joined in a ragged, emotional chorus. "May the skies be clear and the winds be at your back. You were a friend to the earth, a brother to the lost, and a light in the dark. Rest now, Mordecai. Your shift is over."

As the first shovelful of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thud, a single blue feather drifted down from the trees above, caught in a stray breeze. It danced in the air for a moment, circling the grieving group, before landing softly on the mound of earth.

Rigby looked up at the sky. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw a flash of blue against the clouds—a bird flying higher and faster than the rest.

"Hmm. Hmm," Rigby choked out, trying to mimic their old catchphrase, but the second "hmm" died in his throat as he turned away, leaning into the silence of a park that would never be the same again.