I know how Crazy Cammie died.
That's Cameron Walters, for those of you who don't go to Springwood Elementary: C-A-M...ah, shite - I'm not doing very good at telling this aren't I? Sorry, let's try that again.
Gotta do this fast, not sure how much time I have before - is this thing even on? I really hope that's what the blinking light here means. Useless made-in-china crap... Work, dammit - finally!
Alright, so here's the situation: I'm trapped in a church confessional with a coldblooded killer somewhere on the loose after my blood, and I'm saying all this to a broken Furby. Why is that, you ask? Well, that's a long story.
First things first: you know what Furbys are, right? Cute robot toys with wires and stuff in them; about yay high? Sort of look like fat little owl things? The latest craze to hit Springwood since pop-rocks? Yeah, those. The orphanage got this huge delivery of second-hand Furbys; most of `em from cubs who got tired of playing with them after a while. Guess nobody really wanted to scrap `em, so the pastors got together to see how to put these to use. Much of the automated sound settings were shot to heck; but the voice recognition and relay thingamajig still worked alright, so...they decided to do this thing called Littermate Lottery.
It's pretty simple, actually. Way it works is that we older kids get randomly assigned some younger cub (usually an orphan) to be their secret buddy. We each get a free secondhand Furby, and the idea is for us older ones to sort of be a Furby-Friend(tm) to the littler cubs. Y'know, offer encouragement through the comlink, cheer `em up when they're feeling sad, be a listening ear when they wake up with nightmares? That sort of thing - a lot of these Furbys weren't in good shape, so they were more like walkie talkies than the robots they were supposed to be. All us fifth graders had to do is to keep an eye out for incoming transmissions, reply if we can, and stay in character as the little kids' imaginary friend. Sounds easy, yeah? I thought so too.
My Furby-Friend(tm) was Cameron Walters, aka Crazy Cammie. That's C-A-M-E-R-O-N. Was; past-tense because he's dead now, supposedly killed by some drunk alky in a hit-and-run accident. Or that's what the official report will say. I know the truth - Cammie was raped and murdered, his body cold before it even hit the asphalt. I know exactly who did it. What's more, I have the proof with me in this damn Furby I'm holding. Yes, this one right here.
You've all seen Cammie around, yeah? Little red fox, big bushy tail? He was tiny even for a second grader, and we'd all see him sitting by himself in the schoolyard hugging his tail. A lot like that kid Linus from Peanuts; y'know - the one who's always hugging a blanket? Yeah, him. Nice kit, very quiet, not the type to give anybody any trouble. I didn't know he was MY Furby-Friend(tm) at first though, mostly because he never carried one of them toys with him. No, that was something I'd only find out much later, when it was too late to do anything about it.
Here's the thing: I wasn't exactly thrilled when homeroom rounded us up and told us we were drafted for what some jokingly called the Furby Initiative. None of us were. Become a buddy to some snot-nosed first or second grader? No way Jose. They'd to make it part of our civics grade before we started taking the whole thing serious, and some of us clowned around even then. Those who did said their Furby-Friends deserved it; that those younger cubs they got were being total jerks - pinging them at all hours of the day, in the middle of the night, that sort of thing. I never had that kind of problem with Cameron, though. Kit was as good as gold. I'd almost never see that little flashing light that told me I had an incoming message. In fact, at times I felt like I was the one bothering him with all the stuff I was sending as part of my civics grade. All the usual feel-good stuff, like `keep smiling', or `I believe in you', y'know? Stuff like that.
I remember being so damn excited when my message light popped on, so nervous I almost fumbled the switch. That was how long it was before Cammie contacted me, and the first time I heard his voice through the speaker, soft and uncertain. ``Taily?''
``Yeah, that's me,'' I'd no idea then where he came up with that name by the way; given the fact that Furbys had no tails to speak of - but what the hey? We'd all been briefed by our teachers on the proper way of doing things, and rule #1 was: Do Not Contradict Your Buddy.
``You'll protect me from the bad, won't you Taily? You'll always be my bestest best friend?''
This was sort of sweet. ``Always, buddy. I'll be there,'' I remember trying my best to fake what a Furby voice was supposed to sound like before giving it up and using my own. ``Love you too, mate,''
After that first contact he'd start to call a lot more, though not so often that I'd get tired of it. We spoke about many things: whether Batman could beat Superman, which Digimon was best, and so on. I'd raise my paw to visit the restroom whenever he called, so as to take it in private. It was during this time that I finally worked out who my Furby-Friend(tm) really was: the calls usually tended to happen during a certain time - second grade recess - and I'd always see Cammie huddled all alone in a corner, speaking with his muzzle buried in his tailbrush. That was also about the time the rest of the school started calling him Crazy Cammie, thinking he was loony for talking to his tail and all that. If I'm owning up, might as well own up to everything - the nickname was my fault. Didn't mean it to happen that way, but it's like that saying about the road to hell being paved with good intentions. I felt kinda bad about it all, but not so brave that I would take on the playground bullies on his behalf. Kit had problems; major ones. Not just from the name-calling and bullies, he also walked around all nervous and jittery and needed reassurance from `Taily' before deciding to do anything. I didn't know how bad it was or what to do about it though. Not until The Call.
That night still haunts me; the one where The Call came in. I remember it was late, about midnight or so? A time when little cubs should've long been in bed at least. I should've been asleep too myself, and would've missed everything had I not been surfing Youtube in celebration of T.G.I.F. Can't help but wonder if things would've been different if I slept through the whole thing, if I hadn't taken the call. Guess I'll never know.
I start it like I always do, guessing poor Cammie must've had a nightmare or something: ``Never fear, Taily's here,''
No answer at first though, which is itself a warning. The second warning sign is the heavy breathing I hear over the link - not normal breathing or even sniffles of a cub with night terrors. This was literal panting, like he'd run a marathon at full sprint with heart almost bursting in his chest.
``Help.'' One word, spoken in a flat monotone, like something already dead. Amazing how just one word could make my stomach do uneasy flip flops. I'm unsure of what to do next, lose valuable moments in panic. Lose even more trying to find the switch to reply, which is when -
``Nobody can help you. You know what to do: take off your clothes. Undies, too...'' another voice crackles over the link, this one harsher; older. Fouler.
I'm audience to it all; from the first plea for help to the squeals and whimpers that follow. I want to turn it off. I want to call 911, to charge into the rescue. In the end I do neither; just sit and listen in shock. It feels like eternity before the shrieks and whines subside into helpless sobbing that turns into actual words. ``Y-you said you'll always protect me, Taily. You promised...''
And I deserved every bit of it. For standing by as...whatever...was being done to him. I deserved every insult Cameron threw at me and more. Had to do something about it.
``Listen to me carefully, Cam,'' I use his name for the first time, knowing it will make him sit up and pay attention. ``Do you know the name of the person who did this to you? Can you call 911?''
``No!'' a reply so shrill it erupts in static. ``He'll know I told! He'll...''
``Give me his name, buddy. I need it for the...for the spell I'm making. Once I'm done, he can't hurt you anymore,''
``It's...''
I hear a whispered word, and then a sharp shriek of pain. ``Who're you talking to, Cammy?''
Damn! Should've known better than to assume nobody was listening in. ``What's this, then? Think yer smart, kid? We'll see about that...''
Thudding sounds; then screams. Walrus almighty, the screams. ``Who's on the other end of this, then? None of this `Taily' bullshit, tell me who you've been speaking to!''
I didn't sleep at all that night, nor the next one to follow. Cameron was found dead on the road the next day. Death by misadventure; they call it. The marks on the poor kit's body supposedly from the car that struck him down. I know better of course; that he was dead before being flung in front of the bumper. I know the truth. I know who's to blame.
Which brings us to why I'm here, hiding in a confessional box and flinching at every creak of the floorboards. I've come to get Cameron's half of the comlink; all that's left of his Furby that he must've slipped around his tail. That's the reason he never actually had a Furby with him, if it was broken early on. That's the reason why he was talking to his tail - because of what was on it. Because of me.
I'm here to avenge my friend. To see that his killer pays for what he has done. I'm here to set things right.
And yet...there's an uneasiness inside me, the feeling that I have forgotten something in planning this heist. Something important - very, VERY important...but what could it be?
``Knock knock...''
Oh. Right. Of course. Com-link: two way connection. Forgot all about that. Fell into the slip of thinking of my Furby as a voice recorder, when it is really so much more. All that I've said into my end so far transmitted clear as a bell to the other end...
--a tail; a severed, butchered tail, being hoisted high in front of my eyes by a meaty fist. I have only just enough time to see moonlight glint off the cleaver's edge as it comes for me, along with words that I know will be my last:
``Don't you just HATE tattletails?''
