It's horrifying when you actually stop and think about it. And he does. People make the mistake of thinking that Yakko Warner never slows down, never shuts up, never thinks. After all, it's there in his name. He's got a silver tongue, a way with words, the kind of wit that rolls off effortlessly, without a stop for breath or the regrouping of thoughts. Or so people think. But Yakko knows that you don't get as far as he has without stopping every once in a while to think things through.

And decades in a water tower does give you time to think.

It's horrific. It really is. Not only because denying a toon the chance to make people laugh is like denying a bird the chance to fly, build nests, and creepily regurgitate food for its young, but because they are kids for crying out loud.

Yakko has never been quite sure how old he is. He's considerably taller than his siblings, with the sort of long limbs that might suggest a growth spurt, and he certainly has a healthy interest in the ladies, but then again, Wakko shares that interest, and he's definitely the younger of the two brothers. Yakko imagines himself to be around twelve or thirteen: too young to be taking care of his siblings, but not young enough to keep him from trying.

The water tower isn't exactly uncomfortable. It's been made livable; at least the folks who locked them away had the decency to give them this much. But it's still a water tower, and they are still locked in it. Have been, for years. He muses idly that the world has probably changed since the last time they've seen it. There are probably better cartoons and better ways to create them. And the studio still probably isn't ready for their type of toon.

It's not like they asked for it. A toon can be better than they were created-he vaguely remembers a gorgeous dame who wasn't bad, she was just drawn that way-but not if they aren't given the chance. He and his siblings? Even in the beginning, before they were banished, they never had a chance. He doubts now that they ever will.

After so many years years, he thinks maybe their creators are long since dead. He isn't sure how he feels about that. He doesn't feel like he owes them anything (except maybe an anvil to the head), but he doesn't like the sinking feeling that their last connection to the world is gone. In some weird, twisted way it's like finding out that their parents are dead. Parents that never loved them, never accepted them, never gave them a chance to be something.

Sometimes, to keep spirits high, he, Wakko, and Dot perform their bits in the darkness of the water tower, for an audience of no one. It passes the time, at least, and they have all the time in the world. Today's performance is a rousing game of Wheel of Morality. Wakko calls for him, and he joins his siblings. The wheel appears out of nowhere, and from nothing, but it's as real as anything else in their lives. It always is. Everything is real and tangible to them, except the world just outside the water tower. They spin the wheel with enormous force.
"Wheel of Morality, turn, turn, turn. Tell us the lesson we should learn."

They follow it with their eyes until it slows down and stops. Wakko and Dot look at him, and wait for his verdict. He smiles winningly at them, and pulls them closer into something like a protective hug before he speaks. "Moral Number Two: if at first you don't succeed, blame it on your parents."

And he does.