Disclaimer: I don't own Ducktales!

Title: Evil Triplet

Summary: It's the family joke. Only, they aren't joking.

Warnings: Dark af. Mentions of blood and murder.

...

It's the family joke. Only, they aren't joking.

It wasn't typically obvious. Not at first. Louie was usually too lazy to make a big production out of his urges. And Uncle Donald had always insisted that family was more important than simple needs. It'd stuck with him, even after all this time; the weary, wary, knowing look in the duck's eyes as he made him repeat that little rule, over and over again, before ruffling his top feathers.

Uncle Donald knew. They all did.

Usually, they ignored it.

But then Uncle Scrooge got hurt.

Flintheart Glomgold had always struck Louie as a lame excuse for a rival. His desperate loneliness was only just covered by his desperate pride. After all the years he and Scrooge had spent feuding, Louie was surprised when Glomgold actually tried to pull off his murder. He figured it was all for show. But then there was the gunshot, and his Uncle was on the ground, and everything was red.

He'll survive. He's Scrooge McDuck. It'll take more than a bullet to take him out.

Louie doesn't rush himself. He explores. He grabs a quarter he fancies and sticks it in his pocket. When he comes upon Glomgold's old set of clubs, he ditches the concept of a simple stabbing for something a bit more ironic. Louie tests the weights of all of them, ultimately choosing one. Golf isn't his strong suit, but he knows a sand wedge, which (if he recalls correctly) is the heaviest of them.

He's not worried about fingerprints. He's the descendant of Scrooge McDuck. The chances anyone will even dare think of taking him on are slim to none. And everybody with half a brain knows Glomgold deserves it.

You don't hurt Louie Duck's family and get away with it.

The darkness is thick and stifling as he creaks open the door to the old duck's room. Glomgold slumbers on, unaware of his visitor. It makes his blood boil- not that he's gone unnoticed (that's fairly normal) but because he sleeps so soundly when the man he shot is still in the hospital. Louie stifles the urge to wake him up. Glomgold might be ancient, but he's far bulkier than him, and could sweep him off his feet with a tackle.

His heart raced as he raised the club. A sick, twisted part of Louie realizes it's not fear- rather, he's excited. This is exciting. He's protecting the family Uncle Donald made him promise to take care of. He's even getting to let out some aggression while he's at it. What's not to love?

Louie doesn't stop until Glomgold's head is a squishy pulp, and the only reason he stops then is because his arms are tired. He drops the sand wedge with a thunk, then grabs the quarter he'd found and sets it on the bedside table.

"Keep the change," he says, ever the drama queen. "See you in Hell, Flinty."

Author's Note: I've been trying to write a little every day (if I'm up to it), and tonight that materialized in Murder Times, I guess.

-Mandaree1