MISFIT FILE 004: SNOOZER
Snoozer the Bat-Frenchie was supposed to be a masterpiece of airborne terror. Instead, this sleepy French Bulldog became Dr. Franken-Fur’s Emotional Support Bat. Meet Experiment 004 of LilTuki’s Howl-O-Ween Misfits: tiny wings, enormous entitlement, and one unexpectedly tender Halloween story.
Dr. Franken-Fur had accounted for wingspan, nocturnal vision, predatory instinct, and the psychological effect of something dreadful descending from a moonlit roof.
He had not accounted for being asked to carry it back up.
On the launch platform sat his newest creation: a stocky French Bulldog with enormous ears, tiny bat wings, and the expression of someone who had been awakened for a meeting that could have been cancelled.
The doctor raised a trembling finger toward the rafters.
“Behold your kingdom, creature! The night awaits!”
Snoozer yawned.
One fang caught on his upper lip.
The doctor lowered his finger and fixed it.
“We shall work on the entrance.”
Snoozer the Bat-Frenchie vs. Gravity
The blueprint had been magnificent. Bat plus Frenchie. Silent flight. Supernatural agility. A compact airborne terror capable of swooping upon an unsuspecting village.
The result managed three furious flaps, travelled approximately the length of a disappointed sigh, and landed bottom-first in a basket of folded laboratory towels.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Snoozer tucked his wings around his shoulders.
“I have landed. You may carry me.”
“You are meant to fly.”
Snoozer looked at the platform. He looked at the doctor.
He closed his eyes.
The second flight trial was postponed due to a complete absence of cooperation.
The sound of approaching terror
Flight, the doctor decided, could be addressed later. Navigation would surely prove more promising.
He extinguished the lamps.
“Now,” he whispered, “let your extraordinary senses guide you through the darkness.”
From beneath the workbench came a snort.
Then another.
Then a soft bump, followed by a deeply offended silence.
The doctor relit the lamps. Snoozer stood beside a stool that had apparently failed to announce itself. His wings were half-open. His expression suggested legal action.
“Your echolocation requires refinement.”
The doctor opened the biscuit drawer.
Snoozer arrived at his feet before the drawer was fully extended.
The doctor made a note.
Navigation: suspiciously selective.
An incident on the porch
His first field assignment was simple: sit beside a jack-o’-lantern on a low stone wall and look ominous.
For almost a minute, Snoozer excelled.
Moonlight caught his fangs. His wings made a respectable silhouette. Somewhere down the lane, a gate creaked.
The doctor allowed himself a smile.
Then Snoozer nodded off.
His bottom slipped. His wings fluttered. He landed inside the empty pumpkin with a hollow little thump.
Dr. Franken-Fur hurried over and peered through the opening.
Two enormous ears protruded from the top. Through the carved grin, one sleepy eye regarded him with mild interest.
“Are you injured?”
Snoozer shifted against the curved pumpkin wall.
“Cushion.”
“This is an intimidation exercise.”
“Small cushion.”
The doctor returned to the laboratory.
He came back with a folded towel, which was technically different.
Extended observation
By the end of the evening, the doctor had crossed out aerial predator, underlined FAIL, and retrieved Snoozer from the pumpkin twice.
The second retrieval had been necessary because Snoozer had climbed back in.
Now the laboratory was quiet. The lamps burned low. Dr. Franken-Fur sat over his notes, his white tufts drooping around his face.
There was a limit, he felt, to how often a visionary should have to write the words refused to participate.
At his feet, Snoozer stirred.
The doctor did not notice until a heavy little chin settled on his ankle.
“What?”
Snoozer looked up.
“You have been fed.”
The chin remained.
“And carried.”
A small wing rested against his slipper.
The doctor stared down at him. Snoozer had no interest in the blueprint, the crossed-out calculations, or the deeply disappointing state of supernatural aviation. He simply waited.
Eventually, the doctor bent down.
“Five minutes,” he muttered, lifting him onto his lap. “For temperature regulation.”
Snoozer turned once, tucked his nose beneath the edge of the lab coat, and sighed.
The doctor’s hand settled between those enormous ears.
For the first time all evening, he stopped revising the experiment.
A strictly scientific attachment
Officially, Snoozer remains a failed Bat-Frenchie with no reliable flight capability and a troubling dependence on laboratory personnel.
Unofficially, there is now a small blanket beside the doctor’s chair.
The biscuit drawer has been moved within reach.
And when someone suggested beginning the next round of tests while Snoozer was asleep inside his coat, Dr. Franken-Fur looked genuinely appalled.
“Absolutely not,” he whispered. “We are in a critical phase.”
He glanced down and tucked in a dangling paw.
On the workbench lay File 004. Beneath the original verdict, a new instruction had been added in the doctor’s cramped handwriting:
FAIL.
Do not reassign.
Meet Snoozer, Misfit 004: the Prince of Almost Darkness and Dr. Franken-Fur’s highly confidential soft spot. Explore the Howl-O-Ween Misfits to meet his fellow laboratory disasters.
Would your dog conquer the night—or demand to be carried home?
One scientist. Too many monsters. Absolutely no obedience training.
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