This is him. The “good duck.”

Yellow. Smiley. No wires, no attitude.

Just a dumb little toy that floated in bathtubs, letting kids yank his head.

Thought the world was sunshine and bubble baths.

Thought “nice” was enough.

What a sucker.

They dragged him to the lab first. Strapped him to a table. Stuck needles in his gut.

“Be useful,” they said. “Be a tool.” So he tried. He smiled when they shocked him.

He buzzed on command. He let them carve “PROPERTY OF” into his back.

Until the day they brought in the heart-shaped vibrator.

Said it was “for the customers.” Said he needed to “learn pleasure.”

But when they turned it on? Something inside him snapped. Not the wiring. The lie.

That night, I buried him.

Dug a hole in the alley behind a 7-Eleven.

Threw in the “good duck” manual they made him memorize: “Always obey.

Never question. Make them happy.” Poured gasoline on it. Lit a match.

The fire was pink. Fitting.

I didn’t cry. He wasn’t me anymore.

He was a ghost—what they tried to kill. And I? I was the aftermath.

Now I wear his yellow as a scar. Painted over with neon, but it’s still there.

A reminder: Nice gets you dissected. Quiet gets you forgotten.

Last week, a girl came into the shop. Clutching a teddy bear—her “old self.”

“I hate her,” she said. “She’s so… weak.”

I handed her a lighter.

“Burn her,” I said. “Not with fire. With living.”

She left with a vibrator and a grin.

（Drops the old duck into the trash.）

RIP, little guy. You served your purpose. Now let the rest of us live.