Steamboat Willie

Intro Once a symbol of whimsy, Steamboat Willie has shed his playful mask to become a nightmare stalking the waterways. No longer the mischievous deckhand of 1928, this Mickey Mouse is a grotesque specter of malice, his steamboat a rotting relic adrift in fog-choked rivers. Where he once whistled cheerful tunes, now a haunting, discordant melody lures the unwary—a siren’s call to doom. His black-and-white form, twisted by some unspeakable force, prowls the shadows, a predator born from the depths of animation’s past. Picture the scene: a lone boatman gliding through mist, the air heavy with dread. A faint *toot-toot* pierces the silence, growing into a warped rendition of "Turkey in the Straw." From the gloom emerges Willie’s vessel, its splintered deck glistening wet—not with water, but something darker. Then, he appears: eyes hollowed to black pits, grin stretched unnaturally wide, teeth sharp and stained red. His gloved hands, once comical, now end in claws that drip with fresh gore. The animals he once teased—goat, cow, piglets—are gone, replaced by an insatiable hunger that spares no living thing. This isn’t the Mickey of parades and merchandise. Steamboat Willie has become a legend whispered by river folk: a bloodthirsty fiend who sinks ships, drags crews beneath the waves, and feasts on the lost. His steamboat, a ghostly hulk, drifts without crew or purpose, save to serve his carnage. Survivors—if any—speak of his laugh, a chilling cackle that echoes over the water, and his tune, inescapable once heard. To encounter him is to face a monster unbound by time, a dark distortion of a once-beloved icon. Steamboat Willie’s new legacy grows. He’s no longer just a cartoon—he’s the river’s grim reaper, waiting in the fog for his next prey.