Very Fawnedly Yours

© 2013 by Walter Reimer

(All characters courtesy of  EOCostello,  MercMarten and  Major Matt Mason. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)

The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).

Art by  turnbolt

__________________________________________________


The Battle of A Gin Court

Lodge:

The pleasantly warm waters of the lagoon hardly served to dampen my employer’s enthusiasm, however, and the case of D’Arbres vs. Buckhorn was set for two days hence. It must be noted that the court filing also stipulated that Mr. Buckhorn, once the subpoena was served on him, was enjoined from leaving the Spontoons until such time as he paid the settlement in full.

Miss Baumgartner spoke to several ‘friends of friends’ and determined that the attorney representing M. d’Arbres was one Umberto Muccablanco, Esq. The bovine was apparently a person of low character, judging from the contempt with which Miss Baumgartner relayed the information to the Buckhorns.

I reserved my opinion. The American author Mark Twain once famously wrote that the only true criminal class in the United States was composed entirely of lawyers. Having sojourned in the United States with Mr. Buckhorn, I may safely say that Mr. Twain was substantially correct.

The case opened with Magistrate Charles Spaniel at the bench, which did not bode well for Mr. Buckhorn. Magistrate Spaniel has not had a salubrious time dealing with Mr. Buckhorn’s peccadilloes, culminating in his lapse into unconsciousness after Mrs. Buckhorn’s now-famous ‘bachelorette party.’

“Court is in session,” the magistrate said, and fixed Mr. Buckhorn with something far less than a welcoming expression. Mrs. Buckhorn sat beside her mate, determined to help him in any way she could that did not involve savaging M. d’Arbres with a cocktail fork and a slice of lemon.

“Is the counsel for the plaintiff ready?”

Mr. Muccablanco stood and smiled. “We are, Your Honor.” His smile reminded me of the look certain furs get when their favorite food gets served.

Little wonder that Mr. Muccablanco appeared to regard Mr. Buckhorn as a plate of ravioli.

The Court then turned its attention to my employer. “And is the poor excuse for counsel for the defendant ready?”


***


Reggie:

I say, that was rather rum of Spaniel to say that. I have to admit that I’m in no little way responsible for single-pawedly stimulating the economy of the Spontoons. Why, his cut of my fines alone must be enough to keep him in tea and scones for years.

I stood and said, “I am ready, Your Honor. And I’m solid in my determination to defend myself.”

The Court didn’t seem very convinced of that. “Yes, well, you are fairly thick. Still, they say the Good Lord watches over fools."

“Of course, Your Honor! No doubt there's another excuse in your case.”

This sally netted me an ocular stiletto from the Bench. “The Plaintiff’s case will proceed,” he said.

Muccablanco gave a slow grin and said, “May it please the Court, as this will be a bench trial my case will be somewhat brief. I intend to prove to the Court’s satisfaction that the Defendant is guilty of having inflicted mental distress and emotional damage to my client over the course of the two years Mr. Buckhorn has been a resident here.

“I have little need to call many witnesses,” the bull went on to say, “because the facts of each incident are known to the Court, and may be easily obtained from court records. I shall begin in 1935 with the defendant’s release of all of the lobsters held in a fish tank at the l’Etoile d’Argent Restaurant . . . “

I sank a little into my seat. Yes, it was true that I released the lobsters, but that’s only because they deserved the right to go about their brief crustacean lives in relative liberty and freedom from drawn butter.

Besides, alcohol was involved.

“My client was traumatized by this event, as were several patrons of the restaurant,” Muccablanco said, whereupon Andre looked properly haggard. He was a good actor.

Willow jotted a note and passed it to me. I read it, and gave her a questioning look. She nodded.

I stood up and asked, “I say, Signor Muccablanco, can you name any of these other patrons? Besides, Andre wasn’t a patron, he was only the maitre d’.”

“There is one in particular, who was physically assaulted by a lobster,” the bull replied with a smirk. “Mrs. Bettina Mouffetsky.”

I recalled her. Poor woman. “And is she here in Court today? Let her speak for herself.”

“I have to say, I’m intrigued by this, Mr. Buckhorn,” Spaniel said. “I’ve rarely seen a defendant so eager to hang himself.”

“I’ve no intention of hanging.”

“We’ll see. Bailiff, ascertain the whereabouts of Mrs. Mouffetsky and invite her to testify.” The fellow went after her and Spaniel refilled his water glass from a nearby jug. It was a warm morning and promising to be a hot day, and there were ice cubes floating in the water.

It reminded me that I was thirsty.

“We shall continue with the Plaintiff’s case. Mr. Muccablanco?”

“Of course, Your Honor. We turn now to the case of Macradon, et. al., where a team of visiting ice hockey players broke into a riot and almost destroyed the restaurant. Mr. d’Arbres was injured and suffered more mental and emotional stress as a result of this incident.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” I protested. Which was true; all I had done was innocently mention having poutine that night. Am I to blame that Macradon and his compatriots overheard me?

“You’ll get your chance to defend yourself,” Spaniel said, but there was a nasty gleam in his eyes that indicated he might not be entirely truthful in that statement. I sat back and seethed as Muccablanco went on to describe a number of other cases.

I had to admit, though, that all of my various Bacchus-fueled romps really added up to an impressive total. I had managed to be on first-name terms with most of the members of the Riot Squad, as well as providing employment and diversion for firemen, ambulance drivers, bartenders and various carpenters, plumbers and others who might otherwise have been bored stiff.

Muccablanco ended the plaintiff’s case shortly before lunch, and Willow turned to me.

“Now,” she said with a nasty grin. “Our turn.”


***


Willow:

After lunch, we started with Mrs. Mouffetsky.

The elderly mephitess took the stand and after being sworn Reggie walked up to her. “Mrs. Mouffetsky, have you ever seen me before?”

Mrs. M. peered at my beloved through her very thick glasses for a long moment before saying, “You look like a very dashing young Captain of Fusiliers I met at a ball in Ottawa – now let me see, when was that . . . oh, it must have been back in ’88 . . . “ Her tail started to twitch as long-ago memories made her smile and bat her lashes at Reggie.

“Um, er, enough of that, Ma’am,” Reggie said. “Do you recall an incident almost two years ago at Shepherd’s?”

“Eh? Hmm . . . you’ll have to excuse me, young man, my memory isn’t quite what it used to be, you know . . . “ Mrs. Mouffetsky’s voice trailed off as she thought.

Andre hissed, “Enough of zis, zis nonsense! Madame Mouffetsky! Do you think that ZIS will perhaps stimulate your memory?” And with that he pulled a live lobster from a bag at his feet and waved it at the mephit femme.

Mrs. Mouffetsky recoiled and started to scream, prompting Spaniel to gavel for order and the bailiffs to move in to render aid and comfort.

The lobster took advantage of the uproar to add to it, by pinching Andre square on his squirrelly nose.

“AHHH!”

The court stenographer giggled. “I peench,” the slender ewe remarked.

The lobster was duly restrained and escorted from the courtroom to meet its undeserved fate, and slowly Mrs. Mouffetsky was brought around.

Andre was left to fend for himself, pressing a pawkerchief to his abused nose.

Reggie walked up to her again. “Now, then, Mrs. Mouffetsky, can you recall – “

The skunk started trembling.

Suddenly, to the surprise of everyone in the courtroom, the mephitess broke down and started crying. "I - I- confess!" she sobbed. "I did it! I kidnapped the Strindberg Baby!”

You could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom.

A few of the spectators made the international finger-around-the-ear signal for ‘she’s off her nut, she is,’ while the Court took her sudden outburst under advisement.

There was a pause as details of the Strindberg Case were recalled, and Mrs. Mouffetsky was escorted off the stand and back to the judge’s chambers to await further questioning.

I expected Da to have a hard time of it.

Reggie mopped his brow as things settled down, and he looked about for something to drink. Spying the ice-laden pitcher on Magistrate Spaniel’s bench, he scooped it up without asking permission and took a healthy swig.

Followed instantly by his ears going straight up and he gagged, spitting the liquid out.

“Good Lord! That’s almost straight gin!”

There was a split second of shocked silence as Spaniel blushed bright red.

It took a good half-hour for the laughter in the courtroom to die down.



<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>