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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
__________________________________________________
Part 52.
Reggie:
It was a great idea.
It was such a good idea that we had to get off the train in Evanston. Only momentarily, of course.
The board of Kernel Komestibles were waiting for us. They had known we were on the way, of course – the Sire believed in heralding bad news. Whether they were waiting with dire forebodings or if my reputation had preceded me was a matter of some speculation.
I hoped they’d heard about how I dealt with Cousin William.
We pulled into the station in Chicago right on time (just after lunch) and the railroad chappies disconnected the consist and moved us off onto a siding. They hooked up some power and phone lines to the cars, so we wouldn’t have to worry about getting cold or not being able to call out.
I called the office of Kernel Komestibles, and spoke with their general manager. They’d been waiting for me, and we agreed that they should appear in the consist’s boardroom at two o’clock sharp.
Excellent. It gave us time to rehearse.
A few minutes before two the members of the board, er, stepped aboard, and Lodge showed them in. There were five of them, two horses, a bull and, surprisingly, two gentlemen of the raccoon persuasion.
Perhaps not so surprising, after all. A lot of omnivores eat FRB products.
“Gentlemen!” I said. “Please, take seats. I hope you brought your papers – and I don’t mean the Sunday funnies, either.”
Although I did want to see the latest Rocket Rat. I had started following his exploits while in Spontoon, but the American and English papers didn’t carry much of anything from Rain Island. Apart from bad news. Still, to business.
Willow sat in a corner behind me, dressed in a way that would have distracted me completely if she’d been sitting in front of me. Very demurely despite her condition, with her glasses on and headfur done up in a very school-marmish bun. Just the sight of her was enough to make my blood stir.
Introductions were made, and the curtain rose.
“As you may have been told, I’m Reggie Buckhorn, Vice-Chairman of Buckhorn’s. My father has ordered me to come and see what can be done to salvage things here.” The board members looked uneasily at each other as I glanced at the briefing papers in front of me, along with my and Willow’s notes. “Your company’s productivity is down twenty percent, and you’ve had to let one hundred fifteen workers go. Your reports to my father state that you were sequestering funds to prevent any confiscations under the Reds Act.”
“That’s true, Mr. Buckhorn,” one of the raccoons, a fellow named Lou Farris, said.
I nodded. “I didn’t see anything in the reports where it stated you lot cut your pay in order to keep those workers at their jobs.”
There was a silence.
One of the equines, Augie Mannheim, lit a cigarette and said, “It’s easier to let people go.”
“I can tell.”
I think my tone was warming up, as the horse flicked his ears in my direction. “Well, what I mean is – “
“What he means,” the second raccoon said, “is that the jobs will still be there when this all blows over.”
“That’s all well and good. But it doesn’t help them now, does it? And when, pray, does this all blow over? President Long isn’t up for re-election until nineteen forty.”
“The Supreme Court – “
“Rubbish.” Yes, I was definitely starting to feel a bit warm under my collar. I mean, fair play and all that, and these fellows weren’t even lifting a paw to give their workers a fair go. “I read the papers, gentlemen. Your Supreme Court won’t rule on whether the Act is constitutional or not until October of this year – at the earliest. Meanwhile, America’s in a recession. Where do the people you’ve let go find jobs?”
They glanced at each other. Mannheim offered, “There is public relief – “
“And that works out very well, does it?”
The horse frowned.
“Apparently not. Look, gentlemen, America relies on Kernel’s products. Not just the herbivores, you know,” and I nodded at the two raccoons. “I mean, look at Whinnies Breakfast Cereal - it’s one of your biggest sellers.”
“But, as you say, we’re in a recession – “
“All the more reason to keep your trained workers right where they are,” I said. I glanced back at Willow.
She flicked an ear.
Show time.
***
Willow:
Reggie reached under the table, where an umbrella stand had been placed.
To the surprise of the board members, he pulled out three baseball bats.
“You know, gentlemen,” my mate said, keeping the bats together and taking a few warmup swings, “despite my accent, I am half-American. I’ve always been very fond of baseball, you know. In fact, my mother owns the Phillies.”
“Are they still in the league?” Mannheim asked, and the others chuckled.
Reggie chuckled as well. “Now now, be fair. Could be worse, you know – they could be St. Louis.” This sally caused the members of the board to turn on the lone bovine for some good-natured teasing. The bull simply sat there and took it, his smile looking a bit sour.
“What I’m getting at, gentlemen.” Reggie resumed as he still swung the bats around, “is that – oops!”
Apparently, he didn’t have a tight enough grip, and two of Hillerich and Bradsby’s finest went sailing right out one of the windows, accompanied by a fanfare of breaking glass in several minor keys.
The board sat there, shocked expressions on their faces.
Reggie, bless him hardly skipped a beat. Instead he tapped the barrel of the bat against the palm of his free paw.
Based on my experience in Minkerton’s, that kind of move’s always just a bit intimidating.
“Well, it’ll provide a job for someone, what? And that’s what I’m on about, gentlemen – baseball is a team sport, isn’t it? Nine stalwart warriors – well six and a half, if you’re talking about the Browns – all with a single purpose. And that purpose is to succeed. And that’s what draws my admiration about baseball. A man stands alone at the plate. This is the time for what? For individual achievement. There he stands, alone."
Reggie struck the bat against the table. Not very hard, but one of the equines looked nervous.
“But in the field, what? Part of a team. Teamwork, gentlemen. Looks, throws, catches, hustles – they’re all part of one big team. A fur can bat the live-long day . . . furs like Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Marvin Griggs, and so on. But if the team doesn't field . . . what is he? Do you understand me?”
One or two nodded. The others looked a bit scared.
I think they were worried Reggie would start laying about him with the bat.
Reggie was waxing lyrical. “Picture it! Beautiful sunny day, the stands are full of fans. What does a player have to say? Does he say, ‘I'm going out there for myself?’ Yes, he does. But . . . he gets nowhere unless the team wins.”
He had their attention, and when he reached the head of the table he thumped the bat against table like a judge’s gavel.
Or maybe a death knell.
“Gentlemen, a team is made up of its members. Everyone pulling in the same direction. Now, Kernel’s is a market leader in this country, gentlemen, and a large part of that success is the fact that it’s a team. From you five furs to the chap who sweeps up the warehouse after hours – you are all members of a team.”
“But – “
“Mr. Mannheim, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. By laying off these workers you are hurting the team. Your company’s a subsidiary of F. R. Buckhorn’s, and we’ve taken pride in the fact that even in the worst days of the Depression we never let any of our workers go.” Reggie fixed the stallion with a glare, and Mannheim seemed to shrink a bit in his chair.
“So what do you suggest, Mr. Buckhorn?” Farris asked.
I cleared my throat.
Reggie glanced back at me. “Yes, dear?”
“Thank you, Reggie. May I make a suggestion?”
***
Reggie:
“Suggest away, my dear.”
My mate clasped her paws demurely over her notepad and surveyed the board members over the tops of her glasses. “It appears to me that the problem is one of money. There isn’t enough money to support retaining the workers.”
“Just so, darling.”
She took her glasses off and I could see steel in her gaze now.
For one brief, shining moment I knew why the Sire had lost to her back on Spontoon.
“The solution’s simple. Fire two of the members of the board.”
I blinked.
The board members looked both shocked and frightened as they launched into a loud set of denials. The two raccoons, in particular, had their ringed tails bottled out fully.
I guess that they thought they were first on the hit parade.
I tapped the bat on the table. “Order, order. I say, Willow, that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? Here I am, going on about teamwork, and you suggest removing two members of the team.”
She gave me a small curl of a smile, and now I started to feel scared.
“It’s a simple solution, Reggie: The greatest good for the greatest number.”
“’Pon my word, my dear, but doesn’t that sound – well, a bit Red to you?”
She put her glasses back on. “Ideology has nothing to do with it. It’s a simple matter of money.” She gave the Board a significant glance.
The bull was the first one to seize the lifeline. “There’s no need to fire any of us. We’re part of the team too, you know.”
“So what do you suggest?” I asked.
“The five of us,” he said, looking at the others for support, “will take a cut in our salaries – enough funds to rehire the workers full-time.” He gave a smile so hollow that I could have used it as a bucket. “I know what it’s like to take one for the team.”
“He roots for Saint Louis,” one of the equines muttered.
“That sounds like a very magnanimous, as well as a very generous, solution,” I said. “Tell you what – be back here tomorrow morning, with the proposal drawn up to rehire all of the redundant workers. Now, is there any other business?”
Silence.
“Then this meeting’s adjourned until tomorrow, at nine,” and I gave the bat a casual swing.
It hit the water pitcher nearest to me, shattering it and spraying water everywhere.
“That’s funny – the bat’s usually hit by pitcher, not the other way around.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
© 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__________________________________________________
Part 52.
Reggie:
It was a great idea.
It was such a good idea that we had to get off the train in Evanston. Only momentarily, of course.
The board of Kernel Komestibles were waiting for us. They had known we were on the way, of course – the Sire believed in heralding bad news. Whether they were waiting with dire forebodings or if my reputation had preceded me was a matter of some speculation.
I hoped they’d heard about how I dealt with Cousin William.
We pulled into the station in Chicago right on time (just after lunch) and the railroad chappies disconnected the consist and moved us off onto a siding. They hooked up some power and phone lines to the cars, so we wouldn’t have to worry about getting cold or not being able to call out.
I called the office of Kernel Komestibles, and spoke with their general manager. They’d been waiting for me, and we agreed that they should appear in the consist’s boardroom at two o’clock sharp.
Excellent. It gave us time to rehearse.
A few minutes before two the members of the board, er, stepped aboard, and Lodge showed them in. There were five of them, two horses, a bull and, surprisingly, two gentlemen of the raccoon persuasion.
Perhaps not so surprising, after all. A lot of omnivores eat FRB products.
“Gentlemen!” I said. “Please, take seats. I hope you brought your papers – and I don’t mean the Sunday funnies, either.”
Although I did want to see the latest Rocket Rat. I had started following his exploits while in Spontoon, but the American and English papers didn’t carry much of anything from Rain Island. Apart from bad news. Still, to business.
Willow sat in a corner behind me, dressed in a way that would have distracted me completely if she’d been sitting in front of me. Very demurely despite her condition, with her glasses on and headfur done up in a very school-marmish bun. Just the sight of her was enough to make my blood stir.
Introductions were made, and the curtain rose.
“As you may have been told, I’m Reggie Buckhorn, Vice-Chairman of Buckhorn’s. My father has ordered me to come and see what can be done to salvage things here.” The board members looked uneasily at each other as I glanced at the briefing papers in front of me, along with my and Willow’s notes. “Your company’s productivity is down twenty percent, and you’ve had to let one hundred fifteen workers go. Your reports to my father state that you were sequestering funds to prevent any confiscations under the Reds Act.”
“That’s true, Mr. Buckhorn,” one of the raccoons, a fellow named Lou Farris, said.
I nodded. “I didn’t see anything in the reports where it stated you lot cut your pay in order to keep those workers at their jobs.”
There was a silence.
One of the equines, Augie Mannheim, lit a cigarette and said, “It’s easier to let people go.”
“I can tell.”
I think my tone was warming up, as the horse flicked his ears in my direction. “Well, what I mean is – “
“What he means,” the second raccoon said, “is that the jobs will still be there when this all blows over.”
“That’s all well and good. But it doesn’t help them now, does it? And when, pray, does this all blow over? President Long isn’t up for re-election until nineteen forty.”
“The Supreme Court – “
“Rubbish.” Yes, I was definitely starting to feel a bit warm under my collar. I mean, fair play and all that, and these fellows weren’t even lifting a paw to give their workers a fair go. “I read the papers, gentlemen. Your Supreme Court won’t rule on whether the Act is constitutional or not until October of this year – at the earliest. Meanwhile, America’s in a recession. Where do the people you’ve let go find jobs?”
They glanced at each other. Mannheim offered, “There is public relief – “
“And that works out very well, does it?”
The horse frowned.
“Apparently not. Look, gentlemen, America relies on Kernel’s products. Not just the herbivores, you know,” and I nodded at the two raccoons. “I mean, look at Whinnies Breakfast Cereal - it’s one of your biggest sellers.”
“But, as you say, we’re in a recession – “
“All the more reason to keep your trained workers right where they are,” I said. I glanced back at Willow.
She flicked an ear.
Show time.
***
Willow:
Reggie reached under the table, where an umbrella stand had been placed.
To the surprise of the board members, he pulled out three baseball bats.
“You know, gentlemen,” my mate said, keeping the bats together and taking a few warmup swings, “despite my accent, I am half-American. I’ve always been very fond of baseball, you know. In fact, my mother owns the Phillies.”
“Are they still in the league?” Mannheim asked, and the others chuckled.
Reggie chuckled as well. “Now now, be fair. Could be worse, you know – they could be St. Louis.” This sally caused the members of the board to turn on the lone bovine for some good-natured teasing. The bull simply sat there and took it, his smile looking a bit sour.
“What I’m getting at, gentlemen.” Reggie resumed as he still swung the bats around, “is that – oops!”
Apparently, he didn’t have a tight enough grip, and two of Hillerich and Bradsby’s finest went sailing right out one of the windows, accompanied by a fanfare of breaking glass in several minor keys.
The board sat there, shocked expressions on their faces.
Reggie, bless him hardly skipped a beat. Instead he tapped the barrel of the bat against the palm of his free paw.
Based on my experience in Minkerton’s, that kind of move’s always just a bit intimidating.
“Well, it’ll provide a job for someone, what? And that’s what I’m on about, gentlemen – baseball is a team sport, isn’t it? Nine stalwart warriors – well six and a half, if you’re talking about the Browns – all with a single purpose. And that purpose is to succeed. And that’s what draws my admiration about baseball. A man stands alone at the plate. This is the time for what? For individual achievement. There he stands, alone."
Reggie struck the bat against the table. Not very hard, but one of the equines looked nervous.
“But in the field, what? Part of a team. Teamwork, gentlemen. Looks, throws, catches, hustles – they’re all part of one big team. A fur can bat the live-long day . . . furs like Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Marvin Griggs, and so on. But if the team doesn't field . . . what is he? Do you understand me?”
One or two nodded. The others looked a bit scared.
I think they were worried Reggie would start laying about him with the bat.
Reggie was waxing lyrical. “Picture it! Beautiful sunny day, the stands are full of fans. What does a player have to say? Does he say, ‘I'm going out there for myself?’ Yes, he does. But . . . he gets nowhere unless the team wins.”
He had their attention, and when he reached the head of the table he thumped the bat against table like a judge’s gavel.
Or maybe a death knell.
“Gentlemen, a team is made up of its members. Everyone pulling in the same direction. Now, Kernel’s is a market leader in this country, gentlemen, and a large part of that success is the fact that it’s a team. From you five furs to the chap who sweeps up the warehouse after hours – you are all members of a team.”
“But – “
“Mr. Mannheim, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. By laying off these workers you are hurting the team. Your company’s a subsidiary of F. R. Buckhorn’s, and we’ve taken pride in the fact that even in the worst days of the Depression we never let any of our workers go.” Reggie fixed the stallion with a glare, and Mannheim seemed to shrink a bit in his chair.
“So what do you suggest, Mr. Buckhorn?” Farris asked.
I cleared my throat.
Reggie glanced back at me. “Yes, dear?”
“Thank you, Reggie. May I make a suggestion?”
***
Reggie:
“Suggest away, my dear.”
My mate clasped her paws demurely over her notepad and surveyed the board members over the tops of her glasses. “It appears to me that the problem is one of money. There isn’t enough money to support retaining the workers.”
“Just so, darling.”
She took her glasses off and I could see steel in her gaze now.
For one brief, shining moment I knew why the Sire had lost to her back on Spontoon.
“The solution’s simple. Fire two of the members of the board.”
I blinked.
The board members looked both shocked and frightened as they launched into a loud set of denials. The two raccoons, in particular, had their ringed tails bottled out fully.
I guess that they thought they were first on the hit parade.
I tapped the bat on the table. “Order, order. I say, Willow, that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? Here I am, going on about teamwork, and you suggest removing two members of the team.”
She gave me a small curl of a smile, and now I started to feel scared.
“It’s a simple solution, Reggie: The greatest good for the greatest number.”
“’Pon my word, my dear, but doesn’t that sound – well, a bit Red to you?”
She put her glasses back on. “Ideology has nothing to do with it. It’s a simple matter of money.” She gave the Board a significant glance.
The bull was the first one to seize the lifeline. “There’s no need to fire any of us. We’re part of the team too, you know.”
“So what do you suggest?” I asked.
“The five of us,” he said, looking at the others for support, “will take a cut in our salaries – enough funds to rehire the workers full-time.” He gave a smile so hollow that I could have used it as a bucket. “I know what it’s like to take one for the team.”
“He roots for Saint Louis,” one of the equines muttered.
“That sounds like a very magnanimous, as well as a very generous, solution,” I said. “Tell you what – be back here tomorrow morning, with the proposal drawn up to rehire all of the redundant workers. Now, is there any other business?”
Silence.
“Then this meeting’s adjourned until tomorrow, at nine,” and I gave the bat a casual swing.
It hit the water pitcher nearest to me, shattering it and spraying water everywhere.
“That’s funny – the bat’s usually hit by pitcher, not the other way around.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
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