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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 54.
The Moolah Hula
Willow:
Luckily, the weather between Long Beach and Honolulu was a hell of a lot better for flying than from Ireland to Canada.
The bad news?
It still made for a very whoopsy doe.
Even with me flat on my back most of the way there. Without even the benefit of having Reggie flat on his back with me.
And that’s all you need to know about that, thank you.
I finally managed to spend some time sitting up, just in time to watch as Zephyr flew past Diamond Head and over the beach. I entertained the idea of talking Reggie into spending some time lying in the sun and watching the surf.
Regretfully I vetoed the idea. We were there for business, not for vacation.
And I didn’t want some well-meaning wiseacre trying to push me back into the ocean, thinking I was a beached whale.
Zephyr landed and taxied over to the landing apron, then there were a series of loud noises as the wheels extended, and the plane rolled up onto dry land. Ordinarily, the stewardess assured me, the plane would simply tie up to a dock, but because of my condition a ramp was needed.
I have to admit that this amount of attention was starting to get on my nerves. I mean, Reggie was very sweet to be so concerned about my health, but I think he was overdoing it a bit.
But, I reminded myself, I did bring this on myself by coming along.
As soon as we left Customs we took a taxi to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Reservations had been wired ahead before we left Los Angeles, so they knew we were coming.
However, since we had also spent our honeymoon there, they had certain . . . assumptions.
For example, the concierge leaned close to my ear after we’d registered and whispered, “Would Madame like the maple syrup warmed before it is sent up to your room?”
Thank the Lord he hadn’t said it out loud.
***
Reggie:
To this day, I have no idea what the concierge whispered to Willow, and she won’t tell me.
I suppose it’s something she’ll tell me when she gets good and ready to.
Meanwhile, while Willow was getting situated up in our rooms, I placed a phone call to the local FRB office. Apparently the unfortunate Mr. Strype had managed to extricate himself from the wardrobe, as he answered the phone.
I announced myself, and I heard the receiver hit the floor, followed by the sound of running feet.
Followed by a door shutting.
There were some sounds, and another voice asked, “Who is this?”
“Hullo! This is Reginald Buckhorn speaking. Who is this?”
“Er, ah, this is Mr. Staten.”
“Really? I’ve been to your island.”
“Er, my island?”
“Of course. Quite a nice one, as well. Excellent views of New York City.”
There was a pause.
“I take it, then, that you don’t have an island named after you?”
“Er, no.”
“Ah. Well, anyway, what happened to Mr. Strype?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Strype’s, er, indisposed.”
“Indisposed?”
“He’s locked himself in a wardrobe.”
“Heavens.” I steered the conversation toward safer waters, viz., the reason for my visit to Hawaii. This was a far safer line of conversation, judging by the relieved tone of Mr. Staten’s voice.
“Yes, sir. We have the proposal from Mr. Cardozo, as well as contact with his agent.”
“That would be the Baron von Kojote?”
“Er, yes, sir. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Um, good. He and his wife are staying at the Grand Pacific, Room 202.”
“Excellent. I’ll ring him up and we’ll talk things over before we sign the papers.”
“When will that be, sir?”
I thought about that. “Tomorrow morning sound good for you?”
“Whatever you say, sir. We’ll have everything ready tomorrow morning.”
I hung up the phone, then dug out the phone book. After a minute or two, I picked the phone up again.
“Operator? Hello, this is Mr. Buckhorn in four-twenty. Please connect me with KAhuna 2-5642.”
“Hallo? Wie geht’s?”
“Baron von Kojote?”
“Ja.”
“Reggie Buckhorn here.”
“Ah! Herr Buckhorn, mein Freund! I take it then, in Hawaii you now are?”
“Er, yes.”
“Kolossal! Will you today the signatures be wanting?”
(I must interject here and remind the reader that the good Baron is a German chap. Unfortunately, his English sometimes gives him away.)
“No no, not today. We just got here, you see. Shall we have lunch later today?”
“That would be excellent, Herr Buckhorn!”
And that was that. I broke the news to Willow that we wouldn’t be dining in for lunch, and she was enthusiastic about the idea of meeting the von Kojotes. After all, the Baronin had to have had their children by now, and there was a lot of gossip to catch up on.
And that gave me an idea.
***
Willow:
We agreed to meet for lunch, and looked over a few likely prospects. There was one called The Elm Street, down at Bethel and King Streets.
I vetoed it immediately, as the restaurant is run by New Haven expatriates, and there are a lot of mementoes in there.
I’d been there before. There were a lot of memories.
Too much to want to dredge up.
Grace agreed, and that was that.
We met the Baron and Sophia at a very nice open-air eatery near Waikiki. Sophia kissed my cheek and made many very admiring and approving comments about my health and how radiant I looked.
I thought she was just being nice.
The Baron looked proud enough to burst as his wife trotted out the obligatory baby pictures. They’d had twin girls, named Alejandra and Hildegarde. They were beautiful, and after an appropriate amount of oohing and ahhing I said so.
“It is good of you,” Sophia said. “Heinrich says that they are beautiful, because they take after me.”
“Sehr richtig!” the Baron said in his usual carrying tones, drawing a few glances from passers-by. “It is indeed a gift from On High that they take after meine liebe Sophia,” and he made puppy-eyes at her as she smiled.
“With any luck our fawn will take after Willow,” Reggie said.
“Even if it’s a buck?” I teased.
My mate grinned. “Particularly if it’s a buck.”
Our meals arrived, and as we started eating our ears perked at the sound of music being played.
Well, for a given value of ‘music.’
I looked up, and saw a guy playing, of all things, a banjolele. He was a polar bear with the appropriate down on his luck lean and hungry look, slouching against a large sign that bore a much rounder and jollier specimen of his species dressed as Santa Claus. Unlike his living counterpart, Santa was hoisting a foaming mug of Odenwald beer while the sign proclaimed “Mele Kalikimaka!” to all and sundry.
The rangy polar bear finished running his fingers over the banjolele’s strings and launched into a song. As he played he started getting happier, until his grin grew slightly manic.
I started wondering if he’d escaped from Cranium Island as he sang:
“Peering through the thicket
In Grandma’s haystack wig,
Why do they build the trees so high in Maine?
Someone get the drill
Thomasina’s got the pox,
Spare a coin for poor Uncle Billy!”
The von Kojotes and I sat there, listening to this with not a little surprise and deeply offended artistic sensibilities.
Reggie applauded.
The polar bear grinned a bit more manically and swung into a chorus of George Formless’ Window Washer. When he was finished, he bowed.
I thought about hitting him. After all, he was presenting his head.
“Bravo!” Reggie said. He reached into a pocket and pressed a few dollars into the man’s paws. “Do you take requests?”
“Only if I know the song,” the man said.
“Then how much will it take to make you go away?” I asked.
“Just enough to pay my plagiarism judgment.”
“Ohohoho!” Baron von Kojote laughed. “I am thinking, this fellow is perhaps the krank in the Kopf.”
“Oh come now, Baron,” Reggie said. “It’s obvious this fellow’s an artist.”
“He certainly draws flies,” I muttered.
Reggie didn’t hear me, but looked at the banjolele player with some interest. “Tell me, my good chap, have you ever been gainfully employed?”
“What is this, a job interview?” The polar bear ran a paw over his greasy, somewhat dingy headfur. “Maybe I should’ve worn my good suit.” He extended a paw to my husband. “Name’s Carmichael.”
“Reggie Buckhorn. So, what did you used to do?”
“I used to be a mortgage loan officer.”
“Why the career switch, then?”
“I got tired of telling my mother I ran a floating crap game.”
I thought this was a sound policy. Running a dice game certainly had higher social cachet than a loan officer.
Carmichael strummed a few chords on his instrument before launching into another song:
“Now in my family we’ve got an heirloom
They gave it to me years ago,
It’s been in our possession since Grandma was a cub
I’ll tell you what it is and then you’ll know
It’s me Grandma’s rough hessian nightgown – “
At this point the Baron growled something and rose from his chair. It was fairly obvious that he meant to shut Carmichael up.
Probably by using drastic measures, with an added dash of good old Teutonic bloody-mindedness.
If it weren’t for my passenger, I might have raced him.
As it was, Sophia was a bit faster than her husband, succeeding in grabbing his right ear and hauling him back into his seat.
While Heinrich whined I said, “Why aren’t you in radio? With a voice like yours, you could destroy the Red Network within a week.”
“Well, I’ve been on the road since leaving Chicago.”
“What are you doing in Hawaii, for Heaven’s sake?” Reggie asked.
“Took a wrong turn at La Jolla.”
“Well, where were you headed?”
“Cleveland. I was traveling the country with a Fellow Traveler.”
“And who might that have been?”
Carmichael shrugged. “Night attendant at a SORI station.”
“Standard Oil of Rhode Island? I might regret asking, but where’s the gas man?”
“Dunno. I lost him somewhere near Ivins.”
“Ivins?”
“I wasn’t aware we were competing. Anyway, I think the poor guy could be anywhere from Maine to Mexico.”
“Not if he works for SORI, he couldn’t,” I said.
Eventually we finally managed to figure out how much money was required to get him to leave. He walked off, whistling a jaunty tune while playing She Was Only A Blacksmith’s Daughter.
Our relief was evident as he mercifully faded from earshot.
The Baron dug a finger in one ear, grumbling something in German. I felt that he was saying that if the Allies had had Carmichael, the Great War would have been over by 1915.
“One meets all kinds, what?” Reggie said.
<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 54.
The Moolah Hula
Willow:
Luckily, the weather between Long Beach and Honolulu was a hell of a lot better for flying than from Ireland to Canada.
The bad news?
It still made for a very whoopsy doe.
Even with me flat on my back most of the way there. Without even the benefit of having Reggie flat on his back with me.
And that’s all you need to know about that, thank you.
I finally managed to spend some time sitting up, just in time to watch as Zephyr flew past Diamond Head and over the beach. I entertained the idea of talking Reggie into spending some time lying in the sun and watching the surf.
Regretfully I vetoed the idea. We were there for business, not for vacation.
And I didn’t want some well-meaning wiseacre trying to push me back into the ocean, thinking I was a beached whale.
Zephyr landed and taxied over to the landing apron, then there were a series of loud noises as the wheels extended, and the plane rolled up onto dry land. Ordinarily, the stewardess assured me, the plane would simply tie up to a dock, but because of my condition a ramp was needed.
I have to admit that this amount of attention was starting to get on my nerves. I mean, Reggie was very sweet to be so concerned about my health, but I think he was overdoing it a bit.
But, I reminded myself, I did bring this on myself by coming along.
As soon as we left Customs we took a taxi to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Reservations had been wired ahead before we left Los Angeles, so they knew we were coming.
However, since we had also spent our honeymoon there, they had certain . . . assumptions.
For example, the concierge leaned close to my ear after we’d registered and whispered, “Would Madame like the maple syrup warmed before it is sent up to your room?”
Thank the Lord he hadn’t said it out loud.
***
Reggie:
To this day, I have no idea what the concierge whispered to Willow, and she won’t tell me.
I suppose it’s something she’ll tell me when she gets good and ready to.
Meanwhile, while Willow was getting situated up in our rooms, I placed a phone call to the local FRB office. Apparently the unfortunate Mr. Strype had managed to extricate himself from the wardrobe, as he answered the phone.
I announced myself, and I heard the receiver hit the floor, followed by the sound of running feet.
Followed by a door shutting.
There were some sounds, and another voice asked, “Who is this?”
“Hullo! This is Reginald Buckhorn speaking. Who is this?”
“Er, ah, this is Mr. Staten.”
“Really? I’ve been to your island.”
“Er, my island?”
“Of course. Quite a nice one, as well. Excellent views of New York City.”
There was a pause.
“I take it, then, that you don’t have an island named after you?”
“Er, no.”
“Ah. Well, anyway, what happened to Mr. Strype?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Strype’s, er, indisposed.”
“Indisposed?”
“He’s locked himself in a wardrobe.”
“Heavens.” I steered the conversation toward safer waters, viz., the reason for my visit to Hawaii. This was a far safer line of conversation, judging by the relieved tone of Mr. Staten’s voice.
“Yes, sir. We have the proposal from Mr. Cardozo, as well as contact with his agent.”
“That would be the Baron von Kojote?”
“Er, yes, sir. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Um, good. He and his wife are staying at the Grand Pacific, Room 202.”
“Excellent. I’ll ring him up and we’ll talk things over before we sign the papers.”
“When will that be, sir?”
I thought about that. “Tomorrow morning sound good for you?”
“Whatever you say, sir. We’ll have everything ready tomorrow morning.”
I hung up the phone, then dug out the phone book. After a minute or two, I picked the phone up again.
“Operator? Hello, this is Mr. Buckhorn in four-twenty. Please connect me with KAhuna 2-5642.”
“Hallo? Wie geht’s?”
“Baron von Kojote?”
“Ja.”
“Reggie Buckhorn here.”
“Ah! Herr Buckhorn, mein Freund! I take it then, in Hawaii you now are?”
“Er, yes.”
“Kolossal! Will you today the signatures be wanting?”
(I must interject here and remind the reader that the good Baron is a German chap. Unfortunately, his English sometimes gives him away.)
“No no, not today. We just got here, you see. Shall we have lunch later today?”
“That would be excellent, Herr Buckhorn!”
And that was that. I broke the news to Willow that we wouldn’t be dining in for lunch, and she was enthusiastic about the idea of meeting the von Kojotes. After all, the Baronin had to have had their children by now, and there was a lot of gossip to catch up on.
And that gave me an idea.
***
Willow:
We agreed to meet for lunch, and looked over a few likely prospects. There was one called The Elm Street, down at Bethel and King Streets.
I vetoed it immediately, as the restaurant is run by New Haven expatriates, and there are a lot of mementoes in there.
I’d been there before. There were a lot of memories.
Too much to want to dredge up.
Grace agreed, and that was that.
We met the Baron and Sophia at a very nice open-air eatery near Waikiki. Sophia kissed my cheek and made many very admiring and approving comments about my health and how radiant I looked.
I thought she was just being nice.
The Baron looked proud enough to burst as his wife trotted out the obligatory baby pictures. They’d had twin girls, named Alejandra and Hildegarde. They were beautiful, and after an appropriate amount of oohing and ahhing I said so.
“It is good of you,” Sophia said. “Heinrich says that they are beautiful, because they take after me.”
“Sehr richtig!” the Baron said in his usual carrying tones, drawing a few glances from passers-by. “It is indeed a gift from On High that they take after meine liebe Sophia,” and he made puppy-eyes at her as she smiled.
“With any luck our fawn will take after Willow,” Reggie said.
“Even if it’s a buck?” I teased.
My mate grinned. “Particularly if it’s a buck.”
Our meals arrived, and as we started eating our ears perked at the sound of music being played.
Well, for a given value of ‘music.’
I looked up, and saw a guy playing, of all things, a banjolele. He was a polar bear with the appropriate down on his luck lean and hungry look, slouching against a large sign that bore a much rounder and jollier specimen of his species dressed as Santa Claus. Unlike his living counterpart, Santa was hoisting a foaming mug of Odenwald beer while the sign proclaimed “Mele Kalikimaka!” to all and sundry.
The rangy polar bear finished running his fingers over the banjolele’s strings and launched into a song. As he played he started getting happier, until his grin grew slightly manic.
I started wondering if he’d escaped from Cranium Island as he sang:
“Peering through the thicket
In Grandma’s haystack wig,
Why do they build the trees so high in Maine?
Someone get the drill
Thomasina’s got the pox,
Spare a coin for poor Uncle Billy!”
The von Kojotes and I sat there, listening to this with not a little surprise and deeply offended artistic sensibilities.
Reggie applauded.
The polar bear grinned a bit more manically and swung into a chorus of George Formless’ Window Washer. When he was finished, he bowed.
I thought about hitting him. After all, he was presenting his head.
“Bravo!” Reggie said. He reached into a pocket and pressed a few dollars into the man’s paws. “Do you take requests?”
“Only if I know the song,” the man said.
“Then how much will it take to make you go away?” I asked.
“Just enough to pay my plagiarism judgment.”
“Ohohoho!” Baron von Kojote laughed. “I am thinking, this fellow is perhaps the krank in the Kopf.”
“Oh come now, Baron,” Reggie said. “It’s obvious this fellow’s an artist.”
“He certainly draws flies,” I muttered.
Reggie didn’t hear me, but looked at the banjolele player with some interest. “Tell me, my good chap, have you ever been gainfully employed?”
“What is this, a job interview?” The polar bear ran a paw over his greasy, somewhat dingy headfur. “Maybe I should’ve worn my good suit.” He extended a paw to my husband. “Name’s Carmichael.”
“Reggie Buckhorn. So, what did you used to do?”
“I used to be a mortgage loan officer.”
“Why the career switch, then?”
“I got tired of telling my mother I ran a floating crap game.”
I thought this was a sound policy. Running a dice game certainly had higher social cachet than a loan officer.
Carmichael strummed a few chords on his instrument before launching into another song:
“Now in my family we’ve got an heirloom
They gave it to me years ago,
It’s been in our possession since Grandma was a cub
I’ll tell you what it is and then you’ll know
It’s me Grandma’s rough hessian nightgown – “
At this point the Baron growled something and rose from his chair. It was fairly obvious that he meant to shut Carmichael up.
Probably by using drastic measures, with an added dash of good old Teutonic bloody-mindedness.
If it weren’t for my passenger, I might have raced him.
As it was, Sophia was a bit faster than her husband, succeeding in grabbing his right ear and hauling him back into his seat.
While Heinrich whined I said, “Why aren’t you in radio? With a voice like yours, you could destroy the Red Network within a week.”
“Well, I’ve been on the road since leaving Chicago.”
“What are you doing in Hawaii, for Heaven’s sake?” Reggie asked.
“Took a wrong turn at La Jolla.”
“Well, where were you headed?”
“Cleveland. I was traveling the country with a Fellow Traveler.”
“And who might that have been?”
Carmichael shrugged. “Night attendant at a SORI station.”
“Standard Oil of Rhode Island? I might regret asking, but where’s the gas man?”
“Dunno. I lost him somewhere near Ivins.”
“Ivins?”
“I wasn’t aware we were competing. Anyway, I think the poor guy could be anywhere from Maine to Mexico.”
“Not if he works for SORI, he couldn’t,” I said.
Eventually we finally managed to figure out how much money was required to get him to leave. He walked off, whistling a jaunty tune while playing She Was Only A Blacksmith’s Daughter.
Our relief was evident as he mercifully faded from earshot.
The Baron dug a finger in one ear, grumbling something in German. I felt that he was saying that if the Allies had had Carmichael, the Great War would have been over by 1915.
“One meets all kinds, what?” Reggie said.
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 932 x 1280px
File Size 257.5 kB
Comments