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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
KatieKat
__________________________________________________
Part 57.
New Year on the Fly
(Katie MacArran courtesy of J. T. Urie. Thanks!)
Katie:
Damn.
Damn.
DAMN.
Christmas, talk about a rock and a hard place . . . in this case, the rock is that gaggle of idiots from the press. It’s not just wolves that travel in packs, you know.
The hard place? Simple. YOU try waiting seven damned hours for a chartered flight all the way from Honolulu to Oakland.
Of course, I could take one of the IAC cargo planes. That would shave three hours off the wait, and since I own the company I’m guaranteed a seat.
But if I was healthy enough to fly as a passenger on a cargo plane, I’d be healthy enough to FLY a cargo plane . . . and if I were healthy enough to fly a cargo plane, I’d be healthy enough to fly a PURSUIT plane . . .
Damn that Chennault for making me leave China. I should never have let him talk me into it . . . not that I had much choice; Chiang wanted me gone, too. But don’t think I don’t know who REALLY pulled the strings to get rid of me.
Damn you, Madame Chiang. You may have Colonel Chennault wrapped around your finger, but I know better what kind of spoiled bitch you are. Here are the Japanese, overrunning China and all YOU care about is not being upstaged by . . .
Okay, Katie, calm down. Dammit, my leg hurts. Can’t sit down, can’t lie down, can’t walk . . . and can’t yiffing FLY, Dammit! Damn the Japanese for attacking Nanking.
And damn them for shooting me down. And if I EVER get my hooves on . . .
Soft knock on the door. Who the hell - ?
“Enter.” I keep having to remind myself not to grind my teeth.
Good, it’s Raibassu.
“A gentlebuck is outside who wishes to see you, Mistress.” Before I can snap at him he raises a paw. “Shang thinks best that you at least see his card."
He holds the card out and I try very hard not to snatch it out of his paw. Hmm.
“Reginald P. R. Buckhorn, Vice-Chairman, F. R. Buckhorn & Sons.”
Addresses in Philadelphia, New York, London, and Bucks.
Well, of course I know about Buckhorn’s. They’re the biggest suppliers to the MacArran distilleries – not to mention Zepps cookies.
This guy better not be a salesman or a reporter trying to bluff his way in with a stolen card, or I’ll give him to Raibassu for a plaything.
Though he won’t be much fun to play with after I get through with him!
“Very well, Raibassu. Let the buck in. But ONLY the buck.”
He steps out, and a minute or so later he comes back, looming (discreetly) behind the buck. Hmm, tallish whitetail, good-looking for his species, good suit.
Brooks Brothers, maybe.
Nervous guy, too, from the way he fingers that Homburg in his hooves.
He gives a small bow and a smile. “I’m, er, awfully sorry to intrude . . . er, Your Grace, but my man Lodge tells me you’re trying to bag a plane to get to the West Coast, then shift ho for New York and Vermont . . . “
Now I recognize him, although we haven’t met. The family resemblance is there. But . . . either his father doesn’t like him, or Sir Josslyn’s the biggest liar on Earth. And that old buck may be the crustiest bastard this side of H.L. Monkeying, but one thing he’s not is dishonest.
Or . . . Ahh, Reggie’s his name, yes I recall now. Reggie must have undergone a literal sea change. Clear-eyed, no visible sign of malice – or inebriation.
I give him a nod. Him using my title is just good manners; he’s not out to kiss my tail.
More nervous hat-fiddling. “Ah. Well. Lodge is usually correct. Dashed amazing. Err, anyway. Mrs. Buckhorn and I are heading back to San Francisco on the firm’s flying boat, and then crossing to New York on the family’s private rail cars. We’re scheduled to leave fairly shortly, but we’d be happy to have you and your staff as our guests, and we could leave right away once your kit is stowed.”
Oooh, Christmas, that’s tempting as hell. A lot more appealing than being stuck in here, hiding from . . . hmm.
Of course, it’d mean diverting from Oakland, but still . . . “Any chance of avoiding the mob from the press?”
“Well, I think so. I can always ask – oh, there you are, Lodge.”
Where the hell did that beaver come from? The look on Raibassu’s face is priceless, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing out loud.
Shang’s going to needle him for weeks. “So a VALET managed to surprise you, yes?”
Heh.
“I have made enquiries, Sir,” the beaver says. “Her Grace’s luggage can be stowed aboard Zephyr very discreetly, in a matter of a few minutes. This is inclusive of the items from the Orient that must be handled carefully. There is also a secure passageway to the gate where Her Grace can enplane equally discreetly. I have given instructions to have the ramp used by Mrs. Buckhorn attached to the plane in the event Her Grace will require it.”
Her Grace will definitely require it.
“Has Mrs. Buckhorn boarded, Lodge?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Jolly good. Your Grace?”
“Spending another minute here’s proving to be less and less attractive. I accept your offer, Mr. Buckhorn.”
Twenty minutes later I’m aboard Zephyr. Swanky plane, a big Sikorsky 42 fitted out with staterooms. Shang and Raibassu poked their noses in it before I hobbled aboard, and gave it a clean bill of health.
The best thing, from my point of view, was that the place was spacious. Room to stretch out a sore and aching hoof.
And the beaver shows up with a tray of cocktails for sore and aching nerves. I sniff at one and he says, “Delhi Gin, I assure you, Your Grace. It is Mr. Buckhorn’s preferred brand.”
I push the glass aside, gently. “I appreciate the offer – uh, Lodge is it? Well, sorry, Lodge, but I don’t drink hard liquor. Would you happen to have a cold bottle of beer aboard?”
“I am certain we can accommodate you, Your Grace.”
He’s back in a few moments with a chilled bottle of San Miguel and a pilsner glass. I thanked him, and started to knock back the beer as the plane taxied out into the harbor to take off.
The pilots are good, but then they’d have to be; Sir Josslyn wouldn’t have anything but the best.
I glance out the window at Honolulu as the plane climbs. I am NOT looking forward to the reception in Oakland. If the papers I’ve read in Manila and Hawaii are any indication, the word is that the Panay incident had, in fact, touched off an uproar in Congress.
But not the way I thought.
Those idiots in the Congress. AND the press.
They’ve spent the past few weeks criticizing Long, the Navy Department and the Panay’s crew for being near Nanking in the first place. That stupid, plum-in-the-mouth radio commentator Boake Carter had the gall to claim that the sinking was part of Moosevelt’s plot to start a war in Asia.
Carter’s more ass than stoat. Moosevelt’s been dead only HOW long? What, do you believe in ghosts, now?
Ass.
What do you think the Panay’s crew was doing in China, you idiot? Playing tiddlywinks?
I’m not going to mince words. They want a fight, by God, they’ll GET a fight.
The Panay was evacuating Americans from Nanking when those Japanese devils came with their dive bombers.
And, lucky for them, I and the Iron Phoenix Squadron arrived just in time. Too late to save the ship, but on time for most of the passengers and crew.
But unlucky for me . . .
Christmas, every time I think about it, there I am again, in my NA-50 cockpit as I follow the dive bomber down, that damned tail gunner still blazing away. The pilot knows his undercarriage is gone and he's can't land without blowing himself up anyway. So he's going to dive his plane into one of the tankers and turn the entire river into an inferno.
And that river is crowded with lifeboats . . .
A hard punch to my thigh.
A searing pain in my hoof.
And oily smoke pouring from my cowling.
How I managed to get out of the plane before it sank into the Yangtze is still a blank, but I managed it. Still, it was a near thing, near enough to make a few people think I was dead at first.
I drained my beer and rang for another.
And another.
A few hours and several more beers later, I felt I was ready to talk in words with more than four letters, so I rang the servant’s bell again. The beaver once again shimmered into view.
“Listen, Lodge, I’ve been doing some thinking. I’m going to have to face down the Fifth Col – er, the Fourth Estate sooner or later. How much trouble would I put Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn to if I asked for some arrangements to meet the reporters and photographers when I arrive?”
He gives me a nod and a bow, glides off, and is back in a few minutes. “If it would be satisfactory to you, Your Grace, this plane can be diverted from San Francisco to Oakland. There are some warehouse facilities there which can accommodate the gentlefurs of the media. While you are engaged there, your baggage will be delivered to the train.”
“Will that be trouble?”
“Indeed not, Your Grace.” Here’s a gentlefur’s gentlefur, with all the stiff pride common to his trade. “There is the 16th Street Station of the Southern Pacific, which is not far away. A car will be waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn when we arrive. Another car will be placed at your service. Once the press conference is finished, it will deliver Your Grace to the train. I believe you will find the accommodations to your satisfaction.”
“Splendid. Thank you, Lodge. You’ve been a great help.”
<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
KatieKat__________________________________________________
Part 57.
New Year on the Fly
(Katie MacArran courtesy of J. T. Urie. Thanks!)
Katie:
Damn.
Damn.
DAMN.
Christmas, talk about a rock and a hard place . . . in this case, the rock is that gaggle of idiots from the press. It’s not just wolves that travel in packs, you know.
The hard place? Simple. YOU try waiting seven damned hours for a chartered flight all the way from Honolulu to Oakland.
Of course, I could take one of the IAC cargo planes. That would shave three hours off the wait, and since I own the company I’m guaranteed a seat.
But if I was healthy enough to fly as a passenger on a cargo plane, I’d be healthy enough to FLY a cargo plane . . . and if I were healthy enough to fly a cargo plane, I’d be healthy enough to fly a PURSUIT plane . . .
Damn that Chennault for making me leave China. I should never have let him talk me into it . . . not that I had much choice; Chiang wanted me gone, too. But don’t think I don’t know who REALLY pulled the strings to get rid of me.
Damn you, Madame Chiang. You may have Colonel Chennault wrapped around your finger, but I know better what kind of spoiled bitch you are. Here are the Japanese, overrunning China and all YOU care about is not being upstaged by . . .
Okay, Katie, calm down. Dammit, my leg hurts. Can’t sit down, can’t lie down, can’t walk . . . and can’t yiffing FLY, Dammit! Damn the Japanese for attacking Nanking.
And damn them for shooting me down. And if I EVER get my hooves on . . .
Soft knock on the door. Who the hell - ?
“Enter.” I keep having to remind myself not to grind my teeth.
Good, it’s Raibassu.
“A gentlebuck is outside who wishes to see you, Mistress.” Before I can snap at him he raises a paw. “Shang thinks best that you at least see his card."
He holds the card out and I try very hard not to snatch it out of his paw. Hmm.
“Reginald P. R. Buckhorn, Vice-Chairman, F. R. Buckhorn & Sons.”
Addresses in Philadelphia, New York, London, and Bucks.
Well, of course I know about Buckhorn’s. They’re the biggest suppliers to the MacArran distilleries – not to mention Zepps cookies.
This guy better not be a salesman or a reporter trying to bluff his way in with a stolen card, or I’ll give him to Raibassu for a plaything.
Though he won’t be much fun to play with after I get through with him!
“Very well, Raibassu. Let the buck in. But ONLY the buck.”
He steps out, and a minute or so later he comes back, looming (discreetly) behind the buck. Hmm, tallish whitetail, good-looking for his species, good suit.
Brooks Brothers, maybe.
Nervous guy, too, from the way he fingers that Homburg in his hooves.
He gives a small bow and a smile. “I’m, er, awfully sorry to intrude . . . er, Your Grace, but my man Lodge tells me you’re trying to bag a plane to get to the West Coast, then shift ho for New York and Vermont . . . “
Now I recognize him, although we haven’t met. The family resemblance is there. But . . . either his father doesn’t like him, or Sir Josslyn’s the biggest liar on Earth. And that old buck may be the crustiest bastard this side of H.L. Monkeying, but one thing he’s not is dishonest.
Or . . . Ahh, Reggie’s his name, yes I recall now. Reggie must have undergone a literal sea change. Clear-eyed, no visible sign of malice – or inebriation.
I give him a nod. Him using my title is just good manners; he’s not out to kiss my tail.
More nervous hat-fiddling. “Ah. Well. Lodge is usually correct. Dashed amazing. Err, anyway. Mrs. Buckhorn and I are heading back to San Francisco on the firm’s flying boat, and then crossing to New York on the family’s private rail cars. We’re scheduled to leave fairly shortly, but we’d be happy to have you and your staff as our guests, and we could leave right away once your kit is stowed.”
Oooh, Christmas, that’s tempting as hell. A lot more appealing than being stuck in here, hiding from . . . hmm.
Of course, it’d mean diverting from Oakland, but still . . . “Any chance of avoiding the mob from the press?”
“Well, I think so. I can always ask – oh, there you are, Lodge.”
Where the hell did that beaver come from? The look on Raibassu’s face is priceless, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing out loud.
Shang’s going to needle him for weeks. “So a VALET managed to surprise you, yes?”
Heh.
“I have made enquiries, Sir,” the beaver says. “Her Grace’s luggage can be stowed aboard Zephyr very discreetly, in a matter of a few minutes. This is inclusive of the items from the Orient that must be handled carefully. There is also a secure passageway to the gate where Her Grace can enplane equally discreetly. I have given instructions to have the ramp used by Mrs. Buckhorn attached to the plane in the event Her Grace will require it.”
Her Grace will definitely require it.
“Has Mrs. Buckhorn boarded, Lodge?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Jolly good. Your Grace?”
“Spending another minute here’s proving to be less and less attractive. I accept your offer, Mr. Buckhorn.”
Twenty minutes later I’m aboard Zephyr. Swanky plane, a big Sikorsky 42 fitted out with staterooms. Shang and Raibassu poked their noses in it before I hobbled aboard, and gave it a clean bill of health.
The best thing, from my point of view, was that the place was spacious. Room to stretch out a sore and aching hoof.
And the beaver shows up with a tray of cocktails for sore and aching nerves. I sniff at one and he says, “Delhi Gin, I assure you, Your Grace. It is Mr. Buckhorn’s preferred brand.”
I push the glass aside, gently. “I appreciate the offer – uh, Lodge is it? Well, sorry, Lodge, but I don’t drink hard liquor. Would you happen to have a cold bottle of beer aboard?”
“I am certain we can accommodate you, Your Grace.”
He’s back in a few moments with a chilled bottle of San Miguel and a pilsner glass. I thanked him, and started to knock back the beer as the plane taxied out into the harbor to take off.
The pilots are good, but then they’d have to be; Sir Josslyn wouldn’t have anything but the best.
I glance out the window at Honolulu as the plane climbs. I am NOT looking forward to the reception in Oakland. If the papers I’ve read in Manila and Hawaii are any indication, the word is that the Panay incident had, in fact, touched off an uproar in Congress.
But not the way I thought.
Those idiots in the Congress. AND the press.
They’ve spent the past few weeks criticizing Long, the Navy Department and the Panay’s crew for being near Nanking in the first place. That stupid, plum-in-the-mouth radio commentator Boake Carter had the gall to claim that the sinking was part of Moosevelt’s plot to start a war in Asia.
Carter’s more ass than stoat. Moosevelt’s been dead only HOW long? What, do you believe in ghosts, now?
Ass.
What do you think the Panay’s crew was doing in China, you idiot? Playing tiddlywinks?
I’m not going to mince words. They want a fight, by God, they’ll GET a fight.
The Panay was evacuating Americans from Nanking when those Japanese devils came with their dive bombers.
And, lucky for them, I and the Iron Phoenix Squadron arrived just in time. Too late to save the ship, but on time for most of the passengers and crew.
But unlucky for me . . .
Christmas, every time I think about it, there I am again, in my NA-50 cockpit as I follow the dive bomber down, that damned tail gunner still blazing away. The pilot knows his undercarriage is gone and he's can't land without blowing himself up anyway. So he's going to dive his plane into one of the tankers and turn the entire river into an inferno.
And that river is crowded with lifeboats . . .
A hard punch to my thigh.
A searing pain in my hoof.
And oily smoke pouring from my cowling.
How I managed to get out of the plane before it sank into the Yangtze is still a blank, but I managed it. Still, it was a near thing, near enough to make a few people think I was dead at first.
I drained my beer and rang for another.
And another.
A few hours and several more beers later, I felt I was ready to talk in words with more than four letters, so I rang the servant’s bell again. The beaver once again shimmered into view.
“Listen, Lodge, I’ve been doing some thinking. I’m going to have to face down the Fifth Col – er, the Fourth Estate sooner or later. How much trouble would I put Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn to if I asked for some arrangements to meet the reporters and photographers when I arrive?”
He gives me a nod and a bow, glides off, and is back in a few minutes. “If it would be satisfactory to you, Your Grace, this plane can be diverted from San Francisco to Oakland. There are some warehouse facilities there which can accommodate the gentlefurs of the media. While you are engaged there, your baggage will be delivered to the train.”
“Will that be trouble?”
“Indeed not, Your Grace.” Here’s a gentlefur’s gentlefur, with all the stiff pride common to his trade. “There is the 16th Street Station of the Southern Pacific, which is not far away. A car will be waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn when we arrive. Another car will be placed at your service. Once the press conference is finished, it will deliver Your Grace to the train. I believe you will find the accommodations to your satisfaction.”
“Splendid. Thank you, Lodge. You’ve been a great help.”
<PREVIOUS><FIRST><NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cervine (Other)
Size 659 x 1280px
File Size 110.5 kB
Listed in Folders
Anger issues are when you don't have a reason to be angry. Here and now? In our timeline, the Panay incident was at least worth an apology, since the Japanese didn't want to fight us right then. In this timeline, sounds like the US is even more isolationist than in ours and is trying to be weak.
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