The Rise of the Raccoon Queen
Or The Big Grey Fluffy Butt Matter

A Story of Faerie
© 2019 by M. Mitchell Marmel

(Additional characters by E.O. Costello and W.D. Reimer.)
Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color by  marmelmm


Part Eleven.


Winterbough:

I was admonished not to touch anything while the bear, the mink and the dog freshened up and got into uniform.

But, as Estvan would be quick to remind me, following rules would be un-Elfly. Besides, there was a big red button on one panel, and it looked too inviting not to touch.

So I pressed the button, and a small sign lit up, reading “Don’t Touch This Again” in Standard Elvish.

Colonel Mason – Matt – came back into the room about a minute after this, dressed in a gray jumpsuit and wearing a black beret. The bear glanced at the panel and said, “You touched it.”

“Elves Don’t Lie. Yes.”

He grinned. “Don’t worry about it. It seems that no matter what alternity you go to, big red buttons are irresistible. Even for people who can’t see the color red.” Before I could ask, he waved a paw dismissively. “Don’t bother, I have no idea how that works. I have enough aggravations.” He turned to face back the way he came and said, “About time.”

The dog and the mink were glaring at each other, the mink muttering something about Fred “taking all the hot water,” but both came to attention and saluted.

“Stop that,” Matt said. “Now that we’re on duty, time for appropriate transportation,” and he pulled a small case out of a cabinet. He unclasped and opened the lid, and I craned my neck to see that, to my amazement, it held twenty-four small toy-like vehicles. They all appeared to be made of metal.

Matt put a paw to his chin and started looking at the vehicles. “Hmm . . . BMW motorcycle with sidecar – “

“I dibs the sidecar!” Michael shouted, and the mink sneered at the dog, “You get to ride bitch.” This was greeted with a slight growl and flattened ears on Fred’s part.

“No one’s riding bitch, we’re not taking it.”

“Why not?”

“No fourth seat for the Master of Elfhame, and Fred’s not riding behind me.” Matt eyed Fred. “Just in case you’re in a playful mood today.”

The canine’s tail thrashed. “I swear, do that once and you’re marked for life,” he muttered.

Matt went back to perusing the contents of the case, a fingertip tapping against a boxy-looking contraption that sat on a series of wheels that were all connected by a long belt. “SHADO Crawler . . . Nope, too slow, way too obvious," he dismissed it.

"But a kickass sound system," Fred piped up, his mood suddenly changing.

Michael said, "I can't stand those crawlers."

"Why?"

"My hair always goes purple and shiny when I'm in one over an hour."

"Oh yes, I remember,” Fred said, and he grinned. “You looked adorable."

While the mink spluttered indignantly, Matt told the dog, "Well, there was the time you got mistaken for Sailor Moon, but why bring that up?"

Fred frowned. "It was Rag Week," he muttered.

“What the - ? Who the hell packed this thing?” I looked and saw Matt’s finger pointing at another boxy vehicle. I had no idea what it might be, but it appeared to be quite menacing.

Fred looked. “Ooh! That’s a Vickers Dragoon battle tankette! Sixty tons, top speed a hundred kph, room for six.”

“How do you know about them?” Michael asked.

“I was on assignment to SLB2050. Watched the Girl Scouts practicing pawbrake turns with them at Australia’s Ramsay Street nuclear testing site.” Fred chuckled at the reminiscence, but there seemed to be a sort of manic edge to his laughter.

My ears were swiveling. “’Tuns?’ What does wine have to do with it?”

The canine smiled. “You need a lot of drinks when you’re driving one of those in a combat situation. Can we take her, Matt – er, Colonel?”

“We’re trying to be unobtrusive, for Pete’s sake,” Matt snapped. He looked down the neat rows of toys and his eyes lit up. “Ooh. Yes, this’ll do nicely.” He reached into the case and pulled the vehicle out, a long, lean-looking open coach that appeared as if it was encased in a block of absolutely clear glass. “Okay, lads, let’s go.”

“Weapons, Matt?” Fred asked.

The bear paused. “Nonlethal,” he replied, and headed out of the wagon. I went after him as the dog started opening up cabinets.

I watched as Matt placed the thing on a wide bit of open ground a short distance from the wagon. “Pardon me for asking,” I said, “but how are we going to use that?”

The bear smiled and tapped the side of his nose. “Stand back a bit, Westersloe, and watch.” He drew a small black box from a pocket on the thigh of his jumpsuit and pressed a button.

There was a pop! and a huff! of displaced air that ruffled my fur – and the coach was now full sized.

“Spatial displacement,” Matt said, as if that explained everything. “Saves a lot of space when packing bulky items.” He walked up to the coach and rested a paw on one fender. "She’s a twelve-cylinder, eight-litre supercharged Paragon Panther. They only made one of them and then the firm went broke. Family named Pott saved her from the crusher, and eventually, the Corps got ahold of her," Colonel Mason said proudly.

I regarded the long sleek green open coach dubiously. "Um . . . where do the ants go?"

Fred snickered. "Plenty of antpower under the hood, right, Matt?"

“Oh, wathew," Mason said, mimicking a Lancers officer.

"What does GEN II mean?" I asked.

"Means she's magickal," the Colonel smiled.

I cast detect-magicks on it, and my ears went up. "Hum! You're not kidding!"

“Right, lads, mount up.” Matt looked up at the sky. “We’re burning daylight.” We all got in, with the dog taking the right front seat, facing a wooden wheel and a variety of knobs and levers. “Who said you were driving?”

“I always drive.”

“Me to drink, if you must know. Hop it.” Fred grumbled, but complied. Colonel Mason gave him the case containing the other vehicles, and the canine stowed it in the rear of the coach before taking a seat beside me.

I will confess I almost got out of it when Matt pulled out one knob, moved two levers and turned a key, and whatever it was under the front end of the coach coughed, sputtered, and finally roared like some fell beast before the sound settled down to a deep purr. He moved his feet on a trio of pedals on the floor and worked a third lever, and the coach started moving forward, headed for the [Stranger’s River].


***


Tessie:

Ooo-er finished giving Kora and Veyt a final pat on their heads and climbed into the Dodger beside me. “Ready?” I asked.

She nodded, and I twitched the reins and . . .

Nothing happened.

“I thought you knew how to drive,” the otteress accused.

“I do!” I said. “Elves Don’t Lie.” I started looking around, and found a small card under the dashboard. I read it, shrugged my shoulders and put it back. I tightened my grasp on the reins.

“What was that?” Ooo-er asked.

“Instructions,” I replied. I snapped the reins and shouted, “Gee! EM!”

The ants twitched as if they’d been stung, gronked loudly and took off at a run.

“Ooo-er!”

“Yes?”

“The coach-house doors!”

“Yes?”

“YOU FORGOT TO OPEN – “


***


Winterbough:

I think most of the sensible folk in Greytor retreated to the safety of their homes and closed their shutters. That left the not-sensible furs; i.e., most of the bucks of the Vale, who were drawn by the commotion as Matt drove the antless coach up the street and to the Master’s Lodge.

We were approaching the Lodge when the doors to the coach-house exploded outward and my present from Grand Duke William came hurtling out into the open. The two ants were doing a creditable job of shaking off the fragments, but the naked otter femme and the nearly-naked raccoon femme . . .

“What the ____ is she doing wearing the Wolf Queen’s Regalia?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but she looks fantastic in it,” Fred said helpfully.

The cart was, for want of a better word, hurtling, the ants were gronking furiously, and I couldn’t tell which was louder – Tessie’s screams, or Ooo-er’s laughter. In fact, they seemed to be barely under control as the cart fishtailed up the street.

Directly toward . . .

I magically amplified my voice and shouted, “TESSIE! WATCH OUT FOR THAT –“

WHAM!

“Tree,” I said, slumping back into my seat as the fishtailing cart rammed broadside into a certain tree, scaring off the Elfhamian ant that had been standing vigil under it for a while. It [GREEUNK]ed! loudly and scuttled away, spitting out the tattered scrap of plaid fabric in its mandibles.

The Dodger flew down the road, headed Fuma knew where but vaguely westward, and as we drove past the tree I saw an emaciated wolf clamber down the tree and limp away. The seat of his plaid trews were missing.

Fred asked me, “Who was that up the tree?”

“Niall,” I replied to the canine.

Michael twisted around in his seat and protested, “But I just washed these trousers, and with all this mud . . . “

“You've never had a problem before when someone's asked you to Niall,” Matt said as we increased speed.

“LIES!” Michael shouted. “Slander!”

“Page Six in the New York Post,” Fred said cryptically.





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