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

A Story of Faerie
© 2020 by M. Mitchell Marmel

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


Part Thirty-eight.



Tali:

“The Vulp stood on the burning deck, from whence all else had fled . . . “

Twit.

There’s only one bridge allowing access to the fairgrounds, and the SALV, Fatskweeks, had mustered his Klowns and a number of Eastness voters to block the bridge. I signaled Missy to rein in the ants and I asked one fur, “What’s going on?”

“Byrde’s supporters,” the fellow feline femme said. “They say they’re not letting anyone out of the festival until they vote for him.”

“Thanks,” I said, and she walked off. I stood up on the cart and craned my neck. Most of the Eastness supporters on the bridge were foxes. Fatskweeks was strutting about, trying to whip up his crowd.

I sat back down and Missy asked, “Eastness vulps?”

I nodded. “I don’t like Eastness vulps.” I looked over at Missy.

She got the hint and raised her voice. “GEE!”

The ants’ antennae perked.

“EM!”

Kora and Veyt took off like a shot, almost tumbling me backward off the seat. The crowd of Eastnessers blocked from leaving scattered, leaving us headed straight for the bridge.

The fat fox puffed out his chest even farther and barked, “♫HOCH DER PLAN! ♫”

He hadn’t managed to get the whistle out yet.

“HOCH DER PLAN!” the Klowns shouted, joined by some of the locals.

We got closer.

Fatskweeks shouted, “♫Hold! ♫”

We hit the approaches of the bridge at speed.

Fatskweeks’ voice grew shrill, “♫HOLD! ♫”

Kora and Veyt showed no sign of slackening their pace.

I could see the sunlight gleaming off Fatskweeks’ monocle, and saw his nerve suddenly break.

“♫TCHUMP! ♫” and the whole crowd of them, SALV, Klowns, and their sympathizers leaped aside, off the bridge – and into the Yellow Onoob River, where they joined a few floating outhouses. Missy reined in so we could survey the damage. None to us, all to them; Low-chan would be proud.

The crowd cheered and one shouted, “Watch out where those snappers grow and don't jump in the Yellow Flow!"

Snappers?

“OW!” one Klown screamed as he broke the surface with several baby snapping turtles attached to his ears, tail and the tip of his muzzle.

Fatskweeks clambered up onto the bank, coughing and spitting the whistle out. A Klown helped him to he feet and he slapped the fellow’s paws away. “TO ZE KART! AFTER ZEM!” The two started toiling up the bank to a waiting ant-cart, Fatskweeks pausing only to rid himself of a turtle that had a grip on the end of his sodden brush.

I glanced at Missy. “Should we leave?” From the corner of my eye I could see Matt headed our way. Good; we’d cleared a path for him.

The wolfess examined her claws. “It wouldn’t be sporting.” She was holding the reins, so we waited.

As soon as the Vulps got into their cart, Missy stood up. “HEY!” The Klown and the SALV looked at her in time to see Missy give them the time-honored Two-Finger Salute before shouting at Kora and Veyt.

We took off, with the enemy leader and one flunky in hot pursuit, into the city.

Missy was driving pretty well, and the two ants seemed sure-footed, and we wove a winding path up one street and down another. The Vulps were on our heels, and I asked, “Are we going to lose them, or play with them a little while?”

The wolfess bared all her teeth in a grin. “Your mate and the Corporal should have caught up with Byrde. We’ll deal with these idiots in short order – ah!” and an unhealthy gleam came to her eyes as she reefed the cart into a textbook-perfect Scandinavian Flick.

I could just imagine her behind the wheel of my Mercedes on a track day, and I didn’t know whether to shudder in delight or fear.

Our pursuer slewed around, fishtailing as it followed us around the curve. We barreled down a side street toward a plaza. “Um, Missy?”

“Yes?”

“That’s the market square.”

“Looks like it.”

“I thought – “ We cleared a curb and shot across an intersection, leaving a member of the City Guard treed up a lamppost. “Never mind,” and we hit the open air market like a bowling ball.

To give her credit, Missy fishtailed around the first two stalls before sideswiping a stall belonging to the Distiller’s Guild. The smell of good-quality whiskey trailed behind us.

“Lot of room in this market,” Missy remarked, concentrating on her driving.

“Uh-huh.”

We jinked around a toymaker’s kiosk. The Vulps overshot the turn and plowed into a vegetable stand.

“MY CABBAGES!” screamed the vendor.

“Oh look!” I said. “Lisbet and Dorotea have their fall line out!” The anteater and reindeer were hiding behind the counter, staring as we roared past them.

Missy glanced as she steered the cart in the opposite direction. “Nice. I may buy one,” and we started weaving in and out of the rows of stalls. In contrast to Missy’s driving, the Klown wasn’t so much concerned with property damage, and a growing trail of debris stood in his wake.

We described a tight circle around one stall, and a lot of oversteer on the part of the Klown left his cart spinning as his ants gronked in panic.

“Huh, baby clothes,” Missy remarked.

“This market has everything,” I said.

Missy lined up on a long straightaway and goaded the ants to go faster. They were clearly up to the task, and with the Vulps on our heels we sped across the plaza.

Right toward a pile of debris.

I held on. I trusted Missy.

Just before we hit the pile, the wolfess veered off and let the Vulps take the hit. They plowed into it and the ants drew the cart airborne, using the debris pile as an improvised ramp.

They flew through the air as Missy reined in Kora and Veyt for a moment. Most of the furs in the market watched them fly as well, and I saw that they were headed straight at a large cylindrical wooden tank emblazoned with Eastness Distiller’s Guild and a portrait of a black-furred wolfess holding up a bottle of their product.

“I haff alvays luffed hyu,” I heard the Klown say to SALV Fatskweeks, seconds before the impact.

The cart and ants hit the tank with a rending crash of wood splintering, followed by a heavy liquid splorp as a huge quantity of molasses gushed out of the wreckage. I guessed it was maybe ten thousand gallons.

Kora and Veyt must have smelled the sweet liquid, because they started gronking and trying to shake themselves free of their harnesses. Missy reined them in, and after a few taps with the goad she succeeded in quieting them. As people began to emerge from cover, we moved away from the plaza.

We turned onto one of the main roads. “The boarding house now?” Missy asked.

“Yeah. They won’t be following us.”

“It’s the same old story,” Missy said. I glanced at her and she smiled at me. “The Unseelie always come to a sticky end.”

“Oh, YOU.”

Our laughter followed us down the street.


***


Winterbough:

It's times like this that I think Brother Cellini is on to something with Muscular Mephitism. Punching the sin out of some palooka who’s clearly Unseelie has a certain appeal at times, and right now I really wanted to pound the Unseelieness out of a certain Mr. Byrde. Matt and Fred seemed all too willing to help hold him up so I could give him a righteous pummeling.

Yes, I said “righteous.” I may not be in Holy Orders, but I’m a good Mephitist, and I could rationalize it as helping a potential ally to His Majesty.

Despite being a red-tailed hawk, Byrde was making a beeline for Mrs. Miggins’ boarding house. He was the only avian on the street in his small-clothes; in fact, he was the only avian, which made keeping track of him easy.

We got in sight of the boarding house, and I slowed down long enough to formulate the proper Gramerye and pook. I ended up at the top of the stairs, in front of the door. “Going somewhere?” I asked as Byrde pulled up short, looking up at me from the pavement.

“I’m going to get out of here,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” I said, coming down the stairs warily. “There’s a little matter of you trying to take over this city.”

He gave me a sidelong look as Matt and Fred came loping up to flank him at a respectful distance. They’d seen him about to hurl a fireball, but I thought I could get the drop on him. There’s a reason my short-staff has a diamond-crusted helix of silver-steel inside it.

“You don’t know that,” he said, moving his paws as he spoke.

“Talking with your paws is the sign that you’ve got something to hide,” Fred remarked. “Although,” he added, looking at the hawk’s small-clothes, “it may not be hiding – it may be invisible.”

A small crowd had started to gather, and a concerted “Oooh” went up at that.

Byrde rounded angrily on the dog, only to see Fred raise a fist. The hawk quickly pulled a pair of spectacles from his Elfintory and put them on. “You wouldn’t hit a fur with glasses on, would you?”

The dog shrugged and pulled a pair of spectacles from a pocket and put them on. “Let’s find out.” He raised his fist again and stepped in close –

Byrde raised his paws. “NOT IN THE FACE!”

So Fred slugged him in the stomach, just under his breastbone.

The hawk nearly doubled over, and backed away a step. “Thank you.” He wheezed.

That was my cue, so I moved in and landed a solid right. “That’s for trying to mess with Eastness.”

Matt waded in. “That’s for trying to subvert the democratic process.”

Fred punched Byrde in turn. “That’s for the crew of the Bedford.”

Matt ignored that, so I did as well, and the three of us pummeled Byrde for a few minutes before Matt yelled, “Stop! Stop!”

“What?” I asked.

“We’re getting in a rut here,” the bear said. “Let’s end this.”

All three of us lined up to hit Byrde in the few places he hadn’t been hit yet, stepped in and threw our punches –

And Byrde . . . ducked.

Now, Elves Don’t Lie. We did not knock ourselves out.

We were, however, knocked a little stupid for a second or two.

[Note appended to manuscript: “You mean ‘stupider.’”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Shaddap, wolfess.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Seriously, there’s no way you could get any stupider unless someone scooped your brain out.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Did I tell you to shaddap?”]

Matt shook his head. “Fred, you punch like a girl.”

“I told you, that was Rag Week!”

The bear shook his head again. “Corporal, you all right?”

I’d been hit harder in the past, but then Kalkeus had used a club. No missing teeth, which was a plus. “Fine. Where’d Byrde go?”

The dog pointed at the open door to the boarding house. “That way.” He drew something from his jumpsuit and took the stairs two at a time. No roebuck’s going to let a canine beat him in a race, so I took off with him.

When we entered the front hall, Mrs. Miggins was lying on the rug and some of the furniture had been shoved aside violently. Byrde had obviously taken the most direct route to the basement stairs and apparently Mrs. Miggins was in his path. Matt entered, and went to see if he could help her while we moved toward the staircase.

The two of us slowed down and crept down the stairs, and I drew my short-staff from Elfintory. I had a feeling that anything could happen in the next half-hour.

We got close to the open door of Byrde’s rooms, and there was a glow coming from one area. Fred held his device, something metal and L-shaped, with the long part of the L pointing up. He put one finger to his lips, and I nodded. We both canted our ears in time to hear Byrde chanting something in a low, unsteady voice.

Fred held up three fingers. I nodded, and readied myself for a charge.

Byrde screamed “NO!” and kept screaming, although his voice seemed to almost . . . recede, like he was leaving the room, even though I knew there was no back door to the building.

“So much for stealth.” Fred charged into the room, with me right behind him.

I’m an Elf; and while I haven’t seen all of the Shining Land, I’ve seen some of it, and Elves Don’t Lie. But there’s no way I can completely or accurately describe what I saw. All I can tell you is that the room was flooded with multicolored, pastel lights, and Byrde was being pulled toward it.

Fred screamed and shoved me backward, out of the room.

Imperial and Royal Army training kicked in; I started to charge my short-staff with magic and shouted “COVER! WARE ARCH – “

BLAM

BLAM

BLAM

There were three loud, sharp thunderclaps of sound, and the light faded, replaced by normal lamplight and the sunlight from the street-level windows. I could hear Fred breathing harshly, and I re-entered the room.

The dog was standing there facing a wall that had a tattered piece of canvas and holding his device toward it. A thin trickle of acrid smoke rose from the far end of the machine. Fred’s eyes were almost starting from their sockets as he struggled to get his breathing under control.

Matt appeared in the doorway. Giving a disgusted snort, he stepped in and cuffed the dog across his ear. Fred flinched, shook himself, and blinked as Matt shouted, “I told you NON-LETHAL!”

Fred took a deep breath. “Colonel . . .”

“What?”

“It . . . there were EYES.”

Matt nodded, once, and looked at the canvas as Fred lowered his weapon (what else could it have been?). There were traces of pastel on the material.

The bear asked, “Where’s Byrde?”

Fred replied, “They pulled him in. I guess they were disappointed that he failed them.”

Matt sighed and pulled a small device from a pocket. He patted Fred on the shoulder with his free paw and said, “Good shootin’, Tex. Standard containment and disposal protocol in ten.”

“Got it.” The bear nodded at me as he went back upstairs.

“What were they?” I asked, stepping into the room but holding onto the doorframe.

“Best you don’t know,” the dog said. “You’ll sleep better. They’re not from here, or anywhere else, either; all right-thinking folk avoid them like the plague that they are.” He gave me a manic grin, and shook himself. “If they’d managed to come through, you lot would have had to find another world to live on.”

I was aghast. “And – and Byrde?”

“He was trying to open a portal.” Fred pulled the tattered canvas down off the wall and kicked it into an untidy pile on the floor.

“What the Netherhells is it with avians?” I asked aloud. I mean, sure, Mr. Parrott was nice, and I’d met some very nice avians in my travels, but what is the deal?

“Dunno. Flighty, I guess.”

“What did you use to stop them?”

“Ah. These,” and he removed a small object from his weapon. “Forty-caliber explosive flechette rounds, made of pure tantalum.” I took it from him and noted that it weighed surprisingly more than its size implied. “It’s the only thing that even slows them down.” He noticed me leaning against the door. “You all right?”

I nodded, leaning against the door frame. “Yeah, just felt dizzy.”

He gave me a hard look, and nodded. “Rapid-onset diabetic reaction. Just avoid eating sweets for two weeks, you’ll be fine.” He took the ‘flechette’ away from me and pulled a squat cylinder with a ring on top of it from another pocket. “You might want to step out of the room and shield your eyes.”

“Why?” I could hear a tumult going on upstairs.

Fred pulled the ring loose and placed the cylinder on top of the canvas. “It’s going to get a little bright and smoky,” and he stepped out of the room as the cylinder started to fizz dangerously.

I took the hint and followed him.

The fizz turned into a hiss, followed by a bang and a whoosh of heat. It got very bright, but it faded quickly, and smoke started to flow out.

“That’s our cue, Corporal,” Fred said. “Matt said ‘in ten,’ and he likes being punctual.”

He started up the stairs, but my curiosity got the better of me and I looked back into the room.

It was smoky, almost like I think the Netherhells might be, and instead of canvas there was a puddle of molten metal. As I watched, a pudgy, mitten-like paw pushed out from the rapidly-cooling metal and froze there.

I gulped and turned, only to come muzzle-to-muzzle with Fred. His face looked very haggard and his eyes had a look in them that I’ve seen in very old veterans.

“Now you know,” he said cryptically, and went upstairs.

I followed.




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(The pastel horrors from beyond Cute Space are courtesy of Simon Barber's HP Lushcraft stories, and used by permission. Thanks!)