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Tzimmes Crack Corn (And I Don’t Care)
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by
warren (RIP)
2.
August 30, 1938
Brush:
Looked t’be a scorcher of a day, wit’ drunk tourists fallin’ in th’ lagoon an’ constant racket from all th’ planes overhead. I tell yez, Speed Week ain’t what they say conducive ta a nice quiet day.
Still, I grabbed a water taxi from Main ta Meeting so I could meet up wit’ th’ Inspector at Luchow’s. His main squeeze, that cheetah Baumgartner, she’s made a go of th’ place, and it’s real popular. One thing I like is that th’ coffee’s better than yez get anywhere else, an’ th’ urn’s always full. All day an’ all night, an' it’s free ta any policefur.
So I come on in, no sign o’ my dimbulb bruddas, an’ I’m sippin’ at my first cup o’ th’ day when I see Rosie comin’ in. “Mornin’, Rosie. Inspector comin’ down?”
Sort of a goofy smile on her muzzle. “I don’t think he’ll be coming down for a while . . . “ she mumbles, but fox ears are pretty good.
“He sick or sumpin’?”
“Hm? Oh! No, Orrin, he’s fine. He’ll be downstairs shortly.” She gets ta moving around ta get th’ place opened up fer th’ breakfast crowd, and pretty soon I hears a limping clop of hooves comin’ down th’ inside stairs. “Hello, Inspector,” I hears Rosie say.
I can’t hear what th’ Inspector sez, but I hear her giggle. Th’ Inspector comes out –
An’ he’s smilin.’
Not a really big smile, like what yez see on th’ drunks down ta th’ Jail, but there’s a smile, plain as day. “Good morning, Sergeant.”
“Good morning, Sir,” I sez, and after I finish up my coffee, off we get ta th’ Constab’lary, an’ our office.
Funny thing; usually th’ Inspector walks along slow-like, because he’s got this bum hoof, see? Those jerks in New Haven did that to him. Anyway, he usually walks along slow, wit’ his head down thinkin,’ cuz that’s what he does. With th’ cases he’s solved, it’s no surprise that he thinks all th’ time.
Today, though? He’s looking around and movin’ a little easier, like his hoof’s not botherin’ him as much.
So we get ta th’ office, an’ Ciss Lopp’s there ta give him th’ notes of what happened last night. Th’ Inspector takes th’ notes an’ sez ta her, “Miss Lopp, could you arrange a meeting for me with Chief Sapper at his earliest convenience?”
“Of course, Inspector,” the cute Rain Island bunneh sez. “Is it about a case?”
“No. A . . . a personal matter.”
She gives him this look, and nods as he goes on inta th’ office. It’s my office, too, so I go an’ cop a squat as well, natch.
“Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir?”
Th’ Inspector looks down at his briefin’ notes, an’ he places his paws on the desk. Without lookin’ up he sez, “I want to ask you something.”
“Yes, Sir?”
He looks up at me.
There’s that smile again.
“I was wondering if I could ask you to be my best man.”
Witnessing-Gods, I was ready fer anything – blow up another barge, shoot somefur, give Headache Maker a workout – but jeeze.
I guess I sat there lookin’ stupid – well, stupider’n usual – when th’ Inspector asks, “Sergeant? Orrin?”
Him usin’ my Euro name brought me outta my transom. I shake my head a few times an’ say, “I t’ink I’m hearin’ things, Inspector. Did you just ask me ta be yer best man?”
He smiles again. “Yes. I proposed to Miss Baumgartner last night, and Rosie accepted.”
Wow. ‘Course, yez coulda seen this comin’ fer years, know what I mean? Yez ain’t gotta be a Wise One ta have figgered that out. Still, bit of a shock.
And I’d have ta wear my best suit, or a monkey suit. Tch.
Still . . .
I smile and put out my paw. “I’d be honored, Sir.”
An’ we shake on it.
Little bit later, he goes upstairs ta have a chat wit’ Chief Sapper, an’ he gives me a coupla notes to take over ta th’ telegraph office.
***
September 1, 1938
Allan:
“Telegram for you, Sir.”
Although I’m no longer in charge of Minkerton’s Detective Agency, which responsibility now resides in the steady paws of my son Allan IV, I still get a lot of messages. Some are from old friends and acquaintances, inviting me to this and that; some are from retired agents.
One or two are sent from the wardens of various prisons, informing me of the status of certain persons in their care.
But this one didn’t get set aside for later perusal over coffee.
This one was from Franklin Stagg, late of New Haven and now of Spontoon, and an old and valued friend of mine. A few years back, he had broken the master code used by the criminal organizations on Krupmark Island, enabling law enforcement agencies across the world to put a serious dent in their illegal activities.
So, if he was wiring something to me, it had to be important.
I slit the envelope open with a claw, removed the telegram, and read it.
And read it again.
After reading it a third time, I got up and crossed the office to the coffee service, poured myself a cup, returned to my desk, and fished a bottle of Courvoisier from a bottom drawer. A slug of the excellent brandy went into the coffee.
I raised it in salute to my old friend before drinking.
When my cup was empty, I picked up the phone and dialed a certain number.
My wife’s voice was heard after the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Vee.”
“Allan? It’s only ten o’clock,” Vee said. “Are you taking an early lunch?”
“Maybe. Just got a telegram.”
“Oh?”
“From Franklin.”
There was a pause. “From Franklin? Not from someone on his behalf?”
I resisted the urge to chuckle. “He’s most assuredly not dead, sweetheart. He’s getting married.”
There was another pause.
I held the pawset away from my ear to avoid getting deafened, and after she seemed to calm down I asked, “Should I reply?”
“If you don’t, you’ll live to regret it,” she said rather tartly. “Are we going?”
“I haven’t made any plans yet, but I think Allan can mind the shop. Shall I start arranging transportation?”
“Please! I’ll start packing.”
***
Father Merino:
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” I said as the buck entered my office. “Have you come for confession?” I asked, and started to stand up.
He held up a paw. “Please, Father, I’m here for another purpose.” I regained my seat as he sat down.
“’Another purpose,’” I repeated. “Is something wrong?”
Inspector Stagg shook his head. “No, Father.” He took a breath, as if marshaling his thoughts. “I have proposed to Rosalie Baumgartner, and she has accepted.”
To say that I was pleasantly surprised by this news would be like saying that the current conflict between the Chinese and the Japanese was merely a spirited argument. I got up from my chair, circled around the desk, and took his paw. “Inspector, congratulations, to both of you, and I pray you will both find happiness together.”
“Thank you, Father. There will likely be some discussion as to who will officiate.”
“Oh?”
“Well, Miss Baumgartner is Jewish.”
I smiled. “You leave that to me, Inspector. Rabbi Steinmink and I have a chess date later this afternoon, and I’ll have a talk with him. We’ll work out something acceptable.”
“Thank you, Father.” He got to his hooves, and I escorted him to the door.
Once he had gone, I approached the altar, crossed myself, and knelt to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord, for fulfilling the wish of so many furs that the wound in Inspector Stagg’s heart would be healed.
With that done, I walked to my office to start writing up the banns. After I talk to Steinmink, I’ll drop by Luchow’s and get a few particulars from the bride and groom before publishing them.
***
Pierre:
The first indication that something was going on was the shriek of pure joy that reverberated down the halls, followed by the comely form of my wife, Toni. My beautiful tigress’ tail was switching back and forth almost hypnotically as she slammed my office door shut and beamed at me. There was a scrap of paper in her paw.
I smiled up at her. “Mail, my dear?”
She was a little breathless from her scream, but Toni recovered quickly and said, “Just got a wire from Spontoon.”
“And?”
“Rosie’s getting married!” That’d be her good friend, a cheetah late of Gnu York. I met her when I met Toni, during the events leading up to my nephew Leslie’s wedding.
“And I take it you want to go to the wedding?”
My usually so self-assured Gnu York-born wife suddenly gave me the biggest pair of kitten eyes I’ve ever seen outside of certain trashy pieces of art. “Can we, Paul? Please?”
I laughed and sat back, waving her over. She came over and sat in my lap. “Of course,” I said. “Les is running the company, so we have plenty of time.”
She gave me more incentive to agree, as her paws went roaming while we kissed.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by
warren (RIP)2.
August 30, 1938
Brush:
Looked t’be a scorcher of a day, wit’ drunk tourists fallin’ in th’ lagoon an’ constant racket from all th’ planes overhead. I tell yez, Speed Week ain’t what they say conducive ta a nice quiet day.
Still, I grabbed a water taxi from Main ta Meeting so I could meet up wit’ th’ Inspector at Luchow’s. His main squeeze, that cheetah Baumgartner, she’s made a go of th’ place, and it’s real popular. One thing I like is that th’ coffee’s better than yez get anywhere else, an’ th’ urn’s always full. All day an’ all night, an' it’s free ta any policefur.
So I come on in, no sign o’ my dimbulb bruddas, an’ I’m sippin’ at my first cup o’ th’ day when I see Rosie comin’ in. “Mornin’, Rosie. Inspector comin’ down?”
Sort of a goofy smile on her muzzle. “I don’t think he’ll be coming down for a while . . . “ she mumbles, but fox ears are pretty good.
“He sick or sumpin’?”
“Hm? Oh! No, Orrin, he’s fine. He’ll be downstairs shortly.” She gets ta moving around ta get th’ place opened up fer th’ breakfast crowd, and pretty soon I hears a limping clop of hooves comin’ down th’ inside stairs. “Hello, Inspector,” I hears Rosie say.
I can’t hear what th’ Inspector sez, but I hear her giggle. Th’ Inspector comes out –
An’ he’s smilin.’
Not a really big smile, like what yez see on th’ drunks down ta th’ Jail, but there’s a smile, plain as day. “Good morning, Sergeant.”
“Good morning, Sir,” I sez, and after I finish up my coffee, off we get ta th’ Constab’lary, an’ our office.
Funny thing; usually th’ Inspector walks along slow-like, because he’s got this bum hoof, see? Those jerks in New Haven did that to him. Anyway, he usually walks along slow, wit’ his head down thinkin,’ cuz that’s what he does. With th’ cases he’s solved, it’s no surprise that he thinks all th’ time.
Today, though? He’s looking around and movin’ a little easier, like his hoof’s not botherin’ him as much.
So we get ta th’ office, an’ Ciss Lopp’s there ta give him th’ notes of what happened last night. Th’ Inspector takes th’ notes an’ sez ta her, “Miss Lopp, could you arrange a meeting for me with Chief Sapper at his earliest convenience?”
“Of course, Inspector,” the cute Rain Island bunneh sez. “Is it about a case?”
“No. A . . . a personal matter.”
She gives him this look, and nods as he goes on inta th’ office. It’s my office, too, so I go an’ cop a squat as well, natch.
“Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir?”
Th’ Inspector looks down at his briefin’ notes, an’ he places his paws on the desk. Without lookin’ up he sez, “I want to ask you something.”
“Yes, Sir?”
He looks up at me.
There’s that smile again.
“I was wondering if I could ask you to be my best man.”
Witnessing-Gods, I was ready fer anything – blow up another barge, shoot somefur, give Headache Maker a workout – but jeeze.
I guess I sat there lookin’ stupid – well, stupider’n usual – when th’ Inspector asks, “Sergeant? Orrin?”
Him usin’ my Euro name brought me outta my transom. I shake my head a few times an’ say, “I t’ink I’m hearin’ things, Inspector. Did you just ask me ta be yer best man?”
He smiles again. “Yes. I proposed to Miss Baumgartner last night, and Rosie accepted.”
Wow. ‘Course, yez coulda seen this comin’ fer years, know what I mean? Yez ain’t gotta be a Wise One ta have figgered that out. Still, bit of a shock.
And I’d have ta wear my best suit, or a monkey suit. Tch.
Still . . .
I smile and put out my paw. “I’d be honored, Sir.”
An’ we shake on it.
Little bit later, he goes upstairs ta have a chat wit’ Chief Sapper, an’ he gives me a coupla notes to take over ta th’ telegraph office.
***
September 1, 1938
Allan:
“Telegram for you, Sir.”
Although I’m no longer in charge of Minkerton’s Detective Agency, which responsibility now resides in the steady paws of my son Allan IV, I still get a lot of messages. Some are from old friends and acquaintances, inviting me to this and that; some are from retired agents.
One or two are sent from the wardens of various prisons, informing me of the status of certain persons in their care.
But this one didn’t get set aside for later perusal over coffee.
This one was from Franklin Stagg, late of New Haven and now of Spontoon, and an old and valued friend of mine. A few years back, he had broken the master code used by the criminal organizations on Krupmark Island, enabling law enforcement agencies across the world to put a serious dent in their illegal activities.
So, if he was wiring something to me, it had to be important.
I slit the envelope open with a claw, removed the telegram, and read it.
And read it again.
After reading it a third time, I got up and crossed the office to the coffee service, poured myself a cup, returned to my desk, and fished a bottle of Courvoisier from a bottom drawer. A slug of the excellent brandy went into the coffee.
I raised it in salute to my old friend before drinking.
When my cup was empty, I picked up the phone and dialed a certain number.
My wife’s voice was heard after the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Vee.”
“Allan? It’s only ten o’clock,” Vee said. “Are you taking an early lunch?”
“Maybe. Just got a telegram.”
“Oh?”
“From Franklin.”
There was a pause. “From Franklin? Not from someone on his behalf?”
I resisted the urge to chuckle. “He’s most assuredly not dead, sweetheart. He’s getting married.”
There was another pause.
I held the pawset away from my ear to avoid getting deafened, and after she seemed to calm down I asked, “Should I reply?”
“If you don’t, you’ll live to regret it,” she said rather tartly. “Are we going?”
“I haven’t made any plans yet, but I think Allan can mind the shop. Shall I start arranging transportation?”
“Please! I’ll start packing.”
***
Father Merino:
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” I said as the buck entered my office. “Have you come for confession?” I asked, and started to stand up.
He held up a paw. “Please, Father, I’m here for another purpose.” I regained my seat as he sat down.
“’Another purpose,’” I repeated. “Is something wrong?”
Inspector Stagg shook his head. “No, Father.” He took a breath, as if marshaling his thoughts. “I have proposed to Rosalie Baumgartner, and she has accepted.”
To say that I was pleasantly surprised by this news would be like saying that the current conflict between the Chinese and the Japanese was merely a spirited argument. I got up from my chair, circled around the desk, and took his paw. “Inspector, congratulations, to both of you, and I pray you will both find happiness together.”
“Thank you, Father. There will likely be some discussion as to who will officiate.”
“Oh?”
“Well, Miss Baumgartner is Jewish.”
I smiled. “You leave that to me, Inspector. Rabbi Steinmink and I have a chess date later this afternoon, and I’ll have a talk with him. We’ll work out something acceptable.”
“Thank you, Father.” He got to his hooves, and I escorted him to the door.
Once he had gone, I approached the altar, crossed myself, and knelt to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord, for fulfilling the wish of so many furs that the wound in Inspector Stagg’s heart would be healed.
With that done, I walked to my office to start writing up the banns. After I talk to Steinmink, I’ll drop by Luchow’s and get a few particulars from the bride and groom before publishing them.
***
Pierre:
The first indication that something was going on was the shriek of pure joy that reverberated down the halls, followed by the comely form of my wife, Toni. My beautiful tigress’ tail was switching back and forth almost hypnotically as she slammed my office door shut and beamed at me. There was a scrap of paper in her paw.
I smiled up at her. “Mail, my dear?”
She was a little breathless from her scream, but Toni recovered quickly and said, “Just got a wire from Spontoon.”
“And?”
“Rosie’s getting married!” That’d be her good friend, a cheetah late of Gnu York. I met her when I met Toni, during the events leading up to my nephew Leslie’s wedding.
“And I take it you want to go to the wedding?”
My usually so self-assured Gnu York-born wife suddenly gave me the biggest pair of kitten eyes I’ve ever seen outside of certain trashy pieces of art. “Can we, Paul? Please?”
I laughed and sat back, waving her over. She came over and sat in my lap. “Of course,” I said. “Les is running the company, so we have plenty of time.”
She gave me more incentive to agree, as her paws went roaming while we kissed.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Red Fox
Size 332 x 700px
File Size 207.9 kB
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