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Listed in Folders
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
tegerio, courtesy of 
eocostello
4.
September 2, 1938
Josslyn Buckhorn:
“Rodgers!” My secretary came to the door. “Schedule a nine-o’clock with my indefinite son,” I growled, and set the memo aside. Dratted fawn.
What did he want to talk to me about? Probably some wild scheme or other.
The company, I must admit, is doing well, despite the folderol going on in Germany and Italy. Confounded troublemakers, and just when the economy was beginning to get back on its hooves. Still, Mosley’s getting Britain back on an even keel.
Promptly at nine, there’s a tap on the door. “Get in here.”
“Good morning, Father,” and Reggie takes a seat. He’s got a folder in his paws.
After a moment I say, “Get on with it, boy.”
“I’d like to take a brief leave of absence.”
“Eh?”
“The Company’s doing very well, so it’s time to start looking for new markets and new sources of income.”
I nod, warily. It’s a philosophy I’ve used before. Have to keep on your hoof-tips in this business.
“By a happy coincidence – “
Here it comes.
“ – Willow’s good friend is getting married in the Spontoons, so I was thinking of taking her and Tommy there.”
“Using Company assets for a vacation?”
My son shakes his head. I don’t hear anything rattle. “I was thinking of taking advantage of the stay there to contact a few furs in their government. The waters around Spontoon are very good for growing kelp.”
“Kelp?”
“Seaweed, Father. Rich in iron and vitamins, according to the chemists.” He offers the file. “My proposal.”
I take it and look it over. It seems adequate. “Think the Spontoonies will agree?”
“They may strike a hard bargain,” he says, “but there’s no harm in talking, what?”
I have to grudgingly admit that my son has developed an iota of business sense. His tactics in dealing with the labour trouble in Chicago last December were unorthodox, but effective, and he’s shown that he won’t go off the rails again.
I give the folder back to him. “Do it. I look forward to your report.”
Not quite “return with your shield, or on it,” but he gets the hint and leaves.
***
Richard Broome:
“Message for you, Vice-Commodore.”
I look up from the paperwork on my desk at my collie secretary. “Yes, Kathy?”
“From Sapohatan.”
I frown. “We’ve already gotten all the normal traffic from the Spontoons for today, didn’t we?”
Kathy nods. A good secretary is a pearl beyond price, trust me on this. “We did. This came over the NPT wire.”
“Commercial service?” I hold out a paw for it. You never knew when or if Albert would start getting more cloak-and-dagger than usual. I tore it open and read the telegram.
Kathy chuckles at my sudden grin. “Good news?”
“Very good news. ‘Z’ is getting married.” ‘Z’ is the Rain Island Intelligence Service’s designation for one Franklin Stagg, late of New Haven and now a resident alien in the Spontoon Independencies. He’s helped both the Spontoonies and me in the past, but always at arm’s length because he insists on remaining a stateless person.
“Are you going to the wedding?” Kathy asks.
I think about it before shaking my head. “There’s too much to be done here. I’ll send a card, and have Natalya pick out something nice as a present.”
***
September 5, 1938
Rosie:
It is Christmas?
Can’t be, it’s only September, but damn if it doesn’t feel like Christmas, and New Year’s and Valentine’s Day and the Fourth of July, all rolled up together into one!
The bells over at St. Anthony had just rung, and if I listened closely enough (over all the other sounds you hear on Meeting Island during Speed Week, oy) I could hear Father Merino loudly reading the banns for “Franklin Stagg, of Meeting Island” and “Rosalie Baumgartner, also of Meeting Island.”
Hee!
The pink fog was blown away but a sudden gale of Russian profanities from the kitchen.
Oy. Okeh, time to get back to work, and I head to the kitchen as a few customers look up from their breakfasts.
“All right, Nick, what’s the huhu?” I ask. “You’re going to put the customers off their feed.”
“Nikolai Ivanovich is sorry, Rosie,” my cook growled. Heh, a rabbit growling, but Nick can pull it off with the same aplomb as Eglantine, the tigress who guards the gate at the Double Lotus. Nick’s glaring at two identical apricot tod-foxes who stood just inside the back door with an array of cardboard boxes at their feet.
Well, one tod’s feet, anyway; B’onss had obviously dropped his on his feet, and was still doing a creditable imitation of an Apache war dance. Don’t blame him; those cans looked heavy.
“Nikolai Ivanovich send these two to the market,” the rabbit grumbled, “and he even give them list! And this is what they bring back!” He pointed at a squat wooden box, its lid askew.
I walked over and lifted the lid. White stuff, looked like cream cheese. I took a sniff and grabbed my nose as I straightened up. “What the hell?” I asked. The box was an aromatic wood, and the odor had completely permeated the cheese.
“It is so,” Nick said. He glared at the Dumbsey Twins and asked, "Chto - what is this?"
"It's wh-wh-what you w-w-wanted, N-Nick," K'nutt stammered as his brother finally stopped dancing. "D-D-Didn't you w-want c-c-c-cedar cheese?"
"CHEDDAR!" Nick roared. "I want Cheddar, ty glupaya lisitsa! Nikolai Ivanovich does not want keep moths from fridge! He want Cheddar for lunch menu!" He scooped up one of the fallen cans, looked at the label and snorted, "Hmmph! We shall no need the canned clams - "
He looked up sharply as someone in the distance shouted, "YOU MONSTER!"
I took advantage of the momentary ceasefire. “Nick, calm down. Remember your blood pressure. Vicky’s got another order waiting. Go on, and I’ll deal with this.” The Russian rabbit grumbled something and returned to his post, and I faced down B’onss and K’nutt. “Now, you two – “
“All we did was folla th’ list Nick gave us, Rosie,” B’onss said defensively.
“Uh huh. Give me the list,” and I read it over. I turned it around and pointed. “There’s a letter ‘h’ right there, B’onss. That word is ‘Cheddar.’ Where did you find ‘cedar’ cheese?”
“W-w-w-we h-hadda g-go t-t-t-to M-Main Island,” K’nutt said.
That explained why they were gone most of the morning.
I took a deep breath. “Look, you two, I have enough on my mind without having Nick chop the two of you up for fricassee – “
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” B’onss said. “Youse is gettin’ married. Congrats.”
“Thank you. Do you want to go watch the wedding?” They nodded in unison. “Then stop getting Nick mad at you. Now, you two know that we buy clams from Mrs. Mingus’s, over at the Old China Dock.”
“S-s-s-sure, R-Rosie,” K’nutt said. “B-But M-M-Mrs. M-M-M-Minguseseseseseses – OW!” he yelped as B’onss slapped him on the back of his head.
I frowned at B’onss, who said, “Mrs. Mingus didn’t have as many as Nick was wantin.’”
“And it didn’t occur to you to check with any of the others.” I sighed, and ended up giving a little more money to the twits to go buy proper Cheddar cheese and shooed them out the door.
I stood there at the back door, watching them go, when there was an ear-flattening howl from a loudspeaker, and I heard a voice shouting, “The People of New Haven demand the surrender of the Enemy of the People, Franklin Stagg, to the People’s Justice! We will not be denied!”
Oy, these mamzers. Of course, the Red Fist would hear about me and Franneleh getting hitched, and it figures that they’d want to stick their oars in.
<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
tegerio, courtesy of 
eocostello4.
September 2, 1938
Josslyn Buckhorn:
“Rodgers!” My secretary came to the door. “Schedule a nine-o’clock with my indefinite son,” I growled, and set the memo aside. Dratted fawn.
What did he want to talk to me about? Probably some wild scheme or other.
The company, I must admit, is doing well, despite the folderol going on in Germany and Italy. Confounded troublemakers, and just when the economy was beginning to get back on its hooves. Still, Mosley’s getting Britain back on an even keel.
Promptly at nine, there’s a tap on the door. “Get in here.”
“Good morning, Father,” and Reggie takes a seat. He’s got a folder in his paws.
After a moment I say, “Get on with it, boy.”
“I’d like to take a brief leave of absence.”
“Eh?”
“The Company’s doing very well, so it’s time to start looking for new markets and new sources of income.”
I nod, warily. It’s a philosophy I’ve used before. Have to keep on your hoof-tips in this business.
“By a happy coincidence – “
Here it comes.
“ – Willow’s good friend is getting married in the Spontoons, so I was thinking of taking her and Tommy there.”
“Using Company assets for a vacation?”
My son shakes his head. I don’t hear anything rattle. “I was thinking of taking advantage of the stay there to contact a few furs in their government. The waters around Spontoon are very good for growing kelp.”
“Kelp?”
“Seaweed, Father. Rich in iron and vitamins, according to the chemists.” He offers the file. “My proposal.”
I take it and look it over. It seems adequate. “Think the Spontoonies will agree?”
“They may strike a hard bargain,” he says, “but there’s no harm in talking, what?”
I have to grudgingly admit that my son has developed an iota of business sense. His tactics in dealing with the labour trouble in Chicago last December were unorthodox, but effective, and he’s shown that he won’t go off the rails again.
I give the folder back to him. “Do it. I look forward to your report.”
Not quite “return with your shield, or on it,” but he gets the hint and leaves.
***
Richard Broome:
“Message for you, Vice-Commodore.”
I look up from the paperwork on my desk at my collie secretary. “Yes, Kathy?”
“From Sapohatan.”
I frown. “We’ve already gotten all the normal traffic from the Spontoons for today, didn’t we?”
Kathy nods. A good secretary is a pearl beyond price, trust me on this. “We did. This came over the NPT wire.”
“Commercial service?” I hold out a paw for it. You never knew when or if Albert would start getting more cloak-and-dagger than usual. I tore it open and read the telegram.
Kathy chuckles at my sudden grin. “Good news?”
“Very good news. ‘Z’ is getting married.” ‘Z’ is the Rain Island Intelligence Service’s designation for one Franklin Stagg, late of New Haven and now a resident alien in the Spontoon Independencies. He’s helped both the Spontoonies and me in the past, but always at arm’s length because he insists on remaining a stateless person.
“Are you going to the wedding?” Kathy asks.
I think about it before shaking my head. “There’s too much to be done here. I’ll send a card, and have Natalya pick out something nice as a present.”
***
September 5, 1938
Rosie:
It is Christmas?
Can’t be, it’s only September, but damn if it doesn’t feel like Christmas, and New Year’s and Valentine’s Day and the Fourth of July, all rolled up together into one!
The bells over at St. Anthony had just rung, and if I listened closely enough (over all the other sounds you hear on Meeting Island during Speed Week, oy) I could hear Father Merino loudly reading the banns for “Franklin Stagg, of Meeting Island” and “Rosalie Baumgartner, also of Meeting Island.”
Hee!
The pink fog was blown away but a sudden gale of Russian profanities from the kitchen.
Oy. Okeh, time to get back to work, and I head to the kitchen as a few customers look up from their breakfasts.
“All right, Nick, what’s the huhu?” I ask. “You’re going to put the customers off their feed.”
“Nikolai Ivanovich is sorry, Rosie,” my cook growled. Heh, a rabbit growling, but Nick can pull it off with the same aplomb as Eglantine, the tigress who guards the gate at the Double Lotus. Nick’s glaring at two identical apricot tod-foxes who stood just inside the back door with an array of cardboard boxes at their feet.
Well, one tod’s feet, anyway; B’onss had obviously dropped his on his feet, and was still doing a creditable imitation of an Apache war dance. Don’t blame him; those cans looked heavy.
“Nikolai Ivanovich send these two to the market,” the rabbit grumbled, “and he even give them list! And this is what they bring back!” He pointed at a squat wooden box, its lid askew.
I walked over and lifted the lid. White stuff, looked like cream cheese. I took a sniff and grabbed my nose as I straightened up. “What the hell?” I asked. The box was an aromatic wood, and the odor had completely permeated the cheese.
“It is so,” Nick said. He glared at the Dumbsey Twins and asked, "Chto - what is this?"
"It's wh-wh-what you w-w-wanted, N-Nick," K'nutt stammered as his brother finally stopped dancing. "D-D-Didn't you w-want c-c-c-cedar cheese?"
"CHEDDAR!" Nick roared. "I want Cheddar, ty glupaya lisitsa! Nikolai Ivanovich does not want keep moths from fridge! He want Cheddar for lunch menu!" He scooped up one of the fallen cans, looked at the label and snorted, "Hmmph! We shall no need the canned clams - "
He looked up sharply as someone in the distance shouted, "YOU MONSTER!"
I took advantage of the momentary ceasefire. “Nick, calm down. Remember your blood pressure. Vicky’s got another order waiting. Go on, and I’ll deal with this.” The Russian rabbit grumbled something and returned to his post, and I faced down B’onss and K’nutt. “Now, you two – “
“All we did was folla th’ list Nick gave us, Rosie,” B’onss said defensively.
“Uh huh. Give me the list,” and I read it over. I turned it around and pointed. “There’s a letter ‘h’ right there, B’onss. That word is ‘Cheddar.’ Where did you find ‘cedar’ cheese?”
“W-w-w-we h-hadda g-go t-t-t-to M-Main Island,” K’nutt said.
That explained why they were gone most of the morning.
I took a deep breath. “Look, you two, I have enough on my mind without having Nick chop the two of you up for fricassee – “
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” B’onss said. “Youse is gettin’ married. Congrats.”
“Thank you. Do you want to go watch the wedding?” They nodded in unison. “Then stop getting Nick mad at you. Now, you two know that we buy clams from Mrs. Mingus’s, over at the Old China Dock.”
“S-s-s-sure, R-Rosie,” K’nutt said. “B-But M-M-Mrs. M-M-M-Minguseseseseseses – OW!” he yelped as B’onss slapped him on the back of his head.
I frowned at B’onss, who said, “Mrs. Mingus didn’t have as many as Nick was wantin.’”
“And it didn’t occur to you to check with any of the others.” I sighed, and ended up giving a little more money to the twits to go buy proper Cheddar cheese and shooed them out the door.
I stood there at the back door, watching them go, when there was an ear-flattening howl from a loudspeaker, and I heard a voice shouting, “The People of New Haven demand the surrender of the Enemy of the People, Franklin Stagg, to the People’s Justice! We will not be denied!”
Oy, these mamzers. Of course, the Red Fist would hear about me and Franneleh getting hitched, and it figures that they’d want to stick their oars in.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cheetah
Size 865 x 1280px
File Size 221 kB
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