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Tzimmes Cracked 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
susandeer
25.
September 27, 1938
Lodge:
“Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn’s rooms.”
“Mrs. Buckhorn, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Sergeant Brush, wit’ th’ Constabulary.”
“Of course, Sir. One moment.” I set the pawset aside, confident that the call did not concern either of my employers being in jail. So far, none of my employers have succeeded in being in two places at the same time, although I can only hope that Professor Heisenberg’s researches do not reach the ears of either of them.
Mrs. Buckhorn was having a post-breakfast cup of coffee when I approached. “Excuse me, Ma’am.”
“Yes, Lodge?”
“Sergeant Brush on the phone, for you.”
She set her cup aside and used her napkin before getting to her hooves. “Thank you, Lodge,” and she went to the phone. Mr. Buckhorn was deeply engrossed in the morning newspaper, and he merely nodded as I cleared away the breakfast dishes.
From the adjoining room I heard, “Good morning, Sergeant, what can I do for you today? Oh . . . ah, I see . . . I had planned on it for today, but tomorrow will be perfect . . . Thank you for calling, Sergeant. Have a good day.” There was the sound of the pawset being replaced, and Mrs. Buckhorn came back in and sat down.
Is anything the matter, Willow?” Mr. Buckhorn asked, looking up from the latest offering from the writers of Rocket Rat. The eponymous hero was having tough going against the aptly named Herd of Horribles.
“Nothing, Reggie dear,” Mrs. Buckhorn replied.
There was something disquieting in her smile.
***
Victoria:
I hung up the phone and Allan asked, “Was that Willow?”
“Yes, it was. She called to say that she’s going to spring the third of her ‘moral lessons’ tomorrow.”
Allan looked amused. “What is it this time?”
I chuckled. “I think she called it the ‘sin of gluttony.’” I caught his whisker-twitch and I asked, “Do you want me to call her back and tell her to call it off?”
“Hmm. No. So far, she’s two for two. Let’s see if third time’s the charm.”
***
Reggie:
“What ho, Fausti! Good day today?”
The diminutive cervine peered up at me from behind the bar. “Hola, Señor Buckhorn. Fausti has had a very good today. Fausti has made another especial for the Señor Inspector Stagg.”
“Oh?”
“Si. Fausti call it the Savin Rock.”
“Why?” I asked.
“One sip, you feel like you hit with it.”
I frowned as dim, alcohol-fogged memories of parties in New Haven City swam to the surface. I was, after all, a Penn fur, Class of 1930, but at the time there were fewer more salubrious places for a party than New Haven City. New Haven, you see, never had Prohibition, so the fruits of Bacchus flowed freely and cheaply.
Heaven only knows what the place is like now.
Still, I vaguely recalled that Savin Rock was a landmark or something near New Haven City, and with the Inspector (my father-in-law, it must be recalled) having been tortured and driven from that unhappy country by the Red Fist, anything named after the place might have unfortunate Associations. “Fausti?”
“Si, Señor?”
“Throw that drink away,” I said, turning to look straight into his eyes, “and never mention it to the Inspector.”
“But, Señor – “
“Never, Fausti.”
The pudu fetched a huge sigh. “Muy bueno, Señor.” He rustled around behind the bar, sniffling. One could almost hear tiny violins.
He made such a pathetic display that I took him into my confidence and related to him that the Long Bar was the venue for the bachelor party. That seemed to cheer him up, and I asked, “Since you won’t be serving the Savin Rock – “
“Oh, it is not matter, Señor,” Fausti said. “Fausti will give it to the Militia.”
“Er, yes, quite,” and I headed for the lobby.
I was headed for the elevators when a mel otter in a suit almost walked past me before doing a double-take. He reached out to get my attention by brushing against my shoulder and asked, “Excuse me, Mister Buckhorn?”
“In the flesh, Mr. - ?”
“Vaimasina, sir, Rudy Vaimasina,” and the otter extended a paw.
“Yes, I recall.” Or, rather, my fingers recalled, and gave my memory a bit of a swift kick to get it working. “You’re with the Tillamook Agriculture Ministry.”
“That’s me. I’ve been looking for you, and I’d feared that you’d left.”
“Oh, not at all, sir. I’m here for at least another week yet.”
Vaimasina smiled. “Great. I was wondering if we could have a little talk. Do you have any objection to having a seat in the bar? I’m parched.”
“You won’t find a better oasis than the Long Bar, then, sir,” I said, and I about-turned and we headed into the bar.
The otter ordered a cold beer and a small plate of appetizers, and looked surprised when I asked for lemonade and salted acorns. “Are you a teetotaler, Mr. Buckhorn?”
“Reggie, please,” I said. “Before I became a husband and father, I was a habitue of this establishment, but I think it’s safe to say that there are quite a few bartenders whose savings were increased by my custom,” and I smiled ruefully, “and regularly dine out on tales of what I’d get up to when I was intoxicated.”
“Ah, I see.” He sat back as his appetizer, a small plate of sardines with an honor guard of crackers and a small bottle of hot sauce. He busied himself with stacking a pair of the small fish on a cracker before dripping some hot sauce on it before he asked, “So?”
“So I’m quite sober,” I said, after swallowing the salted acorn I’d popped into my mouth. “What did you want to talk about?”
He finished chewing and washed his snack down with a swallow of his beer before he said, “As you know, I was in the room when you and Mrs. Rapani spoke. I also took the opportunity to read over your company’s proposal.”
My ears swiveled slightly. “Yes?”
Vaimasina smiled. “Shortly after you left, I sent a cable to Tillamook. I got the reply today.” He sat up and looked at me. “Would you be willing to do business with us, Mr. Buckhorn?”
Well! This was rather a surprise, and I said so.
“F. R. Buckhorn and Sons is always interested in developing a new market,” I said, my ears angling toward him. “What do you propose?”
***
September 28, 1938
Rosie:
The closer we get to The Day, the more nervous I’m getting.
How nervous?
My tail’s shaking back and forth like a hootchie-cootchie girl’s, sometimes so fast you can’t see the spots.
Franneleh noticed it, of course, and he looked up from his breakfast. “Rosie?”
“Hm?”
He smiled. “Calm down.”
“I am – “
My darling buck reached out and silenced me with a finger to my lips. “Shh, my beloved. If you were shaking any harder, someone might think that there’s an earthquake.”
I drew a deep breath and sighed it out. “How do you manage to stay so calm?”
“I’ve been through this before,” Franklin said, “and this time,” and he drew me closer, “I intend to stay calm and savor every moment.”
Our lips met.
The world went very pink.
And when he left for work, I was a lot calmer.
“Hi, Rosie,” Vicky said as I came downstairs. “How’s things going?”
“Great,” I almost purred, and we started getting things ready for the morning crowd. A sign had already been posted telling everyone that Luchow’s would be closed starting October the first, and with nearly all of the tourists gone by now, it wouldn’t be much of a problem.
I looked up, ears swiveling, as a truck clattered down the road.
<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
susandeer25.
September 27, 1938
Lodge:
“Mr. and Mrs. Buckhorn’s rooms.”
“Mrs. Buckhorn, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Sergeant Brush, wit’ th’ Constabulary.”
“Of course, Sir. One moment.” I set the pawset aside, confident that the call did not concern either of my employers being in jail. So far, none of my employers have succeeded in being in two places at the same time, although I can only hope that Professor Heisenberg’s researches do not reach the ears of either of them.
Mrs. Buckhorn was having a post-breakfast cup of coffee when I approached. “Excuse me, Ma’am.”
“Yes, Lodge?”
“Sergeant Brush on the phone, for you.”
She set her cup aside and used her napkin before getting to her hooves. “Thank you, Lodge,” and she went to the phone. Mr. Buckhorn was deeply engrossed in the morning newspaper, and he merely nodded as I cleared away the breakfast dishes.
From the adjoining room I heard, “Good morning, Sergeant, what can I do for you today? Oh . . . ah, I see . . . I had planned on it for today, but tomorrow will be perfect . . . Thank you for calling, Sergeant. Have a good day.” There was the sound of the pawset being replaced, and Mrs. Buckhorn came back in and sat down.
Is anything the matter, Willow?” Mr. Buckhorn asked, looking up from the latest offering from the writers of Rocket Rat. The eponymous hero was having tough going against the aptly named Herd of Horribles.
“Nothing, Reggie dear,” Mrs. Buckhorn replied.
There was something disquieting in her smile.
***
Victoria:
I hung up the phone and Allan asked, “Was that Willow?”
“Yes, it was. She called to say that she’s going to spring the third of her ‘moral lessons’ tomorrow.”
Allan looked amused. “What is it this time?”
I chuckled. “I think she called it the ‘sin of gluttony.’” I caught his whisker-twitch and I asked, “Do you want me to call her back and tell her to call it off?”
“Hmm. No. So far, she’s two for two. Let’s see if third time’s the charm.”
***
Reggie:
“What ho, Fausti! Good day today?”
The diminutive cervine peered up at me from behind the bar. “Hola, Señor Buckhorn. Fausti has had a very good today. Fausti has made another especial for the Señor Inspector Stagg.”
“Oh?”
“Si. Fausti call it the Savin Rock.”
“Why?” I asked.
“One sip, you feel like you hit with it.”
I frowned as dim, alcohol-fogged memories of parties in New Haven City swam to the surface. I was, after all, a Penn fur, Class of 1930, but at the time there were fewer more salubrious places for a party than New Haven City. New Haven, you see, never had Prohibition, so the fruits of Bacchus flowed freely and cheaply.
Heaven only knows what the place is like now.
Still, I vaguely recalled that Savin Rock was a landmark or something near New Haven City, and with the Inspector (my father-in-law, it must be recalled) having been tortured and driven from that unhappy country by the Red Fist, anything named after the place might have unfortunate Associations. “Fausti?”
“Si, Señor?”
“Throw that drink away,” I said, turning to look straight into his eyes, “and never mention it to the Inspector.”
“But, Señor – “
“Never, Fausti.”
The pudu fetched a huge sigh. “Muy bueno, Señor.” He rustled around behind the bar, sniffling. One could almost hear tiny violins.
He made such a pathetic display that I took him into my confidence and related to him that the Long Bar was the venue for the bachelor party. That seemed to cheer him up, and I asked, “Since you won’t be serving the Savin Rock – “
“Oh, it is not matter, Señor,” Fausti said. “Fausti will give it to the Militia.”
“Er, yes, quite,” and I headed for the lobby.
I was headed for the elevators when a mel otter in a suit almost walked past me before doing a double-take. He reached out to get my attention by brushing against my shoulder and asked, “Excuse me, Mister Buckhorn?”
“In the flesh, Mr. - ?”
“Vaimasina, sir, Rudy Vaimasina,” and the otter extended a paw.
“Yes, I recall.” Or, rather, my fingers recalled, and gave my memory a bit of a swift kick to get it working. “You’re with the Tillamook Agriculture Ministry.”
“That’s me. I’ve been looking for you, and I’d feared that you’d left.”
“Oh, not at all, sir. I’m here for at least another week yet.”
Vaimasina smiled. “Great. I was wondering if we could have a little talk. Do you have any objection to having a seat in the bar? I’m parched.”
“You won’t find a better oasis than the Long Bar, then, sir,” I said, and I about-turned and we headed into the bar.
The otter ordered a cold beer and a small plate of appetizers, and looked surprised when I asked for lemonade and salted acorns. “Are you a teetotaler, Mr. Buckhorn?”
“Reggie, please,” I said. “Before I became a husband and father, I was a habitue of this establishment, but I think it’s safe to say that there are quite a few bartenders whose savings were increased by my custom,” and I smiled ruefully, “and regularly dine out on tales of what I’d get up to when I was intoxicated.”
“Ah, I see.” He sat back as his appetizer, a small plate of sardines with an honor guard of crackers and a small bottle of hot sauce. He busied himself with stacking a pair of the small fish on a cracker before dripping some hot sauce on it before he asked, “So?”
“So I’m quite sober,” I said, after swallowing the salted acorn I’d popped into my mouth. “What did you want to talk about?”
He finished chewing and washed his snack down with a swallow of his beer before he said, “As you know, I was in the room when you and Mrs. Rapani spoke. I also took the opportunity to read over your company’s proposal.”
My ears swiveled slightly. “Yes?”
Vaimasina smiled. “Shortly after you left, I sent a cable to Tillamook. I got the reply today.” He sat up and looked at me. “Would you be willing to do business with us, Mr. Buckhorn?”
Well! This was rather a surprise, and I said so.
“F. R. Buckhorn and Sons is always interested in developing a new market,” I said, my ears angling toward him. “What do you propose?”
***
September 28, 1938
Rosie:
The closer we get to The Day, the more nervous I’m getting.
How nervous?
My tail’s shaking back and forth like a hootchie-cootchie girl’s, sometimes so fast you can’t see the spots.
Franneleh noticed it, of course, and he looked up from his breakfast. “Rosie?”
“Hm?”
He smiled. “Calm down.”
“I am – “
My darling buck reached out and silenced me with a finger to my lips. “Shh, my beloved. If you were shaking any harder, someone might think that there’s an earthquake.”
I drew a deep breath and sighed it out. “How do you manage to stay so calm?”
“I’ve been through this before,” Franklin said, “and this time,” and he drew me closer, “I intend to stay calm and savor every moment.”
Our lips met.
The world went very pink.
And when he left for work, I was a lot calmer.
“Hi, Rosie,” Vicky said as I came downstairs. “How’s things going?”
“Great,” I almost purred, and we started getting things ready for the morning crowd. A sign had already been posted telling everyone that Luchow’s would be closed starting October the first, and with nearly all of the tourists gone by now, it wouldn’t be much of a problem.
I looked up, ears swiveling, as a truck clattered down the road.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Cheetah
Size 939 x 1280px
File Size 229.4 kB
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