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  wom-bat


28.

Athena:

Oh, my. This place is – well, it’s pretty nice.

See, I usually hear about the Double Lotus as a place where all kinds of horrible and scandalous things happen, but it’s not like that at all, at least not for tonight. I like to think I’m not that naïve.

Under the decorations, the bar’s covered in dark wood and nice furniture. Brenda and Covina, the couple minding the bar, are dressed in matching black trousers, white shirts and red silk bow ties. They seemed very familiar with each other, and I asked Rosie about them.

“Those two?” The cheetah laughed. “They’re married.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Been married – hey, Bren!”

“Yeah?” the golden Labrador asked as she served another customer.

“How long have you and Covina been hitched?”

The two canines grin at each other before Brenda says, “Two years, come December.” They lean in and kiss each other.

Made me take a sip of my drink. This punch is very good.

The music’s great, and the tall vixen playing the clarinet is really talented. A few couples are dancing together, and I make a note that some night Jacob and I should go out. A nice quiet dinner, followed by dancing.

Not here, of course. Boys not allowed, you know.


***


Rosie:

I was having a great time, and the usual crowd at the Lotus were, if not behaving, at least keeping it quiet so as not to spook Athena, Vicki and Kara. Willow’s been here before, and of course Toni and I used to help run this place.

Lots of girls came up to give me a hug and a kiss and wish me the best of luck. Jackie expressed some disappointment, as she wanted to do her little trick with the fire hydrant, but understood that we wanted to keep the fun clean after the last time. At least we weren’t on a yacht, so the party wasn’t going to turn into a hazard to navigation.

“Okay! Okay! Pipe down there!” Toni started yelling, and Lisa and the small band stopped. My tigress chum had been drinking a bit, while I’d been confining myself to Nootnops Red and just one glass of champers. It’d been a long day, and I didn’t dare fall asleep around this crowd, if you know what I mean. “We’re going to play a game!” and everyone cheered. A chair was placed beside her, and she waved for me to come over and sit down.

“What kind of game?” I asked as I took a seat.

“You’ll see,” and she winked. I sat back with a smile as Covina gave Toni a pointer, like you see in a schoolroom. “The name of this game is Where Does the Buck Stop?” Toni proclaimed, and the crowd whooped before settling down. Willow and my bridesmaids, sitting at the back, were talking among themselves while watching what was going on.

“Now, ladies,” Toni said, “we all know that our dear Rosie is about to take the plunge into holy matrimony.” A chorus of boos and cries of “No!” greeted this. “But what we all want to know is, where does her buck stop?” She swung the pointer to indicate my feet. “Does he stop here?”

“He’d better not!” Brenda yelled, and everyone laughed.

I wasn’t going to tell these hellions about how well my Franneleh does a foot rub.

The pointer moved up, to hover over my knees. “Does it stop here?” The crowd booed.

“Does the buck stop . . . here?” and Toni used her paw to point at my muzzle.

A chant of “Farther! Farther! Farther!” started off to the side, led by Lisa. The vixen grinned at me when I glared at her.

“Farther, huh?” Toni said theatrically, and she flourished the pointer, starting at my muzzle and moving downward as the crowd chanted, finally cheering as Toni reached my waist.

“Nice to see that the buck stops here,” my old friend teased, and she said to me, “Stand up, Spots, and let’s hear from the guest of honor.”

“Okeh,” and there were cheers and applause as I stood up. “Now, listen up, girls. I’m just getting married; this isn’t a wake.” A few wanted to argue that point, but I waved them quiet. “In fact, there’s still some life in this old carcass, and I’ll prove it. Stripes?”

“Hanh?” Toni asked.

I leaned in close. “Who’s A Tonic?”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth made an O of surprise. “We’re hardly dressed for that.”

“Undressed, you mean,” I countered, and the girls laughed. “But we’ll keep it nice for the benefit of all these children here. Lisa? You and the girls get up here and follow our lead, okeh?”

The extra blinis would doubtless slow me down a little, but Toni and me are troupers.

Toni and I started our old burly-Q dance as Lisa and the band swung into the first bars of Doctor Jazz.

Just like old times.


***


Reggie:

The party was going very well. A few of the sailors and off-duty constables were gathered around the piano in one corner, listening as one played something quiet and classical. It certainly wasn’t a sea shanty, that was for certain. Small groups were at the tables or circulating around, sharing stories about the Inspector’s exploits.

Allan Minkerton, an old and good friend of the Inspector’s, acquainted me with the knowledge that, before the Red Fist ruined New Haven, the buck used to take a drink now and then. That surprised me.

Between the two of us, we managed to convince the Inspector to have one very light Scotch and water, and he was still drinking it, standing at the bar, over an hour later.

A model of self-restraint.

It was somewhere after eight o’clock or so when the doors to the Long Bar banged open and in came a tall badger in a rather ill-fitting suit, with about ten other furs at his back. They had a certain south side of Fillydelphia look about them, or perhaps the purlieus of Whitechapel.

Until the badger opened his mouth, and I heard a New Haven accent.

“So! I had heard you were here, Stagg, swilling liquor while hard-working, decent furs go hungry!”

Inspector Stagg gently placed his glass on the bar and turned to face the badger. The piano had stopped playing, and ears were swiveling.

“Ambassador Wakefield,” the Inspector said. “Somewhat off your sovereign territory tonight, are you?”

The badger growled, “The Revolution respects no borders, you horned criminal.”

“I say,” I began to interject, only to be cut off by a hiss from, of all furs, Fausti, who was peering up at Wakefield with a jaundiced and angry eye.

“Deviationist,” the pudu said.

Wakefield immediately switched targets from the Inspector to Fausti. “Revisionist,” he said.

Clearly, Fausti wasn’t about to give ground. "Wrecker."

"Degenerate."

"Trotskyite dog."

"Midget."

“Big nose.”

“Flit.”

“Wart.”

“Dwarf.”

Fausti raised one eyebrow before he held up his pinky finger, pointed at it, and then pointed at the badger, who growled at the implication.

Wakefield then leaned, or rather loomed, over the bar, looking Fausti in the eyes as he said a word that causes many hoofed furs a great deal of anxiety, if not outright fear.

“Glue.”

Fausti gave a soft bark of alarm and disappeared behind the bar, and the badger began to turn toward the Inspector.

I felt a distraction was in order, so I stepped between my father-in-law and the Ambassador and said, “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! This is supposed to be a – a happy occasion! Let’s not bicker and argue about whose failed socioeconomic theories are worse!”

Somehow that didn’t seem to go over well with the Red Fist gang.

Inspector Stagg gently moved me out of the line of fire and said mildly, “You are interrupting a bachelor party, Ambassador. If you have something to say, I should think you would be better served by bringing it out into the open.”

Wakefield gave a contemptuous sneer. “Yes, we heard that you were getting married. I saw her, before the Revolution – the slut.”

I swear, you could have heard a pin drop.

Stagg’s ears went flat. “What . . . did you say, Ambassador?”

“I said, I saw her shameless act in the bawdy houses in New Haven City, before the Revolution came and purged all that filth from the country. I shouldn’t be surprised you’d take up with that harlot, Red Light Frankie,” he sneered.

I noted that the off-duty constables, the wedding party, and the sailors were all on their feet and hooves now and were eyeing Wakefield’s compatriots rather meaningfully. Sergeant Brush was dangling a rather well-used-looking blackjack in one paw.

I also heard and saw something that I think the badger had missed.

Namely, a very soft whistling snort, and the sound of a hoof scraping against the floor.

Oh. My.

“We got rid of everyone like her in New Haven,” Wakefield said, “and who knows? Maybe if we bring the Revolution to Spontoon, we can hang her too!”

The silence was palpable now, and things were getting serious. Fausti and the other bartenders had apparently heard the snort and scrape, and had begun to move various breakables out of harm’s way. I started edging toward the door, but my eyes remained set on what was happening. Sort of like a farmer in America might stare, transfixed, as a cyclone bears down on him.

Or, for that matter, one of the vice-presidents at F.R. Buckhorn & Sons seeing the Sire come down the hall. Same difference.

Inspector Stagg leaned over the bar, catching Fausti’s eye. “What time is it?” he asked.

“It is half past eight, Inspector.”

My father-in-law drew his right fist back, and at the stroke of the half-hour, punched Wakefield solidly in the nose.

The badger went down like a felled tree, clutching at his snout. The rest of the Red Fist Gang stepped forward, only to pause when they realized that they were outnumbered easily three to one.

I had reached the door, and had opened it, when one of the bartenders assisting Fausti dropped a glass, which shattered with a loud noise.

And the fight was on.




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