FA+
Shop
671
Views
Views
3
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Story / General Furry Art
Species Deer
Size 1024 x 768
File Size 161.3 kB
Report this content
More from Walt46
Listed in Folders
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 picture © 20th Century Fox, reproduced under Fair Use.
29.
Reggie:
I saw two things before I closed the door.
First, I saw Allan Minkerton and Pierre du Cleds, in company with Sergeant Brush, spirit Inspector Stagg away to safety.
Second, I saw (and heard) Fausti leaping over the bar, brandishing a bung-starter easily the same size as himself and shouting “¡NO PASARAN!” at the top of his diminutive lungs.
Good Lord. These intramural spats between the various factions of the Left, am I right?
The Old Self would have stayed to enjoy the fun. The New Buck decided to shift ho for the front desk, instanter.
The staffer at the front desk I recognized. Meantersay, those mustachios you could spot at fifty yards. The same were quivering with excitement; all that mayhem, and he was stuck behind the desk. Duty Before Pleasure, a picture for the lads at the Royal Academy.
I was just about to report when a roar that rivaled the Cup Final at Wembley erupted, pre-empting me, along with a somewhat wet sound as part of the cake hit one of the windows. A discordant accompaniment to this noise signified that the piano had met an untimely end as the ranygazoo hit full throttle, and I could make out various voices, raised in anger, as I moved toward the front desk and the waiting clerk.
"Saracen pig!”
“Spartan dog!”
“Take this! And this!”
“Roman cow!”
“Russian snake!”
“Spanish fly!”
“Anglo-Saxon Hun!"
The clerk saw fit to interrupt. "SAH! SHALL HI HINFORM THE CONSTAHBULARY, SAH?"
I thought about that. Given that I saw: (1) the head of the Constabulary; (2) the entirety of the Detective Bureau; (3) about half of the Riot Squad (who also knew me of old); and (4) a quality assortment of the rank and file in the Long Bar, my conclusion was that the Constabulary was already well-informed.
"SAH! WE 'AVE 'AD THE LINES CLEARED TO MAKE THAT CALL, SAH!"
"Sound and statesfur-like. Might be a bit of the old you-know-what to you-know-where, though . . . "
Thinking the matter over, while the clerk placed the call and the sounds of yelling, cursing, and smashing wood and glass could be heard, it did put me in mind of the chappie who decided to try causes with some native lads out in the Dakotas sixty years or so before, and had been given his chapeau, liberally pierced with bullet holes, as his reward. Evidently, the New Haven lads weren't much for planning, but if you'd seen any Collegiate School games against Penn, you'd have known that.
Made me nostalgic for those not-so-long-ago days when Les duCleds was around and about. I'd have to drop him a line.
Meanwhile, the sounds of mayhem next door elicited a response from someone in the neighboring restaurant, l’Etoile Argent. A nondescript feline in a rather shabby suit leaned out, ears perked, a plate of lasagna in one paw and a fork in the other, with pasta sauce marking his muzzle. He quickly withdrew, reemerging with a pad and pencil in his paws, scribbling madly.
I fancied that he was a member of the Fourth Estate, and should be lauded for his sense of duty. The lasagna at l’Etoile is quite good.
Ears swiveled and perked as, like the “horns of Elf-land faintly blowing,” sirens and whistles could be heard in the distance and growing closer. The front doors were opened before they were broken down, and the guardians of the Law presented themselves in a body, charged past me, and entered the Long Bar.
One constable hung back, his pad already out. “Mister Buckhorn?”
“Yes?” Behind me, the sounds of the fight subsided.
The constable, an otter, licked the point of his pencil and jotted a note. “You weren’t in the fight, Mr. Buckhorn?”
“Got out as soon as it started,” I replied promptly. “I saw it start, though.”
The otter appeared impressed. "Well, that has the charm of being novel. Come over here, and I'll take your statement." He led me into the small room just off the lobby where one can write letters.
It was novel. I have normally given statements while in an alcoholic or hung-over haze, and I was rather impressed by how clear my memory was about who stood where and who did what to whom.
Midway through this ritual I glanced out of the window and saw Inspector Stagg (looking rather downcast), Chief Sapper (only lightly bespattered with cake and other comestibles, but looking very pleased with himself), and Sergeant Brush (looking more bespattered, but with a broad smile on his vulpine phiz) being led out in pawcuffs, and a hideous realization dawned upon me, one that filled me with awe and terror.
Someone was going to have to tell Willow and Rosie.
And that someone was me.
Last chappie at Fort Zinderneuf had an easier job, I thought to myself.
Still, I was the figurative last buck standing, so after giving my full statement to the constable and waiting as a ranting and cursing Fausti was hauled away by four constables, the pudu still clutching his bung-starter with a death grip, I headed for the concierge’s desk.
That worthy emerged from behind the desk wearing a trench bowler. Shows you that those lads do indeed think of everything. “Yes, Mr. Buckhorn?” he asked, a soupcon of trepidation edging his voice.
I took a deep breath. “I need the telephone number,” I said, “for the Double Lotus.” He gave me a very questioning look and I supplied, “My wife and the Inspector’s fiancée are there, having their bachelorette party.”
“Oh.” He supplied me with the number and said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sir.”
My ears swiveled. “Well, no. In fact, I don’t know what I’m doing. Going boldly where angels fear, et cetera. Never stopped me before,” I said as I shifted ho for the elevator, thinking that calling Willow from our rooms would be a little less uncomfortable.
I had to pause as the group of sailors who’d been at the party were met by a group of those shore patrol chaps, led by a tall badger femme and a short fox. While they pawcuffed Ranua and Captain Maxwell the fox said, “You’re under arrest for having a brawl without inviting me.” To the badger he said, “Looked like it was a great party, Sam. Pity I wasn't invited.”
The badger smirked. “It'd still be going on if you were invited, Max. And not being invited isn’t a crime.”
“Sez you.”
Ranua, poor fellow, had one ear bitten and his left eye was already swelling. “I know this is unusual – “
“I'll say,” the fox said. “I'm on the side of the angels, doing the arresting. It's making me dizzy. I need a drink.”
" . . . but do we have to tell my wife?"
The badger, Sam, patted the fox’s head. “Later on the drink, Max. We’re on the clock.” She glanced at Ranua, who gulped as she said, “I will tell his wife.”
“Spoilsport,” Max grumbled as he and the rest of the patrol hauled their fellows off to durance vile.
The lift doors closed, and as I ascended I almost wished I was going to jail with them.
***
Rosie:
The party was still going on when the phone behind the bar rang.
And rang.
It was on the tenth ring when Covina picked it up. “Double Lotus, whaddaya want? Huh? Who? Yeah, just a minute. Hey, Willow!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise. Willow’s ears swiveled and the Malinois yelled, “Phone! For you!”
My future daughter-in-law (hee!) got up and crossed to the bar, taking the pawset from Covina. I turned back to listen to Lisa, as the vixen hit a high note on her clarinet.
“WHAT THE ____, REGGIE!?”
You could have heard a moth pass gas, I’m telling you.
In fact, I briefly thought of washing Willow’s mouth out with soap. Such language, and in public.
The music stopped, the laughter and conversation died, and every ear in the place focused on Willow as she snapped, “No – what? No! You stay right there, Reggie, you hear me!? Good!” and she thrust the pawset back at Covina.
Willow came stamping back to her seat with blood in her eyes. I could almost see steam starting to come out of her ears.
“What’s wrong?” Athena asked, raising the obvious question.
Willow paused in reaching for her purse, and when she spoke it was Grace. It was in the grip of very strong emotion, her voice shaking, that she said, “Reggie called . . . the Red Fist . . . showed up, and . . . a fight started.” Her lips curled back from her teeth. “Everyone’s in jail.”
My eyes went wide. “Even – “
“Yes.”
Oy.
I raised my voice as I started to get up. “Okay, girls, the party’s over. Remember, the wedding’s at noon on Sunday,” and me, Toni, Vicky, Kara, and Athena got up and followed Willow out.
<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 picture © 20th Century Fox, reproduced under Fair Use.
29.
Reggie:
I saw two things before I closed the door.
First, I saw Allan Minkerton and Pierre du Cleds, in company with Sergeant Brush, spirit Inspector Stagg away to safety.
Second, I saw (and heard) Fausti leaping over the bar, brandishing a bung-starter easily the same size as himself and shouting “¡NO PASARAN!” at the top of his diminutive lungs.
Good Lord. These intramural spats between the various factions of the Left, am I right?
The Old Self would have stayed to enjoy the fun. The New Buck decided to shift ho for the front desk, instanter.
The staffer at the front desk I recognized. Meantersay, those mustachios you could spot at fifty yards. The same were quivering with excitement; all that mayhem, and he was stuck behind the desk. Duty Before Pleasure, a picture for the lads at the Royal Academy.
I was just about to report when a roar that rivaled the Cup Final at Wembley erupted, pre-empting me, along with a somewhat wet sound as part of the cake hit one of the windows. A discordant accompaniment to this noise signified that the piano had met an untimely end as the ranygazoo hit full throttle, and I could make out various voices, raised in anger, as I moved toward the front desk and the waiting clerk.
"Saracen pig!”
“Spartan dog!”
“Take this! And this!”
“Roman cow!”
“Russian snake!”
“Spanish fly!”
“Anglo-Saxon Hun!"
The clerk saw fit to interrupt. "SAH! SHALL HI HINFORM THE CONSTAHBULARY, SAH?"
I thought about that. Given that I saw: (1) the head of the Constabulary; (2) the entirety of the Detective Bureau; (3) about half of the Riot Squad (who also knew me of old); and (4) a quality assortment of the rank and file in the Long Bar, my conclusion was that the Constabulary was already well-informed.
"SAH! WE 'AVE 'AD THE LINES CLEARED TO MAKE THAT CALL, SAH!"
"Sound and statesfur-like. Might be a bit of the old you-know-what to you-know-where, though . . . "
Thinking the matter over, while the clerk placed the call and the sounds of yelling, cursing, and smashing wood and glass could be heard, it did put me in mind of the chappie who decided to try causes with some native lads out in the Dakotas sixty years or so before, and had been given his chapeau, liberally pierced with bullet holes, as his reward. Evidently, the New Haven lads weren't much for planning, but if you'd seen any Collegiate School games against Penn, you'd have known that.
Made me nostalgic for those not-so-long-ago days when Les duCleds was around and about. I'd have to drop him a line.
Meanwhile, the sounds of mayhem next door elicited a response from someone in the neighboring restaurant, l’Etoile Argent. A nondescript feline in a rather shabby suit leaned out, ears perked, a plate of lasagna in one paw and a fork in the other, with pasta sauce marking his muzzle. He quickly withdrew, reemerging with a pad and pencil in his paws, scribbling madly.
I fancied that he was a member of the Fourth Estate, and should be lauded for his sense of duty. The lasagna at l’Etoile is quite good.
Ears swiveled and perked as, like the “horns of Elf-land faintly blowing,” sirens and whistles could be heard in the distance and growing closer. The front doors were opened before they were broken down, and the guardians of the Law presented themselves in a body, charged past me, and entered the Long Bar.
One constable hung back, his pad already out. “Mister Buckhorn?”
“Yes?” Behind me, the sounds of the fight subsided.
The constable, an otter, licked the point of his pencil and jotted a note. “You weren’t in the fight, Mr. Buckhorn?”
“Got out as soon as it started,” I replied promptly. “I saw it start, though.”
The otter appeared impressed. "Well, that has the charm of being novel. Come over here, and I'll take your statement." He led me into the small room just off the lobby where one can write letters.
It was novel. I have normally given statements while in an alcoholic or hung-over haze, and I was rather impressed by how clear my memory was about who stood where and who did what to whom.
Midway through this ritual I glanced out of the window and saw Inspector Stagg (looking rather downcast), Chief Sapper (only lightly bespattered with cake and other comestibles, but looking very pleased with himself), and Sergeant Brush (looking more bespattered, but with a broad smile on his vulpine phiz) being led out in pawcuffs, and a hideous realization dawned upon me, one that filled me with awe and terror.
Someone was going to have to tell Willow and Rosie.
And that someone was me.
Last chappie at Fort Zinderneuf had an easier job, I thought to myself.
Still, I was the figurative last buck standing, so after giving my full statement to the constable and waiting as a ranting and cursing Fausti was hauled away by four constables, the pudu still clutching his bung-starter with a death grip, I headed for the concierge’s desk.
That worthy emerged from behind the desk wearing a trench bowler. Shows you that those lads do indeed think of everything. “Yes, Mr. Buckhorn?” he asked, a soupcon of trepidation edging his voice.
I took a deep breath. “I need the telephone number,” I said, “for the Double Lotus.” He gave me a very questioning look and I supplied, “My wife and the Inspector’s fiancée are there, having their bachelorette party.”
“Oh.” He supplied me with the number and said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sir.”
My ears swiveled. “Well, no. In fact, I don’t know what I’m doing. Going boldly where angels fear, et cetera. Never stopped me before,” I said as I shifted ho for the elevator, thinking that calling Willow from our rooms would be a little less uncomfortable.
I had to pause as the group of sailors who’d been at the party were met by a group of those shore patrol chaps, led by a tall badger femme and a short fox. While they pawcuffed Ranua and Captain Maxwell the fox said, “You’re under arrest for having a brawl without inviting me.” To the badger he said, “Looked like it was a great party, Sam. Pity I wasn't invited.”
The badger smirked. “It'd still be going on if you were invited, Max. And not being invited isn’t a crime.”
“Sez you.”
Ranua, poor fellow, had one ear bitten and his left eye was already swelling. “I know this is unusual – “
“I'll say,” the fox said. “I'm on the side of the angels, doing the arresting. It's making me dizzy. I need a drink.”
" . . . but do we have to tell my wife?"
The badger, Sam, patted the fox’s head. “Later on the drink, Max. We’re on the clock.” She glanced at Ranua, who gulped as she said, “I will tell his wife.”
“Spoilsport,” Max grumbled as he and the rest of the patrol hauled their fellows off to durance vile.
The lift doors closed, and as I ascended I almost wished I was going to jail with them.
***
Rosie:
The party was still going on when the phone behind the bar rang.
And rang.
It was on the tenth ring when Covina picked it up. “Double Lotus, whaddaya want? Huh? Who? Yeah, just a minute. Hey, Willow!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise. Willow’s ears swiveled and the Malinois yelled, “Phone! For you!”
My future daughter-in-law (hee!) got up and crossed to the bar, taking the pawset from Covina. I turned back to listen to Lisa, as the vixen hit a high note on her clarinet.
“WHAT THE ____, REGGIE!?”
You could have heard a moth pass gas, I’m telling you.
In fact, I briefly thought of washing Willow’s mouth out with soap. Such language, and in public.
The music stopped, the laughter and conversation died, and every ear in the place focused on Willow as she snapped, “No – what? No! You stay right there, Reggie, you hear me!? Good!” and she thrust the pawset back at Covina.
Willow came stamping back to her seat with blood in her eyes. I could almost see steam starting to come out of her ears.
“What’s wrong?” Athena asked, raising the obvious question.
Willow paused in reaching for her purse, and when she spoke it was Grace. It was in the grip of very strong emotion, her voice shaking, that she said, “Reggie called . . . the Red Fist . . . showed up, and . . . a fight started.” Her lips curled back from her teeth. “Everyone’s in jail.”
My eyes went wide. “Even – “
“Yes.”
Oy.
I raised my voice as I started to get up. “Okay, girls, the party’s over. Remember, the wedding’s at noon on Sunday,” and me, Toni, Vicky, Kara, and Athena got up and followed Willow out.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Deer
Size 1024 x 768px
File Size 161.3 kB
Listed in Folders
As pointed out in Fun With Gas Mains, Willow's already whittled down the numbers a little.
Why do I get the feeling that a whole lot of charges against the party goers will be dropped on account of Grace and Rosie tag teaming the Reds?
Oh, don't forget Kara. The local lawyer that Rosie's friends with. I'm sure she'd just love to defend not only The Inspector and her brother in court if it goes that far.
Plus, once word gets out via the news reporter on what happened, that the Spontoon All-Thing would just be happy to sweep this incident under the rug. Especially with Stag's record of helping with so many cases while the New Havens have been nothing but trouble all along.
Oh, don't forget Kara. The local lawyer that Rosie's friends with. I'm sure she'd just love to defend not only The Inspector and her brother in court if it goes that far.
Plus, once word gets out via the news reporter on what happened, that the Spontoon All-Thing would just be happy to sweep this incident under the rug. Especially with Stag's record of helping with so many cases while the New Havens have been nothing but trouble all along.
Comments