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Spies Are Like Daffodils
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
RockBaker
Ten.
The barman approached the three Okhrana officers. “What can I get you?”
“Do you have vodka?” Sergeant Blymy asked hopefully.
“Yes, we have Pribiloff Vodka,” the deer said. “It’s from Rain Island.”
Von Fecklessenburg scowled, and Sergeant Awfulich gave Blymy a dubious look as the bear asked for a shot of the liquor, neat. The bear drank the liquor, swished it around in his mouth with a judicious expression on his face, and finally swallowed it. “Hm,” he said, “it is not as good as White Crown, from Tsarogorod,” he said. “Reminds me of samogan my uncle once made, Lord bless him,” and he crossed himself piously.
The other two Tsarists tried it, judged it acceptable but just barely, and asked the barman to leave the bottle. Sergeant Awfulich, being the largest of the trio, had to shove himself uncomfortably close to the bar to make room for one customer, a slightly short and very rotund bloodhound with a slight squint. The wolverine took a half-step back from the bar and looked over at Phlute and Patafuerte before gesturing to the barman. “What is that, that they are drinking?” he asked, pointing a glass of some indefinite red liquid.
The deer replied, “A Shirley Shrine,” in a deadpan tone.
“I have heard of this drink,” the wolverine declared. “Only fit for little girls,” and he grinned insinuatingly at the fox and the stork.
Phlute and Patafuerte did sudden double takes at the sight of the glass sitting before them. “I didn’t ask for that!” Henry exclaimed. “Must’ve been him.”
“Nah,” Bernie demurred. “Had to’ve been him. I’m an adult, I am.”
The two glared at each other.
“You ordered it!”
“No, YOU ordered it!”
Awfulich reached out and touched the barman’s sleeve. “Which of them did order it?”
“Hey now, don’t get me involved in this,” the buck said. “Now, you want anything to eat with that vodka?”
The dispute stopped instantly. “We have not had lunch,” the wolverine observed.
“What’ve you got?” the stork asked.
“Sandwiches,” and the deer glanced down under the bar. “I got . . . ham and cheese, egg salad, turkey, and roast beef.” He shut the lid on the ice chest. “What do you want?”
By the time all of the orders were sorted out, von Fecklessenberg was munching an egg salad sandwich with his mouth open, aiming the display of poor manners directly at the fox and the stork. The two sergeants each had ham and cheese, and Patafuerte was eating roast beef, and trying not to get nauseated at what the schnauzer was doing.
He glanced at Phlute and asked, “Turkey? Really? Isn’t that cannibalism?”
The stork shrugged. “Wasn’t anybody I know.” He suddenly glanced down at the non-alcoholic, cloyingly sweet cocktail. “Hey! Someone drank out of this! I KNEW you ordered it!”
The fox looked indignant, but waited until he was finished chewing before declaring, “It’s in front of YOU.”
“You pushed it over!”
“I did not!” Patafuerte glared across the length of the bar at von Fecklessenburg and waved at the barman. “You got another egg salad down there?”
The buck looked. “Yeah.”
“Gimme, and a bottle of Orca-Cola.”
The schnauzer said, “I will also have another egg salad, please.” He sneered at Patafuerte as he said this.
The fox and the schnauzer ate their egg salad sandwiches at each other, mouths open and making wet smacking sounds, leaving Phlute, Blymy and Awfulich looking at each other with feathers ruffled and ears dipped in embarrassment. The bear and the wolverine finished their sandwiches and left, headed back the way they came after a brief conversation with the Major in Russian.
Phlute finished his sandwich and Orca-Cola, and gently nudged the Shirley Shrine toward Patafuerte. “Here’s your drink.”
“What?” Henry said with his mouth full. “That’s your drink – look! It’s half-empty!”
“It’s YOUR drink,” the stork said, and he walked out of the car, past a pair of canines who were seated at a small table.
One of the two canines, with shoulder-length headfur and glasses, watched Phlute walk past and murmured, “Nice tailfeathers.”
The other canine glared at him, giving an irritated huff through his nostrils.
The fellow immediately took his friend’s paw and said apologetically, “Mr. Pratt, please. My eye may roam, but I assure you that there’s no room in my heart for anyone but you.”
“Thank you, Mister Flynt,” the easily-offended but equally easily-mollified canine said, and the two smiled at each other.
After a few more minutes of egg salad-based psychological warfare, the barman ordered the schnauzer and the fox to leave the club car. Major von Fecklessenburg washed down the last bit of his sandwich with the dregs of the bottle of vodka and belched before leaving, while Patafuerte finished his soda and walked out, leaving part of his sandwich uneaten.
***
A few hours later, Nunevya scowled as her nostrils wrinkled. “Must you do that?” she demanded, glaring at Patafuerte.
“Sorry,” the tod said. “I forgot that egg salad doesn’t agree with me.”
Seated across from him, the stork sneered, “I always thought that foxes liked eggs. You know, what with henhouses and such.”
Henry frowned at Bernie. “Shut up, Featherhead. Cannibal.” The pair lapsed into a sullen silence.
“You did not even bring Nunevya any food,” the minkess muttered.
“I’m very sorry, Nunevya,” Henry said.
“Is no matter,” she said. “What is the hour?”
“Sixty minutes,” Bernie said. “Everyone knows that.”
Nunevya frowned. “What is the time?”
“Oh. Um, about four,” Phlute replied.
The minkess made a disgusted sound. “When is time to eat?”
Phlute shrugged, and he and Nunevya looked at Patafuerte.
Henry caught the two of them looking at him and said, “Hey, I haven’t done it anymore – “
“When does the dining car open for dinner?” Bernie asked.
The tod put a paw to his chin. “Five o’clock, maybe. That’s when they open in Rain Island, at least.”
“An hour,” the minkess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and returning to gazing out the window. After a few minutes she gave an unladylike snort and glared at Henry, the fox’s ears laying back in embarrassment.
Phlute waved a paw in front of his face. “Were those skunk eggs you were eating?” he asked, making the dyspeptic tod more embarrassed while the minkess opened the window.
After a while, Nunevya got to her feet, with Henry and Bernie standing up a second after her. “I am going to dinner,” she announced, and the fox and the stork scrambled to unlock the compartment door so they could escort her.
She stopped them and glared at Patafuerte. “YOU walk behind me.” The minkess put her nose in the air, swished her tail, and marched off as Phlute stuck his tongue out at the fox.
At the entrance to the dining car, they moved aside as the portly bloodhound Bernie and Henry had seen in the club car edged past them. As he went past Nunevya, he paused and said, “Good EE-vening,” in a lugubrious voice before moving on.
Nunevya took a seat next to the elderly moose couple, with the stork seated across from her and the fox seated across the aisle and facing in the opposite direction. They ordered their meals and were waiting when Patafuerte suddenly stood up. “Excuse me,” and he walked quickly down the aisle.
Only to come back up the aisle, at a considerably faster rate of speed, and leave the dining car.
“Sure I can’t talk you into coming with me?” Phlute asked the minkess.
Nunevya glowered at him. “Nunevya is not certain yet. Rain Island sent an officer, even though he is weird boy. You are detective.”
Phlute’s response to this was eclipsed by an anguished cry from someone entering the dining car. The feline was holding his nose as he exclaimed, “Oh, the pong! Curried egg salad – what was he THINKING!?” The man took a seat close to the kitchen, looking quite shaken as he tried to clear his sinuses.
Several minutes later, Henry slipped into the dining car and took his seat, his ears flat against his skull and his tail between his legs. As he sat down, he placed his violin case beside him and he looked up as the steward gave him his meal.
The odors that had caused the feline such distress finally abated and other diners entered the car, stopping as Patafuerte finished his meal and opened the instrument case. “Nunevya?”
“Ye-es?” the minkess asked, eyeing him and the violin warily.
“I'm sorry if I’ve offended you,” the fox said, “so to make it up to you I’m going to serenade you,” and with that he tucked the violin under his chin, took up the bow, and started playing.
The tune was somewhat recognizable as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and the howls of pain from every canine in the dining car, accompanied by them all gripping their ears, implied that Patafuerte’s playing was not exactly of virtuoso or even secondary school level. With a final set of sounds more akin to claws on a blackboard and a feral cat being tortured than any musical note, the tod finished playing and smiled expectantly at Nunevya.
The minkess pulled her fingers from her ears.
Henry’s ears dipped and a slim Doberman approached him. “Excuse me,” he said with a German accent to his English. “I am first violinist at the Berliner Staatsoper – “
The fox brightened. “You're a violin player, too? Wow! Can you give me any advice?”
The canine smiled. “Gladly. Strychnine.”
“On my bow?” Patafuerte asked.
“Nein,” the Doberman said. “In your coffee.”
Behind the first violinist, other passengers had gotten to their feet and advanced toward Henry.
***
The violin, case and all, flew out an open window as the train headed down a mountain.
"That was a company violin," Patafuerte whined.
"I'm sure the company is insured," the Doberman said as the rest of the passengers cheered the canine’s actions.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
RockBakerTen.
The barman approached the three Okhrana officers. “What can I get you?”
“Do you have vodka?” Sergeant Blymy asked hopefully.
“Yes, we have Pribiloff Vodka,” the deer said. “It’s from Rain Island.”
Von Fecklessenburg scowled, and Sergeant Awfulich gave Blymy a dubious look as the bear asked for a shot of the liquor, neat. The bear drank the liquor, swished it around in his mouth with a judicious expression on his face, and finally swallowed it. “Hm,” he said, “it is not as good as White Crown, from Tsarogorod,” he said. “Reminds me of samogan my uncle once made, Lord bless him,” and he crossed himself piously.
The other two Tsarists tried it, judged it acceptable but just barely, and asked the barman to leave the bottle. Sergeant Awfulich, being the largest of the trio, had to shove himself uncomfortably close to the bar to make room for one customer, a slightly short and very rotund bloodhound with a slight squint. The wolverine took a half-step back from the bar and looked over at Phlute and Patafuerte before gesturing to the barman. “What is that, that they are drinking?” he asked, pointing a glass of some indefinite red liquid.
The deer replied, “A Shirley Shrine,” in a deadpan tone.
“I have heard of this drink,” the wolverine declared. “Only fit for little girls,” and he grinned insinuatingly at the fox and the stork.
Phlute and Patafuerte did sudden double takes at the sight of the glass sitting before them. “I didn’t ask for that!” Henry exclaimed. “Must’ve been him.”
“Nah,” Bernie demurred. “Had to’ve been him. I’m an adult, I am.”
The two glared at each other.
“You ordered it!”
“No, YOU ordered it!”
Awfulich reached out and touched the barman’s sleeve. “Which of them did order it?”
“Hey now, don’t get me involved in this,” the buck said. “Now, you want anything to eat with that vodka?”
The dispute stopped instantly. “We have not had lunch,” the wolverine observed.
“What’ve you got?” the stork asked.
“Sandwiches,” and the deer glanced down under the bar. “I got . . . ham and cheese, egg salad, turkey, and roast beef.” He shut the lid on the ice chest. “What do you want?”
By the time all of the orders were sorted out, von Fecklessenberg was munching an egg salad sandwich with his mouth open, aiming the display of poor manners directly at the fox and the stork. The two sergeants each had ham and cheese, and Patafuerte was eating roast beef, and trying not to get nauseated at what the schnauzer was doing.
He glanced at Phlute and asked, “Turkey? Really? Isn’t that cannibalism?”
The stork shrugged. “Wasn’t anybody I know.” He suddenly glanced down at the non-alcoholic, cloyingly sweet cocktail. “Hey! Someone drank out of this! I KNEW you ordered it!”
The fox looked indignant, but waited until he was finished chewing before declaring, “It’s in front of YOU.”
“You pushed it over!”
“I did not!” Patafuerte glared across the length of the bar at von Fecklessenburg and waved at the barman. “You got another egg salad down there?”
The buck looked. “Yeah.”
“Gimme, and a bottle of Orca-Cola.”
The schnauzer said, “I will also have another egg salad, please.” He sneered at Patafuerte as he said this.
The fox and the schnauzer ate their egg salad sandwiches at each other, mouths open and making wet smacking sounds, leaving Phlute, Blymy and Awfulich looking at each other with feathers ruffled and ears dipped in embarrassment. The bear and the wolverine finished their sandwiches and left, headed back the way they came after a brief conversation with the Major in Russian.
Phlute finished his sandwich and Orca-Cola, and gently nudged the Shirley Shrine toward Patafuerte. “Here’s your drink.”
“What?” Henry said with his mouth full. “That’s your drink – look! It’s half-empty!”
“It’s YOUR drink,” the stork said, and he walked out of the car, past a pair of canines who were seated at a small table.
One of the two canines, with shoulder-length headfur and glasses, watched Phlute walk past and murmured, “Nice tailfeathers.”
The other canine glared at him, giving an irritated huff through his nostrils.
The fellow immediately took his friend’s paw and said apologetically, “Mr. Pratt, please. My eye may roam, but I assure you that there’s no room in my heart for anyone but you.”
“Thank you, Mister Flynt,” the easily-offended but equally easily-mollified canine said, and the two smiled at each other.
After a few more minutes of egg salad-based psychological warfare, the barman ordered the schnauzer and the fox to leave the club car. Major von Fecklessenburg washed down the last bit of his sandwich with the dregs of the bottle of vodka and belched before leaving, while Patafuerte finished his soda and walked out, leaving part of his sandwich uneaten.
***
A few hours later, Nunevya scowled as her nostrils wrinkled. “Must you do that?” she demanded, glaring at Patafuerte.
“Sorry,” the tod said. “I forgot that egg salad doesn’t agree with me.”
Seated across from him, the stork sneered, “I always thought that foxes liked eggs. You know, what with henhouses and such.”
Henry frowned at Bernie. “Shut up, Featherhead. Cannibal.” The pair lapsed into a sullen silence.
“You did not even bring Nunevya any food,” the minkess muttered.
“I’m very sorry, Nunevya,” Henry said.
“Is no matter,” she said. “What is the hour?”
“Sixty minutes,” Bernie said. “Everyone knows that.”
Nunevya frowned. “What is the time?”
“Oh. Um, about four,” Phlute replied.
The minkess made a disgusted sound. “When is time to eat?”
Phlute shrugged, and he and Nunevya looked at Patafuerte.
Henry caught the two of them looking at him and said, “Hey, I haven’t done it anymore – “
“When does the dining car open for dinner?” Bernie asked.
The tod put a paw to his chin. “Five o’clock, maybe. That’s when they open in Rain Island, at least.”
“An hour,” the minkess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and returning to gazing out the window. After a few minutes she gave an unladylike snort and glared at Henry, the fox’s ears laying back in embarrassment.
Phlute waved a paw in front of his face. “Were those skunk eggs you were eating?” he asked, making the dyspeptic tod more embarrassed while the minkess opened the window.
After a while, Nunevya got to her feet, with Henry and Bernie standing up a second after her. “I am going to dinner,” she announced, and the fox and the stork scrambled to unlock the compartment door so they could escort her.
She stopped them and glared at Patafuerte. “YOU walk behind me.” The minkess put her nose in the air, swished her tail, and marched off as Phlute stuck his tongue out at the fox.
At the entrance to the dining car, they moved aside as the portly bloodhound Bernie and Henry had seen in the club car edged past them. As he went past Nunevya, he paused and said, “Good EE-vening,” in a lugubrious voice before moving on.
Nunevya took a seat next to the elderly moose couple, with the stork seated across from her and the fox seated across the aisle and facing in the opposite direction. They ordered their meals and were waiting when Patafuerte suddenly stood up. “Excuse me,” and he walked quickly down the aisle.
Only to come back up the aisle, at a considerably faster rate of speed, and leave the dining car.
“Sure I can’t talk you into coming with me?” Phlute asked the minkess.
Nunevya glowered at him. “Nunevya is not certain yet. Rain Island sent an officer, even though he is weird boy. You are detective.”
Phlute’s response to this was eclipsed by an anguished cry from someone entering the dining car. The feline was holding his nose as he exclaimed, “Oh, the pong! Curried egg salad – what was he THINKING!?” The man took a seat close to the kitchen, looking quite shaken as he tried to clear his sinuses.
Several minutes later, Henry slipped into the dining car and took his seat, his ears flat against his skull and his tail between his legs. As he sat down, he placed his violin case beside him and he looked up as the steward gave him his meal.
The odors that had caused the feline such distress finally abated and other diners entered the car, stopping as Patafuerte finished his meal and opened the instrument case. “Nunevya?”
“Ye-es?” the minkess asked, eyeing him and the violin warily.
“I'm sorry if I’ve offended you,” the fox said, “so to make it up to you I’m going to serenade you,” and with that he tucked the violin under his chin, took up the bow, and started playing.
The tune was somewhat recognizable as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and the howls of pain from every canine in the dining car, accompanied by them all gripping their ears, implied that Patafuerte’s playing was not exactly of virtuoso or even secondary school level. With a final set of sounds more akin to claws on a blackboard and a feral cat being tortured than any musical note, the tod finished playing and smiled expectantly at Nunevya.
The minkess pulled her fingers from her ears.
Henry’s ears dipped and a slim Doberman approached him. “Excuse me,” he said with a German accent to his English. “I am first violinist at the Berliner Staatsoper – “
The fox brightened. “You're a violin player, too? Wow! Can you give me any advice?”
The canine smiled. “Gladly. Strychnine.”
“On my bow?” Patafuerte asked.
“Nein,” the Doberman said. “In your coffee.”
Behind the first violinist, other passengers had gotten to their feet and advanced toward Henry.
***
The violin, case and all, flew out an open window as the train headed down a mountain.
"That was a company violin," Patafuerte whined.
"I'm sure the company is insured," the Doberman said as the rest of the passengers cheered the canine’s actions.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Stork
Size 87 x 120px
File Size 55.2 kB
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