FA+
Shop
441
Views
Views
2
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Story / General Furry Art
Species Maine Coon
Size 120 x 104
File Size 49.6 kB
Report this content
More from Walt46
Listed in Folders
Garden Gate
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Stanislaus Coon and Ivar Vargsson are courtesy of E.O. Costello, used by permission. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by
tegerio
By the time I and the rest of the staff had reached our temporary military base housing, I had succeeded in reducing the number of thoughts I had regarding Moka Bustani to a manageable few, and was prepared to give at least an oral report to ‘M’ if he called. Of course, I was taking it as read that he would call.
“He would call?” Ivar asked from the back of my mind. “So quickly after your first interview?”
“Possibly,” I replied. “Also possible that he’d keep it to generalities; even with a secure line you cannot be too careful.”
“Which makes the concept of a ‘secure’ line rather . . . ironic?” Ivar asked in an arch tone.
I resisted vocalizing a snort at the wolf. “You know perfectly well how hard it is to make anything totally secure. Anything more detailed would require a face to face meeting, or my report under seal.”
“Hm, very true,” Ivar agreed as the vehicle we were in pulled to a halt at our housing area, and its doors opened. “I remind you of what I suggested earlier.”
I chuckled. “One bottle of quality rum. I remember.”
After the obligatory security checks, I was checked back into my room and started running a search of the facility. Sure enough, there was an exchange on the base, with one store selling intoxicants. I poked around the store’s inventory before finding what I wanted, and judged that there was enough time before dinner to get what I wanted.
I had just gotten back into my room, my purchase firmly in paw, when my padd chimed for attention. I unfolded it and sat down. “Coon here.”
“Captain,” ‘M’ said, the roebuck swiveling his ears warily. “Are you able to talk?”
“Not merely able, but willing,” Ivar said from a slouched position across the room.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Assessment?” Before I could reply, the roebuck passed a paw almost casually over his right ear, right eye and mouth.
I picked up on the gesture immediately. “I wish to have the opportunity to meet him again,” I said, and held up the bottle I’d bought.
‘M’ grinned, and nodded. “Tomorrow, then,” and he broke the connection.
“I recommended quality rum, my dear Stanislaus,” I heard Ivar sniff. “That surely put a moderately-sized hole in your available funds.”
“It did,” I admitted, “but it’s an appropriate gift for Bustani’s hospitality.”
“A princely gift indeed,” Ivar murmured.
My ears dipped slightly and I shrugged. “I’m considering it an investment.”
Ivar cheered up a good deal when I went to the officer’s club for dinner. Steak with side dishes, red wine, and an after-dinner measure of single malt (with accompanying carafe of water) served to mellow my mood as well.
Another quantity of single malt was taken back to my room, and after careful preparation and contemplation of the beverage, I muttered, “Hard to make anything really secure.”
Obviously thinking that a change in subject was in order, Ivar helpfully said, “Especially the undergarments of femmefurs.”
I chuckled, recalling a certain femme on a certain planet known, rather colorfully, to the locals as ‘Chest-Assisted Manipulation.’ I erased the memory of the femme by wondering for a moment whether the planet was now in Kashlanin space, what the shlani thought of the place’s name. “Hm . . . Speaking of that, I wonder what Dr. Nushaar wears under her clothes.”
“Quality, but not quantity,” came the near-instant reply. I chuckled at that, and Ivar asked, “You doubt my analysis?”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
“Her outer garments are tailored, as I’m certain that you have noticed, Stanislaus. And said outer garments are of very select material. Tailored, one might add, in a subtle fashion to show that she is very much a femmefur.”
“Yes, she is that.” Where did that wistful tone come from?
Ivar smiled. “I highly approve, incidentally. She has brains and taste, and there are hints she has . . . imagination.”
I laughed, glanced at him, and then looked at the barest sip of single malt in my glass. “Hm, yeah, well, I need to get through this assignment, at least, before I can think any further on the subject.”
“So far, leaving aside your encounter with the garden fountain,” Ivar suggested, “I would say that you have yet to put a foot wrong, Stanislaus. I would suggest that you table the subject of the good doctor, and get some sleep. You will need your mind sharp and clear for your next meeting with Bustani-jih.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you, Ivar.”
“You’re quite welcome, my friend.”
***
The afternoon was a little warmer than the day before, but I was determined to not go swimming. Instead, I walked through the gardens after lunch, with my burden tucked in under my right arm, and admired the plants for a while.
I had a motive for walking through the gardens, of course.
The tiger was crouched beside a low hedge, trimming away a few stray branches that had grown out of the near half-spherical shape. His ears flicked at the sound of my feet on the gravel and he half-turned. “Fair day, Captain,” the tiger said with a smile.
“Fair day, Bustani-jih,” I said. “I wanted to thank you for your hospitality yesterday,” and I patted the box.
“A present, eh?” He got to his feet and brushed at his trousers and apron before giving me a grin. “People will talk.”
“Very good, this one,” Ivar muttered.
“Well, to avoid gossip,” I said, “I’d like to give this to you in your quarters.”
“Ah, well,” and he looked up at the sky. “Hmm, maybe rain coming. Let me gather up these trimmings and we’ll head over to my place.”
Rank has a certain amount of privilege, so I stood and looked around as the gardener cleaned up after himself. When he had his basket and tools all gathered up, we set off to the quarter of the garden where he kept his house.
He dumped the contents of the basket onto the compost heap before putting things up in the greenhouse. The tiger took his apron off and hung it up before reaching out a paw. “Let’s see what you have here - eh?” He boggled at the label on the otherwise plain silver-gray box.
Bustani gave me a questioning look; I nodded, and he opened the box.
Nestled within was a one-liter bottle of actual glass, not polymer or metal, paw-made in the likeness of a kneeling feline who was naked save for a sash that bisected her breasts as it went diagonally from her right hip to her left shoulder. The liquid within was a slightly dark golden color, and Bustani’s jaw dropped as he read the lettering on the sash.
“Shen aansoo?” he asked, and he looked at me. “This – I don’t know what to say.”
“Try ‘Thank you.’”
He chuckled. “Thank you.” He admired the bottle before saying, “I haven’t had this in years.”
“Hmm,” Ivar said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. God’s Tears is usually way above a rating’s pay grade, even here on Maratha where it’s made.” His smile turned a little wistful. “When I was mustered out, the Admiral – Vladmir’s grandfather, that is – gave me a bottle. His way of thanking me for saving him and his ship.” He eyed the contents again and twitched his whiskers as he looked at me. “Want to try some?”
“It does look inviting,” I conceded, “but that might be the packaging.”
We both laughed. “Yeah, I would’ve liked to meet the model, if she existed. Come with me, and we’ll see if the quality’s held up.”
“Sure.”
“You are planning something, Stanislaus,” Ivar remarked.
“Of course,” I said as I followed Bustani inside.
The tiger placed two clean glasses on the table before cracking the seal on the bottle and opening it. He poured maybe a finger’s-width of the slightly viscous golden liquor into each, capped the bottle, and gestured for me to pick one. I started to pick up the glass on the left before veering to take the right-paw glass.
Bustani raised his glass to his nose and sniffed. A broad smile creased his muzzle. “Just like I remember.”
I sniffed. It smelled spicy, sweet and potent. My ears perked as he said, “A toast: To His Majesty.”
I raised my glass. “To His Majesty.” I took a sip of the rum.
Oh. My.
Now, I’m more of a whisky fan, but this stuff was almost worth switching. It was strong, yes, but sweet, with spicy notes of ginger and nutmeg. I looked at Bustani, who had his eyes closed as he savored the rum. Swallowing, he breathed out and looked at me. “Thank you for the gift, Captain.”
“You’re welcome.” When our glasses were empty, I refilled them.
Hoping, as I did so, that my liver would survive long enough for me to execute my plan.
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Stanislaus Coon and Ivar Vargsson are courtesy of E.O. Costello, used by permission. Thanks!)
Thumbnail art by
tegerioBy the time I and the rest of the staff had reached our temporary military base housing, I had succeeded in reducing the number of thoughts I had regarding Moka Bustani to a manageable few, and was prepared to give at least an oral report to ‘M’ if he called. Of course, I was taking it as read that he would call.
“He would call?” Ivar asked from the back of my mind. “So quickly after your first interview?”
“Possibly,” I replied. “Also possible that he’d keep it to generalities; even with a secure line you cannot be too careful.”
“Which makes the concept of a ‘secure’ line rather . . . ironic?” Ivar asked in an arch tone.
I resisted vocalizing a snort at the wolf. “You know perfectly well how hard it is to make anything totally secure. Anything more detailed would require a face to face meeting, or my report under seal.”
“Hm, very true,” Ivar agreed as the vehicle we were in pulled to a halt at our housing area, and its doors opened. “I remind you of what I suggested earlier.”
I chuckled. “One bottle of quality rum. I remember.”
After the obligatory security checks, I was checked back into my room and started running a search of the facility. Sure enough, there was an exchange on the base, with one store selling intoxicants. I poked around the store’s inventory before finding what I wanted, and judged that there was enough time before dinner to get what I wanted.
I had just gotten back into my room, my purchase firmly in paw, when my padd chimed for attention. I unfolded it and sat down. “Coon here.”
“Captain,” ‘M’ said, the roebuck swiveling his ears warily. “Are you able to talk?”
“Not merely able, but willing,” Ivar said from a slouched position across the room.
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Assessment?” Before I could reply, the roebuck passed a paw almost casually over his right ear, right eye and mouth.
I picked up on the gesture immediately. “I wish to have the opportunity to meet him again,” I said, and held up the bottle I’d bought.
‘M’ grinned, and nodded. “Tomorrow, then,” and he broke the connection.
“I recommended quality rum, my dear Stanislaus,” I heard Ivar sniff. “That surely put a moderately-sized hole in your available funds.”
“It did,” I admitted, “but it’s an appropriate gift for Bustani’s hospitality.”
“A princely gift indeed,” Ivar murmured.
My ears dipped slightly and I shrugged. “I’m considering it an investment.”
Ivar cheered up a good deal when I went to the officer’s club for dinner. Steak with side dishes, red wine, and an after-dinner measure of single malt (with accompanying carafe of water) served to mellow my mood as well.
Another quantity of single malt was taken back to my room, and after careful preparation and contemplation of the beverage, I muttered, “Hard to make anything really secure.”
Obviously thinking that a change in subject was in order, Ivar helpfully said, “Especially the undergarments of femmefurs.”
I chuckled, recalling a certain femme on a certain planet known, rather colorfully, to the locals as ‘Chest-Assisted Manipulation.’ I erased the memory of the femme by wondering for a moment whether the planet was now in Kashlanin space, what the shlani thought of the place’s name. “Hm . . . Speaking of that, I wonder what Dr. Nushaar wears under her clothes.”
“Quality, but not quantity,” came the near-instant reply. I chuckled at that, and Ivar asked, “You doubt my analysis?”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
“Her outer garments are tailored, as I’m certain that you have noticed, Stanislaus. And said outer garments are of very select material. Tailored, one might add, in a subtle fashion to show that she is very much a femmefur.”
“Yes, she is that.” Where did that wistful tone come from?
Ivar smiled. “I highly approve, incidentally. She has brains and taste, and there are hints she has . . . imagination.”
I laughed, glanced at him, and then looked at the barest sip of single malt in my glass. “Hm, yeah, well, I need to get through this assignment, at least, before I can think any further on the subject.”
“So far, leaving aside your encounter with the garden fountain,” Ivar suggested, “I would say that you have yet to put a foot wrong, Stanislaus. I would suggest that you table the subject of the good doctor, and get some sleep. You will need your mind sharp and clear for your next meeting with Bustani-jih.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you, Ivar.”
“You’re quite welcome, my friend.”
***
The afternoon was a little warmer than the day before, but I was determined to not go swimming. Instead, I walked through the gardens after lunch, with my burden tucked in under my right arm, and admired the plants for a while.
I had a motive for walking through the gardens, of course.
The tiger was crouched beside a low hedge, trimming away a few stray branches that had grown out of the near half-spherical shape. His ears flicked at the sound of my feet on the gravel and he half-turned. “Fair day, Captain,” the tiger said with a smile.
“Fair day, Bustani-jih,” I said. “I wanted to thank you for your hospitality yesterday,” and I patted the box.
“A present, eh?” He got to his feet and brushed at his trousers and apron before giving me a grin. “People will talk.”
“Very good, this one,” Ivar muttered.
“Well, to avoid gossip,” I said, “I’d like to give this to you in your quarters.”
“Ah, well,” and he looked up at the sky. “Hmm, maybe rain coming. Let me gather up these trimmings and we’ll head over to my place.”
Rank has a certain amount of privilege, so I stood and looked around as the gardener cleaned up after himself. When he had his basket and tools all gathered up, we set off to the quarter of the garden where he kept his house.
He dumped the contents of the basket onto the compost heap before putting things up in the greenhouse. The tiger took his apron off and hung it up before reaching out a paw. “Let’s see what you have here - eh?” He boggled at the label on the otherwise plain silver-gray box.
Bustani gave me a questioning look; I nodded, and he opened the box.
Nestled within was a one-liter bottle of actual glass, not polymer or metal, paw-made in the likeness of a kneeling feline who was naked save for a sash that bisected her breasts as it went diagonally from her right hip to her left shoulder. The liquid within was a slightly dark golden color, and Bustani’s jaw dropped as he read the lettering on the sash.
“Shen aansoo?” he asked, and he looked at me. “This – I don’t know what to say.”
“Try ‘Thank you.’”
He chuckled. “Thank you.” He admired the bottle before saying, “I haven’t had this in years.”
“Hmm,” Ivar said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. God’s Tears is usually way above a rating’s pay grade, even here on Maratha where it’s made.” His smile turned a little wistful. “When I was mustered out, the Admiral – Vladmir’s grandfather, that is – gave me a bottle. His way of thanking me for saving him and his ship.” He eyed the contents again and twitched his whiskers as he looked at me. “Want to try some?”
“It does look inviting,” I conceded, “but that might be the packaging.”
We both laughed. “Yeah, I would’ve liked to meet the model, if she existed. Come with me, and we’ll see if the quality’s held up.”
“Sure.”
“You are planning something, Stanislaus,” Ivar remarked.
“Of course,” I said as I followed Bustani inside.
The tiger placed two clean glasses on the table before cracking the seal on the bottle and opening it. He poured maybe a finger’s-width of the slightly viscous golden liquor into each, capped the bottle, and gestured for me to pick one. I started to pick up the glass on the left before veering to take the right-paw glass.
Bustani raised his glass to his nose and sniffed. A broad smile creased his muzzle. “Just like I remember.”
I sniffed. It smelled spicy, sweet and potent. My ears perked as he said, “A toast: To His Majesty.”
I raised my glass. “To His Majesty.” I took a sip of the rum.
Oh. My.
Now, I’m more of a whisky fan, but this stuff was almost worth switching. It was strong, yes, but sweet, with spicy notes of ginger and nutmeg. I looked at Bustani, who had his eyes closed as he savored the rum. Swallowing, he breathed out and looked at me. “Thank you for the gift, Captain.”
“You’re welcome.” When our glasses were empty, I refilled them.
Hoping, as I did so, that my liver would survive long enough for me to execute my plan.
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Maine Coon
Size 120 x 104px
File Size 49.6 kB
Listed in Folders
Hangover helper: If you can remember, before going to bed, drink a liter of water or gatorade, and go pee. Put a liter of plain water and a liter of gatorade or it's ilk in your fridge. In the morning, drink the water and gatorade, asprin or tylenol if desired. Chew them up and wash down with the water. Then go shower. By the time you finish up you should be ready for your normal morning routine.
I don't have hangovers, because I don't drink. But I got to be an expert at treating hangovers every morning at sick call when my ship was in port. "Take two asprin, chew them up. Wash them down with a quart of water. add this packet of electrolyte powder to the bottle, add a quart of water, mix well and drink it. and go take a shower, you stink of morning after. " (Many of the metabolites of alcohol are secreted by the sweat glands, they are a main ingredient of wino body odour. ) Saturday and sunday mornings in port I got in the habit of getting up and opening sickbay an hour before morning quarters, so I could hand out the asprin and electrolyte powder before they got their shower. Because I didn't want to deal with that BO all day.
Comments