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And On That Note
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
ariesnova
Nineteen.
Wednesday August 30, 1939:
Merely having a plane, completing the race application, and paying the entrance fee was no guarantee of getting a place in the Schneider Cup competition. The plane had to be put through its paces while being observed by representatives of the Spontoon Island Racing Association. SIRA had high standards, mainly for safety as part of the racecourse went over the most densely populated parts of the atoll.
“Right this way,” Paddy said, doffing his cap as he opened the hangar door and ushered in a trio of canines in suits and carrying clipboards. Binoculars were slung around their necks, and all three had a businesslike air about them. “Here’s th’ Fingal’s Folly,” the beagle said proudly, gesturing at the plane as it sat just off the lagoon-side ramp, bobbing slightly on its floats.
“It’s . . . um . . . certainly an innovative design,” one of the SIRA representatives, a schnauzer, said.
“Aye, that it is,” Seamus said. Timmeen was already in the cockpit, and didn’t seem inclined to offer anything. “’Tis a foine plane, so it is!”
“How long has it been in the lagoon?” another SIRA rep asked. “It looks like it’s leaning slightly to the left.”
“An hour, so,” said Paddy, “an’ so don't we all when we've had a pint'r two?" He laughed and showed them a copy of the checklist given to all race entrants by the Association. One of the requirements was the need to make sure that the planes wouldn’t sink over time. Attached to the checklist was a sheet of paper detailing the plane’s characteristics and specifications.
Another SIRA representative, a corgi, had waded up to his knees in the water to look under the aircraft, examining the struts that held the floats to the fuselage. “Certainly catches the eye,” the corgi said absently as he noted the five painfully clashing color schemes.
“That’s done a-purpose,” Paddy said, “so people can see it.”
“Well, all right,” the third canine, a tall hound, said. “Let’s get the plane into the air. Do you know the qualifying course?” he asked Timmeen, and his ears flicked as the nondescript pilot nodded. “One circuit of Eastern Island, and then a lap at speed over the full course.”
“Ah, there’s nae worries, achudth,” Seamus said agreeably. The wolf hound and the beagle went to cast off the line holding the plane near the ramp, turned it, and watched as the tow boat’s crew began the process to bring the plane to the takeoff lane.
When the tow boat had finished its task, the plane’s engine started, the propeller turning with increasing speed until it was a blur and the Folly started to move.
“A lot of torque,” the schnauzer noted as the right float dipped almost fully into the water before the plane pulled clear and started to gain altitude.
“Aye, she does like t’dip a toe in th’ water,” Seamus said. His ears swiveled and he and Paddy smiled as K’nutt entered the hangar as they and the SIRA representatives were leaving to watch the plane’s check lap. “K’nutt, me lad! How are ye?”
“F-F-Fine, S-S-S-Seamus,” the red fox stammered.
The SIRA reps looked at him curiously, and the wolfhound rested a big paw on K’nutt’s shoulder. “This foine fellow’s K’nutt Karoksson, our chief mechanic.”
“A native Spontoonie?” the corgi asked, and he exchanged a few words in the native language with K’nutt. After taking a few moments to listen to the reply, the corgi’s ears went back. “Gum?”
“Aye, so,” Paddy said, looking up at the sky. “There she is!”
The airspace had been cleared, with incoming flights ordered to a holding pattern at a higher altitude than the racing course. The three representatives watched the plane through their binoculars, occasionally making notes regarding the aircraft’s stability and speed before Timmeen entered the course for the speed lap.
“Two hundred ninety miles per hour,” the schnauzer said as he clicked his stopwatch. The hound checked his own watch against the schnauzer’s and the two scribbled on their clipboards.
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” the hound said after the trio had deliberated for a few moments. “We’ll see you on the starting line on Friday.” They left as Paddy uttered a joyous oath in a mixture of Gaelic and Malay before the beagle shook paws with Seamus and K’nutt.
“Faith!” Seamus said. “This calls for a drink!”
“Sh-Sh-Shouldn’t w-we g-g-get T-Timmeen f-f-f-first?” K’nutt asked.
The wolfhound beamed. “Tis like I say, K’nutt, ye’re a genius, so y’are. Right! Let’s fetch Timmeen an’ th’ Folly, an’ go t’that restaurant they got here. Mahanish’s, they call it.”
“Oh, they’ve got th’ best food there, achudth,” Paddy said enthusiastically. “Th’ chili’s a fine dish, so it is; ye’d take th’ paint off a building with it.” He glanced at K’nutt. “Want t’be comin’ with us? There’ll be lunch, an’ whisky, in it.”
K’nutt briefly pondered telling Paddy about the ‘sour coconut popskull’ his family brewed somewhere up in the hills on Main Island, but that was a family secret. Although he liked coconuts, he didn’t like the taste of the liquor. Lunch, though, sounded like a great idea, especially since he’d have to go to work soon.
“S-S-Sure, P-P-Paddy,” the young fox said as he waded down the ramp to grab and moor the Fingal’s Folly when the tow boat brought it around.
***
“I can do this.”
Lunch had tasted like ashes in the spotted skunk’s mouth.
Now, with the afternoon dragging onward, Milo Gracilis paced his small room, still berating himself for getting himself in this situation. It would be a huge test of his ability to change quickly, so he’d decided to make things easier by choosing a simple wardrobe.
Fortunately, the women employed as dancers and backup singers at the Grand had learned of his predicament. Unfortunately for him, they sympathized, but couldn’t help.
“I can do this,” he repeated.
Now if only he could make himself believe it.
***
B’onss Karoksson was busily brushing down his suit. He’d seen it done in a Euro movie a couple years back, so he thought it was a good idea.
“B’onss?” He turned away from his chore to see his father leaning against the doorframe. Karok Karoksson (or Francis Xavier Brush, if one looked at his baptismal record) asked, “Going on another date tonight?”
“Yeah, Pop,” B’onss replied. “I’m hopin’ that there ain’t nothin’ gonna get in my way tonight.”
His father grinned, doubtless recalling his own teenage days. So young, so naïve . . . “How much money you got?”
“Oh. Um . . . “
The older tod-fox looked over his glasses. “You took it from the family fund, didn’t you?”
“I won that money,” B’onss said defensively.
“And what did we agree on?”
B’onss met his father’s gaze for only a moment before he looked down at his feet, his tail tucking between his legs and his ears flattened. “That money’s fer th’ family.”
“Right. How much did you take?”
“A hunnerd.”
One eloquent eyebrow rose. “A hundred? Where are you taking this ‘Michelle’ for dinner?”
“Th’ Grand.”
“Yeah, you’ll need it for that place. B’onss, listen to me.” The young tod’s ears perked. “Be polite, and mind your manners around this Euro. If I hear you got pawsy – “
“No, no, Pop! It ain’t like that!”
“Okeh. You have a good night,” and the elder Brush left the room.
B’onss Karoksson breathed a sigh of relief that his father hadn’t demanded he give the money back and returned to getting ready for his evening.
This was going to be great.
***
Kara Karoksdottir smiled at her reflection in her apartment’s bathroom mirror as she finished meticulously brushing out her tailfur.
She was looking forward to this dinner and getting to know more about this very cute spotted skunk.
Hanging from her half-open closet door was the dress she was planning to wear. Her fur was a slightly darker shade of apricot, and she had selected the eponymous little black dress to show off her fur and tailfur to best effect.
If he didn’t compliment her, she thought to herself, Milo was either blind or brainless.
Humming a happy tune along with the latest selection from radio LONO, the vixen started getting dressed.
***
The RIM Belleaire was a mixed-use ship, carrying both freight and passengers. The letters before its name proclaimed that it carried mail from the Rain Island Anarchcracy, which guaranteed that the ship had an armed guard aboard. Pirates generally avoided mail ships coming from and headed to Seathl.
A tug finished helping shepherd the Belleaire against the dock at Casino Island, and the ship’s whistle sounded as it was made fast. There was the usual hustle and bustle as a gangway was set up for the passengers, with larger ones for luggage and cargo swung out to meet the hatches that the crew opened.
Finally, luggage was offloaded, followed by the passengers. These claimed their bags and headed for the Customs desks.
The Customs officer glanced at the ticket, and at the light blue passport stamped with the flag of the Sea Bear Republic. The canine looked up from his inspection of the passport, noting that his partner had completed his search of the suitcase and a small pet carrier, and looked up at the passenger.
She was feline, with a mostly grayish coat of fur marked with squarish blotches. “Miss Winifred Needham?” the Customs officer asked.
“Yes,” she replied. She had a British accent, with a certain lilt to it.
“Your purpose for traveling to Spontoon?”
“Pleasure.”
The canine nodded, looking over the visa one more time before stamping the passport on a blank on one page. He closed the passport and gave it and the papers back to the feline femme. “Welcome to Spontoon, Ma’am.”
She smiled as she took the papers and grabbed her suitcase and the carrier, which contained a feral toy poodle. “Thank you.” She joined the group of furs headed for the gate leading out to the island.
Once beyond the gate, she stopped and looked around before letting Percy out of his carrier and attaching his leash.
Where had Milo gotten off to? she wondered.
He’d promised to meet her at the dock . . .
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
ariesnovaNineteen.
Wednesday August 30, 1939:
Merely having a plane, completing the race application, and paying the entrance fee was no guarantee of getting a place in the Schneider Cup competition. The plane had to be put through its paces while being observed by representatives of the Spontoon Island Racing Association. SIRA had high standards, mainly for safety as part of the racecourse went over the most densely populated parts of the atoll.
“Right this way,” Paddy said, doffing his cap as he opened the hangar door and ushered in a trio of canines in suits and carrying clipboards. Binoculars were slung around their necks, and all three had a businesslike air about them. “Here’s th’ Fingal’s Folly,” the beagle said proudly, gesturing at the plane as it sat just off the lagoon-side ramp, bobbing slightly on its floats.
“It’s . . . um . . . certainly an innovative design,” one of the SIRA representatives, a schnauzer, said.
“Aye, that it is,” Seamus said. Timmeen was already in the cockpit, and didn’t seem inclined to offer anything. “’Tis a foine plane, so it is!”
“How long has it been in the lagoon?” another SIRA rep asked. “It looks like it’s leaning slightly to the left.”
“An hour, so,” said Paddy, “an’ so don't we all when we've had a pint'r two?" He laughed and showed them a copy of the checklist given to all race entrants by the Association. One of the requirements was the need to make sure that the planes wouldn’t sink over time. Attached to the checklist was a sheet of paper detailing the plane’s characteristics and specifications.
Another SIRA representative, a corgi, had waded up to his knees in the water to look under the aircraft, examining the struts that held the floats to the fuselage. “Certainly catches the eye,” the corgi said absently as he noted the five painfully clashing color schemes.
“That’s done a-purpose,” Paddy said, “so people can see it.”
“Well, all right,” the third canine, a tall hound, said. “Let’s get the plane into the air. Do you know the qualifying course?” he asked Timmeen, and his ears flicked as the nondescript pilot nodded. “One circuit of Eastern Island, and then a lap at speed over the full course.”
“Ah, there’s nae worries, achudth,” Seamus said agreeably. The wolf hound and the beagle went to cast off the line holding the plane near the ramp, turned it, and watched as the tow boat’s crew began the process to bring the plane to the takeoff lane.
When the tow boat had finished its task, the plane’s engine started, the propeller turning with increasing speed until it was a blur and the Folly started to move.
“A lot of torque,” the schnauzer noted as the right float dipped almost fully into the water before the plane pulled clear and started to gain altitude.
“Aye, she does like t’dip a toe in th’ water,” Seamus said. His ears swiveled and he and Paddy smiled as K’nutt entered the hangar as they and the SIRA representatives were leaving to watch the plane’s check lap. “K’nutt, me lad! How are ye?”
“F-F-Fine, S-S-S-Seamus,” the red fox stammered.
The SIRA reps looked at him curiously, and the wolfhound rested a big paw on K’nutt’s shoulder. “This foine fellow’s K’nutt Karoksson, our chief mechanic.”
“A native Spontoonie?” the corgi asked, and he exchanged a few words in the native language with K’nutt. After taking a few moments to listen to the reply, the corgi’s ears went back. “Gum?”
“Aye, so,” Paddy said, looking up at the sky. “There she is!”
The airspace had been cleared, with incoming flights ordered to a holding pattern at a higher altitude than the racing course. The three representatives watched the plane through their binoculars, occasionally making notes regarding the aircraft’s stability and speed before Timmeen entered the course for the speed lap.
“Two hundred ninety miles per hour,” the schnauzer said as he clicked his stopwatch. The hound checked his own watch against the schnauzer’s and the two scribbled on their clipboards.
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” the hound said after the trio had deliberated for a few moments. “We’ll see you on the starting line on Friday.” They left as Paddy uttered a joyous oath in a mixture of Gaelic and Malay before the beagle shook paws with Seamus and K’nutt.
“Faith!” Seamus said. “This calls for a drink!”
“Sh-Sh-Shouldn’t w-we g-g-get T-Timmeen f-f-f-first?” K’nutt asked.
The wolfhound beamed. “Tis like I say, K’nutt, ye’re a genius, so y’are. Right! Let’s fetch Timmeen an’ th’ Folly, an’ go t’that restaurant they got here. Mahanish’s, they call it.”
“Oh, they’ve got th’ best food there, achudth,” Paddy said enthusiastically. “Th’ chili’s a fine dish, so it is; ye’d take th’ paint off a building with it.” He glanced at K’nutt. “Want t’be comin’ with us? There’ll be lunch, an’ whisky, in it.”
K’nutt briefly pondered telling Paddy about the ‘sour coconut popskull’ his family brewed somewhere up in the hills on Main Island, but that was a family secret. Although he liked coconuts, he didn’t like the taste of the liquor. Lunch, though, sounded like a great idea, especially since he’d have to go to work soon.
“S-S-Sure, P-P-Paddy,” the young fox said as he waded down the ramp to grab and moor the Fingal’s Folly when the tow boat brought it around.
***
“I can do this.”
Lunch had tasted like ashes in the spotted skunk’s mouth.
Now, with the afternoon dragging onward, Milo Gracilis paced his small room, still berating himself for getting himself in this situation. It would be a huge test of his ability to change quickly, so he’d decided to make things easier by choosing a simple wardrobe.
Fortunately, the women employed as dancers and backup singers at the Grand had learned of his predicament. Unfortunately for him, they sympathized, but couldn’t help.
“I can do this,” he repeated.
Now if only he could make himself believe it.
***
B’onss Karoksson was busily brushing down his suit. He’d seen it done in a Euro movie a couple years back, so he thought it was a good idea.
“B’onss?” He turned away from his chore to see his father leaning against the doorframe. Karok Karoksson (or Francis Xavier Brush, if one looked at his baptismal record) asked, “Going on another date tonight?”
“Yeah, Pop,” B’onss replied. “I’m hopin’ that there ain’t nothin’ gonna get in my way tonight.”
His father grinned, doubtless recalling his own teenage days. So young, so naïve . . . “How much money you got?”
“Oh. Um . . . “
The older tod-fox looked over his glasses. “You took it from the family fund, didn’t you?”
“I won that money,” B’onss said defensively.
“And what did we agree on?”
B’onss met his father’s gaze for only a moment before he looked down at his feet, his tail tucking between his legs and his ears flattened. “That money’s fer th’ family.”
“Right. How much did you take?”
“A hunnerd.”
One eloquent eyebrow rose. “A hundred? Where are you taking this ‘Michelle’ for dinner?”
“Th’ Grand.”
“Yeah, you’ll need it for that place. B’onss, listen to me.” The young tod’s ears perked. “Be polite, and mind your manners around this Euro. If I hear you got pawsy – “
“No, no, Pop! It ain’t like that!”
“Okeh. You have a good night,” and the elder Brush left the room.
B’onss Karoksson breathed a sigh of relief that his father hadn’t demanded he give the money back and returned to getting ready for his evening.
This was going to be great.
***
Kara Karoksdottir smiled at her reflection in her apartment’s bathroom mirror as she finished meticulously brushing out her tailfur.
She was looking forward to this dinner and getting to know more about this very cute spotted skunk.
Hanging from her half-open closet door was the dress she was planning to wear. Her fur was a slightly darker shade of apricot, and she had selected the eponymous little black dress to show off her fur and tailfur to best effect.
If he didn’t compliment her, she thought to herself, Milo was either blind or brainless.
Humming a happy tune along with the latest selection from radio LONO, the vixen started getting dressed.
***
The RIM Belleaire was a mixed-use ship, carrying both freight and passengers. The letters before its name proclaimed that it carried mail from the Rain Island Anarchcracy, which guaranteed that the ship had an armed guard aboard. Pirates generally avoided mail ships coming from and headed to Seathl.
A tug finished helping shepherd the Belleaire against the dock at Casino Island, and the ship’s whistle sounded as it was made fast. There was the usual hustle and bustle as a gangway was set up for the passengers, with larger ones for luggage and cargo swung out to meet the hatches that the crew opened.
Finally, luggage was offloaded, followed by the passengers. These claimed their bags and headed for the Customs desks.
The Customs officer glanced at the ticket, and at the light blue passport stamped with the flag of the Sea Bear Republic. The canine looked up from his inspection of the passport, noting that his partner had completed his search of the suitcase and a small pet carrier, and looked up at the passenger.
She was feline, with a mostly grayish coat of fur marked with squarish blotches. “Miss Winifred Needham?” the Customs officer asked.
“Yes,” she replied. She had a British accent, with a certain lilt to it.
“Your purpose for traveling to Spontoon?”
“Pleasure.”
The canine nodded, looking over the visa one more time before stamping the passport on a blank on one page. He closed the passport and gave it and the papers back to the feline femme. “Welcome to Spontoon, Ma’am.”
She smiled as she took the papers and grabbed her suitcase and the carrier, which contained a feral toy poodle. “Thank you.” She joined the group of furs headed for the gate leading out to the island.
Once beyond the gate, she stopped and looked around before letting Percy out of his carrier and attaching his leash.
Where had Milo gotten off to? she wondered.
He’d promised to meet her at the dock . . .
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Skunk
Size 80 x 120px
File Size 58.5 kB
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