The pickup slowly rolled its way up to the rotting siding of Snipe’s Bait Shop. A young mule who was fixing the worm-dispensing vending machine watched it in anticipation. He expected a keg-chested beast with a tattoo taking up their entire chest to pop out of the vehicle and bust a move. Someone who stuck out in this hayseed outpost. Someone… modern.

Instead, a step stool was thrown out and pit-pattering down it was a squat, middle-aged black wolf in a criss-cross sweater, smoking a pipe like he expected it to be yanked out of his mouth any second. His eyes darted back and forth, then with a damp flick of the tail, headed towards the shop.

The mule shrugged. A letdown, but at least the guy stuck out.

Manfred Malone hummed (or sputtered) as he browsed for his favourite foodstuffs: the processed kind. Chuck, the skunk cashier, was surprised. He’d never seen the old fart look this… non-panicky.

Doritos, Funyuns, those for-some-unholy-reason-rare Snickers with peanut butter… Mary would bring up calories, but oh well, he had obeyed, no, agreed, with everything else she said for 24 years. Today called for a celebration.

Then, the radio switched from Van Morrison to Kid Rock, shattering his nerves. Ah, thought Chuck, there’s the old worrywart I know. “Big family feast tonight, eh?’ he called out to Manfred. ‘You manage to save up for a whole king size bag of Twix?”

“Erm.. yes. Ha ha”. said Manfred. “But I’ll catch a few fish later, perhaps.”
“Perhapses for 28 years… you ought to switch over to ‘maybes’ at this point!”
“Charlie, you very well know, I’ve hooked a few tiddlers, err, heavies in the lake. Could you not…?” Where the heck were those Funyuns…

“Just yanking your chain, Manny. So, what’s the big occasion?”

“My daughter’s coming home from the big city tomorrow. Haven’t seen her in a while, so all the reason to splurge!” Maybe the mass consumerism would make Chuck ease off. He didn’t want to piss off someone who could dispense burglar repellent from their own body. “I hope she’s okay and all from living there, no nasty colds, no muggings or such…”
“Or AIDS. She’s a big target for that one, nooooooo doubt ‘bout that.”

Manfred frowned. But that was all he could do. Just the typical kind of ribbing a town like Bellhound had to offer. And nothing more, hopefully.

“She’s, err, bringing along her gir—erm, bandmate. Yes, bandmate…” He puffed his chest with all the dignity he could muster. Which wasn’t much. “Mary's really looking forward to it.”

“That may be so” crooned Chuck, tossing the chip bags like a mediocre pitcher across the scanner. “BUT… what if it’s the wrong kind of bandmate?”

“I, err, don’t know what you m-mean.”

“Well, you have a lovely wife. But she’s not exactly the kinda wife we expected you to land. Close in genetics, but not quite. And your daughter, she’s quite young and you know, like her mom… probably susceptible to all that ‘modern’ thinking. Mix in all that ideology we used to get up to back in the ‘60s and, well,…”

Manfred looked hurt. (Well, more hurt). Just take your business elsewhere, he thought to himself. But this wasn’t a big town, there wasn’t much of an elsewhere.

“How… do you, ah, mean?” He mumbled.

“Jus saying’, Americat’s a free country, not that that’s a perfect highlight, but ah… better make sure that your little girl’s found someone… compatible. Nothing big and squishy like elephant or rhinos; you know… someone who works well with little girls.” Even Chuck winced once he realized the context of his last remark.

Manfred mustered a scowl. “Mittens can take care of herself, I mean, I imagine she has. Anyway, what matters is, she’s coming home. And I will try, no… WILL welcome w-whatever, I mean, whoever she brings along.”

“Even a shark?” The grunt came from the feathers hidden behind newsprint in the rocking chair near the counter. Old Halberd Hays, the ostrich who liked to grumble about young beasts wearing lower pants and slacks, had emerged from the Sunday funnies section.

“P-pardon?” halted Manfred, en route with his heart-burning groceries.

“News going round of a talking shark in that city-slicker city you sent your pup to. Nothing ‘bout her eating anyone, so far, not a whole lotta details. Guess she’s got a citizenship… still, that’s just one step away from a license to devour folks alive.”

He held up the paper to the wolf’s snout. Gray pixels revealed a wild-haired female shark clad in black… with some sort of warpaint on her face? While she lacked the torpedo-like nose of her ilk (..were those ears?), there was no mistaking the gills and sharp fin. Still, what a bizarre, bizarre sight.

Sharks were relatively new to the concept of evolution. Sure, they had the ability to walk, talk and think right now, unlike other fish, but were they truly alive? They were the ultimate mystery. And Manfred hated mysteries

“She, erm, looks like a toughie.” he grimaced.

“HA! For all we know, she’s the one coming to dinner tonight. Maybe you’ll be THE dinner!” Chuck chortled, finally scanning the last candy bar.

Manfred felt queasy enough that he ended up forgetting the Funyuns and had paid an extra $3.00 absent-mindedly.

On the drive back to the cabin, his mind raced with the impossibilities. Maybe Mittens had been eaten, and the devourer had imitated her voice on the phone? Maybe she was under some sort of kinda pheromone hypnosis? Maybe Mittens didn’t resemble Mittens anymore in the slightest, maybe her new beau…

Don’t think like that. Don’t. That’s ridiculous. He wasn’t old fashioned, he wasn’t a great big bigot, not like his own pursed-lipped Victorian parents. They, who had wanted him to prey on the rabbits down the road and not even squint at a lady wolf who didn’t have 100% black fur. It’s just that… he didn’t want any more hurting in his family. There had been squabbles, but not many.

But still… but still…

[b]Continued.../b]