Cleaning Up
© 2024 by Walter Reimer and E.O. Costello

A followup to Cleanup Crew

Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color and composition by  marmelmm



A feline servant opened the iron filigree gates for the spring-driven wagon, and Marjorie smiled and nodded at him as she guided the vehicle past the portal and to the garage. As she set the brake and locked the mainspring, Alys and Mariss gawked.

Parked in front of the garage was Lord Ruther’s wagon, the body gleaming in varnished wood marquetry and highly polished brass fittings. A pair of cut crystal bud vases could be glimpsed inside the passenger compartment. “Cor,” Marissa breathed, “I’ve heard of these. It’s a Tubaggi Type Three tourer. Beautiful thing – what?” she demanded as Alys tugged at her sleeve and pointed. “Oh.”

Sitting on a blanket spread out over the swept concrete floor of the garage was a dragoness. Seated on her haunches, she stood perhaps seven feet tall; or would have had she not been slightly hunched over near a convenient bucket. Her hide was pale cream on her chest and limbs, with a mottled pattern of green and brown on her back. Her wings flexed as she put a paw to her muzzle and shuddered.

Standing beside her and stroking her head and neck was a tall wolf wearing black trews and a white shirt. As the wagon pulled to a stop, he looked up and smiled. “Hello, Marjorie,” Lord Ruther said in a basso voice.

“Good day, milord,” the doe said as she, the feline and the vixen started to unload the wagon. “Hello, Sybil.”

The dragoness gave a soft twitch and said in a soft alto, “Hello, Marjorie. I’m sorry.”

The doe smiled. “No need to be sorry, dear. Live and learn, as they say.”

Lord Ruther smiled at Sybil. “The mess is in the living room,” the wolf said, “and could you ask the kitchen to bring me a melon to steady Sybil’s stomach?”

“With a melon?” Alys asked.

“Sweet melon,” the lord amplified. “It’ll help her digestion.” In response to a belch and another shiver from the dragoness, he put an arm across her shoulders and hugged her as the SerfPro employees gathered up their equipment and headed inside.

“Wow, cozy,” Alys said, the short arctic fox vixen craning her neck back to look at the high timbered ceiling. She was suddenly yanked backward by a strong paw on her shoulder and she whirled to confront Marjorie. “Hey! What was that for?”

The doe pointed.

Alys looked and recoiled slightly. “Ew. I almost stepped in that.”

“Yeah, you did. Okay, here’s what you do,” she said to the feline and the vixen after she examined the still slightly smoking puddle. “Number one, never put your face directly over it; you’ll burn your nostrils. Apply the baking soda first. That’ll block the acid. Then apply the unicorn poop. It’ll combine with everything and make a solid mass we can lift off the floor and take away. I see that Lord Ruther’s already tossed out the rug and the coffee table.”

“Makes this an easy job,” Marissa remarked.

“Right, so get at it, and I’ll go talk to the kitchen staff like the Lord asked us to,” and Marjorie walked out of the room.

Once the baking soda had been applied, the two younger femmes pulled on gloves and opened the container of unicorn excrement. It had been dried and ground up, but its magic potential was evident in the way it combined with the mess, congealing into a pudding-like consistency before hardening with a rainbow veneer.

While they were breaking up the mass before hauling it out, Marjorie walked past them carrying a large plate bearing slices of melon. “How are you two doing?”

“It doesn’t smell like I thought it would,” Marissa said.

“That’s because it’s dried somewhat,” Marjorie replied. She glanced at the open windows. “If you were in here when she did it, your eyes would be watering.”

“Are you coming back to help us?” Alys asked.

Marjorie nodded. “Sure thing,” and she left with the plate of melon.

The doe returned as the last of the solidified mass of vomit was being hauled out. She pulled on gloves, got a bucket of hot water from the kitchen, and added baking soda to the water before she and the other two SerfPro employees affixed rags to the long poles and started mopping the stone floor.

Marissa said to Marjorie, “So, tell us something. What’s the deal with Lord Ruther and Sybil?”

The doe’s ears dipped. “Sad story, really. Lord Ruther’s got a house up in the mountains, near the Dragonholt, and he heard shooting one day.” She dipped her rag in the water and wrung it out, aware that the other two were listening. “A few guys from another demesne had killed Sybil’s parents.”

Aly’s eyes went wide and she made a religious gesture. “What did he do?”

“He killed them, so I’m told, and reported it,” Marjorie replied. “Their families - minor nobles – sued him. The State ruled ‘not guilty in the defense of life,’ if I recall from the broadsheets, but demanded weregild to compensate the families of the three dead assholes. So he signed over his hunting rights, and they called it even.”

“And – and the dragons?” Marissa asked.

“The State consulted the Dragon Parliament, who acknowledged a debt to Lord Ruther and made him her guardian ‘until she has her third molt.’" Marjorie got a dry bucket and started putting damp asbestos rags into it. “When she has her third molt, she’ll be too big for any of Lord Ruther’s homes, so she’ll be fostered to a dragon family.”

“I’m glad they’re reasonable,” Alys said with a shiver. “My gramp told me about the Skywars.” The other two nodded, recalling what they’d been told in school or from relatives about the conflict that had pitted dragonfire against airships equipped with magical defenses and artillery.

“She seems a nice girl,” Marissa said. “Cor, Alys, she’s got a smaller bust than you’ve got.”

Before Alys could attack her, heads turned as a soft alto voice said, “I’m a dragon, thank you kindly. We don’t do teats.” Sybil came into the room, one paw resting on Lord Ruther’s arm. “Alcibiades,” she said to the wolf, “I’ll be going to my room to lie down.”

“Of course, Sybil,” and he watched as she walked toward a large door, stepped in, and closed it behind her. “Used to be the formal dining room,” he explained to the three femmes. “Only room big enough for her.” He sighed, a fond smile on his face while his tail wagged. “I’ll miss her when she has to leave.”

“My Lord,” Marjorie said, “you’ll have some scarring on the floor from this.”

The wolf nodded. “I’ll call up a stonewright tomorrow and see what he can do. Are you going to dump that bucket in the lake?” he asked, nodding toward the container of cloudy water.

“We already have the worst of it back in the wagon. We could take this back to the shop,” Marjorie said, “but it shouldn’t cause any damage.”

“It’s a big lake,” Marissa added.

Marjorie glanced at the wolf. Lord Ruther had fishing rights on the lake, for the area around the islet; he nodded, and the doe said to the feline, “Go out on the dock and pour it in.” She raised an admonitory paw. “Pour it in a few places, not all at once so it won’t bother the fish.”

“Okay.” Marissa grabbed the bucket, lifted the heavy weight awkwardly, and started to lug it out of the house through the glazed double doors leading from the living room to the private dock. Fortunately, she didn’t spill anything, although Alys kept a dry cloth ready just in case.

Once she was out on the dock, she took her time and poured a little of the watery slop into the lake on either side of the pier.

“WOOHOO!” came a bellowed scream, followed by an almighty splash that sent a huge wave over the dock and sprayed water against the living room windows. As the water ran down the glass, a pink mass resolved itself into a huge male dragon. “Ah! That’s better!” he said in a surprisingly effeminate voice. “That felt – eh? Oh my skies! Are you all right, young woman?”

Lord Ruther opened the door and stepped out, Marjorie and Alys following him. “Hello, Capability,” the wolf said.

The dragon’s pink coloring was dye; there were areas where his actual hide colors could be discerned. He paused in plucking a half-drowned Marissa from the lake to crane his neck and say, “Hello, Alcibiades! Fine day for a swim, what?”

“I suppose it is, Capability.”

The dragon smirked. “Who’s this young lady? Another conquest of yours?” He waggled his eyebrows insinuatingly.

“She works for SerfPro,” Ruther explained. “Sybil had a little problem earlier, and they’re here cleaning up.”

“Oh. Well, serf’s up!” he said, chuckling as he hauled Marissa out of the lake and deposited her on the pier. “No harm done, my dear, apart from your fur and wardrobe.” He extended a claw. “Capability Pinque, at your service.”

Marissa hissed and batted the claw away before tipping her soggy mob-cap forward on her head and stomping off toward the house. Marjorie and Alys intercepted her and half-dragged her to the path that skirted the lakeshore along the front of the living room as Pinque chortled. “She’s got spirit, so she does!” he said cheerfully as the doe and the vixen helped towel the tabby dry. “You say Sybil had a little problem, my friend?”

“A type of sauce. Didn’t agree with her.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. But Ruther, my darling, it just proves I was right to tell you not to install that horrid linoleum,” Pinque said. “Still, I do hope that Sybil will be all right. I knew her parents, you know. Oh! Her father was a fine specimen of dragon-hood! Mrrrr! Although Sybil takes after her mother, you know. Same color scales and such."

Marissa grumbled, “Never thought I’d meet a swishy dragon.”

Pinque regarded her with a smile. “My darling girl, that only shows that you haven’t lived long enough. Why, dear Sybil’s about your age, I should think.”

The feline looked at the dragon. “Marjorie said something about molting.”

“Marjorie?” Capability glanced up and the doe waved. “Ah! A doe of perspicacity! Indeed, my dear girl; a molt is a mark of a dragon’s advancing age. I’m told a gentleman never asks a lady’s age, but as Alcibiades here will tell you, I’m no gentleman.” The dragon winked. “How old are you, young woman?”

Marissa eyed him suspiciously. “Twenty-two.”

“Ah! Then you and Sybil are closer in age than I thought. A third molt, my dear, marks a dragon’s twenty-fourth year,” the dragon said, with Lord Ruther nodding solemnly. “It’s an important milestone. A dragon reaching their third molt is viewed as a young adult, prime years for one’s education, their first flight and first Breath. Oh yes, a most important time in a young dragon’s life.”

“And she’ll be too big to stay here?” Alys asked.

Lord Ruther nodded. “Yes, I’m sad to say. I’ll miss her, but as her guardian I have the right to drop by her foster family and visit.” He eyed Capability. “Which brings me to a question; what are you doing here, Capability? Surely it wasn’t for a cooling swim.”

The dragon blinked at him before smacking himself in the face with a paw. "Oh! Mind like a sieve, my dear Alcibiades; one tends to get that way after their five hundredth year. A little shopping, a lot of gossip, doing a thing or two for friends, doing a friend or two . . . “ He waggled his eyebrows, causing two of the watching femmes to chuckle. “But the important thing is my family is throwing a feast for me in honor of my sixth molt!"

“Your sixth!” the wolf said with a grin, his tail wagging. “Congratulations, my dear friend!

“Thank you. You wouldn't believe this, but Mother wasn't sure I'd make it to my fourth molt. I was always getting into trouble; a constant trial to her. I shall have to hide, of course, until the dye fixes, and there’s the matter of burning the molt.”

“I have made arrangements for Sybil’s molt,” Lord Ruther said, “and I’d be honored to burn your skin for you, my friend.”

“Capital idea!”

“Burning the skin?” Marissa asked.

“Hm?” the wolf said. “Oh, yes. Shed dragon skin is a very powerful magic item, and very dangerous in the wrong paws. It’s customary to burn the shed skin.”

“Quite so,” the dragon said.

Marissa was dry by now, and listening interestedly, as was Alys; Marjorie had taken a small receipt book from a waterproof pouch and was writing something down, something that wasn’t missed by either the wolf or the dragon.

“Totting up the bill, Marjorie?” Lord Ruther asked.

Capability pouted briefly as the doe nodded. “And here I sit, thinking that you were writing down a list of gifts for me.” He smiled. “You can never go wrong with chocolate, my dear, if you are minded to send me a molting gift. I should have more chocolate, at any rate; goes straight to my hips, it does." Alys snickered and the dragon asked, “Did I misspeak? I used to have trouble with that. Constantly getting in trouble with my tongue." He followed this up with an eyebrow wiggle and all three femmes laughed.

“Sorry for hissing at you earlier,” Marissa said.

“Ah, polite, as well as a young lady who speaks her mind, with no regard for species or rank,” Capability said in a pleased tone. "I wish some of my own were the same way. Can't abide rude dragons. They start flame wars, you know." He winked. “As for me, I merely give my enemies the rough edge of my tongue.” He paused. “And my friends, if they ask nicely."

Marjorie chuckled as she tore a slip of paper from her receipt book and offered it to Lord Ruther. “Here you are, Sir.”

The wolf looked at it. “Very reasonable, as always, Marjorie. I’ll send Jimmy around with payment tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sir. Come on, girls, we’re leaving. Very pleased to meet you,” the doe said to the dragon.

“Of course,” Capability Pinque said. “The honor’s all mine,” and he started talking with Lord Ruther as the three SerfPro employees took the lakeside path to the garage where their wagon waited.

They were packing away their materials and Marjorie had finished winding the wagon's mainspring when Sybil came out of the house. She settled on her haunches and fiddled with her claws self-consciously for a moment before saying, "Um, I thank you for coming out to clean up . . . and I apologize for making a mess."

Marjorie smiled and patted her shoulder. "It's all right, Sybil. It's our job. Just be a little more careful what you eat, all right?"

The dragoness smiled and nodded. "I will. Thank you, Marjorie."

“Congratulations on your upcoming molt,” Marissa said.

Sybil’s smile broadened. “Thank you very much! I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m sure,” Marjorie said as the tabby and the vixen climbed into the wagon. The doe took her position at the wheel, and all three waved as she released the brake and the SerfPro wagon started to leave Lord Ruther’s demesne.

“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Marjorie asked Marissa and Alys. “Your first dragon puke cleanup.”

“Went a lot easier than I thought it would,” the vixen said.

Marissa half-grumbled, “At least he apologized for almost drowning me.” Her ears went back as the vixen and the doe chuckled.

As they pulled into the shop’s garage, three sets of ears perked at the G-E-C tones of the telephone ringing. “Well, no rest for the wicked,” Marjorie said cheerfully.

“Not even the extremely wicked,” Marissa put in.

“I’ll go see what this call is,” the doe said, “while you two put the puke into the sealed garbage can.”



end