Cleanup Crew
© 2024 by E.O. Costello and W. D. Reimer
Thumbnail art by tegerio (updated in Glorious Marmelcolor by marmelmm )
The phone rang with a simple sequence of three notes; G, E, and C, and a slim vulpine paw picked up the pawset. “SerfPro Cleaning Service, good morning . . . oh. One moment,” and the young arctic fox vixen reached for a pencil. “What was your name again? Uh huh . . . Address? Right . . . and what seems to be – oh, oh I see . . . We’ll get right down there. Just don’t touch anything, for your own safety.” She hung up the phone and turned to the other two femmes in the office. “Marjorie?”
“Yeah, Alys?” the older femme, a doe, said.
“Just got a call,” Alys said. “Lord Ruther, personally.”
The third person in the room, a feline named Marissa, flicked her ears as Marjorie asked, “He say what he wanted?”
“Cleanup.”
“Cleanup?”
“Yeah, cleanup,” Alys said. “Dragon puke.”
“Why the hell does he have a dragon?” Marissa asked.
Marjorie cocked an eyebrow at her. It was Marissa’s second week on the job. “You really want to ask him?”
“The owner, or the dragon?” Marissa asked.
“Heh. The owner. And it’s ‘dragoness,’ not ‘dragon.’ If I know Sybil, she’ll still be hiding in the garage. Take it from me, there’s nothing crankier than an embarrassed dragon.”
“’Sybil?’” Alys asked.
“Yeah, that’s her name. She and Lord Ruther are very good friends.”
Alys’ ears went flat. “Are we SURE she's cranky, and not still sick?”
Marissa asked, “What's the difference?”
Marjorie made a ‘calm down’ gesture with a paw. “Don’t worry. Once a dragon pukes, it'll take a few days to recharge, so no schmutter. Right now we need to start getting our gear ready and head out to his house before anything happens.”
“Why?” Marissa asked.
“Acid.”
“Ew.”
“Right, so get the baking soda, sawdust, paraffin and the box of magical reagents, just in case Sybil was playing around.”
“’Playing around?’” Alys asked.
Marjorie shrugged. “I’ve been out there before. Sybil’s a good cook, but she tries things that she knows don’t agree with her. Did Lord Ruther say where he was at, Alys?”
“He said the ‘lake place.’”
“Gotcha. He owns the third-largest island on Worthington Lake.”
“So we’ve got a cleanup on Isle Three?” Marissa asked, eliciting groans from the doe and the vixen. “So, baking soda?” she asked before she could be attacked for the hideous pun.
“Yeah,” Marjorie said as Alys stared daggers at the feline. The doe gestured at the vixen. “Alys, you get the poles and the rags, and Marissa?”
“Yeah?”
“Get the baking soda and the mummy dust.”
“’Mummy dust?’”
Marjorie nodded. “It’s in the locked cupboard with the sigils on the doors. Here’s the key,” and the doe took an intricately warded key from her pocket and gave it to Marissa. “I’ll get the paperwork ready.”
In a few moments the arctic fox and the tabby had returned. “Okay,” the doe said. “Equipment check.” She started taking the long poles away from Alys. “Long poles, check. Asbestos rags?”
Alys blinked and looked down at the sack in her left paw. “Um . . . yeah, check.”
“Mummy dust?”
Marissa was looking doubtfully at the container. “ . . . Expired.”
Marjorie blinked. “Expired?”
“Yeah, I think so. I wish the magic-users used a normal dating convention. Is this still 2593?”
The doe thought. “Hmm . . . Yeah, no, we aren't using that.”
“How long will it take to order some?” Marissa asked.
“Usual turnaround's two weeks. Was there another container in there? Unicorn silhouette on the side?”
“Yeah.”
“Put the mummy dust back, and get that container – and remember to lock that cupboard,” Marjorie said as Marissa returned to the back room.
“What’s in the other container?” Alys asked.
“Powdered unicorn poop.”
“Ew.”
“Does the same thing as the mummy dust,” Marjorie assured her, “but after it neutralizes the dragon puke you have to get it cleaned up or it’ll leave rainbow stains everywhere. Costs more, too. Got it?” she asked Marissa as the tabby came back with a jar-like container.
“Got it.”
“Great. Let’s – “ The phone rang again, and Marjorie answered it. “SerfPro – oh, hello, Lord Ruther; how’s she doing? Aw, poor kid . . . do you know what caused it? Oh. Ah, okay . . . and where? Anything other than the floor affected? Ouch. Well, we have all our stuff, and we’ll be there shortly. Okay. Bye.” She hung up and huffed a breath.
“What’s going on?” Marjorie asked.
“I’ll tell you while we get the wagon loaded,” the doe replied. “Let’s go,” and while the three femmes carried the materials out to the wagon Marjorie said, “Sybil’s still really tore up about puking. Lord Ruther says she got into his Korean bulgogi sauce and it didn’t sit very well.”
“Where did she do it?” Alys asked.
“Living room. Luckily it’s a stone floor, so we won’t have to stop by the Carpenter’s Guild.”
Marissa asked as she stowed the unicorn poop in the padded box on the wagon, “Anything other than the floor?”
“Small rug, and a rattan coffee table,” Marjorie replied. “Both are a total loss, but at least the floor wasn’t linoleum. He’d have to have the whole place torn down from all the toxic miasma.”
“Ew,” the two junior employees chorused.
Marjorie, being the largest of the trio, wound the wagon’s mainspring a few turns to ensure that they wouldn’t have to stop partway to Lake Worthington. Marissa and Alys opened the garage doors and after the wagon had clattered out onto the street, closed the doors and climbed aboard.
Marissa asked, “Why does unicorn poop cost more than mummy dust? I mean, everyone poops.”
The doe smiled as Alys laid her ears back and glanced at the feline. “Yeah, everyone does, but unicorn poop has a much higher magic potential. Scarcity’s the problem, and the price gets driven up.”
“’Scarcity?’” Alys asked.
“Yeah. Before indoor plumbing and the academies getting opened, lower-class unicorns used to sell their poop. Mares would keep a jar for saving the money for their dowry – ‘shitegeld,’ they called it,” the doe explained as she steered around a corner. “Nowadays, all unicorns go to the academies to learn magic or a high-end trade, and even with student loan payments they don’t need to save their poop.”
“Damn this egalitarianism,” Marissa remarked, apropos of nothing.
Marjorie nodded. “Plus you have to be wary of cheap stuff coming out of Cathay.” She glanced at the tension meter for the wagon’s mainspring, nodded, and turned onto the road leading out of town. “Still, you get some young unicorns who sell their poop as a side hustle to gain some extra money.”
“So tell us,” Alys said suddenly, “about Lord Ruther and this dragon of his.”
“Sybil.”
“Sybil, yeah. How did they meet?”
“From what I hear,” Marjorie said, “he saved her life, and invited her to live with him.”
“She’s not preggers, is she?” the vixen asked.
“Lord Ruther’s a wolf,” Marjorie pointed out, “so no, she’s not preggers.” The doe glanced at Marissa, noting that the tabby’s ears were swiveling. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just had an idea,” the feline said.
“Mind that it doesn’t get lonely,” the arctic vixen said. The cat stuck her tongue out at her.
“So what was the idea?” the doe asked.
“We figure out, say, what we need for dragon puke,” Marissa said, “and put all the materials for cleaning it up in one box. So we can just grab that one box, load it on the wagon, and save some time.”
“Hmm,” Marjorie nodded, mulling the idea over.
“It’d be efficient,” Alys pointed out. “What about dragon poop?”
“Ew,” said Marissa. “I’d hate to see that.”
“Not that bad,” Marjorie said. “It’s usually a solid mass. Cut it up with shovels.”
“I’d hate to see a dragon with diarrhea, though,” the tabby said.
The vixen and the doe both looked at her. “What?” Marissa demanded.
“You’re sort of dwelling on this,” Marjorie said.
“I want to make a career in this line of work, like you have,” the tabby told the doe. The wagon crested a low hill, and Marissa pointed. “That the lake?”
“Yeah.” There was a small settlement lining part of the lakeshore, with a number of islands connected to it by causeways.
Three pairs of ears flicked as a wailing sound echoed up from the lake. “There’s our job,” Marjorie said, and increased speed as the other two SerfPro employees hung on.
end
© 2024 by E.O. Costello and W. D. Reimer
Thumbnail art by tegerio (updated in Glorious Marmelcolor by marmelmm )
The phone rang with a simple sequence of three notes; G, E, and C, and a slim vulpine paw picked up the pawset. “SerfPro Cleaning Service, good morning . . . oh. One moment,” and the young arctic fox vixen reached for a pencil. “What was your name again? Uh huh . . . Address? Right . . . and what seems to be – oh, oh I see . . . We’ll get right down there. Just don’t touch anything, for your own safety.” She hung up the phone and turned to the other two femmes in the office. “Marjorie?”
“Yeah, Alys?” the older femme, a doe, said.
“Just got a call,” Alys said. “Lord Ruther, personally.”
The third person in the room, a feline named Marissa, flicked her ears as Marjorie asked, “He say what he wanted?”
“Cleanup.”
“Cleanup?”
“Yeah, cleanup,” Alys said. “Dragon puke.”
“Why the hell does he have a dragon?” Marissa asked.
Marjorie cocked an eyebrow at her. It was Marissa’s second week on the job. “You really want to ask him?”
“The owner, or the dragon?” Marissa asked.
“Heh. The owner. And it’s ‘dragoness,’ not ‘dragon.’ If I know Sybil, she’ll still be hiding in the garage. Take it from me, there’s nothing crankier than an embarrassed dragon.”
“’Sybil?’” Alys asked.
“Yeah, that’s her name. She and Lord Ruther are very good friends.”
Alys’ ears went flat. “Are we SURE she's cranky, and not still sick?”
Marissa asked, “What's the difference?”
Marjorie made a ‘calm down’ gesture with a paw. “Don’t worry. Once a dragon pukes, it'll take a few days to recharge, so no schmutter. Right now we need to start getting our gear ready and head out to his house before anything happens.”
“Why?” Marissa asked.
“Acid.”
“Ew.”
“Right, so get the baking soda, sawdust, paraffin and the box of magical reagents, just in case Sybil was playing around.”
“’Playing around?’” Alys asked.
Marjorie shrugged. “I’ve been out there before. Sybil’s a good cook, but she tries things that she knows don’t agree with her. Did Lord Ruther say where he was at, Alys?”
“He said the ‘lake place.’”
“Gotcha. He owns the third-largest island on Worthington Lake.”
“So we’ve got a cleanup on Isle Three?” Marissa asked, eliciting groans from the doe and the vixen. “So, baking soda?” she asked before she could be attacked for the hideous pun.
“Yeah,” Marjorie said as Alys stared daggers at the feline. The doe gestured at the vixen. “Alys, you get the poles and the rags, and Marissa?”
“Yeah?”
“Get the baking soda and the mummy dust.”
“’Mummy dust?’”
Marjorie nodded. “It’s in the locked cupboard with the sigils on the doors. Here’s the key,” and the doe took an intricately warded key from her pocket and gave it to Marissa. “I’ll get the paperwork ready.”
In a few moments the arctic fox and the tabby had returned. “Okay,” the doe said. “Equipment check.” She started taking the long poles away from Alys. “Long poles, check. Asbestos rags?”
Alys blinked and looked down at the sack in her left paw. “Um . . . yeah, check.”
“Mummy dust?”
Marissa was looking doubtfully at the container. “ . . . Expired.”
Marjorie blinked. “Expired?”
“Yeah, I think so. I wish the magic-users used a normal dating convention. Is this still 2593?”
The doe thought. “Hmm . . . Yeah, no, we aren't using that.”
“How long will it take to order some?” Marissa asked.
“Usual turnaround's two weeks. Was there another container in there? Unicorn silhouette on the side?”
“Yeah.”
“Put the mummy dust back, and get that container – and remember to lock that cupboard,” Marjorie said as Marissa returned to the back room.
“What’s in the other container?” Alys asked.
“Powdered unicorn poop.”
“Ew.”
“Does the same thing as the mummy dust,” Marjorie assured her, “but after it neutralizes the dragon puke you have to get it cleaned up or it’ll leave rainbow stains everywhere. Costs more, too. Got it?” she asked Marissa as the tabby came back with a jar-like container.
“Got it.”
“Great. Let’s – “ The phone rang again, and Marjorie answered it. “SerfPro – oh, hello, Lord Ruther; how’s she doing? Aw, poor kid . . . do you know what caused it? Oh. Ah, okay . . . and where? Anything other than the floor affected? Ouch. Well, we have all our stuff, and we’ll be there shortly. Okay. Bye.” She hung up and huffed a breath.
“What’s going on?” Marjorie asked.
“I’ll tell you while we get the wagon loaded,” the doe replied. “Let’s go,” and while the three femmes carried the materials out to the wagon Marjorie said, “Sybil’s still really tore up about puking. Lord Ruther says she got into his Korean bulgogi sauce and it didn’t sit very well.”
“Where did she do it?” Alys asked.
“Living room. Luckily it’s a stone floor, so we won’t have to stop by the Carpenter’s Guild.”
Marissa asked as she stowed the unicorn poop in the padded box on the wagon, “Anything other than the floor?”
“Small rug, and a rattan coffee table,” Marjorie replied. “Both are a total loss, but at least the floor wasn’t linoleum. He’d have to have the whole place torn down from all the toxic miasma.”
“Ew,” the two junior employees chorused.
Marjorie, being the largest of the trio, wound the wagon’s mainspring a few turns to ensure that they wouldn’t have to stop partway to Lake Worthington. Marissa and Alys opened the garage doors and after the wagon had clattered out onto the street, closed the doors and climbed aboard.
Marissa asked, “Why does unicorn poop cost more than mummy dust? I mean, everyone poops.”
The doe smiled as Alys laid her ears back and glanced at the feline. “Yeah, everyone does, but unicorn poop has a much higher magic potential. Scarcity’s the problem, and the price gets driven up.”
“’Scarcity?’” Alys asked.
“Yeah. Before indoor plumbing and the academies getting opened, lower-class unicorns used to sell their poop. Mares would keep a jar for saving the money for their dowry – ‘shitegeld,’ they called it,” the doe explained as she steered around a corner. “Nowadays, all unicorns go to the academies to learn magic or a high-end trade, and even with student loan payments they don’t need to save their poop.”
“Damn this egalitarianism,” Marissa remarked, apropos of nothing.
Marjorie nodded. “Plus you have to be wary of cheap stuff coming out of Cathay.” She glanced at the tension meter for the wagon’s mainspring, nodded, and turned onto the road leading out of town. “Still, you get some young unicorns who sell their poop as a side hustle to gain some extra money.”
“So tell us,” Alys said suddenly, “about Lord Ruther and this dragon of his.”
“Sybil.”
“Sybil, yeah. How did they meet?”
“From what I hear,” Marjorie said, “he saved her life, and invited her to live with him.”
“She’s not preggers, is she?” the vixen asked.
“Lord Ruther’s a wolf,” Marjorie pointed out, “so no, she’s not preggers.” The doe glanced at Marissa, noting that the tabby’s ears were swiveling. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just had an idea,” the feline said.
“Mind that it doesn’t get lonely,” the arctic vixen said. The cat stuck her tongue out at her.
“So what was the idea?” the doe asked.
“We figure out, say, what we need for dragon puke,” Marissa said, “and put all the materials for cleaning it up in one box. So we can just grab that one box, load it on the wagon, and save some time.”
“Hmm,” Marjorie nodded, mulling the idea over.
“It’d be efficient,” Alys pointed out. “What about dragon poop?”
“Ew,” said Marissa. “I’d hate to see that.”
“Not that bad,” Marjorie said. “It’s usually a solid mass. Cut it up with shovels.”
“I’d hate to see a dragon with diarrhea, though,” the tabby said.
The vixen and the doe both looked at her. “What?” Marissa demanded.
“You’re sort of dwelling on this,” Marjorie said.
“I want to make a career in this line of work, like you have,” the tabby told the doe. The wagon crested a low hill, and Marissa pointed. “That the lake?”
“Yeah.” There was a small settlement lining part of the lakeshore, with a number of islands connected to it by causeways.
Three pairs of ears flicked as a wailing sound echoed up from the lake. “There’s our job,” Marjorie said, and increased speed as the other two SerfPro employees hung on.
end
Category Artwork (Digital) / General Furry Art
Species Unspecified / Any
Gender Female
Size 1912 x 1280px
The market will change as mummy dust becomes more scarce. Limited resource, you know - whereas unicorn poop is 100% renewable. Go green! er, I mean brown
*Snort*... could always make some more mummys, just an ages time to make more dust. Making them at a mass produced scale XD. This story is just too fun.
Young, new at the job, and willing to think outside the box - or in it, if you prefer.
You know about cats and boxes . . .
You know about cats and boxes . . .
I'm surprised they don't keep clothespins on their noses considering what they have to deal with.
They do have filter masks (they look like the medieval plague doctor 'beak' masks), but they're not required, as we'll see tomorrow.
Those masks are gorgeous!
They would look even more beautiful wearing a plague mask!
They would look even more beautiful wearing a plague mask!
Comments