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Moonlight and Mayhem
A Very Odd Romance
© 2010 by Walter Reimer
A story set in the Spontoon Island universe: http://spontoon.rootoon.com/
Spontoon Island © 2001-2021 Ken Fletcher and Giovanna Fregni
Thumbnail art by cherushi and amonomega
One
July 9, 1935:
“Send it back.”
The waiter, a thin rat whose naked tail showed signs of tropical sunburn, gaped at the short fox in the well-tailored but cheap suit. Around them the other diners at l’Etoile d’Argent paused, their dinners momentarily forgotten at the enormity of the faux pas.
“You heard me,” Max Vreeland said. He was a Catalina fox, one of the smallest of the red fox species, and those who knew him well knew his ego was considerably larger than his five feet four inches (minus his ears). “I said take this slop back. It’s overcooked.”
“M’sieur – “
“Don’t give me none of that foreign talk. This veal’s overcooked, and I’m not eating overcooked veal.”
“Sir, Chef Joseph prepared this veal au poivre himself. He would never overcook it.”
“That so?” Max tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up. He picked up the plate and said, “Let’s go talk to him and see about that.” The rat resumed his former posture of slack-jawed disbelief as the vulpine started to head for the kitchen.
“Max.”
Max paused. “Yeah, Sam?”
Samantha Rain Sky, a statuesque badger femme who stood five inches taller than her dining companion, gave a slight smile. Her gray, black, and white coloration was offset by the splendid ecru silk evening gown she wore. She glanced around the restaurant. Shepherd’s was one of the best hotels on the islands, with a dining room to match. “You’re not going to create a scene, are you? After all, you’re spending a pretty penny bringing me here.”
“Sam, this is the last night of our shore leave,” Vreeland said earnestly, “and I’m not having anything spoil it – least of all overcooked veal.” He blew a kiss at the badger, who pantomimed catching it and eating it as the fox resumed his course to the kitchen.
The head waiter, a gray squirrel with a supercilious manner, tried to bar his way. “Monsieur,” he said in a thick French accent, “I do not see – “
“You don’t see? Here, let me help you,” and with that Max poked a finger in the squirrel’s eye. As the waiter reeled back Max said, “You might want to have that looked after,” and headed into the kitchen.
“Andre!” the rat exclaimed as the kitchen doors closed. “Are you all right?”
“Hey! Where’s the head chef and bottle washer around here!” Max sang out as he drummed the palms of his paws on the prep table. “I need to ask a question!”
“What’s up?” the salad chef asked.
“Where’s the head hash-slinger around here?”
At the term the canine blanched and started waving his paws in an effort to quiet the fox, who shrugged and walked past him. He started opening cabinets, slamming the doors closed one after the other as he looked in each. “Aha!” he cried, and a frying pan flew out and landed on the prep table with a clang. A pair of tongs and a spoon joined it soon after.
“Now, for the ingredients,” and the vulpine plunged into the refrigerator as the salad chef retreated.
Max came out with an acceptable cut of veal and a pint of cream to be confronted by six feet of Parisian-trained black poodle, looking even taller and more imposing with his fluted chef’s toque. “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.
“Ah! You the head hash-slinger?”
“HASH-SLINGER?”
“Does everyone here have trouble hearing?” Max asked. “Tell you what, I’ll speak a little louder. ARE YOU THE HEAD HASH-SLINGER?”
“I am Chef Joseph, vous petit batard. I am the head chef here.”
“Good,” Max said cheerfully. “I’m here to teach you how to cook veal au poivre without overcooking it. See, you start with a fine cut of veal, like this one – “
Chef Joseph swelled like a bursting boiler. “I never over cook my veal!”
“No? Well, there must be some other reason. You must use frozen veal, then.”
A spate of howled maledictions more worthy of the docks of Marseilles than the best culinary schools and restaurants of Paris erupted from the poodle’s muzzle, culminating in the shouted declaration, “YOU ACCUSE CHEF JOSEPH OF FREEZING HIS VEAL!?”
Max took the scream in stride and started busying himself with preparing the veal. “Look, I’ll make it real easy. You start by pounding the veal to a uniform thickness – “ He picked up a small frying pan.
Chef Joseph took a step forward and promptly fell backward, clutching at his bleeding nose as Max drew the frying pan back and struck the poodle in the face. He started striking the piece of meat gently but with a firm, equal pressure. “You don’t want to hit it too hard – you’re not making paper, you know,” he said. “But this is an essential step, especially if the veal’s been frozen.”
There was an inarticulate sound of pure rage as Chef Joseph tossed aside two sous-chefs who had been trying to help him up and the poodle charged at the fox, who turned toward the stove. The charge was ended by an anguished yelp as Max started to remove his coat, only to have his fist slam into Joseph’s nose. The fox turned and redirected the poodle’s momentum, sending Joseph careening into a pot rack. The rack and the chef went over with an ear-flattening clangor.
Max finished taking his jacket off as a sous-chef came at him. “Here, hold my coat, will you?” and he flipped it over the surprised boar’s head, pulled the sleeves around so they crossed behind the head and knotted them just under the man’s chin before spinning him around a few times. The sous-chef wandered off dizzily while Max industriously started melting a pat of butter.
As soon as the butter had stopped foaming he dusted the half-inch-thick piece of veal with salt and pepper and started sautéing it. “You want to be careful with this,” he said, flipping the tongs around and deflecting thrown fists and knives in the process. “You just want to get some decent color on it, then finish it in the oven.” So saying, he squatted and turned on the oven as two assistants collided head-on over him.
“I’ll just let it warm up,” Max said, his brush flicking up and blinding another assistant just long enough to make the mouse crash into the prep table, “and I’ll show you how to make the sauce.” He blocked another volley of punches from various directions and at least two attempts to tackle him and started collecting a few other ingredients, including a bottle of fine cognac.
By the time he was back at the stove, the oven was ready. Max flipped open the oven door and executed a fast pawstand, kicking another sous-chef in the muzzle as the rabbit moved to grab him. The rabbit reeled back into two of his fellows and Max set the veal in the oven. “This’ll be a nice sauce au poivre vert, but first we let the veal finish a bit.” He busied himself with whistling the Rain Island patriotic tune Our Land while defending himself, and after two repetitions of the song he opened the oven and took the veal out, stepping back as a beagle tripped over the open oven door and went flying.
“I’ll set the veal aside to rest – that’s an important step,” the short fox said, slipping the meat onto a plate. He turned up the heat on the frying pan and poured a measure of cognac into it, letting it boil while scraping the pan with a metal spoon. He then tipped the pan, letting the gas flame ignite the alcohol fumes. The resultant small fireball nearly singed the whiskers off a feline busboy, who ran screaming for the relative safety of the dining room. Max added shallots and green peppercorns, then stirred the mixture with his spoon while a savory aroma rose from the pan.
“DIE!” Chef Joseph roared, charging at Max with a huge butcher knife drawn and held in his paw.
“What?” Max turned, and the blade caught where the bowl of the spoon joined the handle. A flick of his paw and the butcher knife went flying from Joseph’s paw toward the door that led to the dining room.
“What’s going – “ Andre, the head waiter, said as he opened the door, only to have his words die in his throat as the knife embedded itself in the doorjamb at eye level and scant inches from his head. Andre’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he sank to the floor in a dead faint.
Max added cream to the shallots and peppercorns, then let the mixture reduce a bit before putting the meat back into it, carefully spooning the sauce over the veal until it had warmed up. He then placed the meat back on the plate and spooned the sauce over it before shutting off the oven and the stove. He grabbed the boar, still struggling with his suit jacket, and untied it, sending the hapless porcine spinning into another knot of assistants.
The fox shouldered into his coat and picked up his plate. “That’s how you make a decent veal with sauce au poivre vert – or would, if you wouldn’t overcook it. And don’t expect a good review of this flophouse, either.” He headed for the door as Chef Joseph charged at him, jaws agape and slavering.
Max swung the door open, sidestepped and shut the door, and walked into the dining room as a resounding thud announced the impact of the head chef’s head with the wooden portal.
Samantha looked up and smiled as her friend resumed his seat. “My, that smells heavenly,” she said, sniffing.
“Tastes good, too,” Max said. He cut a piece and offered it to her at the end of his fork. “Try it.”
The badgeress took the morsel and chewed. “Mmm, that is wonderful, Max. You’re quite the cook.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
From the kitchen there came another resounding crash of pots and pans.
Max shared his meal since his date had finished hers, feeding Sam small morsels while the two made eyes at each other. This activity caused a few of the more staid couples to call for their checks and leave the restaurant. Finally Max signaled for a waiter and as the rabbit walked over he said loudly, “Hey you! We’re ready for dessert!”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but the management has asked that you pay your bill and leave,” the rabbit said. “Now.”
“Oh, did he?” Max said.
“Max,” Sam warned. “Behave.”
“For you, my sweet, anything. Okay, give me the check, you fascist.”
The rabbit’s ears dipped and he presented the check on a small tray. The short fox took it and his jaw fell open. “THIS MUCH!? For two dinners? We didn’t even have dessert!” He crumpled up the check and threw it at the rabbit, missing him by feet. The wad of paper landed in another diner’s crème brulee. “And what the hell was that garbage about damages?”
“Max!” Sam exclaimed in a scandalized tone. “You didn’t damage anything in there, did you?”
“I swear upon my mother’s grave, Sam – “
“Your mother’s alive, Max.”
“All right then, I swear on my grandmother’s grave that I didn’t damage a single, solitary thing! Honestly, what’s the use of a good reputation in this country?”
“Nothing at all if you keep eating its head off for lack of exercise,” Sam said gently. To the lepine she asked, “What is it he’s supposed to have damaged?” Off to one side, a red fox looked up from his own meal and cocked an interested ear as his wife, a stately vixen, promptly stopped talking and started looking bored.
“A pot rack, along with all the pots that were on it – “
“Liar!” Max said. “Your clumsy chef ran into that. I had nothing to do with it!”
“One waiter’s whiskers – “
“Those’ll grow back. Any idiot could have told him you don’t get too close to a pan when you’re deglazing it with cognac!”
The rabbit said, “Sir, if you refuse to pay – “
“You bet your tailfur I’m not going to pay!”
“In that case, I’ll have to call the Constabulary.”
“Do that,” Max sneered. “I want to press charges.”
That made the rabbit pause, and the red fox at the nearby table stood up. “Charges?” he asked.
“Yeah, and what the hell is to you, Big Nose?” Max said.
The vulpine looked as if he deliberately chose to ignore Max. He reached into a pocket of his coat and produced a badge. “My name’s Pickering.”
“And?”
The tod-fox drew himself up, standing nearly as tall as Sam, but not as well-built. “I’m the Chief Constable here.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Oooh, I’m so impressed. You going to arrest these rubes?”
“Well, I could – “
“You’d better.”
“But I heard the commotion in the kitchen. Practically everyone out here did. I can guess you weren’t entirely innocent back there.”
Max dismissed this with a wave of a paw. “I could care less what you thought you heard. I was in there, and all I did was show these unsophisticated rejects how to cook a decent piece of veal.” He raised his voice in the direction of the kitchen. “WITHOUT OVERCOOKING IT!”
There was another muffled collection of sounds from the kitchen, a mingled spate of French pejoratives and a scuffle as if the assistants were holding Chef Joseph down. “See what I mean?” Max said. “That hash-slinger wouldn’t know an omelet from an ocelot if you went and put Senorita Hilda de Tigre Negro smack in his lap!”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Max?”
“Yeah, Sam?”
“Who?”
“Hilda de Tigre Negro. You know her – she dances at the Diamond B . . . “ his voice trailed off and his eyes went wide and scared as he realized he’d said a bit too much.
Sam’s voice went silky as the badgeress smiled sweetly and asked, “Max, you mean to say that we’ve been seeing each other, and you’ve been going to that dive?”
“Um . . . “
“Watching the Amorous Amazon dance?”
“It’s like this . . . “
“In her trademark Aztec priestess costume?”
“Er . . . “
“The costume that’s mostly feathers?”
“Well . . . “
“And you DIDN’T INVITE ME!?”
Max flinched. “Sam, it’s not what you think – she’s way too short for your taste, and you’ve always said that you can’t abide a spotted hide – “
“That’s a Scottish hide, you dolt!” Sam swung, smacking Max full in the face and sending him flying.
Max stumbled and recovered, and ducked behind Chief Pickering, using him as cover as he whined, “Now, Sam, remember your blood pressure . . . “
“My blood pressure!” Sam snarled. “It’s YOU who keeps my blood pressure up, Max!” and she threw a punch.
Max grabbed Pickering by the shoulders and moved him to the side as the smaller fox ducked, and the fist impacted solidly with the Chief Constable’s nose. That worthy yelled, grabbing at his abused muzzle as his mate sat and sarcastically applauded. Sam threw several more punches, all of which Max blocked with the taller fox’s body. Finally he released Pickering and the tod-fox sank unconscious to the floor.
“NOW I have you!” and Sam swung a roundhouse kick that landed solidly on Max’s hip. The Catalina fox practically bounced as he went flying into the hapless waiter. Max picked himself up first as Sam advanced on him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and the root of his tail. She started to swing him around, faster and faster, and released him just as Chef Joseph came out of the kitchen, clutching an ice pack to his head.
“Que le - ?” was all the poodle had time to get out of his mouth.
Max and Joseph collided, the smaller fox landing square in the canine’s stomach and causing Joseph to give a “Woof!” as his breath left him. The two went down in a heap as Sam again grabbed her erstwhile dinner companion.
She dragged him out of l’Etoile d’Argent by his ankles as she growled, “When I get you back aboard, you little excuse for a toilet brush, you’re going to NEED a priestess!” Once they were out of the restaurant and in the lobby of the hotel, she released his ankles and aimed a kick at his rump. He dodged and she started chasing him, eventually running out into the street.
Sam caught up with Max as the fox dove into a water taxi and cried out, “Moon Island, the base, and snap it up!” He flinched as her larger frame came down, straddling him.
The badgeress smirked, leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head, twice. “That’s two for flinching, Max.”
He grinned cheekily up at her. “That was fun, Sam! Shall we try going back tomorrow for dessert?”
<NEXT>
A Very Odd Romance
© 2010 by Walter Reimer
A story set in the Spontoon Island universe: http://spontoon.rootoon.com/
Spontoon Island © 2001-2021 Ken Fletcher and Giovanna Fregni
Thumbnail art by cherushi and amonomega
One
July 9, 1935:
“Send it back.”
The waiter, a thin rat whose naked tail showed signs of tropical sunburn, gaped at the short fox in the well-tailored but cheap suit. Around them the other diners at l’Etoile d’Argent paused, their dinners momentarily forgotten at the enormity of the faux pas.
“You heard me,” Max Vreeland said. He was a Catalina fox, one of the smallest of the red fox species, and those who knew him well knew his ego was considerably larger than his five feet four inches (minus his ears). “I said take this slop back. It’s overcooked.”
“M’sieur – “
“Don’t give me none of that foreign talk. This veal’s overcooked, and I’m not eating overcooked veal.”
“Sir, Chef Joseph prepared this veal au poivre himself. He would never overcook it.”
“That so?” Max tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up. He picked up the plate and said, “Let’s go talk to him and see about that.” The rat resumed his former posture of slack-jawed disbelief as the vulpine started to head for the kitchen.
“Max.”
Max paused. “Yeah, Sam?”
Samantha Rain Sky, a statuesque badger femme who stood five inches taller than her dining companion, gave a slight smile. Her gray, black, and white coloration was offset by the splendid ecru silk evening gown she wore. She glanced around the restaurant. Shepherd’s was one of the best hotels on the islands, with a dining room to match. “You’re not going to create a scene, are you? After all, you’re spending a pretty penny bringing me here.”
“Sam, this is the last night of our shore leave,” Vreeland said earnestly, “and I’m not having anything spoil it – least of all overcooked veal.” He blew a kiss at the badger, who pantomimed catching it and eating it as the fox resumed his course to the kitchen.
The head waiter, a gray squirrel with a supercilious manner, tried to bar his way. “Monsieur,” he said in a thick French accent, “I do not see – “
“You don’t see? Here, let me help you,” and with that Max poked a finger in the squirrel’s eye. As the waiter reeled back Max said, “You might want to have that looked after,” and headed into the kitchen.
“Andre!” the rat exclaimed as the kitchen doors closed. “Are you all right?”
“Hey! Where’s the head chef and bottle washer around here!” Max sang out as he drummed the palms of his paws on the prep table. “I need to ask a question!”
“What’s up?” the salad chef asked.
“Where’s the head hash-slinger around here?”
At the term the canine blanched and started waving his paws in an effort to quiet the fox, who shrugged and walked past him. He started opening cabinets, slamming the doors closed one after the other as he looked in each. “Aha!” he cried, and a frying pan flew out and landed on the prep table with a clang. A pair of tongs and a spoon joined it soon after.
“Now, for the ingredients,” and the vulpine plunged into the refrigerator as the salad chef retreated.
Max came out with an acceptable cut of veal and a pint of cream to be confronted by six feet of Parisian-trained black poodle, looking even taller and more imposing with his fluted chef’s toque. “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.
“Ah! You the head hash-slinger?”
“HASH-SLINGER?”
“Does everyone here have trouble hearing?” Max asked. “Tell you what, I’ll speak a little louder. ARE YOU THE HEAD HASH-SLINGER?”
“I am Chef Joseph, vous petit batard. I am the head chef here.”
“Good,” Max said cheerfully. “I’m here to teach you how to cook veal au poivre without overcooking it. See, you start with a fine cut of veal, like this one – “
Chef Joseph swelled like a bursting boiler. “I never over cook my veal!”
“No? Well, there must be some other reason. You must use frozen veal, then.”
A spate of howled maledictions more worthy of the docks of Marseilles than the best culinary schools and restaurants of Paris erupted from the poodle’s muzzle, culminating in the shouted declaration, “YOU ACCUSE CHEF JOSEPH OF FREEZING HIS VEAL!?”
Max took the scream in stride and started busying himself with preparing the veal. “Look, I’ll make it real easy. You start by pounding the veal to a uniform thickness – “ He picked up a small frying pan.
Chef Joseph took a step forward and promptly fell backward, clutching at his bleeding nose as Max drew the frying pan back and struck the poodle in the face. He started striking the piece of meat gently but with a firm, equal pressure. “You don’t want to hit it too hard – you’re not making paper, you know,” he said. “But this is an essential step, especially if the veal’s been frozen.”
There was an inarticulate sound of pure rage as Chef Joseph tossed aside two sous-chefs who had been trying to help him up and the poodle charged at the fox, who turned toward the stove. The charge was ended by an anguished yelp as Max started to remove his coat, only to have his fist slam into Joseph’s nose. The fox turned and redirected the poodle’s momentum, sending Joseph careening into a pot rack. The rack and the chef went over with an ear-flattening clangor.
Max finished taking his jacket off as a sous-chef came at him. “Here, hold my coat, will you?” and he flipped it over the surprised boar’s head, pulled the sleeves around so they crossed behind the head and knotted them just under the man’s chin before spinning him around a few times. The sous-chef wandered off dizzily while Max industriously started melting a pat of butter.
As soon as the butter had stopped foaming he dusted the half-inch-thick piece of veal with salt and pepper and started sautéing it. “You want to be careful with this,” he said, flipping the tongs around and deflecting thrown fists and knives in the process. “You just want to get some decent color on it, then finish it in the oven.” So saying, he squatted and turned on the oven as two assistants collided head-on over him.
“I’ll just let it warm up,” Max said, his brush flicking up and blinding another assistant just long enough to make the mouse crash into the prep table, “and I’ll show you how to make the sauce.” He blocked another volley of punches from various directions and at least two attempts to tackle him and started collecting a few other ingredients, including a bottle of fine cognac.
By the time he was back at the stove, the oven was ready. Max flipped open the oven door and executed a fast pawstand, kicking another sous-chef in the muzzle as the rabbit moved to grab him. The rabbit reeled back into two of his fellows and Max set the veal in the oven. “This’ll be a nice sauce au poivre vert, but first we let the veal finish a bit.” He busied himself with whistling the Rain Island patriotic tune Our Land while defending himself, and after two repetitions of the song he opened the oven and took the veal out, stepping back as a beagle tripped over the open oven door and went flying.
“I’ll set the veal aside to rest – that’s an important step,” the short fox said, slipping the meat onto a plate. He turned up the heat on the frying pan and poured a measure of cognac into it, letting it boil while scraping the pan with a metal spoon. He then tipped the pan, letting the gas flame ignite the alcohol fumes. The resultant small fireball nearly singed the whiskers off a feline busboy, who ran screaming for the relative safety of the dining room. Max added shallots and green peppercorns, then stirred the mixture with his spoon while a savory aroma rose from the pan.
“DIE!” Chef Joseph roared, charging at Max with a huge butcher knife drawn and held in his paw.
“What?” Max turned, and the blade caught where the bowl of the spoon joined the handle. A flick of his paw and the butcher knife went flying from Joseph’s paw toward the door that led to the dining room.
“What’s going – “ Andre, the head waiter, said as he opened the door, only to have his words die in his throat as the knife embedded itself in the doorjamb at eye level and scant inches from his head. Andre’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he sank to the floor in a dead faint.
Max added cream to the shallots and peppercorns, then let the mixture reduce a bit before putting the meat back into it, carefully spooning the sauce over the veal until it had warmed up. He then placed the meat back on the plate and spooned the sauce over it before shutting off the oven and the stove. He grabbed the boar, still struggling with his suit jacket, and untied it, sending the hapless porcine spinning into another knot of assistants.
The fox shouldered into his coat and picked up his plate. “That’s how you make a decent veal with sauce au poivre vert – or would, if you wouldn’t overcook it. And don’t expect a good review of this flophouse, either.” He headed for the door as Chef Joseph charged at him, jaws agape and slavering.
Max swung the door open, sidestepped and shut the door, and walked into the dining room as a resounding thud announced the impact of the head chef’s head with the wooden portal.
Samantha looked up and smiled as her friend resumed his seat. “My, that smells heavenly,” she said, sniffing.
“Tastes good, too,” Max said. He cut a piece and offered it to her at the end of his fork. “Try it.”
The badgeress took the morsel and chewed. “Mmm, that is wonderful, Max. You’re quite the cook.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
From the kitchen there came another resounding crash of pots and pans.
Max shared his meal since his date had finished hers, feeding Sam small morsels while the two made eyes at each other. This activity caused a few of the more staid couples to call for their checks and leave the restaurant. Finally Max signaled for a waiter and as the rabbit walked over he said loudly, “Hey you! We’re ready for dessert!”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but the management has asked that you pay your bill and leave,” the rabbit said. “Now.”
“Oh, did he?” Max said.
“Max,” Sam warned. “Behave.”
“For you, my sweet, anything. Okay, give me the check, you fascist.”
The rabbit’s ears dipped and he presented the check on a small tray. The short fox took it and his jaw fell open. “THIS MUCH!? For two dinners? We didn’t even have dessert!” He crumpled up the check and threw it at the rabbit, missing him by feet. The wad of paper landed in another diner’s crème brulee. “And what the hell was that garbage about damages?”
“Max!” Sam exclaimed in a scandalized tone. “You didn’t damage anything in there, did you?”
“I swear upon my mother’s grave, Sam – “
“Your mother’s alive, Max.”
“All right then, I swear on my grandmother’s grave that I didn’t damage a single, solitary thing! Honestly, what’s the use of a good reputation in this country?”
“Nothing at all if you keep eating its head off for lack of exercise,” Sam said gently. To the lepine she asked, “What is it he’s supposed to have damaged?” Off to one side, a red fox looked up from his own meal and cocked an interested ear as his wife, a stately vixen, promptly stopped talking and started looking bored.
“A pot rack, along with all the pots that were on it – “
“Liar!” Max said. “Your clumsy chef ran into that. I had nothing to do with it!”
“One waiter’s whiskers – “
“Those’ll grow back. Any idiot could have told him you don’t get too close to a pan when you’re deglazing it with cognac!”
The rabbit said, “Sir, if you refuse to pay – “
“You bet your tailfur I’m not going to pay!”
“In that case, I’ll have to call the Constabulary.”
“Do that,” Max sneered. “I want to press charges.”
That made the rabbit pause, and the red fox at the nearby table stood up. “Charges?” he asked.
“Yeah, and what the hell is to you, Big Nose?” Max said.
The vulpine looked as if he deliberately chose to ignore Max. He reached into a pocket of his coat and produced a badge. “My name’s Pickering.”
“And?”
The tod-fox drew himself up, standing nearly as tall as Sam, but not as well-built. “I’m the Chief Constable here.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Oooh, I’m so impressed. You going to arrest these rubes?”
“Well, I could – “
“You’d better.”
“But I heard the commotion in the kitchen. Practically everyone out here did. I can guess you weren’t entirely innocent back there.”
Max dismissed this with a wave of a paw. “I could care less what you thought you heard. I was in there, and all I did was show these unsophisticated rejects how to cook a decent piece of veal.” He raised his voice in the direction of the kitchen. “WITHOUT OVERCOOKING IT!”
There was another muffled collection of sounds from the kitchen, a mingled spate of French pejoratives and a scuffle as if the assistants were holding Chef Joseph down. “See what I mean?” Max said. “That hash-slinger wouldn’t know an omelet from an ocelot if you went and put Senorita Hilda de Tigre Negro smack in his lap!”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Max?”
“Yeah, Sam?”
“Who?”
“Hilda de Tigre Negro. You know her – she dances at the Diamond B . . . “ his voice trailed off and his eyes went wide and scared as he realized he’d said a bit too much.
Sam’s voice went silky as the badgeress smiled sweetly and asked, “Max, you mean to say that we’ve been seeing each other, and you’ve been going to that dive?”
“Um . . . “
“Watching the Amorous Amazon dance?”
“It’s like this . . . “
“In her trademark Aztec priestess costume?”
“Er . . . “
“The costume that’s mostly feathers?”
“Well . . . “
“And you DIDN’T INVITE ME!?”
Max flinched. “Sam, it’s not what you think – she’s way too short for your taste, and you’ve always said that you can’t abide a spotted hide – “
“That’s a Scottish hide, you dolt!” Sam swung, smacking Max full in the face and sending him flying.
Max stumbled and recovered, and ducked behind Chief Pickering, using him as cover as he whined, “Now, Sam, remember your blood pressure . . . “
“My blood pressure!” Sam snarled. “It’s YOU who keeps my blood pressure up, Max!” and she threw a punch.
Max grabbed Pickering by the shoulders and moved him to the side as the smaller fox ducked, and the fist impacted solidly with the Chief Constable’s nose. That worthy yelled, grabbing at his abused muzzle as his mate sat and sarcastically applauded. Sam threw several more punches, all of which Max blocked with the taller fox’s body. Finally he released Pickering and the tod-fox sank unconscious to the floor.
“NOW I have you!” and Sam swung a roundhouse kick that landed solidly on Max’s hip. The Catalina fox practically bounced as he went flying into the hapless waiter. Max picked himself up first as Sam advanced on him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and the root of his tail. She started to swing him around, faster and faster, and released him just as Chef Joseph came out of the kitchen, clutching an ice pack to his head.
“Que le - ?” was all the poodle had time to get out of his mouth.
Max and Joseph collided, the smaller fox landing square in the canine’s stomach and causing Joseph to give a “Woof!” as his breath left him. The two went down in a heap as Sam again grabbed her erstwhile dinner companion.
She dragged him out of l’Etoile d’Argent by his ankles as she growled, “When I get you back aboard, you little excuse for a toilet brush, you’re going to NEED a priestess!” Once they were out of the restaurant and in the lobby of the hotel, she released his ankles and aimed a kick at his rump. He dodged and she started chasing him, eventually running out into the street.
Sam caught up with Max as the fox dove into a water taxi and cried out, “Moon Island, the base, and snap it up!” He flinched as her larger frame came down, straddling him.
The badgeress smirked, leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head, twice. “That’s two for flinching, Max.”
He grinned cheekily up at her. “That was fun, Sam! Shall we try going back tomorrow for dessert?”
<NEXT>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Badger
Gender Female
Size 72 x 120px
Damned right. Took a week to choreograph that action sequence, as I recall.
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