| "Batchelor(ette)
Party(ing)"
by M. Mitchell Marmel & E.O. Costello © 2010 by M. Mitchell Marmel and E.O. Costello Willow Fawnsworthy, Reggie Buckhorn, Franklin Stagg, Orrin Brush, and Leslie duCleds, © Eric Costello Rosie Baumgartner, Inocenta duCleds (nee de Ciervos) Marryin’ Sam and Lulubelle Mae Brunswick © M. Mitchell Marmel Ranua Milikonu, Lisa Fallingwater, and Brenda and Covina Johnson © Walter D. Reimer Katie MacArran and Heloise the Huntress © J. T. Urie Illustration by Seth C. Triggs Chapter Two
Po’na tell creature with flat-tail outlander, additionally spotted feline swift outlander female and Willow-doe that creature with horns outlander emphasis small not acquire love-herbs, additionally fire-herb. Spotted feline swift outlander female make mouth-noise-growl, additionally motion vigorous eject anger claws. Willow-doe ask if Po’na know fur acquisition making. Po’na smile additionally Willow-doe relate creature with bushy tail outlander work Euro eating-place acquire herbs. Creature with horns outlander emphasis small not know herbs when make drink for Reggie-buck. Po’na knowing is creatures with horns outlanders negative being claws-bearers, but Willow-doe motions make frighten Po’na emphasis. ***
“Andre,” Rosie growled. “That bushytailed little mamser. If he wants to be that much of a rat, I’ll strip the fur off his tail so he can at least look the part. Got a tweezers?” I wholeheartedly agreed. This was going too far, but Andre needed to be taught a lesson that didn’t involve physically injuring him (much as I wanted to at that moment). I guess it was something in my eyes, but Po’na muttered something and stepped away from me, making a gesture as if warding off evil. He needn’t have worried. I wasn’t after *him,* but after a certain nutmuncher . . . “Po’na,” I asked, “tell me about the love-herb and fire-herb. What do they do?” Po’na looked a bit shifty-eyed as he explained that the fire-herb was used by local athletes (no, not the bedroom kind) to enable them to carry out feats of speed and endurance. The Spontoonie Olympic team was rumored to have used the fire-herb “incidents occasion infrequent.” Uh-huh. Believe that, and I’ve got a butterscotch mine I’d like to sell you. The love-herb – well, that was sort of self-explanatory. “But no lasting bad effects, Po’na?” I asked. The shifty-eyed look intensified as Po’na allowed that there were effects from using the love-herb, but they usually showed up nine months later. ***
Needless to say, I was putting all of my sensitive cheetah hearing into listening avidly to what Po’na was saying. Now, usually I’d have no need to listen about the various benefits of the Spontoonie herbal, but I know this buck, you see, with this rather delicate problem . . . I squelched the idea firmly (and reluctantly). A vision of Franklin dying with a goofy smile on his face (not to mention the inability of the undertaker to close the coffin without putting in a dormer) kinda put a damper on the thought. “Well, first thing we need to do is put Fausti in a bag, then we make plans to get the nutmuncher,” I said. “We can’t have him tipping Andre off.” Willow nodded. “Then we need to have all our ducks in a row.” Po’na misinterpreted this, and started to wander off on a tangent about an incident in Reggie’s past I couldn’t quite follow. Willow wasn’t sidetracked; a slow grin crossed her muzzle and she turned to Po’na. “Po’na, how hard would it be to get your paws on the fire-herb and love-herb?” Po’na looked thoughtful, then replied that he could get the stuff from a herbalist over on Main, but having a Wise One bless it properly would take time. His look told me that he was surmising that Willow wanted some for her and Reggie’s wedding night. Willow’s next request blew that out of the water. “We won’t need a blessing on them, Po’na – they’re for Andre. Now, where do we find the oldest, ugliest prosti—ahem, ‘hunting license owner,’ on Spontoon?” ***
Po’na negative accept insinuation Willow-doe Spontoonie femme-fur beauty. Spontoonie femme-fur emphasis all possessing beauty, likewise Spontoonie femme-fur not of beauty possessing. Emphasis femme-furs negative possessing. Po’na-self relate Willow-doe Po’na-self discuss will. Femme hunter union and ricksha driver’s union close being is. Negative Euro-sense, Po’na additionally emphasize. ***
Having seen Mister Buckhorn in various stages en deshabille throughout my tenure as his valet has steeled me for many sights. However, this was quite probably a unique occurrence. Despite (or, perhaps, because of) the aftereffects of his drink, Mister Buckhorn meekly took the clothes I gave him and dressed as quickly and efficiently as possible. As he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt he said in a miserable tone, “I wager you’re quite ready to turn in your notice, Lodge.” I coughed behind the back of my paw. “Hardly, Sir.” Mister Buckhorn looked at me crossly. “Why not, in Heaven’s name, Lodge? After all, I’m not the best employer. You’re always having to bail me out of one misadventure after another.” I conceded the point. “However, Sir, I wish to point out that you are a very good employer and always solicitous of your employees.” “That’s good of you to say so, Lodge.” “Thank you, Sir.” “But surely the novelty wore off some time back in 1934. Still, if you feel that La Fawnsworthy’s got me sufficiently under control – after we’re married – and if you wish to leave, you can count on a glowing recommendation.” “Thank you, Sir.” This was not a topic I wished to pursue, so a change of subject was in order. I cleared my throat discreetly and related to Mister Buckhorn the information I had gathered from Mister Po’na. When I was finished, Mister Buckhorn looked perturbed. “I have to say that’s rather rum, Lodge, and no pun intended. If I manage to evade durance vile I shall have to think of something drastic.” I hastened to assure Mister Buckhorn that Miss Fawnsworthy and Miss Baumgartner were already deep in plans for just such a thing, and I absented myself from the jail. I had reserved a seat in the gallery to observe the proceedings. ***
“The Althing vs. Reginald Buckhorn,” the bailiff said, and Mister Buckhorn stood up in the dock as Magistrate de Pathe read over the charges. He looked up as the bailiff whispered something to him, and at the rooster’s gesture another avian stepped forward to address the Bench discreetly, beak to beak. I found it rather odd that no less a personage than Charles Foster Crane, the publisher of the Spontoon Mirror, would speak at this proceeding, but whatever he had to tell Magistrate de Pathe certainly seemed to make an impression on him. He nodded, and Mister Crane walked back to his seat. Magistrate de Pathe then cleared his throat. “Inspector Stagg, the Court is satisfied with the affidavit as read. Has the drink been analyzed?” “It has, Your Honor.” The Inspector consulted his notes. “Unfortunately, after making his report, Doctor Musine sampled some of the mixture.” “Good heavens,” Magistrate de Pathe said. “I hope he’s all right.” “That would be difficult to say, Your Honor. Doctor Musine, after drinking the beverage, disappeared from his lab. A search turned up two rather large feline ladies, ah, of the town. One was unconscious and the other simply kept muttering, ‘Hard cheddar.’” “I see. Mister Buckhorn?” My employer looked attentively at the rooster as he said, “In light of the herbal mixture you took without knowledge of its contents – which is not a poison nor an intoxicating drug – and in light of various other factors, such as the fact that local customs actually favor nudity, I am going to rule that the charges against you be dropped.” He raised the gavel and let it drop with a finality usually reserved for capital cases. ***
As soon as I was out of the dock I made a beeline for Charles Crane. “I say,” I asked, “what did you say to old de Pathe? One might think you’d promised him any pictures your chappies might have taken.” The bird gave me a smile. “Well, Mister Buckhorn, let me put it this way: we have a shared adversary.” He caught my look and nodded. “The one and the same. Allow your fiancé and her friends their revenge. I’m sure it’ll be appropriately, um, appropriate.” He smiled again. “Also, there is a price for my assistance.” “Yes?” “Yes. I want the Mirror to have full and exclusive rights to the wedding pictures. It’ll be the biggest society wedding in Spontoon since the duCleds marriage earlier this year.” Crane then shook paws with me, and walked out. Well, small price to pay. ***
You almost had to think the little deer was waiting for us. As soon as he spotted Willow and me he gave a peculiar soft bark of alarm and disappeared behind the bar. Willow grabbed at him, missed, and ended up on all fours. “Come out here, you,” she growled, tail flagging to beat the band. “No,” said a breathy voice from somewhere under the bar. Willow tried to reach him, but no soap. “You plan the dire thing for poor Fausti.” Before Willow could lie I waved her over to where I was standing. The other bartender cocked an ear at me, but I showed him a set of claws and he did a quick fade. “Listen, kiddo,” I whispered, “you get with Po’na and get things arranged on that end. I’ll deal with Anthill Harry here.” Willow looked unhappy, but nodded and walked out while I settled down to wait. Felines are good at waiting. Sure enough, about ten minutes later the pudu’s dainty little paws could be seen on the edge of the bar. Cheetah speed is certainly handy, as I was on him in a flash and had him by the collar of his shirt before he could duck back into his hidey-hole. “Gotcha!” I said. “Now, where to keep you safely incommunicado . . . “ Fausti keened as he struggled in my paw. “No, it is the most unfairness you show to poor Fausti. I appeal to Rosie as fellow bartender – “ “Why not appeal to Andre, as a fellow conspirator?” I countered, giving the Diminutive Deer a shake as I unceremoniously carried him out of the bar and through the back to the garbage bins. I selected one with a good tight lid and stuffed Fausti into it, then balanced a heavy box of empty seltzer bottles on the lid. “There. That’ll keep you occupied.” ***
They teach a lot of things in the Minkerton’s Manual. Like how to slip a Mickey Finn to an unsuspecting mark. I’ve never had to do it before, but I was amazed at how easy it was. A little misdirection and the powdered herbs went into the water glass Andre was using to refresh himself between bouts of abusing the busfurs. When his tailfur started to quiver I signaled to Po’na, who gently took the squirrel by the arm and escorted him through the kitchen and out. (Not without an audible sneer from Chef Joseph, delighted to see his chief enemy being frog-marched.) A room had been arranged at a small hotel about a block away, one that was usually a haunt for the ladies of the pavements. I was tempted to watch, but disapproving noises from Grace and perhaps more persuasively my own stomachs caused me to beg off. Rosie stayed, though. ***
I stayed because I wanted to make sure that the Mirror photographer, a tall roe deer with a ‘seen everything’ air about him, got Andre’s best side. I left it to WeeGee’s professional expertise with the camera to spot what his best side might have been, ‘cause damned if I could figure out what it was. Andre’s not known for being a hit with the ladies, after all, but the lady we’d fixed him up with (for double the price) was properly enthusiastic. One thing I’ll say about the fire-herb and the love-herb, though – they apparently give a fur some incentive. Better living through chemistry. After about an hour of this he started to come around, and the squeal of terror he gave vent to was gratifying. And me without a Dictaphone. Nertz. Picture this, if you will (make sure your stomach’s empty first): Andre d’Arbres, a supercilious squirrel with no love for the ladies, completely starkers; Heloise, a hippo of vast charms not a month or so from retirement, easily ten times bigger than Andre, saggy as a bloodhound and complete with four false tusks (I counted – they were in a bucket beside the bed); And now picture these two in the same bed, Andre blinking in confusion as the roe deer took picture after picture.  The 'formerly-respectable' Andre d'Arbres, with Heloise, at the hotel. Art by Seth C. Triggs - http://www.bibp.com/ Heloise was the one who brought the squirrel back to earth hard. “Hokay, dearie, love-hour time up. Come out of there.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in terror as Andre extricated himself frantically from the viscous grip of the hippo’s body. It was like watching one of those supposed “nature documentaries” from Cranium Island. The look of sheer horrified surprise on Andre’s face changed to fury as he spotted me and the photographer. “What what what?” he blurted as he bounded to his feet. Suddenly recalling his condition he dove back onto the bed and a pitched battle ensued with Heloise over the sheets. “Just giving you a taste of your own medicine,” I said with a laugh. “This’ll teach you to drug a friend of mine.” He spluttered, waving his paws frantically at the roe deer. “Non! Non! No with the photography!” “Get used to it, nutmuncher,” I said. “Those pictures are insurance that you won’t try anything stupid before the wedding.” Andre spluttered like a Model T blowing a gasket. “This – this is the BLACKMAIL!” I nodded with a happy smile on my muzzle. “You bet it is.” Now I let him have my full sneer, all teeth and laughed as he shrank back against the bed. I let my voice drop to a whisper. "You try anything, ANYTHING mark my words, like this again and your reputation ’round these parts won't be the ONLY thing that'll be ruined." I flicked my claws toward his tail, and he whimpered in fright. “Oh, and the pictures are also a guarantee that you won’t turn your snooty little nose up at Charlie Crane’s girlfriend. He doesn’t like nasty comments about his lady . . . and I DO mean lady. Capiche?” The photographer smiled at me as he bustled past and out the door. He had what he wanted, and I had what I wanted. “I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone to get freshened up,” and I walked out. As I closed the door I could hear sounds of a struggle. I guess it wasn’t nice of me to make sure that Heloise was lying on Andre’s clothes. Hey, free pants pressing. Who could argue? next |