| "Batchelor(ette)
Party(ing)"
by M. Mitchell Marmel & E.O. Costello text © 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 Chapter Seven
Marryin’ Sam was a fountain of advice. I’m not sure I could repeat any of it to Willow, though. I’m not sure I could repeat any of it to myself. At one point he and Chief Sapper were matching each other drink for drink, which enabled me to admire the relative forms of a chief peeler and a judge-turned-diplomat. Chief Sapper was taller, but Marryin’ Sam was a bit wider. Finally the Ambassador belched and said, “Well, this is s’posed t’be a party, so how’s about we pop open onea them decks o’ cards and have a little game o’ poker, Chief?” “Now, that’s a great idea,” Les said brightly. “I wuz wunnerin’ when someone’d suggest it,” Sergeant Brush said as he pulled his chair up to the table. “Joining us, Franklin?” Sapper asked. The whitetail buck cocked an eyebrow at his boss. “I might sit through a game or two, Chief. It’s getting rather late for me.” Sapper nodded and tossed me a deck of cards. “You’re the guest of honor, Mister Buckhorn. Deal.” ***
The Baron sat out the first round. He poured a healthy measure of bourbon into his drink, and sipped at it judiciously. Eyeing me he asked, “Herr Buckhorn, you are not drinking tonight? You do not the julep make?” “Er, no, Baron,” I said. “One does not make the julep – the julep makes one.” “Hmm. Das ist sehr schade. More for us, then.” “Bunch o’ virtuous children we have here, Baron,” Marryin’ Sam said, taking the bottle and drinking from it before passing the bottle to Chief Sapper. “Mister Buckhorn and Mister DuCleds requested this venue,” Inspector Stagg said patiently, “for the reason there would not be any alcohol – “ The Baron’s ears perked up like a randy boxer’s as the rozzer spoke. “Excuse me,” he asked, “but are you not from New Haven? The accent, it is distinctive, ja?” Inspector Stagg’s ears went down a bit, but he nodded. “Did you perhaps serve in the Great War?” “I served in the New Haven Flying Corps, sir – “ He never managed another word, as the Baron pounced on him as only a wolf can, sweeping him up onto his feet and hugging him. “Wunderbar!” the Baron shouted. “It is wonderful to meet an old comrade from days of battle!” He raised a chuckle by kissing the astonished Stagg on both cheeks before letting him sit back down again. I saw Sergeant Brush slipping his blackjack back up his sleeve, like a conjuror forced to take back his favorite trick.  Unexpected War Buddies (Baron von Kojote embraces Inspector Stagg, & a relieved Sergeant Brush puts his blackjack away.) - Art by Seth C. Triggs http://www.bibp.com/ “Sounds like a story there,” Chief Sapper said. “Indeed so,” von Kojote said. “For several years my squadron fought the Neu Hafen Fliegerkorps, and they were esteemed by their adversaries as gentlemen of the first water!” Stagg, for some reason, started coughing. The Baron eyed him. “You think not, Herr Inspektor? Well, I shall tell you a story . . . “ “My unit was stationed in northern Belgium, during the Christmas of 1915. Intelligence from OHL told us that a fresh unit, from New Haven, was opposite us, and I went up one day to test their mettle. I was flying a Fokker E, a very swift and responsive mount, much like a certain young wolfess of my acquaintance from Weimar . . . ah, happy memories.” “I was flying a patrol when I spotted one of those French bombers, a Farman, escorted by three two-seat British fighters. I decided that it was unsporting of me to attack them from behind on Christmas. There is something better to attack from behind on the Christmas, nicht wahr? So! I followed them. The insignia on the British planes intrigued me, since they were not Royal Flying Corps. It was the three ring, like the Krupp logo.” ***
At this, the Inspector sighed and nodded. "Yes. Our roundel. Some called us the Three Ring Circus because of it.” ***
“Ach, so? Well, to my surprise, one of the fighters breaks away from the formation and headed north. I followed, because a single fighter was an easy target in those heady days. “I tried several times to line the plane up in my sights, but the plane jinked high, low and side to side with such skill I was never able to touch the triggers on my guns. A pity, as I was feeling rather . . . nervous by this time.” “Yeah,” Sergeant Brush interposed. “We’ve heard how yez get ‘nervous.’” “High praise, from a fox, sir,” the Baron said. “But I digress. As we flew north I saw a light on the ground, and the plane dove for a landing at a small farmhouse. I passed low over the plane as it landed and saw – ach, what I saw!” “These fliegers had found what was very possibly the only Bordel within ten miles of No Man’s Land!” “To say that I landed my plane with alacrity would be the understatement, gentlemen, and when I entered the house I espied my two fellow fliers. ‘Frohe Weihnachten!’ I say.” “The first flier, an officer, turns away from the young feline he was talking to and eyes me. ‘You seem to have misplaced your trousers, Fritz. Supplies running out?’” “Hah!” say I. “A German officer is always prepared, no matter the circumstances.” “‘Ah,’ the officer said. ‘There’s that canine sense for you.’” I remember my etiquette. “To whom do I have the honor of addressing?” “’Flight Lieutenant Gustavus Gustavus Mayhew, Beta Tau Epsilon, at your service, and my sergeant, Sergeant Hart.’ He look curiously at the man. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’” “‘Er, New Haven Flying Corps, sir, not Beta Tau Epsilon.’” “‘Hush, Sergeant. I have my priorities. And who might you be?’” he ask me. "Sir, you have the honor of addressing Heinrich Franz Konrad Lothar, Freiherr von Kojote. At your service." I would have clicked my heels, but my boots were already off. “So! All ready are we, then? Then let us dally with the ladies, und forget there is the War!" “‘That's a business-like proposition,’ Mayhew said. ‘Oi, mind that case over there, it has vital supplies. Namely, four bottles' worth.’” The fun always go better with the champagne. "'Urrah! Now, mon petites, voulez-vous coucher?" ***
Sergeant Brush took this moment to turn to his superior. “You knew this guy Mayhew, Sir?” Stagg nodded with a melancholy look on his face. “He crashed his plane in 1918 while trying to demonstrate that you could pull a SPAD out of a vertical dive and *not* rip the wings off.” He sipped his ice water. “Carry, on, Baron. You were saying?” ***
I note the melancholy upon the buck’s face. “Well, I am very sorry to hear of that. So many gallant furs lost their lives. But rest assured that our Christmas together was spent in high spirits.” “And lowered trousers?” Chief Sapper said, causing several of us to laugh. ***
“Hmm . . . H – no, S, T, A . . . Station . . . Station 3 to 7 . . . merchandise . . .“ And Inspector Stagg calls *this* homework. I have more fun doing crossword puzzles, although I can understand what he’s trying to do. I’m told I have a talent, but it needs to be refined. If only it weren’t so boring. Now that I’ve broken the cipher, I have to translate all the messages and figure out what to do with the information. Well, it gives me something to do. It’s a slow night. And sure enough, the phone starts ringing as soon as I think it. It’s enough to convince anyfur that the gods are listening. I picked up the pawset on the second ring. “Duty officer’s desk, Milikonu speaking.” I listened, then sat up and reached for a pencil and a sheet of paper. Maybe the night wasn’t going to be so slow after all. The harbormaster’s office is over on Eastern Island, and the guy on the line started telling me that there was a problem. A motor yacht, pretty big one, had apparently slipped its anchor and was drifting around loose. It hadn’t hit anything yet, but a couple of the big cruise ships had reported close calls. Which got to the point of the phone call. The usual harbor patrol was dealing with a light plane crash at the western end of Main Island, and the Naval Syndicate was being asked to pitch in. Now, I’m in the Syndicate, but I’m also Spontoonie born and bred. “We’ll send a boat out immediately,” I said. As soon as I hung up I turned to the senior petty officer on duty. “Dick, we have a little problem out in the harbor,” and I passed the notes over to him. Dick Marten’s a big weasel from way up north on the Rain Coast. He’s also been in the Navy for a lot longer than I have. He scanned the notes quickly and said, “We have a speedboat that can get out there fast. I’ll get a team together. You coming with us, sir?” I blushed; I couldn’t help it. Dick’s ten years older than me, most of that time in the RINS. I’ve been an ensign a grand total of five weeks. “Yes,” I replied. “Have the team draw weapons from the armory. Could be anything, so – “ He grinned and nodded. “Best to be ready for the worst. Good thinking, Ranua,” and he went to get things ready. ***
After one particularly hot number I had to stop. I was thirsty (all the booze, y’know) and my clarinet was starting to smoke. I accepted a tall cold fruit punch – Nootnops Blue with rum, I think - from one of the women at the bar (the one who wasn’t behind the bar with two of her compatriots. I didn’t know you could make a Beast with *Three* Backs) and I sat down next to the guest of honor. “Great party, Lisa,” Willow said. The doe’s head seemed to wobble on her neck and she obviously had trouble focusing. I was feeling pretty well lit myself, but something seemed odd. Willow’s accent seemed flatter. Eh. She was obviously feeling the effects of the booze. So was I. The lights from a cruise ship drifted past the window. You could even see a few concerned faces through the portholes. Hi, guys! ***
Inspector Stagg absented himself after a few more hours and several more games of poker than he had originally agreed to. While he didn’t clean us all out, he managed to end up with rather more spondoolicks in his pocket than he started with. “Cain’t stand a man who leaves a poker game afore I get a chance t’even things up,” Marryin’ Sam grumbled. The Baron was regaling us with another one of his stories, this time a wholly improbable one about him shooting up a French airfield near Amiens in 1918, then landing and seducing the equine squadron commander’s daughter. “So,” Chief Sapper said with a twinkle in his eye, “you might say that she offered her honor?” The Baron nodded gravely, but with the same twinkle. “And I honored her offer.” Marryin’ Sam piped up, “An’ so all night long – “ “I was honor and offer!” the three chorused, and broke down in fits of laughter. “Ach, it was an amazing feat,” the Baron said after he stopped laughing. “I had heard later that the girl was a scandal to her family – she would never look at another of her own species romantically ever again.” “Well, the War did a lot for interspecies relationships,” Les pointed out, which caused everyone to start laughing again. It was somewhere around two in the morning when I got up from the table. “Leaving, Reggie?” Les asked. I shook my head. “I’ll be back in a moment, Les.” I answered the necessary call, but took a wrong turn (which illustrated that I don’t need a snoutful of ardent spirits in order to get lost). I found myself at the end of the cellblock, looking in at the chubby feline Jack Morgan, sleeping peacefully in his cell. I was starting to tiptoe back when he suddenly roused. “Hello,” he said quietly. “Hallo.” “I couldn’t help overhearing – you’re getting married?” I conceded that such was the case. “Capital, sir, capital! I, myself, was married once – still am, I suppose.” I was a bit intrigued. “Did she pass away?” “Hmm? No, no, she’s not dead. She left me. The booze, you see.” I did see. I thanked him heartily for his advice, as he was starting to drift off to sleep again. I resolved that I would definitely remember what he said, as I made my way back to the party. next |