January 31:

        Sledgehammer Phil’s was a bar located just outside the main Naval Syndicate base to the east of the capital, separated from the rest of the city by a ridge of low hills.  The bar was fairly neat, as sailor’s bars go, and the boar who ran the place kept order with a heavy paw.
        He only rarely had to use the thirty-pound hammer hanging over the bar.
        Just the threat was usually enough.
        A bottle flew through the air and smashed against one of the wooden posts holding up the second floor of the place as the second brawl in a week got into full swing.  Two groups of furs were fighting; one composed of sailors, the other composed of soldiers.  A choice insult about one soldier’s mother ‘swimming toward troopships’ had started it, and in the interest of true military solidarity the others had joined in.  Several veterans had also joined in on either side.
        The few remaining furs had adopted a policy of armed neutrality and were placing bets.
        “Break it up, ya bums!” Phil roared.  The boar stood easily six feet and weighed close to three hundred pounds, his girth barely restrained by his stained t-shirt and soiled butcher’s apron.  His tusks were stained with tobacco juice, and one was missing about two inches of its length, the result of a bar fight in Yokohama fifteen years earlier. 
        He slammed a fist into one soldier’s muzzle, then turned and brought a heavy bung-starter down on a sailor’s head.  “I said, break it up!” he repeated as the two furs slumped unconscious to the floor.  After a few more seconds of fighting the brawl stopped, one or two furs checking for loose teeth.
        “Now, ya got about two seconds ‘fore I call the police on ya.  So git!” and he aimed a kick at one sailor, who yelped and ran.  The others took the hint and evacuated the bar as quickly as they could, two supporting their fallen comrades.
        “You’re gettin’ soft, Phil,” one feline said, his teeth gleaming whitely against his charcoal-gray fur.  “Time was you’d kill with a hit like that.”
        The boar laughed and tossed the bung-starter on the bar.  “I was just goin’ easy on ‘em,” he said.  “Want another beer, Lefty?”
        Manuel Felix Garcia (Lefty to his friends) nodded, and Phil put a bottle on the bar.  The feline picked it up with his right paw, and opened it against a small flange of metal that formed part of the plate that covered the stump of his left wrist.
        As he took a drink from the bottle he turned and his ears stood up as he heard a familiar voice shout, “Hey, Phil!  Got anything to drink here apart from that piss you brew out back?”
        Max had walked in and leaped up on the bar, taking a seat amidst the puddles of spilled alcohol.  “C’mon, barkeep,” he said in an exaggeratedly deep voice, “get with the drinks, or I’ll – “
        “You’ll get off my bar, ya little troublemaker,” and Phil swept the diminutive fox off the bar with one lazy motion of his arm.  “Here,” and he gave Max a bottle of Naval Issue ale before looking up at the tall badger femme.  “You still his keeper, Sam?  Or are ya his parole officer now?”
        “Keeper.  We got married, so I suppose I am.”
        “Married!”  Phil started laughing, and kept laughing as he gave her an opened bottle of lager.  “This round’s on me, then – but you pay for the next one,” he added with a withering glance at Max, who casually gave the boar an obscene gesture.
        “Hiya, Lefty, how’s tricks?” the Catalina fox asked the feline as he sat down.
        “Not bad, Max,” Lefty said, tipping his bottle back and drinking deeply.  He reached into the small rucksack beside him, pulled out a metal armature that resembled a three-fingered paw and socketed it into the plate on his stump.  He flexed his arm muscles and the mechanical paw opened and closed a few times.  “I finally got the hang of this thing.”
        “Looks pretty good.  Make it yourself?”
        “Yup.”  He gingerly, then more firmly, grasped his beer bottle with the claw and lifted it to his lips and drank.  Replacing the bottle on the table, he smiled triumphantly.  “Now, what brings you here?”
        “You, Manuel,” Sam said as she sat down, and the feline’s ears perked up. 
        His ears went flat as she outlined her proposal.
        When she was finished he sat staring at his nearly-empty bottle.  After a few moments he looked up.  “It’s been a while since I’ve served aboard a ship, Sam, ever since – “  He hefted his stump meaningfully.  “But three years’ve been long enough.  The offer’s good?  Okay.  I’ll need to tell the Syndic I won’t be starting the new term, but I’m with you.”
        Max said, “I figured you’d be getting tired of teaching little wet-behind-the-ears pups and kittens how to rebuild diesels from scratch.”
        Lefty matched his grin.  “Max, I want you to do something for me.”
        “Oh?”
        “Yeah.  I want you to watch carefully.”  He reached out with his prosthetic claw, grasped the beer bottle, and with only slight pressure shattered it.  “Now, I want you to visualize your balls like that.”
        The short fox winced in sympathy.  “Okay, okay,” he muttered.  “Truce?”
        “Hmm.  Yeah.”


        It was an old story that most of the furs in the Naval Syndicate’s submarine fleet were just one short step away from pirates.  The story was normally used to start fights with submariners on leave.  In truth, however, some crews would take on occasional moonlighting work, so raising a crew for the submarine posed very little problem.
        Especially with a promise of higher pay than the Syndicate was offering, as well as prize money.
        Sam and her husband were closing up the small office they had leased in Seathl when two wolves walked in.  Both were dressed in denim trousers, heavy naval-type coats and flannel shirts.
        Obviously neither was very used to the damp, chill winters in this part of the world.
        “Okay, who are you two, and why?” Max asked.
        “Ich bin – ahum.  I am Fritz Haber, and this is my friend Hans Bosch,” one wolf said.  Haber’s fur was several light shades of gray and he was missing the tip of his left ear, while the other (whose fur was a darker shade, with brown streaks) just looked as if he was hung over.  “You will have to forgive Hans.  He has the katzenjammers today. We hear that you are hiring a crew.”
        “That so?  Who told you?” Sam asked.
        “Lefty,” the one identified as ‘Hans’ replied laconically.
        “And what’d he say?”
        “You’re crewing a Type VII for combat.”  Hans allowed himself a smile at this.
        Max folded his arms over his chest and glared up at the two lupines.  “What can you do, besides look cold and hungry?”
        Both wolves bristled.  Fritz answered, “I was chief engineer on boats in the War.  Hans served as Tauchenoffizier – diving officer.”  He shrugged.  “After the War, of course, we have had to find other employment where we could, yes?”
        “Is that enough for you to know, little cub?” Hans asked Max, his form towering over the vulpine.
        “Just one thing more,” Max said nonchalantly, “do you have any kids?”
        “Ja, I do – Aaaagh!” and the wolf doubled over, gasping and coughing from the punch to his crotch.  While his friend recovered, Fritz started to growl.
        “Enough,” Sam said.  “You two are hired.  Be here in a week, all affairs in order.  Understood?”
        “Ja, Vielen Dank,” and Fritz helped his comrade from the office.
        “Max, was that really necessary?”
        “Sure.  Had to see if he could take a punch.”
        “Most furs aim for the jaw or stomach.”
        “Is it my fault I’m short?”
        “We’ll discuss that later, little buddy.” 


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