Wangchung, the chief port and capital of the quondam Chinese colony of Kuo Han, was a study in contrasts.  Part of it was kept meticulously clean, notably the bits around the government buildings.
        The other was part slum, part medieval city.
        The Ning-po tied up to the dock after paying the requisite amount of ‘squeeze’ to the harbor pilot, the harbormaster and the businessman’s protective association.  General Wong shook his head at the sums of money that were being demanded of him, but paid nevertheless.  It was essential that the ship get to its destination.  He himself was staying out of sight; Kuo Han’s government was sympathetic to the Kuomintang, but unwilling to cooperate with the Communists against Japan.
        “Ah, Wangchung!  An ancient and magical place!” Max exclaimed as he and Lefty descended the gangplank.  The short fox took a deep breath and almost started coughing.  “The air’s gotten a bit thicker since the last time I was here,” he said.
        “Yeah,” the feline said, sniffing.  “You could almost serve it up as sandwiches.”  The two waded through the usual bands of begging children and professional beggars as a working crew disembarked to offload the ship’s freight.
        The Sea Dog Bar was the largest sailor’s bar in the port district, a smoky hive of activity where drink, food and drugs mingled with gambling and deals struck with pimps over women.  It was one of Max’s favorite places when in the country, so after a bit of persuasion on his part he and Lefty went in.
        As time passed several of the other Rain Islanders, including Sam, came in looking for something to eat or drink.  A few concluded bargains with a pimp and availed themselves of his stock in trade.
        Sam eyed Max as the fox glanced at one of the prostitutes.  “Don’t even think about it,” she warned.
        “Who, me?” the vulpine said in a hurt tone.  “Why, my love, you know there’s only room in my heart for you.”
        “Uh-huh,” she grunted skeptically.  “Stealing song lyrics is pretty lame of you, lover boy.”
        Max shrugged.  “It was worth a try.”
        She kicked him.
        “Hmm, General Quarters, Sam,” Lefty said suddenly.  The others followed his gaze.
        A group of ten furs had come in, all dressed identically in dark blue sailor’s jumpers with white trim and odd flat caps.  They made a beeline for the bar, loudly demanding beer in British accents.
        “Limeys,” Max grumbled in disgust.
        “Max,” Sam warned.  “If you get arrested I’m not going to bail you out.”
        “Yes you will.  You love me and you know it,” the Catalina fox declared.  He raised his voice as the group of British sailors walked by.  “I say, what ship are you lot posted to?”
        One stopped as the others paused on their way to a table.  “HMS Tyne.  And you?”
        Max sat back and made a show of buffing his claws on his shirt.  “I last served aboard RINSS Haywood.”
        “Ah.  Rain Coast, are you?” the sailor, a canine, winked at his compatriots as he asked the question.
        “Rain Island,” Max corrected in a placid tone.  “We’re no longer part of your so-called Empire.”
        “And we were happy to see the back of you lot,” a feline chimed in, to the general approval of his fellows.  “Good riddance to bad rubbish, is what I says.”
        “Buncha heathen socialists,” another opined.
        “Well, we might not have any inbred half-German morons running things, but we manage well without parasites like royalty or bishops.  How’s that been working out for you, by the way?”
        An angry mutter stirred through the group of British sailors.  “At least we don’t call ourselves a Syndicate, like a bunch of Chicago gangsters,” one said.
        “We have the best Navy in the world, little fox,” another warned, “so watch it or one day we’ll be sitting off Seathl, blasting you bunch of heathens and your teapot Navy out of existence.”
        “As if we’d let you get that close,” Lefty said.  As the others turned to him he said, “Y’know, Max, what convinced me Britain was crazy was that ten years ago they finally stopped posting troops to watch for Napoleon.”
        “Really?  A glance at the obit pages might’ve told them earlier that he’d be late for tea.”
        The canine snarled, “Our Navy doesn’t have women in it.  Nothing like a femme to gum up the works.”
        Sam picked up her bottle of beer, drank the last of it, and dangled it by the neck from her fingers.  Things were starting to get a bit personal.
        “Better to have a woman running a ship than some posh nancy who dresses in petticoats for the cabin boy,” Max said, and the volume of angry muttering rose.  “Besides, if you don’t like women, what are you doing here?  The male brothel’s down the street.”
        Sam rolled her eyes.
        Leave it to Max.
        “So what ship does your mother run, then?” one Brit asked, and the others chuckled.
        Max slowly stood up.  “At least my mother can,” he said evenly.  “Which reminds me – how much did your mother charge your father for having you?”
        He ducked the first punch the canine threw at him and the British sailor went down howling, grabbing his crotch in pain. 
        “Come on, girls!” the fox taunted the others.  “Who’s next?”
        Sam tightened her grip on the beer bottle and swung it in a short arc against a table leg.  The bottle shattered neatly and she stood up just as a burly weasel confronted her.
        Luckily for him she wasn’t interested in slicing up the mustelid’s good looks; she settled for punching him left-pawed straight in the muzzle.  Blood spurted and the sailor went down as if poleaxed.
        The other Rain Islanders had leaped into the fray, one of them wearing only his boxer shorts after having been told of the fight while engaged in other business.  One of the bartenders darted from the establishment, frantically blowing a police whistle.
        Sam aimed an expert kick at one fur’s knee, followed by an elbow to his face; raising her voice she shouted, “Rain Island!  We’re leaving!”  Furs started to head for the exit and she walked over to a shattered table where three British furs were struggling with Max.  “Max?  You coming?”
        “No, but my eyes are glazing over,” the vulpine said as he kneed one sailor in the crotch.  “Give me a paw here, Sammy.”
        Sam raised an eyebrow. 
        She hated being called that.
        The badger stepped back and slowly, gravely, started to applaud.
        “Oh ha ha, very funny,” Max said as he managed to fight himself clear of the other two sailors.  “Let’s go,” and he seized her by the paw.
        The sounds of sirens were getting closer.  “Yes, let’s,” his wife agreed, and she slung him over one shoulder like a sack of meal.  She waved the broken bottle at the two sailors warningly before walking out.
        “That was fun!” Max said as they lost themselves in the crowd.  Behind them, a police paddy wagon pulled to a stop and a dozen officers piled out, swinging batons.  “Let’s go to another bar, honeyfur, please?”
        “I swear, you’re insane,” Sam growled.  “I married a lunatic.”
        “Guilty on all counts,” her husband said cheerfully, and he yipped as her paw came down hard on his rear.


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