May 8, 1938
Macao:

        The small junk was cramped and smelly, its holds filled with fish because of the need to masquerade as something innocuous as it made its way south past Formosa, and by the eighth day the crew was smelling quite a bit like the cargo.
        A charcoal-furred feline and a diminutive fox were standing near the junk’s mainmast when the wind shifted.  “Phew!  Lefty, you stink – I mean, worse than usual today,” Max said, holding his nose.
        “Shut up, Max,” the feline offered.  “We all stink.  When we get to Macao I’m burning my clothes and taking a bath for a week.”
        A sudden outcry from a deckpaw ended the argument and the fox and the cat grinned at the sight of the Alto Coloane, the highest point in the three-island colony.  Beyond it the mainland of China stretched away.
        Disembarking without gathering the notice of Customs was simple, since money can strike some furs quite blind as to certain activities taking place under their noses. 
        Two days later, the whole crew was aboard a Rain Island-registered freighter, bound for Spontoon.


At sea
May 12:

        Max broke the surface, spitting and coughing up seawater.  He wiped the irritating salt from his eyes before glaring up at the freighter’s fantail.  “That . . . wasn’t funny, Sam!”
        His wife and the rest of the Rain Islanders laughed as they looked down at him.  To the surprise of many aboard the freighter that morning the Vreeland’s cabin door had burst open moments earlier.  Samantha, without a stitch on, stamped out of the cabin gripping her similarly-attired vulpine husband by his brush and the scruff of his neck, and unceremoniously pitched him overboard.
        Even now she was ignoring the fact she was standing there on the fantail naked, and several furs judged that she was truly angry at her husband this time.
        He started swimming as the ship began to draw away and Sam said loudly, “I thought it was about as funny as what you said in our cabin earlier, Max.  You going to take it back?”
        “No!  Your mother does have a – “
        “Shut up!  You take back what you said about my mother, or you swim all the way to Spontoon!”
        “I’ll swim to Krupmark first!”
        “As if they’d have you!”  The badger turned to Lefty.  “What do you think?  Lay down some chum lines while he’s out there?”  She asked the question loudly enough for Max to hear, and smothered a smile at his surprised yip.
        The one-pawed feline nodded judiciously.  “Chum lines, live bait! – “  he shouted this at Max  “ – you should be able to catch a couple good-sized sharks, I think.”
        “Eh, I dunno,” Bob remarked.  “I mean, what shark in their right mind’d waste their teeth on him?  Even predators have standards.”
        “Aw, c’mon honeyfur,” the Catalina fox’s voice carried over the water.  He was falling further and further behind.  “I’m sorry.”
        “What?”
        “I’m sorry, okay?  Your mother doesn’t have a huge arse!  In fact, it’s smaller than yours!”
        The badger planted her paws on her hips.  “Oh, so it’s my arse that’s big now?  You want to try swimming all the way to Rain Island?”  The others laughed.
        “Aw, dammit . . . c’mon, Sam . . . “
        She turned away from the rail.  “Lefty, could you throw him a line, please?  Make sure you aim at his head when you heave it, though – that way you make sure you don’t hit anything vital.”
        “Sure, Sam.”
        “Oh, and take your time reeling him back in.”  She hummed a jazz tune as she walked back to her cabin.
   

Casino Island, Spontoon Independencies
June 9, 1938:

        Monique was getting used to Spontoon, particularly with her new employer’s generous ways and the respectable way he treated her.
        A far cry from her employment before they’d met and the pirates attacked.
        She was now taking courses in stenography and typing from a tutor on Casino Island, and the elderly wallaby had grudgingly praised her for being a fast learner.
        The Vietnamese feline smiled to herself.  She hoped to learn a great deal, and put it all to good use.
        She and Jean-Francois were staying at Shepherd’s Hotel and she was headed back when a brief wisp of scent caught her nose.
        Fox, a very specific fox.
        The feline girl paused.
        That fox . . . what the hell was he doing here?
        She retraced her steps.
        It was him, so she maneuvered to stay upwind of him until she could find out what he was up to.  As they walked along the roads of Casino Island she started thinking of a suitable revenge.
        When she saw him walking into Shepherd’s she grinned.  Acting demure and being respectful had allowed her to make excellent contacts with the hotel staff, particularly some people who might assist her.
        Like one of the maids, and her husband who worked as the hotel’s barber.

        Max breezed on into the hotel whistling Our Land and walked up to the front desk. 
        Unknown to him, the young Eurasian woman who’d been following him ducked around a corner. 
        “Phone please,” he said to the desk clerk, and swiftly dialed the kitchen.  “Hello, Kitchen?  Hi, this is Max Vreeland, and I want to complain about the flophouse cook who masquerades as the head chef here.  Yeah, you heard me right . . . yes, that’s him, Chef Joseph . . . no, I’m not suicidal . . . look, you find that booze-soaked excuse for a poodle and you tell him for me – “

        PANNGGG!
        “OWW!”  Max fell unconscious to the floor with Monique standing behind him, holding a cast-iron frying pan in a two-pawed grip.
        The desk clerk observed all of this with the impenetrable sang-froid common to all good hotel clerks.  He gently replaced the phone’s pawset in its cradle before reaching under the counter and proffering a thin cylindrical object to Monique.  “You rang the bell, and the little lady wins a cigar.”
        “Merci,” the girl said, and dragged the fox off around the corner.
        Everything was arranged.


        “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Sam said, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she walked to the door.  She jerked it open and said, “Okay, you gotta have a good reason . . . “  Her voice trailed off.
        Standing in front of her was an ursine in Spontoon Constabulary uniform with a rank of sergeant.  He was quite a large and very robust specimen of his species, too.  Draped over his shoulder in the best costermonger fashion was what looked strangely enough like two oddly pink melons separated by a strip of reddish fur. 
        “You Samantha Vreeland?”
        “Er, yes.”
        “I’m Sergeant Malu, Constabulary, Ma’am.  We found this guy wandering around dazed in a back alley.  He said he’s your husband – “ the bear chuckled at the badger femme’s raised eyebrow and curt nod “ - while we were at the hospital patching up the dent in his head.”  He half-turned, and Sam recognized him.
        It was Max, all right.
        Bandaged head and all.
        “Yes, that’s him – as far as I can tell, that is.”  Apart from his tail and the associated area in the front, Max was naked.
        Literally.
        Someone had shaved him clean, and the number of scabs covering his unnaturally rubbery-looking skin (all furs looked quite odd with their pelts missing) indicated that whoever did it had either been in a hurry or had decided not to be too gentle about it.
        “Where did you find him?  He didn’t try to sneak into the Double Lotus again, did he?”
        The sergeant smiled.  “Don’t know, Ma’am, but he wasn’t found near the Lotus.”
        Sam lifted her husband’s muzzle and noticed that he was starting to stir.  She also noted something else and lifted him a bit higher.
        There were a series of letters written his chest in what looked like heavy black grease pencil, along with the name ‘Max.’
        So that was how they managed to identify him.
        “Any ideas about this?” she asked.  The letters spelled out the phrase ‘Dum mare may.’
        “Well, we had to wake up Mr. Nerzmann and get into his book shop,” the sergeant said, “but he spotted what language it was right off.  Vietnamese, so he got us a dictionary.  Unfortunately, it was a French dictionary, so we had to get another . . .
        “I get the picture.  What does it mean?”
        Sergeant Malu looked a bit uncomfortable as he said, “’Yiff your mother.’”
        She started laughing, and the sound roused her husband.  “Hrrnnh . . . huh?  Wha?  Sam?  Wha hoppen?  What the – who the yiff did this to me?” he shouted as he noted his furless state.  “Aw, God in Heaven, not again . . . “
        “Hold still, you, and stop whining.  We’re trying to figure this out.  Here, Sergeant, I’ll take him off your paws,” and she helped the constable transfer his burden from his shoulder to hers.  “Pfui!” she said as Max’s tail batted her across the nose.  “You watch out there, or I’ll throw you out the window.  Now, I know it’s hard for you, Max dear, but try to think – what happened?”
        “What happened?  I was at Shepherd’s, sending a message to that hash-slinger . . . “
        “Not that again.”
        “He started it by overcooking my veal.”
        “That was 1935, Max.”
        “It’s the principle of the thing, Sam.  After that, everything went black, and I woke up just now.”  He squirmed. 
        “I see.  Sergeant, is that all?”
        “Remember to keep his clothes on him, Ma’am, that’s all we ask,” and Malu winked.  “Just the bare necessities, you know.  Little britches.”  He left, humming a jaunty tune to himself as Sam closed the door.
        “Honeyfur?”
        “Yes, Max?”
        “Do you have any lanolin, bear grease, lard or motor oil?  I’m already starting to itch.”
        “I’ll see what we have, on one condition.”
        “What?”
        “Just where do you keep your gun, Max?”
        “That’s none of your damned business, Sam, but one day I’ll have you sit down and I’ll draw you a diagram.”
        Sam laughed and ran her paw over her husband’s furless rear before smacking it.  As he yelped she growled, “Who loves ya, baby?” and she carried him into the bedroom.
        “You know,” she remarked, “you really have to stop losing your fur.  Other wives will start thinking I’m not taking proper care of you, but c’est la vie.”
        “Sam!” Max said in a suddenly enthusiastic tone.  “You spoke French!”
        She gasped, then started spanking him harder as he lifted the tail of her robe and started kissing the first object that came to paw.


July 30, 1938
RINSB Port de Fuca:

        “Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen.  Just a few remarks before our lecturers take the stage.
        “You and the other officers in the Naval Syndicate submarine force have been educated on the best theories and training scenarios that we can create.  However, although you are trained well, there is nothing like practical experience.
        “We have lately received two officers who have served in a mercenary capacity over in China, learning practical methods of submarine combat.  Their insights as to tactics and procedures may prove invaluable to you in the event Rain Island has to go to war.  I ask you to take notes and give them your undivided attention.
        “I present Captain Samantha Vreeland and Commander Max Vreeland.”  The Vice-Commodore stepped back as the badger femme and her vulpine husband, uniformed in standard dark blue jumpsuits, stepped out onto the stage.  Max looked the more military of the two, with his fur trimmed severely.
        A chuckle made its way through the audience as a small shoving match ensued for possession of the lectern, and after Sam won she nodded to the Vice-Commodore.  “Thank you, Sir.  Max?”  At her nod, the fox pulled aside a curtain to reveal a large chalkboard displaying diagrams.
        “Good morning, everyone,” Sam said.  “During our time in Chinese waters, my husband and I led our crew in two primary missions, sinking enemy shipping and seizing prizes for resale.  Today’s lecture will cover the tactics used, and maybe our experiences will give you some insights in commanding your own boats in combat . . . “



end