Spontoon Island
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26 August 2007
| "Valentines Dazed"
by E.O. Costello, M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer All characters © their respective creators "...Okay, Cedric, they're regulated properly," I said to the otter in the co-pilot's chair as I removed the cotton batting from my ears and killed the Birchcraft's engines inside the Superior hangar. "I think I'm going to stick with cloth belts; these new metal links that R&D has come up with aren't debugged yet." Cedric McCradden nodded. "Looks like the enclosures are okay. You'll have to empty the bays after each use, but..." "But this isn't a fighter craft, yes," I replied with a small smile. "Just insurance for a vicious world..." "Yes, but don't you have a policy with Mutual of Ocelot...?" The boy can be so literal. I waved him off gently, and settled back, the master of my domain. The nostrils flared as I took stock of the aromas wafting in through the castle (all right, Birchcraft) windows. Hot engine oil. Ahhh! Cordite, in quantities to stir the duCleds blood. Double Ahhhhh! Buckscent. Ahhh, cr- I glanced out the window to see Don Carlos de Ciervos and Heinrich von Kojote. Lovely. Sighing, I rose and walked back down the fuselage, opening the door and unshipping the folding steps. I did have some hot oil handy, but I decided there was a limit to the medieval analogies I had in mind. The Baron wasn't making much of an effort to hide his feelings. The fiercely wagging tail and glazed look of lust in his eyes, upon spotting the Bruinings, were the dead giveaway that he viewed the Birchcraft as a wonderful, marvelous, shiny toy, and he wanted to play with it, *right now*. He put his nose near the machine guns, and inhaled. More tail wagging. Memo to self: do not invite Baron Heinrich von Kojote to our main gunpowder plant. We can't be held responsible for the consequences. Inocenta's father was in a much darker mood. He glowered at his hooves. He glowered at the Birchcraft's wheels. He glowered at the hangar walls. He was studiously avoiding glowering at me. He chose, instead, to glower at the machine guns, at a point where I seriously thought the Baron was going to start licking one. "HOUMPH!" This startled the Baron out of his daydream. "Hmmm, Carlos?" "You hear me just fine, Heinrich." "I beg you to excuse me, Carlos. I was being otherwise occupied. What was it that you were directing at me in your saying?" "I say to you, 'HOUMPH,' and to that, I add the 'POUF!' and 'BAH!'" "Why you say to me these HOUMPHs, POUFs and BAHs, Carlos?" "Are you disputing the ability of myself to be stating for the world in general my condition as to believing that HOUMPH, POUF and BAH are being the appropriate expositions of the mindset of Carlos de Ciervos?" "Please, friend of old, you may be resting assured that I am in no way contravening your condition as you have set forth. I am, instead, humbly expressing confusion in the precincts of my mind as to why you are directing those expositions at myself, at this point in time." "Ah! Would you like for me to have the elucidation, then?" "Please do." "I shall. The statements that I, Carlos de Ciervos, make, being the aforementioning HOUMPH, POUF and BAH, are directed at these ... these ... *implements*." At this point, Carlos de Ciervos waggled the fingers of one paw toward the machine guns, as if he were pointing out a particularly smelly pile of road apples to be removed by the groundskeeper. "Ach! Are they not wunderbar, these little beauties?" Daddy Deerest gave a moustache-rattling snort. "I am adding to the previous list of comments the comment PFUI. It is escaping me why you, Heinrich von Kojote, would be expressing the undignified expression regarding these...pfui!" "But Carlos, mein leiber herr, these are the wonders of technology! They shoot the bullets upon the dozens every second!" "In that, comrade of my youth, you place the finger of your paw on the issue. Devil take your dozens of bullets in the second! It is not gentlefurly." von Kojote looked genuinely shocked. "Whaaaaat?" Carlos waggled a finger back and forth, like an angry railroad crossing sign. "No-no-no-no-no. It is only in the firing of the single shot, the single bullet, that one can express the true gentlefur in the combat. This...this...bracka-brack-boum-boum-boum, it is not sporting." "But Carlos, you must admit, it is FUN to fire the machine gun!" This said with bared white teeth showing maniacal glee. I took one step back. "HOUMPH! There are many thing of the manner of the gentlefur that never change." At this point, he chose to recognize my presence with a glare that would have iced the wings. "Indeed. MANY thing. Many values of the being of the true gentlefur." It was at this point that I decided a quick change in conversational tack was in order. "Well, Baron, it IS a dangerous world out there, and a fur in my position needs to be able to protect himself. Not to mention his loved ones..." I gave a sidelong glance at Sr. de Ciervos, who seethed behind his moustache. "Look, I'll tell you what, Baron." I hopped down nimbly and moved to the nose, where a Superior mechanic was opening hatches and removing fired brass. "Two fresh belts, please," I requested politely. "The new loading that DuCleds HQ sent." I turned a friendly gaze towards the Baron. "New setup for the Bruinings," I explained. "Alternating ball, armor-piercing and tracer rounds. Expensive as hell, but since this thing doesn't have sights to speak of, I need to aim using the tracers. Besides," I shrugged, "my uncle owns the company..." Instant ear perk from the doggie. "You are having the virtual unlimited supply of the bullets?" "Yes." "And the gunpowder?!" "Yes." "And the dynamites?!?" This line of questioning was causing me a little concern. I realized at this point that I had never enquired as to whether the Baron and his wife had an eligible daughter. I've heard of shotgun weddings, but never nitro weddings. Clearly, I needed to distract the Baron. "I'm...about to do a live fire exercise. There's a target set up a couple of miles out at sea. Care to join me?" A thumping tail and twitching pair of ears was the only answer I got, before a grey streak whizzed past me and vanished into the plane. I turned to Sr. de Ciervos, who had his arms folded across his chest, and was glaring at me. Good thing his eyes weren't loaded with alternating ball, armor-piercing and tracer rounds. "Errr...sir? Would you like to join the Baron and myself...?" "For what, the more of the boum-boum-caracka-racka-racka? You maybe find the pineapple brandy bargie, si? You make with the crepe flambé?" Ouch. He's a bit smarter than he looks. "But Sr. de Ciervos, it's just a short plane ride." "Pouf. I go. But I NO enjoy myself!" And with that, he clumped into the plane, strapped himself into one of the passenger seats, and sulked. The Baron, for his part, was ooohing and aaaahing at all of the panel instruments, which no doubt were more sophisticated than the ones he had been used to on the Western Front. He took part in the pre-flight checklist with glee, squirming in his seat in anticipation. I was wondering what the long, drawn-out growling was during takeoff. It turned out it was the Baron, who was feeling the power of the engines through his control yoke. The target was set up well off-shore, far out of any traffic lanes, which allowed for practice with control. I was a little hesitant to give the Baron the controls. I had a vision of the Birchcraft being put in a barrel roll just for the sheer joy of it. Fortunately, the Baron confined himself to some gentle banking turns, which induced some happy whimpers. "Errrr...having a good time, Baron?" "Ja-ja-ja-ja-ja-ja! The Baronin, she never let me make the pilot anymore..." A loud "POUF!" from the passenger cabin greeted this comment. I couldn't add anything, so it was time for the live fire test. I raked the target on the first pass; the tracer rounds helped keep me on target, and you could see the effect of the mixed types of ammunition. I turned to offer Heinrich a go at the target for himself, and was met with a wild-eyed gleam of anticipation, with lolling tongue. "Errrr. Yeah. Um. Flip open the cap of the right grip on your control yoke, that's where the trigger is. I'll give you control of th-" The next four minutes were filled with a wild farrago of turns, banks, dives and a loud chorus of what Sr. de Ciervos had referred to earlier, and accurately, as 'boum-boum-caraka-raka-raka.' There was soon nothing left of the target but a few splinters floating in the water. The Baron himself had his thumb on the trigger, and was listening to the click-click-click of the empty MGs with half-closed eyes. He was breathing very heavily, and squirming in his seat. "Baron? Baron? Um, Baron?" I took control of the plane back, not that he noticed, and guided the plane back to the airstrip. The Baron's eyes were glazed over, and his tongue was lolling even further. Sr. de Ciervos was glowering in his seat, staring at the ceiling accusingly. Back in the hangar, the engines had not been shut off more than a second when I heard a blood-curdling howl from the seat next to me, followed by a gale-force wind as something rushed past me. I peered out of the window, to see off in the distance a rapidly vanishing and wagging canine tail. A grumbled voice erupted from behind me with the grace of a well-mannered and dignified upper-class volcano. "The Baronin, she will be making the upset at you for letting Heinrich make the boum-boum-caraka-raka-raka. It is to be feared that there will be the breaking of the furniture and the tearing of the clothes. No-no-no, the hotel manager, he too will be making the upset at you. They are not liking that kind of noise, yes?" Sr. de Ciervos sighed, and unbuckled his seat belt. "I go and make the call of the telephone to the hotel. I maybe give the Baronin perhaps the minute warning, so that she no catch by the surprise, maybe pull the curtains close before the Baron homecoming make." And with one, final "POUF!" he shuffled off to the telephone box. Well, some parts of the test flight worked out. next |