Spontoon Island
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1 October 2007
| "Valentines Dazed"
by E.O. Costello, M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer All characters © their respective creators "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana." So says the philosopher. I forget which one. I had lately noticed (to my distress) that a sudden change had come over my inamorata, the divine La Fawnsworthy. Willow was starting to act as if she was ready to chuck a fit a la her problem in November. She was distracted and moody, and her eyes would tear up for no discernible reason. When I tried to cheer her up over breakfast, she actually snapped at me. So there I was, busily perfecting the old pitch-and-catch with the salted acorns in the bar at Shepherd's while mulling over this latest series of developments. Ever since I switched to orange juice, I've found that my reflexes are getting a little better. Earlier in the day, I had given a sound 6-0, 6-0, 6-0 thrashing to Toby Trotter, who, it must be admitted, was suffering from the after-effects of a particularly vigorous party the night before. He had gotten engaged to some svelte young filly, and he was walking on clouds. Which was a good thing, as clouds make far less noise than the ground when you have a morning head. I speak from long experience. Mark you, I was wondering if the curate behind the bar (in a fit of vengeance over my less remunerative switch to orange juice from Delhi Gin-and-tonics) had slipped something into my glass of liquid sunshine, as before my incredulous eyes hove a chap... Hmm. Better start a new paragraph for *this* one, Reginald. Stop me if you've heard this before, but have you ever seen a large stork, with odd, bulging eyes, a very prominent Adam's apple, long, gangly legs, sporting a fake beak and a beard, and a stove-pipe hat? Hmm. Didn't think so. This was a new one, even on me. And mark you, I'm a buck that saw Artie (Tons of Fun) Wisent dress up as Mary Peckford for the Penn-Collegiate football game in '28. Even seeing a gigantic bison in drag (complete with blonde wig) couldn't compete with the vision I saw now. Artie could have recognized the brilliant simplicity of the outfit. I watched the fellow carefully. He was looking around slyly at first, and then he went over on tip-toe, and peeked behind a few of the pictures. He took some notes on the Q.T., or, rather, a small pad. I was intrigued, and I beckoned to him. He stepped over, cautiously, and gave me the once-over. "I say, how long have you worked for Minkerton's?" The stork gave a good impression of a gaffed fish, as he stared, goggle-eyed at me. Eventually, he lowered his voice and whispered at me. "Are you Agent Fawnsworthy?" I blinked at this one, and did a gaffed fish look back at the bird (who did a gaffed fish look back at me. Two minds with but a single thought). "You have to be Agent Fawnsworthy," the apparition piped in a high, raspy, nasal voice. "You know too much." Somewhere on this mortal coil, there is a Latin master who, had he only known of that utterance, would have dropped dead on the spot from apoplexy. I gave him an incredulous look. "Well, dash it, there's a first time for everything. Anyway, I knew you were from Minkerton's, because you dropped this." I held up a small leather gizmo, which contained a Minkerton's badge and an I.D. card indicating the bearer of same bore the handle of Bernard K. Phlute. The stork quickly snatched his property back, and motioned me over to a back table. "Listen, chum, don't blow my cover. I'm in disguise, you see." "You are?" "Of course I am. Why, is there something wrong with it?" I gently pointed out to him that in general, storks don't look like the chaps on the cough drop boxes. The stork frowned. "Well, goshdarnit, they oughta put more detail in the Detective's Handbook. Oh, well, live and learn." "I say, would I be nosy in asking what you're doing lurking about here?" "Wellllllllll..." The stork looked around, which caused his fake beak to shift about 90 degrees. "Seeing as you've penetrated my disguise, I might as well tell you. Minkerton's has sent a trusty operative...that's *me!*...to investigate a REAL SHADY character." "Which one?" I mean, you seemingly can't bung a half-brick in the Spontoons without running the risk of putting a dent in some criminal skull. If the criminals on Spontoon ever unionize, Heaven help us. The stork looked around again, which shifted his fake beak back into place. He reached into his overcoat, and pulled out a small photograph. "I'm investigating this guy, a real crafty canine." I pointed out that the figure in the photograph was (a) unclothed, (b) feline, and (c) decidedly feminine. She had a balcony you could do Shakespeare from. I further pointed out that unless the target was a master of disguise -- and he'd have to be, with that figure, which left little to the imagination -- he had the wrong photo. A hurried substitution was made, and I found myself looking into my brother Quaker, Leslie duCleds, Esq. I seriously debated whether now was the best time to have the one cocktail of the day which I was allowed. next |