Open Zann's Alley/Backyard And The Cackle Shack, "Too"

[Kyena]

Kyena drowsily poked her head out of the crate, wood shavings sticking to fur and whiskers. She gave a yawn and licked her chops, rotating around blearily until the vague, hulking orange shape of her business partner showed up. Kynxe was still sleeping in his hammock, and there would be no waking him, not this early. But now she was oriented with the room, she climbed out of her crate, dusted the shavings off and scooped them back in, and dressed herself for the day ahead.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, she puttered around making sure everything was just so. The back room was, for the first time, nearly empty of stock. What little remained she pulled out to the main floor of the shop.

The space was small, but she'd made sure it was filled efficiently. Four large, double-sided and ceiling-high shelves were placed, two on each side of the room, with a path between them leading up to an upper deck of sorts. At some point in the past, there had been some disaster or other, and rather than destroy the building and start from scratch, they'd simply repaired over it. Beneath the deck, more shelves had been placed, while on top, several armoires and cabinets lined the walls, with a rickety clothes rack set between. A curtain was drawn between the left side of the deck and one of the shelves, with a sign declaring "Not For Kits"; things too dangerous or lewd to be on display were stuffed floor to ceiling in that part of the shack. Not that it had ever stopped kits. They were drawn to the curtain more than the toys.

A helpful map she had drawn was posted by the front counter:

​

The floor's precarious passageways were lined with pyramids of goods, jars of preserves, empty ale mugs, piles of folded clothing, anything that didn't fit on a shelf. Cloaks, capes, scarves, and hats hung from hooks on the sides of the shelves; a few chairs were stacked in the corner by the back room, and three different ladders were laid up against walls and shelves. If she had tried to document every variety of object in the shop, the map would have been better off as a rug, and it still would have been indecipherable from overlapping texts.

She drew the curtain away from the front window behind the counter, turned the [Cackle Closed :<] sign around to display [Cackle-On In!], unlocked the gilder-box, opened the ledger and ink well, unlocked the front door and pulled the curtain in the little round window aside, then went out and picked up the Smelt tucked into the mail box.

Front page advertisement. It had cost a good amount of debt, but that would pay itself off, she assured herself. Everybeast knew about the Bilge in the Bucket, and now everybeast would know The Cackle Shack, "Too"!

---

GRAND RE-OPENING!
CACKLE SHACK, "TOO"
You can shop anywhere you
like, but make sure to shop at
the Cackle Shack, "Too"!
You'll leave with joy in your
and a cackle in your throat!
Come for the Cackles!
Stay for the Snackles!
Corner of Maple and Magh Ave.
​

---

And they'd even got the heart in. She grinned like an idiot. Five hundred gilders for a custom printing press stamp, pfft! How could that not make ten times that back in a week?

A cart pulled up just as she finished reading it, and she bounded over, dooking eagerly to meet the delivery.

"Fresh doughnuts, sweet breads, and shark sausage twists, Ms. Cackle!"

"Aye! Gotta have the snackles for the big day!"

She brought them in and arranged them on the Snackles display by the front door, then leapt over the counter in excitement, her tail swooshing the inkwell to the floor with a splash that splattered up the front window and her legs.

"Whoops..."

She gazed blankly at the shop's interior.

"Guess someone's gonna be buying a mottled towel! Shouldn't have sold me last mop, mayhaps..."

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo had not set out for the place—it simply found its way into his path, as most things worth noticing tended to do.

The name had brushed past him earlier in the day, tucked into the folds of a page he hadn’t paid much mind to at the time. A little shop, newly opened, bold enough to print its own mark with a flourish that suggested either confidence… or a troubling lack of restraint. He had filed it away without much thought.

But now...

Now it was near to midday, and his rounds had carried him along Maple and Magh with a slow, habitual drift. The air had changed before the building came into view, thick with sugar and oil and something warm besides. His stomach gave a low, dissatisfied twist.

He slowed at the doorway, not crossing it just yet. One paw rested against the frame as he leaned in, letting the place reveal itself in layers rather than all at once. Smell first, rich and immediate. Then the shape of it, shelves packed tight, goods stacked where they fit rather than where they belonged. Movement somewhere within. A shop that had grown faster than its bones could quite support.

His eyes narrowed.

Coin had gone into that ad. Not a great deal, perhaps, but enough to matter. Enough to notice.

His gaze drifted, settling on the snackles.

He stepped inside at last, unhurried, the soft scuff of his paws nearly lost beneath the quiet of the shop. His eyes moved constantly, never lingering long in one place, but taking everything in all the same. The shelves. The choke of the aisles. The way the goods pressed in on each other without hierarchy or sense of flow.

And the snackles. Right by the door.

His lip twitched, just slightly. "Snacks by the door… mmh. Fast coin, quick paws. Dangerous mix."

He reached without hurry, selecting one from the display, turning it once between his fingers.

His attention flicked, briefly, toward the counter, toward the space beyond it where ownership likely lingered, before settling again on the thing in his paw.

"Dough’s fresh. Oil’s clean. Y’pay up front fer dese, or we runnin’ on hope an’ promises?"

Only then did he lift it to his mouth. Crumbs clung for a moment to his lip before dropping loose, pattering softly against the floorboards at his feet.

"Y’ever count what walks out while folks chew?"

His gaze slipped back across the shelves, taking in their uneven sprawl, the sheer breadth of it all pressing in on itself.

"…I’ll give ye dis. Ye’ve got range. Most shops pick a lane an’ die in it."

He shifted his weight slightly, idly turning the half-eaten doughnut between his fingers… and finally gave the shopkeeper a toothy grin, awaiting her response.

 

[Kyena]

Kyena was busy scrubbing the last of the ink off her moccasins when the door creaked open. She bolted upright, ears perked, glasses askew, tail bottlebrushed.

Motes of dust sparkled like gold leaf in the sunshine shafts filtering in through the front window as she watched her first customer slowly enter, his silhouette haloed by the light from outside. He took his time, seemingly appraising every moment. For every moment that met his standards, he gave the Cackle Shack, "Too" another.

She leaned forward. The snackles were working. Temptation, hunger, drive. The stomach was the purse of the body, and she wanted to... no, hold on... Point was, they worked.

"Can't it be both?" she suggested softly, answering his first question. She didn't elaborate, but she knew the deal. A little payment to get it started, then a commission for each sale on the fresh stuff, enough to prove the venture was worth it to the baker. The snackles would flow. They must.

Kyena bit her lip as her customer bit into his doughnut.

"First bite," she said, her voice low with awe, as if witnessing a miracle that would be told in legend for generations to come. "Nobeast's walked out eatin' yet. You could be th' first." A little smile tugged at her lips. "Might even make it down th' street without payin'. But not th' next one. Kynxe's legs is longer'n yers."

She preened, licking her paws and rubbing her whiskers back, flicking her tail coquettishly, at the other ferret's... praise? It was time for the show.

"Allow me ter welcome ya, good sir, ter meself, Kyena Cackle, owner of Cackle! Co., and ter th' Grand Re-Openin' of th' Cackle Shack, "Too"!" For all her drawl, there was a crispness to the way she pronounced her business. "We buy, sell, an' trade all manner of goods, services, an' victuals alike. Some bottles o' cordial on th' bottom shelf there, an' heavier drink in th' back up th' stairs! Yer tally so far is one gilder fer th' doughnut, plus an extra if'n ya leave without tellin' me yer name, on account of breakin' my heart, and as th' sign says, ya break it, ya buy it!"

She tapped the sign that said exactly that, perched among several other signs on the counter. They said such things as: "Ask Us About Lamp Oil Financing!" and "Become a Cackle! Co. Club Member To-Day!" and "No Shoes, No Shirt? Try Isle 3!" and "We Reserve The Right To Refuse" and "Gilders Only... Is What Other Shops Say! We'll Take Anything!"

She leaned over the counter, arms folded, chin piled on top, beaming up at Griblo.

"Wouldja like ter become a Cackle! Co. Club Member? It's five percent off every third purchase every third day of th' week, plus we'll mail ya a Cackle Voucher fer twenny percent off Missertross stamps first of every second month, ye'll get selected treatment when linin' up at th' Cackle Shack, "Too", an' a free Cackle! Co. flatcap jes' fer signin' up an' lettin' us know yer mother's maiden name an' date o' birth, paw-stitched by yer truly!"

She slid back and brought out a stack of caps from behind the counter, each stitched with progressively more coherent "Cackle! Co." labeling in golden thread, and flumped them down.

"Or would a discernin' gennelbeast such as yerself be more innerested in bein' a Cackle! Co. Curio-Prestige Class Club Member? That'll get ya a cap, a free pair of thrice-darned socks, an' we'll instead mail ya th' Cackle! Co. weekly newsletter where I draw pictures of neat stuff I got fer sale wot ain't put out on display yet. First come first serve sorta thing. That'd only cost three gilders a week, but th' rewards are worth it! Got a signed first print of th' first Tizzi Poof trilogy ter auction off ter th' first three beasts wot sign up fer th' Curio-Prestige Class!"

She was breathless - she didn't need to breathe to spill her spiel, her lungs were bottomless as the ocean was wide. She ended the whole thing with a guffawing laugh that sounded like a panicked raven having a fight with a plague victim inside a burning sawmill.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo did not interrupt.

He let the whole thing wash over him. The pitch, the perks, the promises stacked atop one another like goods on an overburdened shelf. His ears flicked once, then again, tracking it all with a stillness that felt almost patient.

He stepped properly into the shop at last, closing the distance to the counter with an unhurried gait, and set a single gilder down with a soft, deliberate tap.

"Nah, oi wudden’t do d’at to ye’."

He lingered there, one paw resting lightly against the counter’s edge, the other idly turning what remained of the doughnut between his fingers as he considered her words.

"…Five percent off every third purchase… every third day…"

He scrunched up his nose and inclined his head.

"D’at’s a ’eadache an’ a ’alf ter track, I reckon…"

His gaze drifted briefly to the stack of caps, the signage, the promises laid out in cheerful defiance of practicality.

"Mudder’s maiden name, eh…?"

A small, thoughtful pause.

"Can’t say oi know d’at bit ’o fact ’bout me mum. Suppose d’at excludes me from yer little club, aye?"

He let that sit only a moment before shifting, his attention slipping back out across the shop, tracing its cluttered abundance once more.

"D’is ain’t just another dusty ol’ pawnbroker’s, is it?"

There was something almost curious in the way he said it now. Not dismissive. Not quite.

His eyes returned to her, sharper for the look, and at last he extended a paw across the counter.

"Griblo Jankweed. Navybeast an’ appraiser fer Searoot Pawn Shop up de road."

He finished the last bite of doughnut.

"Gotta say, ye’ shop’s got character dat a lot o’ shops don’t."

The corner of his mouth pulled just slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough to suggest the possibility of one.

"What say ye’ grantin’ me one o’ dem prestigious memberships wit’out de personal questions?"