Ishy stared unhappily. The wagon in front of him had left half an hour ago laden with eight heavy crates. These crates were on the last leg of a very long journey. On that journey, Ishy had lied on forms, evaded customs patrols, betrayed a packet ship captain and crew, irreparably damaged the cultural traditions of Westisle, and gotten far too invested in keeping the contents of these crates alive and well for his liking. He wanted the goods gone, a happy client willing to return for business, and money in his paw. Yet with the early-morning quiet quickly rising in volume to the mid-morning peak, the team pulling the wagon had puffed back into the long-tailed weasel’s view, cart still laden.
“Awright, guv…hff… we’re done ‘ere,” the lead rat said, bending over double and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “You said pull the cart… hff… We pulled the cart… hff… as agreed.”
“I said deliver the crates,” Ishy said. “You haven’t delivered the crates. Not. Agreed.”
The lead rat threw up his arms in exasperation. “We went to the address. Fogeys everywhere. I says, ‘Deliv’ry fer mistah Hah-tacky-yama.’ They says, ‘the Westisle bloke?’ and I says, ‘guess so innit, we’re just the delivery beasts’, and they says, ‘he’s corked it’. So we came back ‘ere.”
Ishy was silent for a good five seconds. Then, “He’s dead?”
“That’s what the slugs are crowdin’ round ‘is house, treadin’ in his funny rock garden for, so I’m led to believe. Payment, mistah Kite? Oi!”
The rag-tag group of hungry looking rats pattered after Ishy as he wordlessly stomped down the road in his heavy sharkskin boots.
“I ain’t makin’ up a whoppin’ daft story like that,” the lead rat blustered as he trotted beside the taller, broader whaler, “I already told ya, he’s-…”
“…-dead,” finished the Fogey, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. Was ‘e a relation of yours?”
Ishy frowned. “He was a fox.”
“Y-yes… that’s correct,’ the constable said, the tips of the stoat jill’s ears going red. “I was just… testin’ you. Plenty of folk tryin’ to claim the inheritance, and all.”
“How much was ‘e worth?” The lead rat piped up.
“Cor, couldn’t say mate, but you should see ‘is dinin’ hall, got all kinds o’ strange Westisle bits’n’pieces,” the Fogey gushed. Ishy listened with dwindling interest. He was a smuggler, not a burglar, and all Mr. Hatakayama’s fine belongings were out of his reach.
“He owed us money,” Ishy interrupted, not bothering to wait for a break in the Fogey’s verbal hemorrhage over his late client’s taste in interior decoration. “A last delivery.”
“Oh right, I remember youse lot, with the wagon,” the Fogey nodded. “I guess you could talk to ‘is solicitor, once they start sorting out Mr. Hata… Hakaya… Mr. Hackey-Sack’s last will and testament.”
“That could take months,” Ishy stated.
The Fogey chuckled. “Don’t I know it, mate! These lawyers, eh? You got a warehouse, maybe? Chuck ‘er in there for a few months, then charge ‘em a holdin’ fee, that’s what I’d do.”
“…you offer surprisingly sound business advice, for a Fogey,” Ishy commented.
The stoat puffed out her chest, and grinned. “Been studyin’ for transfer to MinoCom. I’m hardly stickin’ to bein a ploddin’ flatpaw me whole life. MinoCom beasts make a mint, y’know. You oughta join, you seem like an enterprisin’ weasel yourself. We mustelids can’t let the bushy-tails have all the fun, eh?”
Ishy stared until the silence became uncomfortable. He was slowly pulling apart every word and every phrase in the stoat’s sentence, trying to work out if the Fogey was mocking him, making a joke, or just being specieist. He settled on ‘not sure I want to know’, and checked his pocketwatch. Inexorably, the day was ticking away, and he had live cargo to move.
“I prefer small business,” Ishy said with a shrug, trying to remember what beasts said they liked about small business. Something about the personal touch? He tried the phrase out cautiously, as if answering a verbal exam. “It’s something about… the personal touch?”
The Fogey nodded. “I can respect that. It’s small business owners like y’self that are the backbone of our great Imperium! Well, can’t stay and chat, citizens, I’ve got a dead foreigner’s estate to itemise!”
“I can’t stay either,” Ishy said, attempting some kind of polite exit, but finding himself unable to stifle a miserable groan. “I’ve got to go get-…”
“-…stuffed!” The cat declared, patting his stomach. “Utterly stuffed. Ooh, could I manage dessert though? Mm… it’s mango pudding today. You tried these mango things? Sweet fruit from the far corners of the world, here on my plate thanks to the sweat and toil of generations of inventors, shipwrights, explorers and entrepreneurs. Fie, I say, to those that hearken for simpler times. Modernity! Modernity, Ishy, is a beautiful thing!”
“Can we talk about the cargo?” Ishy asked wearily, staring at the cat’s pudgy midriff and imagining flensing the feline like a toothy whale. He had his skinning knife. There would be only a few complaints. But then he’d have to find another fence…
“Madamé? Madamé?” The cat called, unnecessarily accenting the word. “Just one slice, thank you. My compliments to Giraud in the kitchen, as always. It’s perverted.”
It took the long, awkward silence between them for Ishy to realise that last phrase had not been directed at the waitress, but at himself. The weasel blinked, mentally spooling back the last fifteen minutes of conversation to try and work out context. He reached another blank. Gates, why was it impossible to talk to anybeast in this sweat-stinking bloody town? Ishy had tried to work out how other beasts mentally arrived at verbalising the inane things that poured out of their mouths, and concluded there was no logic to it at all. He suspected most beasts just left their mouths running automatically, generating garbage noise until the little sparrows in their heads hopped back onto the controls again.
“What’s perverted?” Ishy asked, his eyes drooping down to stare at the crumbs on the cat’s plate. He wanted to leave.
The orange-furred feline waved a plump paw. “This shipment, these little… curiosities. It takes a sordid mind to think that’s natural, or appropriate.”
The weasel had started counting crumbs. “It’s a Westisle thing. They all have ‘em.”
“Nasty, immoral foreigners,” sniffed the cat. “I’m sorry, Ishy, old son. I’ve moved a lot of goods for you over the years, but I have to draw the line. I’m a free thinker, but really, this is…”
“They’re all going to die, soon,” Ishy interrupted, checking his pocketwatch again. Tick tock, Ishy, it seemed to say. Day’s wasting. Another day of expenses burning out your pockets, while the value of that wagon dwindles to zero. Ishy played out the conversation in his head again, trying to work out where he was going wrong. “What about… modernity?”
“Tch. Modernity is one thing, but what you’re talking about is pure decadence,” the cat said dismissively, stifling a burp. “It’s evidence of a degenerate, stagnated culture that permits weirdos to indulge in their… creepy fetishes.”
Ishy got up, and walked out of the cafe without another word, or so much as a final glance at his useless fence. The cat was about to protest at being left the bill, before he realised the long-tailed weasel hadn’t ordered anything the whole time. Then the mango pudding arrived, driving the out-of-sight Ishy firmly out of mind.
“Are they… real?” the squirrel asked, peeking into the crate, eye wide with horror. “They can’t be real… they look really real…”
Ishy hunched his shoulders. Never again. This cargo was too hot, and the potential customer base too niche. He needed to get rid of these nuisances before they either up and died, or he was arrested.
“Do you want ‘em or not?” Ishy growled.
“Well, erm, I might know some beasts with, shall we say, unusual tastes,” the squirrel said, rubbing his scruffy chin. “The only question is…”
He lifted one out into the light, which made the long-tailed weasel wince, and look around for anybeast paying too much attention. The squirrel ran a paw down the precious thing, as if admiring how well-formed its contours were.
“…how in Dark Forest did they grow them so small?”
Ishy glowered at the miniature potted tree in the squirrel’s paws. It was all he could do not to snarl and dash the stupid thing to the cobblestones. A tree too small to give shade, fruit, nuts, or firewood. The Westislers had perfected the art of utter, mathematically demonstrable uselessness in a living thing. He heaved a sigh, and made his best effort at a sales pitch.
“Modernity is a beautiful thing,” Ishy echoed, voice as flat as a board.
“Awright, guv…hff… we’re done ‘ere,” the lead rat said, bending over double and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “You said pull the cart… hff… We pulled the cart… hff… as agreed.”
“I said deliver the crates,” Ishy said. “You haven’t delivered the crates. Not. Agreed.”
The lead rat threw up his arms in exasperation. “We went to the address. Fogeys everywhere. I says, ‘Deliv’ry fer mistah Hah-tacky-yama.’ They says, ‘the Westisle bloke?’ and I says, ‘guess so innit, we’re just the delivery beasts’, and they says, ‘he’s corked it’. So we came back ‘ere.”
Ishy was silent for a good five seconds. Then, “He’s dead?”
“That’s what the slugs are crowdin’ round ‘is house, treadin’ in his funny rock garden for, so I’m led to believe. Payment, mistah Kite? Oi!”
The rag-tag group of hungry looking rats pattered after Ishy as he wordlessly stomped down the road in his heavy sharkskin boots.
“I ain’t makin’ up a whoppin’ daft story like that,” the lead rat blustered as he trotted beside the taller, broader whaler, “I already told ya, he’s-…”
“…-dead,” finished the Fogey, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir. Was ‘e a relation of yours?”
Ishy frowned. “He was a fox.”
“Y-yes… that’s correct,’ the constable said, the tips of the stoat jill’s ears going red. “I was just… testin’ you. Plenty of folk tryin’ to claim the inheritance, and all.”
“How much was ‘e worth?” The lead rat piped up.
“Cor, couldn’t say mate, but you should see ‘is dinin’ hall, got all kinds o’ strange Westisle bits’n’pieces,” the Fogey gushed. Ishy listened with dwindling interest. He was a smuggler, not a burglar, and all Mr. Hatakayama’s fine belongings were out of his reach.
“He owed us money,” Ishy interrupted, not bothering to wait for a break in the Fogey’s verbal hemorrhage over his late client’s taste in interior decoration. “A last delivery.”
“Oh right, I remember youse lot, with the wagon,” the Fogey nodded. “I guess you could talk to ‘is solicitor, once they start sorting out Mr. Hata… Hakaya… Mr. Hackey-Sack’s last will and testament.”
“That could take months,” Ishy stated.
The Fogey chuckled. “Don’t I know it, mate! These lawyers, eh? You got a warehouse, maybe? Chuck ‘er in there for a few months, then charge ‘em a holdin’ fee, that’s what I’d do.”
“…you offer surprisingly sound business advice, for a Fogey,” Ishy commented.
The stoat puffed out her chest, and grinned. “Been studyin’ for transfer to MinoCom. I’m hardly stickin’ to bein a ploddin’ flatpaw me whole life. MinoCom beasts make a mint, y’know. You oughta join, you seem like an enterprisin’ weasel yourself. We mustelids can’t let the bushy-tails have all the fun, eh?”
Ishy stared until the silence became uncomfortable. He was slowly pulling apart every word and every phrase in the stoat’s sentence, trying to work out if the Fogey was mocking him, making a joke, or just being specieist. He settled on ‘not sure I want to know’, and checked his pocketwatch. Inexorably, the day was ticking away, and he had live cargo to move.
“I prefer small business,” Ishy said with a shrug, trying to remember what beasts said they liked about small business. Something about the personal touch? He tried the phrase out cautiously, as if answering a verbal exam. “It’s something about… the personal touch?”
The Fogey nodded. “I can respect that. It’s small business owners like y’self that are the backbone of our great Imperium! Well, can’t stay and chat, citizens, I’ve got a dead foreigner’s estate to itemise!”
“I can’t stay either,” Ishy said, attempting some kind of polite exit, but finding himself unable to stifle a miserable groan. “I’ve got to go get-…”
“-…stuffed!” The cat declared, patting his stomach. “Utterly stuffed. Ooh, could I manage dessert though? Mm… it’s mango pudding today. You tried these mango things? Sweet fruit from the far corners of the world, here on my plate thanks to the sweat and toil of generations of inventors, shipwrights, explorers and entrepreneurs. Fie, I say, to those that hearken for simpler times. Modernity! Modernity, Ishy, is a beautiful thing!”
“Can we talk about the cargo?” Ishy asked wearily, staring at the cat’s pudgy midriff and imagining flensing the feline like a toothy whale. He had his skinning knife. There would be only a few complaints. But then he’d have to find another fence…
“Madamé? Madamé?” The cat called, unnecessarily accenting the word. “Just one slice, thank you. My compliments to Giraud in the kitchen, as always. It’s perverted.”
It took the long, awkward silence between them for Ishy to realise that last phrase had not been directed at the waitress, but at himself. The weasel blinked, mentally spooling back the last fifteen minutes of conversation to try and work out context. He reached another blank. Gates, why was it impossible to talk to anybeast in this sweat-stinking bloody town? Ishy had tried to work out how other beasts mentally arrived at verbalising the inane things that poured out of their mouths, and concluded there was no logic to it at all. He suspected most beasts just left their mouths running automatically, generating garbage noise until the little sparrows in their heads hopped back onto the controls again.
“What’s perverted?” Ishy asked, his eyes drooping down to stare at the crumbs on the cat’s plate. He wanted to leave.
The orange-furred feline waved a plump paw. “This shipment, these little… curiosities. It takes a sordid mind to think that’s natural, or appropriate.”
The weasel had started counting crumbs. “It’s a Westisle thing. They all have ‘em.”
“Nasty, immoral foreigners,” sniffed the cat. “I’m sorry, Ishy, old son. I’ve moved a lot of goods for you over the years, but I have to draw the line. I’m a free thinker, but really, this is…”
“They’re all going to die, soon,” Ishy interrupted, checking his pocketwatch again. Tick tock, Ishy, it seemed to say. Day’s wasting. Another day of expenses burning out your pockets, while the value of that wagon dwindles to zero. Ishy played out the conversation in his head again, trying to work out where he was going wrong. “What about… modernity?”
“Tch. Modernity is one thing, but what you’re talking about is pure decadence,” the cat said dismissively, stifling a burp. “It’s evidence of a degenerate, stagnated culture that permits weirdos to indulge in their… creepy fetishes.”
Ishy got up, and walked out of the cafe without another word, or so much as a final glance at his useless fence. The cat was about to protest at being left the bill, before he realised the long-tailed weasel hadn’t ordered anything the whole time. Then the mango pudding arrived, driving the out-of-sight Ishy firmly out of mind.
“Are they… real?” the squirrel asked, peeking into the crate, eye wide with horror. “They can’t be real… they look really real…”
Ishy hunched his shoulders. Never again. This cargo was too hot, and the potential customer base too niche. He needed to get rid of these nuisances before they either up and died, or he was arrested.
“Do you want ‘em or not?” Ishy growled.
“Well, erm, I might know some beasts with, shall we say, unusual tastes,” the squirrel said, rubbing his scruffy chin. “The only question is…”
He lifted one out into the light, which made the long-tailed weasel wince, and look around for anybeast paying too much attention. The squirrel ran a paw down the precious thing, as if admiring how well-formed its contours were.
“…how in Dark Forest did they grow them so small?”
Ishy glowered at the miniature potted tree in the squirrel’s paws. It was all he could do not to snarl and dash the stupid thing to the cobblestones. A tree too small to give shade, fruit, nuts, or firewood. The Westislers had perfected the art of utter, mathematically demonstrable uselessness in a living thing. He heaved a sigh, and made his best effort at a sales pitch.
“Modernity is a beautiful thing,” Ishy echoed, voice as flat as a board.
