Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

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cuddlyfox
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Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#1

Post by cuddlyfox »

Just a little scribbling whilst waiting for my Nvidia to update drivers :) It's unedited so forgive me.
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Journal Entry Number 1 - A strange bark in the night
The soft lulling hush on the roof, and the tapping at the windows of the rain outside always makes me feel content. A nice warm cup of Barkers Best cocoa, a warm fire in the hearth, and my favorite slippers on my paws is to be honest how I'd like to spend all my rainy afternoons. Added to that was Catatha's latest crime novel - Nine Lives Lost. Combined I was set for heaven. Sitting in my favorite armchair, a soft warm lamp nearby for light, my bushy tail... far to fat for this time of year but well... I hadn't been running about any coups in a while... and dinners were so tasty as prepared by my housekeeper Mrs. Hopps. You can't blame a fox for putting on a few extra pounds... ok... for putting on a lot of pounds. But life was good - if somewhat sedentary and if I am to be honest lonely. Ha! If I'd sniffed what was going to happen in exactly five minutes I wouldn't have been so eager to put two extra marshmellows in my Barkers Best let me tell you! But I get ahead of myself. So with the sound of my one lodger sneaking off into the wet afternoon behind me, and the rain as a lullaby, I began to read of poor Hercules Parrot - the famed bird sleuth. A small excerpt if you will permit me the indulgence:

"Stop right there you dirty rat!" Shouted the tiny form of Hercules, world famous parrot and amateur detective. The large rat turned, a fierce looking tommy gun clutched in his paws.
"Hey who you calling a rat?!" He sneered back, then paused as his little brain did the math. "Oh. Me? Well see - this is the end of the flock for you!"
Hercules took the air, his grey feathers catching the wind with ease. The rat, maddened with blood lust, fired in all directions except upwards. With a simple twist of his tail feathers, Hercules landed behind the mobster and nearly pushed the rat forward. He was so surprised that the rodent didn't have time to catch himself and fell forward into the giant vat of boiling oil. As he plummeted downwards he fired his gun again - rat-a-tat-tat!"

BANG!

Wait a minute... that isn't in the book? That sounded like it came from outside? I put the book down slightly worried. I am by no means a fighter. Other foxes have gone in for all kinds of vicious lives - killers, con-artists, lawyers, tax collectors even, but not me. I teach my little classes to eager young furlings and hope that they will one day write a magnificent novel like Catatha. Hercules the Parrot was a favorite of mine. Pulling aside the curtains I looked up and down the street but I couldn't see anything unusual. The rain was coming down a little heavier now, that was good, the dandelions could use the water, and the hedgehogs could make their wonderful peppermint and dandelion cheese cake... Make a note - put two on order one for me and one for Mrs. Hopps. Second thought - make that three... I might need a spare.

BANG!

Again! This time though much much louder. And near by! I should tell you, my tail was firmly between my legs and my heart was pounding, that horrid shallow beat that feels like lead. Then dashing between the rubbish cans I saw a young cat - maybe in his early three's or four's. Fur slick and wet, wearing a white shirt and torn jeans - all the rage these days. What was wrong with tweed and wool? These new fibers I don't know what the apes or the owls will come up with next. I digress! Hot on the cats paws were three of the biggest weasels I've ever seen. More like badgers - don't tell the badgers I said that. One was holding the horrid gun that was making such a noise. Ghastly things really. The other two held stout wooden cudgels. Only slightly better I guess. I'm not a fighting fox... I've mentioned that before, but even I believe in a fair fur-fight. Paw on paw, tooth on tooth, or shell as it were, we don't discriminate these days. Suddenly the weasel with the great oily gat raised it and fired. There was a howl and the poor young cat was hit. In a flurry of fur and tail and I'm sad to say, he collapsed to the ground - right outside my back door. Nearly hit his black haired head on my prized Geranium pot. This year I'd win the local country fair for best potted geranium. I'd ordered in a packet of special Chinese brights from a trader known only as Meowling the Potted. He's some big-shot seed merchant in Hong Kong. Well I wasn't about to have my geranium ruined - Mrs. Koots and old man Oopsonthecarpet would be as smug as two smug things in a smug bug if I didn't present a geranium this year.

Fetching down the old heavy sword that my great grandfather had used in the Three Fang Wars I looked outside again. The poor cat was scrabbling backwards, his face flushed with fear. The weasels were advancing. The one with the gun however was holding back and fiddling with it. Ah! What would Hercules do I pondered? In a flash I dashed up the staircase to the upper floor. There I quickly ran to the guest bathroom, grabbed Dowlings Old Peerage from the bookshelf and dropped it neatly out the window. Now that window you might guess looks out over the backdoor. And Dowlings Old Peerage is a heavy book full of the history of the great clans - a double volume. There was a tremendous thump, a lot of foul words which even the Ravens wouldn't use in public, and another Bang! I'd hit the leader. Nothing for it now. Waving the sword above my head I lept over the balustrade and landed on the stair.

"For Hercules!" I cried as I did so.

Now there is a small matter of weight, gravity, carpet slippers, a heavy sword and a fat fox. All of these came into play here. Unlike my beloved sleuth I could not fly. But I could fall. I could fall very well indeed. My foot landed first and the slipper sped off under the pressure. My other foot caught the tip of one of the stairs and slid sideways. My dressing gown caught on the balustrade, which groaned but held fast. With both legs collapsing beneath me I struck out with the sword. This had the general effect of a tug pulling an ocean-liner. Not much until the momentum caught up with the dressing gown and the balustrade. With a loud crack of relief the wood gave way. Like a pendulum in an grandfeather clock I was pitched forward. Without my feet to anchor me I was hurled forward. Well the back door is only a few feet from the stairs and it was into this that I positively Hercule'd. Did I mention I've eaten a few hedgehog peppermint and dandelion cheese cakes in my time?

The treacherous door swung open like a smiling mouth and the flight of fantastic Mr fox - me - continued. Like some whale breaching the dark ocean waters so I breached the back of my little stone cottage. The screaming was terrible. The weasels assumed they were being attacked by a mad Scottish War Hound with a sword. Their weedy little voices wailed in shock and terror. My not so weedy voice joined in the chorus as I realized that without intervention from up upon high, my prized potted Geranium was about to receive a good dose of Fox. When I finally woke up I was half away of the cat holding my grandfathers sword and standing over me, protecting me! The weasels grabbed their fallen booked companion and loped away, their long sinuous bodies a wave rippling away from the whale.

The cat lingered for a moment, sword held defiant. But I could smell the blood, and his wounded arm hung limply at his side. He was breathing fitfully, and his tail was drooping ever closer to the wet ground. As I flailed about attempting to disentangle myself from balustrade carcass, geranium leaves and pinching pottery I happened to look up. The cat turned to me, his strong V shaped jaw skewed slightly as his shot me a cheesy grin, and then collapsed into a heap, unconscious. Well I quickly turtled myself right and moved over to him, shedding leaves and potting soil. He breathing was steady if somewhat stertorous. But his wound was grave and he'd lost a lot of blood. Now drenched in rain I gripped him under his good arm, and wrapped my other arm under his knees. He was a handsome cat, even if he was wearing... jeans... pah! If only the humans could see what they left behind. Still one mustn't speak ill of the dead. Gripping him and standing was an act of willpower, raw muscle, the smallest of farts, and greatest huffing and cursing that I'd done in a long time. I shall donate extra to Father Timeron's collection box on Sunday as penance.

Loath to try the stairs I instead waltzed through the tiny house to the lounge and the warm fire. There I gently rolled the cat out of my arms and onto the sofa. It's big fluffy pillows would succor any ache for sure! Then I went into the kitchen and cursed Mrs. Hopps for moving the saucers to another new cupboard. (More change needed for Sunday.) She had the remarkable habit of moving cups and saucers and pots and pans and importantly biscuits, emergency biscuits and just in case biscuits about the kitchen and into different cupboards. For a shrew she was pretty... well... shrewish! Finding a mug, I filled it with fresh milk and limped back to the lounge. My body was now calculating the cost of me being a hero... or rather a fall-o... get it? Ha! And its calculations were not looking good.

With attention I tried to pull the wet shirt of the sleeping cat. But water and position denied me. It had to come off if he was to dry, and if I was to dress that wound. Without recourse I grabbed the sword, slit the shirt and then tossed the blade aside. Well I never liked mothers standing lamp with two humans frolicking around it's base. The heavy blade smashed the whole thing to pieces. No loss really. Oh damn... Father Timeron was going to be able to retire at this point. Anyway, with his chest bared I could get a better look at the wound. He was a lucky cat, and perhaps didn't need his nine lives today... though now looking at his lithe and muscular body I could see scars and scrapes aplenty. Ah.. a tom cat. A fighter. The world can be a cruel place to a kitten in a big litter. That was the truth. He was lucky because the bullet had passed clean through. I grabbed the first aid tin box from under the stairs - I'd need a carpenter in to fix that - blast it... oh boy. More change. Might as well take a fiver with me at this rate.

I'm not a good doctor but I have to pride myself on binding the wound with alacrity and a little neatness. Sure I needed three extra bandages and once had to cut my own hand out of the final wrapping but it would hold, and it had stopped the bleeding. Well he was certainly out cold. And cold was beginning to be a thing... I was wet and so was he. Well he had the fire. Gingerly I removed his trousers and looked intently at the painting of the three foxes at play that hung near the window whilst doing so. Then I grabbed the lovely old tartan shawl my students had given me last year, and draped it over the sleeping kitty. Now it was time for me to take care of myself. Not like that dear reader! You shall put a farthing in old Timeron's collection box this Sunday for that thought! I dragged my sorry tail up the stairs taking care with each step, and drew a hot bath. There is nothing better than surrendering away the cares of the day wrapped in warm water and bubbles! I might a middle aged fox, but I do love bubbles - who doesn't?

So as the steaming water finished filling the tub, I slipped out of my things and with a grin across my chops, lowered myself into the water. Each paw curled up in delight as the warm water tickled them. What bliss. What heaven!
"Have you seen Rosebud?"
"No sorry I haven't." I replied... and then realized I was fur'ked and half way into my bubble bath. Who'd asked that question. Turning quickly, paws covering the lower bits, I stared in panic. There stood the cat - equally in fur - showing the world all there was to see.
"Who is Rosebud?" I asked - as if to perhaps answer his question and make him leave so that I could finally get to the safety of my bubbles.
He smiled, a ruefully little smile, as if a pleasant memory of this Rosebud touched his heart. Then he looked up at me with the yellowest, most pleading eyes I have ever seen. Great tears welled up in them. Even I who try to not show too much emotion in public, was brought to a choking swelling in my throat at the sight of his lamentation.
"She's..." And with that he collapsed again.
For a moment I didn't move. Too shaken to really.
"Pssst. You... are... " I hissed at him, "Really out cold. Again. You really ought not to do that." I finished as I realized he was out cold again. With longing I looked at my bubbles. As with Hercules Parrot who never got to eat his carraway seed in every novel he was written in, so it seemed I too was to be denied my bubbles.
"Oh bother." I muttered as I went again to pick up the mysterious cat.

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Stretch
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#2

Post by Stretch »

That was a good story Cuddlyfox I really enjoyed it. Are you planning to write a second part? seeing as how the story starts with journal entry 1.
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#3

Post by cuddlyfox »

I wasn't sure people would like it. I can write more if you think its worth it?
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#4

Post by Stretch »

cuddlyfox wrote:I wasn't sure people would like it. I can write more if you think its worth it?
Personally I liked it, so I would say it's worth writing more. I guess I should be making that donation to Father Timeron's collection box now :D
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#5

Post by Asbjorn-phoenix »

Very good, I enjoyed that.
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#6

Post by Trace »

I really enjoyed that quite a bit!
I'd love to see a second part. I really like all of the little tangents. :3 It really makes for a fun read.
Also it's nice to know of a fellow Agatha Christie fan. :D
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#7

Post by cuddlyfox »

Journal Entry Number 2 - A journey into the countryside

Let me start by saying having a strange cat fuk'ed and sleeping on your couch isn't not an easy thing to explain to Mrs. Hopps. Her little eyebrows spoke volumes. I think it was the way she looked kindly at the cat, and then harshly at me. Now understand dear Journal, that Mrs. Hopps has been with me since I was a young pup running around in my da's attic many many moons ago. I don't think she ages, or if she does, she doesn't show it.
"Now look here Mrs. Hopps - it's not what you think!" I stammered as she draped a second blanket over the feline.
"What you choose to do in the privacy of your own house is yours alone. But why on the sofa? You know how hard it is to remove those stains -"
Father Timeron be a rich man my mind flashed before she could finish her sentence -
"Really, Barkers Best all over the cushions - don't think I didn't see them under you friend there." She finished straightening out the blanket.
"Barkers best?" I asked confused for a moment. "Oh right! Yes. There was this shot you see and it startled me quite horribly."
"What do I always say?"
Like a scolded pup I hung my head in shame.
"Barkers Best is best in the kitchen."
"Exactly right."
She busied herself with the rest of the room, cleaning away the horrid broken lamp. I notice no reproach there. She obviously hated it as much as I did. Once she was firmly out of the room and making little house-keeper noises elsewhere I went over to my charge. He seemed quite peaceful. A single tip of fang protruded from his dark lips, and his nose seemed moist enough. Suddenly he turned, whined in pain, and kicked out at his blankets. Then as quickly subsided back into slumber. Whatever has this cat seen and been up to? I shall apply Hercules Parrots methods... as soon as I've had a Barkers Best. Only decent thing to do.

Ten minutes later Davish came home. Let me tell you a little about Davish. He is the kind of creature that one must adore without limit. I think his parents were two love struck Squirrels who didn't think very hard about planning for the future. As a result Davish was born into a home that was so chaotic and intense and crazy that there was really no hope of him being remotely normal. He hopped into the kitchen, grabbed a sandwich, a saucer of milk, and three cookies before turning to Mrs. Hopps and planting a kiss on her forehead.
"Hello Davish." I said. "Look - there is something..."
But Davish had dashed into the lounge.
"OH MY NUTS!" Echoed across the house. I got up. Mrs. Hopps gave me another of her looks - your mess your squirrel.
"Look - it's not what you think..."
"Where is my lamp?"
"Lamp? What lamp?"
He was perched on the edge of the sofa directly above the cats sleeping head and pointing at the spot where the horrid lamp had been. I noticed he had also pushed the two cookies and tuna sandwich into his cheeks. They bulged and wobbled making his side-burn hair scribble erratically in the air.
"Firstly - it was my lamp -"
"You hated the thing. I loved it. It was my precious little lampie..."
He vaulted the sofa and landed in the spot where the lamp had been.
"My lampie..." He said with a tear in his eye.
"What lamp?" Came a weak murmur from the depths of the couch.
Davish screamed and bolted out the room.
"Davish - its... this is ... well... I'm sorry about the lamp!" I shouted after him. But his door upstairs slammed shut. I shook my head. Strange little man. But he always paid his rent on time and Father Timeron gave me extra credit... and waffers... on Sunday for lodging him. For an act of kindness and patience he said.
But my mystery guest had spoken! He was awake.

"Shall we try this again? I'm Cudleh. And you are?" I asked moving around to the front of the sofa. His sleek fur was all crumpled and crazy, and he looked like he'd been asleep for a week. He yawned, a great satisfied gaping gulp of air and then licked his lips.
"You save me?" He ventured.
"I think it was more of avoided landing on you than saving I'm afraid." I said.
"The weasels?"
"Gone from what I can tell. No sign of them since then."
His furry brow knotted together at that statement. He looked up at me, those soulful eyes.
"How long have I been here?"
"Oh three days." Three days I had to pretend to be sick and write an apology note to the headmaster of the school for. But in truth it wasn't only because of my guest. The fall had bruised my tail up and down, and my leg, and ankle, and wrist, and arm and back and even my belly. I'm fairly certain it had bruised my eyelids too. In fact, when I washed my dressing gown I could have sworn it was bruised as well.
"Three days!" He said, throwing aside the blankets, then realized his wasn't clothed, pulling them back just as quickly.
"Where are my clothes?"
"Mrs. Hopps is fixing the hole in your ... pants..." I was blushing furiously underneath my fur. Thankfully Foxes are orange and red. Only my burning ears twitching would give away my intense feeling of perhaps putting him in some sleeping shorts. Though mine would be like a second blanket to his smaller frame.
"I have to leave! I have to get to Rosebud!"
"You mentioned her name before." I said sitting in the single chair next to the sofa. It was my chair. Full of ratty pillows and shawls and with grooves and bumps in it exactly where there should be.
"I have? How do you know about Rosebud?"
"I don't - other than what you told me."
Again his face wrinkled up as he pondered what I'd said. I couldn't help but notice his shoulder seemed a bit better. Thanks to my administrations I was pleased to note.
"Do you have an automobile?" He asked slowly, desperately.
"Well - da's old thing smokes horridly, and I doubt it will go far." It used to be black and sleek and make all the youngsters flock around it whenever we'd driven around the village in it. Mother had hated it of course. The noise was too much for constitution she used to say, and so would often prefer to walk along the little stone paths from the house to the square or the church or the market. I used to love walking with her on summer days when the sky was so blue you felt like you call fall up into it and find happiness. I missed what he asked next.
"I'm sorry - what did you say?"
He looked at him with a great intensity and held out his paw as if to take mine. I reached out and his hands clamped over my own.
"I swear to you - Cudleh," he began, "if you get me to Thistleton Manor I shall pay you handsomely."

He was most earnest and in that moment I felt it was something that was within my power and something of an adventure. Besides Thistleton Manor was near Gammers Head Tavern which made the most amazing chicken and pea pies that you can imagine. If it wasn't half a days drive I'd eat there every other day. Mrs. Hopps wouldn't approve of course but then again - it was Chicken and Pea, and I'm convinced, though I stand without proof other than my own tongue - that there is a hint of raspberries in it. I couldn't resist and so acquiesced to his request.
"When can we leave?" He demanded quick suddenly.
I explained that it was today or bust as I couldn't miss another day of school. That made him smile a great fresh white smile of pointed teeth and mirth. Presently Mrs. Hopps brought in his jeans - horrid things - and his shirt. She had sewn a small fox head embroidery over the hole. Something to remember Mr. Fox by she quipped when he raised an eyebrow at the design.
"He's been good to you, you owe him that much." And that was the final word on the subject.

Dust exploded out in great clouds of sneezes and I couldn't help but laugh when both the cat and I broke out into sneezing fits. Except he whined with each blast as his wound still hurt. It got so bad we both had to sit down, wiping away tears of laughter and drooling noses from the dust. She wasn't looking her best to be sure. The sleek black paint had long ago matted itself grey and begun to peel back revealing the rusted brown of the metal underneath. But her wheels were beautiful, and still all inflated. The wooden spokes all seem fixed in place. Opening the door, the old smell of the leather seats hit me hard and I won't be embarrassed to say - I half imagined seeing my old da climbing into the seat next to me rather than the handsome cat. I pushed the old brass key into the ignition and turned her over. There was a catastrophic explosion of noise. The poor cat nearly opened his wound trying to get under the seat in fear.
"It's a little... old." I said as if explaining the strange creaking, boiling, groaning, and popping noises. Slowly he climbed back onto his seat. Now - I haven't driven an automobile in a long time. Clumsily my paws petted the pedals, and my claws gripped the old oak steering wheel. Gears ground, metal shrieked and we jerked backwards.

I won't bore you with the details but suffice it to say it was only an hour and then we were streaming our way along the country road. I'd forgotten the thrill of moving so fast and I couldn't resist but lower my window and let the fresh fast air flutter in my nose. I resisted open my mouth and letting my tongue taste the world around us at sixty miles and hour. The cat though seemed to not enough the wooded and then fielded and the wooden countryside that slipped past us. After twenty minutes and having passed through Murket village, skirted Appleby abbey, and whilst on our fixed stretch across Sodden bog, I ventured some conversation.

"So what is your name?"

He didn't reply immediately. But looked at the rolling marshlands. As it was nearing Autumn they were a brown and grey vista of small rushes and plants and cold stagnant pools.
"Jontahan."
"Well pleasure to meet you Jontahan. It really is. I must say you had me worried - what with weasels shooting those horrid gats at you." I said.
Again there was a cold silence, his mind clearly racing in all different directions except that of polite conversation. I resolved to let him sit and think rather than press for more information. To pass the time I Hercule'd him. His paws were bare - he didn't like shoes perhaps, or perhaps he'd lost them? The cuffs of his jeans were torn and worn through in several areas. So no to shoes then by choice. I know a lot of folk who don't hold any truck with shoes. Separates you from the world they say. I don't know - my slippers, when not betraying me to gravity - are a wonder on chilly nights.
"I..." He began, breaking into my sleuthing. Then suddenly he began to cry. Great heaving sobs that only a truly brave and strong cat and weep when all hope is lost and there is no one left to hold onto for strength.
"My good fellow!" I exclaimed, swinging the car to the side of the road and stopping.
"Whatever is the matter?"
He held his jaw forward, sucking in air and trying not to bawl. Then he turned his gaze upon me. I am always flustered when a handsome buck does that. Always have been, and probably always will be.
"I have lied to you." He said, his lip trembling.
I growled. I couldn't help myself. I hate deception. And to be told so openly. His eats flattened and he recoiled to the car door. Running my hand over my ears and back of my head, I pushed my fur down.
"I had no choice!" He said softly looking at his paws in despair. "I couldn't hold on to her. I wasn't strong enough."
Much affected I placed a hand on his leg to steady him, and myself I guess.
"Rosebud?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Your mate?"
This only made him burst into tears again. In one swift motion he threw his arms around my big neck and sobbed into my shoulder. My bulk made me bigger than him, but to feel his smaller body heaving with grief was terrible.
"You can tell me Jonti." I softly purred and held him in a hug. I've always held - excuse the pun - that a warm soft hug is the best medicine for an ailing heart. A product I suspect of never getting them much in my formative years, and having to be taught - by Mrs. Hopps and Hankling the gardener - how to hug. Since then a good hug and squeeze is just the thing. We stayed in that friendly embrace for some time as he slowly pulled himself towards himself. Once he awkwardly but gratefully resumed his seat he took the handkerchief that I offered.

"Now - tell me of Rosebud." I said gently.
"She is..." he began with a smile, "The most beautiful creature in all the world." I smiled. It was like one of the main suspects in Catatha's novels. I dropped the smile when I realized that meant that Rosebud would be found dead with evidence that Jontahan had done it all over the place. Though I then smiled again because that meant that I was Hercules... then I stopped smiling because it meant there was a murder. Then I smiled because Thistleton Manor was an ideal place for a good old murder.
"Are you alright?" He asked looking at me. I realized my face was dancing like a clown from frown to smirk to frown in a drunken dance of literary flights of fancy.
"Yes. Yes. Please go one." I urged as I fought to rein in my thoughts.
"She is the daughter of Lord Badgingstoke." The lord of Thistleton manor and one of the greatest hunters in the country. He was a fierce old badger with a temper to match. If Rosebud was his daughter then this cat had no chance. A scamp like him going after a kit of Badginstoke? Why he'd have greater chance flying to the moon and claiming all the cheese for himself. My heart suddenly dropped realizing that this was a fools errand.
"Only Rosebud and I had decided to get together as a mated pair this Winter." A sensible plan - Badgingstoke would be locked away in the manor unwilling to move or leave.
"And then run away to Furis or maybe Taildon." Again, those big cities would make excellent hidey holes for a couple in flight.
"And from there maybe take a steamer to the United Sets - and New Bark." An audacious plan that would need plenty of money. I doubted either Jonti or Rosebud had enough for a bus ticket let along an ocean voyage.
"That's a beautiful plan." I said. It was. Beautiful and so sad as it was impossible.
"A week ago - I got this from Rosebud." He reached into his jeans and pulled out a note. Mrs. Hopps was an excellent housekeeper and would delicately retrieve any pocket forgotten items, wash the clothes, and the replace them so that one might return to the clothing and pocket later to find the ill-placed item.
I took the note and read it. It was simply written in the sure hand that all badgers have. Several stains on the paper indicated tear drops.

"My dearest Jonti -" it began, note stop calling him Jonti, that's his affection name - "I have the most ghastly and terrible news. My father has committed me to Lord Snapsters son - Sneer! We are to be mated when the last leaf has fallen from the great oak-tree outside Thistleton Manor. I cannot stop crying for you my love, as now we shall never see New Bark, or our own ugly little furlings. I am distraught, broken and utterly hopeless. Please send me word that you will find another to call your Rose and live a long and happy life so that I might spend mine comforted by the knowledge that at least you are happy?"

I pulled on my nose, and sniffed back tears. Young love, and she seemed to enamored with this scoundrel of a cat. I could not be but moved. I jammed by foot onto the pedals, pumping gas into the engine. With a furious twist of the key I charged up the old girl and roared back onto the road. To my shame the hooting from the large truck behind and the squealing of tires is a lesson I'll not soon forget. Always check your mirrors before pulling off to be a hero. Jontathan smiled and punched the air for joy. I smiled, and then howled - something I've not done in a long time. Jonti howled to... until my ears hurt and I reminded him he was a cat and the song of his people was not something to be sung in public.

-------------

This should be read with the Downton Abbey soundtrack playing :)
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#8

Post by Stretch »

Nice follow-up cuddlyfox! I liked it just as much as the first part. Now that I know Jontahan's back story, I can't help but wonder
if the people that attacked him were just random thugs or if they were sent after him.
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Trace
Snep's Best Doggo
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Re: Hercules Parrot and the curious case of the Breaching Fox

#9

Post by Trace »

That was wonderful, Cuddlyfox. I'll be looking forward to seeing more. :3
"I change shapes just to hide in this place, but I'm still, I'm still an animal" -Miike Snow, 'Animal'
"Where there's life, there's hope."-Terence
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