There were many things the chief of the ZPD did not admit, but were still know by his officers. For instance, that he loved the Zootopian singer, Gazelle, with a feverish passion, or that he kept the delicately glued macaroni art from his daughter in the bottom drawer of his desk, or that, deep down, hidden under dark fur, thick muscles, and a scowling face, he had a heart capable of great bouts of compassion and gratitude for the other members of the department. These facts were almost never preyed upon by the subordinate staff—nobody smirked when walking into his office to find him staring down at the culinary art from his little girl, or tapped their partner on the shoulder when the water buffalo walked by with the gazelle's music leaking from his ears. For they knew that alongside his great, unspoken passion was an even greater drive to remain professional—to be the Bogo that appeared before cameras and politicians, straight-faced, stoic, and solid.
There was, however, one piece of knowledge about the chief that the officers found acceptable to act upon—that he cut loose, just a little, at the annual christmas party held at the station. And just like every year before, they discussed how they would get the chief plastered by the end of the night.
It started with a very full glass of wine, just to loosen up. Red or white, it didn't matter. He liked the way it rolled over his tongue. The water buffalo sat back and admired the decorations he put up before anyone had gotten there. Lights carefully wrapped around posts, layered over and across desks and tables, wreaths perfectly hung on nails and hooks, small bows tied to the fake gifts under the tree. It looked damn good. He rewarded himself with another swig before the first arrivals.
He greeted the officers one by one, smiling. Hello officer so-and-so, reporting for duty? Ha ha, come on in. The newest recruits eyed him warily, as if he had suddenly turned into another species. They'd never heard the chief tell jokes. For the rest of the night, they would stay at the fringes of the crowd, flinching whenever he let a big, barrel-chested laugh explode from within him. The sound was foreign and powerful, and it kept them at bay.
By the time each and every officer invited had walked through the doors, his glass was empty. While the others were busy exchanging gifts and greetings, he snuck back to the already opened bottle and refilled his glass to the brim, taking another sip to stop it from spilling. Hot coals burned behind his cheeks as Bogo made his way to the podium in the middle of the room. Sliding his segmented hooves over the surface, they came to rest at the grooves made in the sides from years of gripping the wood in episodes of anger and stress. They felt comforting now, like they had been cut there specifically for him. Puzzle pieces clicking together.
When the room noticed him, they turned quiet, perking their ears, and he began a small speech about hopes for the new year, ending it with a subtle nod towards the mistletoe that hung near the corner of the room, which got a laugh even out of the nervous cadets. He ended it with a toast, drinking to everyone's good health. From there, he meandered to the snack table, digging a hoof into a bowl of fried veggie chips, stuffing them into his mouth. They tasted wonderful, even though his taste buds were dulled by two glasses of wine. Bogo stood there, munching away until one of his officers tapped him on the shoulder. Francine the elephant held a jar of eggnog wrapped in her trunk, hovering it over her boss' hooves. She gave him a conspiratorial wink.
"' 'bout that time, isn't it?" she asked, and he only nodded, accepting the drink.
"Much 'ppriciated, Franky. Merry Christmas," Bogo said, calling the elephant by her rare nickname.
They smiled, parting without another word.
Bogo was beginning to feel the heaviness of being drunk. It made his horns feel weighted, and his head tilted without his permission. He brought the jar up to his nose, almost recoiling at the sharp smell of rum, whisky, and bourbon. Nothing could beat the smell of Hopps family eggnog. It was thick with vanilla and cream, too. A hint of nutmeg. He took a mouthful, letting the thick liquid ooze down his throat. The last bit of tenseness in his shoulders melted through him, spilling onto the floor. A dopey smile curved over his face.
He didn't realize that music was being played. "Red-nosed Reindeer" flooded the room, playing over the speakers. The old song bathed the room in the sound of a lone trumpet and a gravely voice. The water buffalo suddenly found himself overwhelmed by the music. It made him think of his wife for some reason. Snorting loudly, he reminded himself that she was coming to pick him up at the end of the party.
Another swig.
A quarter of the jar gone.
He needed to piss.
Setting his glass down next to the chip bowl, he lumbered towards the bathroom, stopping by different groups for a bit of small talk. The words of his friends and coworkers slipped by him, only a few sinking in. The water buffalo nodded and smiled, congratulating or condoling when it seemed fit. By the time he got to the bathroom, he felt as if his bladder would explode.
After the chief was done relieving himself, he took a moment to lean over the urinal, laughing as he struggled to zip up. It felt good to lean. The water buffalo thought he could feel the world rotating under his hooves. Nobody was in the bathroom, so Bogo let himself laugh at how drunk he was. His gravity felt immense, like every object should be attracted to him. Grumbling, he picked himself off the wall, washed his hooves, and walked back into the party.
His drink was full when he got back to it. He didn't bother looking around to see who had filled it, just smiled to himself and sipped. It was a collaborative effort, he was sure, just like the year before, and the year before that. Keep the chief's drink full, get him drunk.
Two jars later, Bogo was slurring a story of how his daughter got second place in a spelling bee to Francine when someone started to play a more danceable song. Pairs of officers made their way to the middle of the room to dance slowly by themselves or with others. Some took the melody seriously, swinging in rhythm, while others elected just to turn side to side, drink in paw. Bogo leaned against a wall, snout pointed towards the ceiling. It felt like his eyes were sinking slowly deeper inside his skull. He was starting to get sleepy.
A chant started on the dance floor, a chorus of requests for the chief of the ZPD.
"Bo-go! Bo-go! Bo-go!" shouted his officers, waiting expectantly for their boss to draw himself away from the wall.
He smiled a stupid, wide smile, rising back to full height before stumbling forward. From behind their backs, his officers brought out christmas ornaments they had taken off the tree in the lobby. One of them held an incredibly ugly sweater. The water buffalo was too tired to refuse as they stretched the clothes over him, decorating his horns with the stolen ornaments. The water buffalo bellowed with laughter once they were done, the cadets cowering at the festive monster their chief had become. He roamed the dance floor, thudding from one end to the other until someone gripped his wrist with a stern grasp. The chief of ZPD turned to meet the face of his wife.
She had an eyebrow raised, smiling at the ornaments dangling off his horns. Her grasp slid down so she could hold his hoof in hers. Even through his drunken stupor, Bogo shivered at her touch. His wife gently captured his gaze in her own. Big brown eyes, he thought, beautiful brown eyes.
"You've outdone yourself this time, officer," she said, and began to sway with the music.
She wore a white dress, plain and simple, that flowed as she rocked softly. Bogo stumbled trying to match her, but managed to get the hang of it within a couple steps, wrapping a hoof around her waist. The water buffalo leaned heavily on her, but she was more than able to support him, just like always.
Realizing they were witnessing something special, the precinct howled and cheered as they watched the chief dance with his wife, the two of them hulking over the dance floor.
When he stuffed his snout into her neck, he discretely grazed on the hairs there, grinding them between his front teeth like she taught him in college. Bogo grinned when her grip tightened and breath hitched. He leaned close to her ear.
"I'm drunk, Eileen," he said, and she laughed beautifully.
"Yes, you are. Would you like me to take you home?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Please," he said, and the two of them departed to the goodbyes of the other officers.