Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws
Author's Note:
After much reflection, I have decided to remove The Fire Triangle form my story list and rewrite it in a different form
This decision is based partially on some of the feedback I have received about the story, and partially on a number of things I've observed for myself.
After watching the Zootopia movie again and rereading what I had written so far, I came to realize the bunny and fox in The Fire Triangle are not Nick Wilde and Judy Hopps; they're two completely different characters with the same names. That needs to change; they need to get back in spirit with the animals we saw in the movie. I have also decided that the story would be better served written in the past rather than the present tense.
Last, and perhaps most significant, I went back and re-read some of the pre-Zootopia stories I had written about my OC Conor Lewis…and discovered, much to my dismay, that he too had morphed in a practically unrecognizable version of himself. (He was never a Mary Sue in his original incarnation.)
When your own character turns into someone you can't identify or even like all that much, it's time for a reboot.
I plan to do the rewrite in two stages. I have removed the Prologue but will leave Part 1 up until the full Prologue rewrite is posted. Then Part 1 will come down and gradually be reposted in a new version.
The first chapter of the rewritten prologue appears below:
The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction
by
Merc Marten
From Wikipedia:
The fire triangles or combustion triangles are simple models for understanding the necessary ingredients for most fires.
The triangle illustrates the three elements a fire needs to ignite: heat, fuel, and an oxidizing agent (usually oxygen).
A fire naturally occurs when the elements are present and combined in the right mixture, meaning that fire is actually an event rather than a thing.
"Italy wants peace and quiet, work and calm. I will give these things with love if possible and with force if necessary."
Benito Mussolini, 1925
"When the Gods wish to punish us, they grant our wishes."
Oscar Wilde
Prologue - Escape From Zoo York
Zoo York City, Easter Sunday
[]
"My greatest pleasure is to choose one's victim, to prepare one's plans minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then to go to bed. There is nothing sweeter in the world."
Joseph Stalin, 1915
Prologue – Escape From Zoo York: Chapter 1
Danny Tipperin had never cared much for his underworld nickname—but he understood its value; when you're a relatively small species, a moniker that fairly breathes 'don't mess with me' can be very useful at times.
This, of course, is providing you have the skills to go with it—which you better believe Danny did—and though he couldn't possibly know it, he was less than five minutes away from demonstrating that his street handle was both well-earned and richly deserved.
Danny was a swift fox, a mid-size species as foxes go, standing in at about halfway between a red fox and a fennec fox. Like all of his species, he had fur the color of wheat straw turning to steel gray around the back, and with black highlights dusting the nose and hindquarters. Also typical for a swift-fox he was possessed of a lean, rangy physique, kept rock hard and limber-trim through daily workouts at the local gym. His brown eyes were both sharp and inquisitive.
Unlike most members of the gang, Danny was nobody's flashy dresser, no pinky-ring on his little finger, no gold chains around his neck; his wristwatch was titanium, not platinum. The closest thing to a bauble on his furson in fact was his tie pin—a tiny, golden globe bisected by an anchor.
That was one decoration Danny was more than willing to wear; he'd earned that right, (although usually he went open-collared, instead affixing the pin to his left lapel.)
Today however, was not 'usually'.
"This is a bad idea."
The unbidden thought had been popping into Danny's head ever since he'd awakened that morning. Now it burst in his psyche with the clarity of a thunderclap, causing the swift fox to startle in his seat for a second.
Fortunately he was stopped for a light at the moment and no one else had seen him.
Not that it mattered; both Danny and his reputation were well known to everyone in the Down Under the Mammalhattan Bridge Overpass district, (more commonly known by its acronym;) even if his discomfort had been observed by every animal in the neighborhood, not a single one of them would have even so much as acknowledged it.
The light turned green and he moved on.
After five more blocks and a sharp right turn, 'Heads up, here's Finagles', as the locals liked to say.
It was a trick of the local topography that the club never came gradually into view. One second it was nowhere to be seen and then there it was, in all its glazed-brick glory. Unusual for Zoo York City, the place came with a sprawling parking lot, a once-and former cargo dock. It was prime real-estate that empty lot, especially for this part of Barklyn, but no developer in his right mind would dream of making an offer on it—not unless he relished the idea of spending the next three months in a wheelchair.
A Zoo York magazine columnist had once described Finagle's architecture as 'sugar-cubist'; a towering, modernist castle, sheathed entirely in hotel-soap white. Even in daylight with the neon dimmed to a cool ash-gray it was a hard place to miss.
As Danny knew well, those lights would not be coming back on for at least another week…as attested to by the flowing blue-and white banner spanning the front of the building, "Closed For Annual Spring Cleaning."
Danny knew of course, that his was only partially true; yes the club was shutting its doors for the coming week, but the annual spruce-up was only the secondary reason. There was another deeper purpose behind the closure.
"This is a bad idea."
He put away the thought and peered through the windshield; yep, there he was, right where he belonged.
Up ahead, seated on a folding camp chair, was the rotund bulk of the Alaskan Brown Bear, holding down fort at the parking lot's middle gate. (The other two were both locked.)
Danny smirked as he noted Benny Beerbohm was sporting what had to be the world's ugliest Hawaiian shirt, a hideous red thing decorated with cartoon pineapples.
"The Mister must have hadda put a GUN to Benny's head to get him to wear that get-up." The swift fox mused quietly to himself.
The big bear also looked as if he were about to nod off at any second.
From long experience, Danny knew that Benny's half-asleep routine was an act; he could appear nearly comatose one second, and all over you in the next. Among his other duties, he was one of the club's resident bouncers.
Pulling his car up to the gate Danny scrutinized the Benny more closely. Did he have…? Yes, in the brown bag under his seat; Danny could see pawprints around the edges as if it had been picked up and put down several times already.
"He better be packing heat today." The swift fox reminded himself, "We ALL should."
He beeped the horn twice. Benny offered him a bored look, but no greeting. Then he reached for the bag, got up and lumbered over to open the gate. Danny nodded in appreciation. Even now the bear was keeping his weapon handy; that was how you did it.
"This is a bad idea."
Danny slammed the thought back in its box and pulled his car through the gate, offering Benny a desultory wave as he passed. The bear did not return it.
Easing into his private parking space a moment later Danny took note of Zeke Zinneman parked by the back door, leaning his chair against the wall and noodling around on a computer tablet.
Like Benny Beerbohm, Zeke was an Alaskan Brown Bear; UN-like his fellow ursine he was someone Danny neither liked nor respected. (Benny he respected, a surly jerk but also a professional to the core; you couldn't say that about this loudmouth.)
"You better not be playing Wreck-It Rhino on the job again, sugar-bear." The swift fox growled under his breath as he killed the engine. "If The Mister finds out you were goofing off at your post TODAY, there won't be enough left of your butt to make a decent throw rug."
He unbuckled his seat-belt and cracked the door, pushing it open with his feet.
Danny's car the closest thing he had in his life to a pride and joy, a late model, fireball red Dawdge Chinchillanger. It was at least two sizes too big for his species; more appropriate to a wolf than a swift-fox. No problem, he'd had the seats and pedals modified to suit his height. (The red squirrel that did the job had also made certain 'engine mods' and fitted the windows with bulletproof glass.)
Sliding to the ground and dropping into a three-point stance, Danny swung the door closed with his elbow and thumbed a button on his key-fob, popping the trunk.
He next proceeded to demonstrate how the swift-fox species came by its name; skittering around to the back of the vehicle, he made a jackknife leap up and into the truck, emerging a split-second later with a backpack in his jaws, held by one of the straps.
Standing up again, he slung the pack over shoulder and pressed the key-fob button a second time, watching as the trunk clammed up. Then he turned and head for the club's back door
Danny had known it was coming even before he got out of the car. And yep, at the very instant he came around the front, Zeke's face broke into a big, smarmy grin.
"Hey, I like that pack, it's perfect for yas."
The backpack was a mite too small even for a swift fox, and emblazoned on the back in, spiky stylized script were the words, 'Kingdom Harts'.
Danny would have the bear's remark slide, except at that moment a shadow darted across the Chinchillinger's hood, leaving a sickly white splatter in its wake. Expressionless, Danny looked up, following the path of the offending seagull as it beat a hasty retreat.
For a second, his head tilted sideways, as a fox will do when something piques its curiosity.
And then he flipped open his sport coat, and slipped his paw inside, as casually as if he were reaching for his wallet to pay the check at a sidewalk café.
What he drew out instead was a hi-tech tranquilizer dart gun.
Hardly bothering even to glance at his target, the swift fox took aim and pulled the trigger. By now, the seagull had shrunk to the size of an Emoji, but after three more seconds, it stopped in midair and went plummeting into a pile of grain sacks on a distant pier, out cold.
Returning the weapon to its holster, Danny was pleased to take note of the fact that Zeke was making haste to put the tablet away. It was good to remind the lesser gang members every once in a while that Danny Tipperin wasn't known on the street as 'The Danaconda' because the name had a nice ring to it.
Never one to waste good motion, even as the swift fox stowed the weapon he was already grabbing a pawkerchief and hopping up onto the hood of his car. It took only three good swipes to remove the seagull's calling card, but Zeke apparently thought even this small effort was too much work; he cupped his paws to his muzzle.
"Heyyy, whaddaya doin' over there, Tipperin? Don't clean up that goo yourself, get Dylan to take care of it for yas."
At this Danny paused for a second. If Zeke thought he was going to take the suggestion as a peace offering, he was even more disconnected than the swift fox thought. He felt his right upper lip begin to twitch and then rise up, exposing a fang.
But again he said nothing, instead pausing to look out over the East river. A stiff breeze had begun to kick up, churning the surface into a diamond pattern. He should have found the image a calming influence, but instead…
"This is a bad idea."
The thought had come with a small advance warning for once and so this time Danny felt no urge to flinch. (Not in front of Zeke!)
But when he slid down off the hood and turned towards the rear of Finagles again, a new hot thought came crashing in on top of it.
"This is the last time I'm ever gonna see this place."
Once again, the swift fox managed to keep his composure, but only just. To compensate, he drew a toothpick from his breast pocket and popped it into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. It was his stock method of cooling his jets, a fact known only to Kieran and Dylan, his only two friends within the Company; (actually more like one and a half friends—but never mind.) Most of the others, Zeke Zinneman included, were tolerant of him at best, contemptuous at worst, and there was at least one member of The Company who hated his guts with a passion.
He shifted the toothpick to the corner of his mouth, studying Zeke for a second.
Like most of the gang's other heavies, Zeke Zinneman was an Alaskan Brown Bear, the largest of all ursine species…and in Danny's opinion, a vastly overrated one; in the animal kingdom, size doesn't always matter. Alaskan browns might be the biggest of all bears, but for speed, aggression, and pound-for-pound strength, no other ursine could match a Malayan Sun Bear…and that wasn't even mentioning the Sun Bears' long, curving, diamond-sharp claws, capable of reducing a coconut to milk and fragments with only a single swipe.
Danny had seen them do it—in his position within the company he did a lot of traveling—and against any one of those guys, Zeke wouldn't last five seconds.
He shuddered slightly at another new thought. And that was only if you stacked Zeke up against a member of his OWN species. There was another mammal Danny knew of whose size belayed its destructive capabilities even more so than a sun-bear—MUCH more. Members of this particular species were known to take on a predators twenty times their own size…and obliterate them.
And very shortly, he was going to be face-to-face with a whole slew of these animals…including the one he'd once hoped never to meet again.
"This is a BAD idea."
He shook it off and hitched the pack over his shoulder again, heading for the rear entrance.
"Any of the others here yet, Zeke?" he queried as he approached. Having made his point, he could afford to be civil.
"Only Kieran," the bear shrugged, but Danny was pleased nonetheless. Good, that was who he wanted to see anyway. Well, Kieran and one other…
He caught himself as he noted that the corners of Zeke's mouth were curling downward in an angry grimace.
"What?" he asked.
Before answering, the bear looked left and right, and then lowered his voice to conspiratorial murmur, actually more of a snarl.
"Junior was hanging around a while ago. I ain't seen him since, but that don't mean anything." His face was a mask of contempt.
Danny growled, wanted to fox-scream. Dangit, the guy he least wanted to run into right now!
Zeke just growled back, nodding. Junior was one of the few points upon which they agreed wholeheartedly.
But Danny still didn't like him.
"Here, wanna get rid of this for me." He said, tossing him the soiled pawkerchief. Zeke bobbled the kerchief and nearly dropped it.
"Hey, I ain't your garbage…!"
But Danny was already through the door.
Inside, the swift-fox scooted down the steps on all fours and began strolling through the kitchen towards the dance-floor, It was a big place—most of the kitchen staff were large mammal species and some of the utensils hanging from the rack over Danny's head were nearly the same size as himself.
In fact, Finagles' kitchen was fairly small for such a large establishment, but then, mammals didn't come to the club to eat.
As he passed by the last of the stoves, Danny paused for a second, lifting his muzzle and sniffing. It had been used recently, less than an hour ago by the aroma of things, and the specialite de la maison had been poached oysters.
Poached…which meant The Mister's guts were acting up again.
Not.
Good.
Especially today
"This is a bad idea."
"Yeah, yeah…tell me something I don't know." The swift fox grumbled silently, responding to the hot thought for the first time.
When Danny entered the dance-floor, he almost didn't recognize the place. Although certainly no stranger to Finagles, he had only been here once before when the club wasn't open for business—and on that occasion the place had been under construction; workers of practically every species swarming everywhere.
Not so today; now the floor was empty, as silent as deserted cathedral; the light inside the enclosure gray and dancing with motes. The only thing needed to complete the effect would have been the sound of pigeons' wings beating.
Hard to believe, in the midst of all this quietude, that Finagle's was the hottest dance club in the Five Burrows, but it was all that and in spades. In the whole of Zoo York City, there was no better hangout for celebrity-watching; on any given night you might find yourself sharing the dance floor with Derek Cheetah, rubbing shoulders at the bar with Emma Stoat, or watching Bradly Raccooper stroll past your seat. Gazelle always reserved a table here whenever she was in town, occasionally wowing the patrons with an impromptu serenade. (On her last visit to the club, she had brought down the house with a preview of her brand-new single, "Try Everything.")
Swept away by the memory Danny found himself looking upwards, past the terraces of tables stacked with upturned chairs, towards top tier and the table upon which Gazelle been standing on that magical night.
And then his eyes went up even further, towards the window of the office perched high above the terraces; the curtains were drawn, but lights were on; The Mister was in his den. Zeke hadn't mentioned this earlier, but then Danny was expected to know his boss's whereabouts at all times without needing to be told.
James, 'The Mister' McCrodon was the off-the-books owner of Finagles—and also head of The Company, the most feared gang of criminals on the east coast. So vicious was their reputation that even the formidable Mr. Big was known to a wary eye on them, never mind that his home turf was 3000 miles away.
It was an open secret in Zoo York City that The Company ran Finagles. In most other towns, that would have kept the patrons away in droves. Here, it had just the opposite effect. As the late Jimmy Bearslin had once observed, "There's nothing a Zoo Yorker loves more than thinking he got away with it."
In addition to Finagles (and several other legitimate businesses) The Company had their paws in a myriad of other enterprises, none of them legal, loansharking, online gambling, and bootleg pharmaceuticals to name just three, but the gang's piece-de-resistance was illegal arms trading…and that was where Danny Tipperin came in.
By no means were the swift fox's abilities with weapons limited to his shooting skills; he could tell an ersatz copy of a firearm from the real deal with only a quick glance. (And woe unto the animal who tried to pull a bait-and-switch on THIS fox.) Accordingly, he wielded a lot of clout within the Company…and enjoyed a great deal of resentment from the other members because of it, especially from…
"What the HECK?"
At the opposite end of the dance-floor, the double doors had just flown open and a troop of beavers were trundling in, carrying a pair of huge logs on their shoulders.
To call it a precarious balancing act would have been the understatement of the year; beavers are engineers, not pack animals; Danny winced as he watched the logs pitch and yaw, ships broaching to on an angry sea. It was only when one of them came that close to taking out a row of tables that he realized he should quit just standing there and DO something.
But before he could move or even speak, someone else came in through the double door, a young sea-mink, the much-larger cousin of the common mink.
He was dressed in a silk suit with an open-collar shirt and massive gold chain encircling his throat; a laughable ensemble given his scarecrow-scrawny physique, coupled with bad fur and whiskers like strands of a steel wool pad. He had turned 21 a month ago but looked like he was barely old enough for a driver's license.
Danny Tipperin had never met Duke Weaselton, but if he had, his first conclusion would have been that compared to James McCrodon Jr, the Dukester was Prince Charming…and it wasn't just his looks as Jimmy Junior now proceeded to demonstrate
Though it seemed to the swift-fox that the beavers were making their best efforts, it apparently wasn't good enough forJunior. All at once he commenced to exhort the rodents with exaggerated paw gestures—and a voice not unlike that of a chicken about to have its head lopped off.
"Come on, come on… move yer paddle tails! Get goin' we don't got forever. Hi-Ho! Hi-Ho! It's off to work we GO!"
None of the beavers answered him verbally. But one or two of the big rodents—standing safely behind Junior, where he couldn't see them—responded by giving him the gesture known as the 'red-eye'…pulling down on a lower eyelid, while sticking out their tongues.
Danny of course could see them, but he said nothing, instead watching the spectacle with a mixture of amusement and scorn.
But then she saw that this jury rigged carnival was headed straight for where he was standing. He felt his ears turn sideways and his neck fur standing up; bad enough that Junior was here, but now he'd have the punk right in his face.
Not quite; at the center of the floor, the procession halted, and the beavers somehow managed to set the logs down with dropping them. When they set to work on the wood with their teeth, the swift fox felt his ears roll upwards and point at each other. This whole thing was getting crazier and crazier.
Glancing over at Junior, Danny saw that the sea-mink appeared to have lost interest in the project. He had plugged in a pair of ear-buds and was grooving along with his iPaw, oblivious to the world at large.
"I'm shipping up to Pawston….Heyyyyy-eyyyyy, oooo…"
Danny turned his attention back to the beavers, watching half mesmerized.
But then he began to see a purpose to all the effort; the big rodents were hewing the logs into a huge, ornate conference table and a set of matching chairs.
Well fine, except…
"This is a really bad idea!"
The swift fox sucked at his toothpick for a moment, considering his options.
And then he went over and tapped Jimmy Jr. on the shoulder. The sea-mink spun around rapidly, annoyed at having his groove interrupted; even more so when he recognized the culprit.
"What's going on, Junior?" Danny asked him, waving towards the half-finished table.
In spite of his dislike for the fox, or perhaps because of it, Jimmy Jr. couldn't resist puffing a little.
"What do you think, huh?" he said, pulling out the left earbud. "I'm having it made-up special, just for the sit-down."
Removing the second earbud, Junior turned to Danny with folded arms and a self-satisfied smile, as if expecting the swift-fox to fall on his knees, chanting Hosannas in recognition of such a brilliant coup.
No such luck, Tipperin's nod was lukewarm as best…and then he even frowned.
"Nice furnishin's." He allowed, extending an open paw towards the work-in-progress, "But look at the mess you're making over here."
Already the floor was ankle-deep in shards and shavings—and the pile was growing steadily higher.
Caught off guard, Jimmy blinked and wrung his paws. As happened all too frequently with the stripling sea-mink, he hadn't thought things through.
But then he swiftly recovered, waving one paw in a throwaway gesture.
"No problem, I'll have Dylan clean it up."
Danny Tipperin felt his left eyebrow spiking upwards.
"All THAT…all by himself?"
Even as he spoke, the swift-fox knew what Junior's answer would be and moved quickly to pre-empt it.
"Anyway, the Mister's got other things for him to do," He said, holding up the backpack for added effect, "He ain't just our Go-Fer anymore, ya know."
As he'd hoped, Junior said nothing to this, responding only with a sullen nod, but Danny couldn't help but note the bristling neck-fur was and the curling lip. It was almost as if the swift-fox had just made a dig, (and in fact, he had.)
Junior might have given voice to his pique…except he had bigger concerns at the moment; Danny was right, the dance floor looked like the aftermath of a tornado hitting a lumberyard.
And when his The Mister came down and saw the landfill his son had created, and right before the big sit down….!
He began to wring his paws once more, this time completely helpless.
Danny Tipperin knew he was going to regret this…and on any other day he would have left Junior to stew in his own broth. Today, however, that was not an option; he clapped his paws, speaking to the crew of beavers.
"Okay guys, listen up! When you're done with the woodwork, we need yas to get this place cleaned up, and cleaned up good. Extra fifty in it for each of ya…do a real good job and I'll make it a hundred per."
The rodents' response was a whoop and a cheer; a few of them giving each other tail slaps, before setting back to work with gusto.
Danny nodded and turned away, feeling satisfied—that is until he found himself confronted by one VERY ticked off Junior McCrodon.
"Don't worry, I'm good for it," he told the sea-mink, offering a placating gesture to the sea-mink.
But Junior didn't want to be placated; he narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth;
"Hey short-stuff, what do you think you're doing, hijacking MY show, huh?"
Danny rolled the toothpick between his lips, his face—and his neck fur—betraying nothing of his emotions, a practiced habit that had taken the swift-fox many long hours of concentration to develop.
"Hey, I'm just trying to help out over here." He said, offering a mild shrug…a response not even close to the one he'd have LIKED to give this punk. (Benny or Zeke would have gotten a trank dart if they'd ever bared their fangs at him.)
Danny might just as well have saved his breath; when Jimmy Jr.'s mouth was running, it was impossible for him to catch up with it.
"When I want YOUR help, I'll ask for it…shrimp!"
For half a second everything appeared to freeze in place, like a digital movie FX; the beavers, the wood chips, even the air in the enclosure seemed to screech to halt. Danny could handle 'short stuff', no sweat…but calling this fox a shrimp was like wiping your feet on a live rattlesnake.
Nonetheless, his ears stayed put and his voice remained on an even keel. It was only the spiking of his neck fur that offered any indication of his mood…and Jimmy Jr. couldn't see it from where he was standing.
"What'd you call me, Junior?" he asked…a little too carelessly.
At this, the beavers abruptly ceased working and several of them ducked behind the table. They got it.
Junior didn't…
"I called you shrimp." He sneered, leaning over Danny with his paws on his hips," What are you gonna DO about it...pipsqueak?"
What Danny did about it was…nothing.
…for about three seconds, and then he spit the toothpick violently out the side of his mouth; making a sound like the discharge of a paintball gun.
The effect was like changing a channel. In the blink of an eye the cocky young had mustelid morphed into a walking panic-attack. With terrified shriek, he backed pell-mell away from the swift fox, in the process catching his foot in his tail and tumbling over backwards onto his butt.
Hisses, coughs, and stifled sniggers came from all around the sea mink as he shot back furiously to his feet.
"You…You dirty…." He sniffed, fighting back the tears, "Just wait 'til I tell my dad!"
"An just what will you tell him then, cousin?" a new voice queried, rich and high with an Irish-cream brogue and more than a touch of irony, "That ye got scared over a toothpick that didn't even hit yer? Not the sort of thing to make yer look tough in the eyes of yer Da, is it then?"
Jimmy turned and Danny looked.
Another sea-mink had just joined the conversation…the polar opposite of Jimmy, big and hard muscled, dressed in designer jeans and a photo-print tee shirt, with the letters UFZ on the front, topped off by an 'old skool' motorcycle jacket and a red bandanna wrapped around his head. A tote bag and a manila envelope were tucked under his left arm,
"You stay outta this, Kieran," the young sea-mink raged, "and don't call me, 'cousin.'
"Believe me, James Jr." The larger mustelid's eyes were shining as he offered a lye-soaked grin, "there's nothin' I'd like better than to never have to call YOU cousin."
"Oh, yeah?" Junior sounded like kit on a schoolyard. "Oh yeah! Well don't forget nerd-geek, someday you're gonna call ME Mister McCrodon."
With eyebrows raised and eyes rolling, Kieran and Danny exchanged a look. Yeah, right… and how's everything else in Fantasyland?
Then Kieran turned an almost thoughtful expression on Junior "Nerd-geek, am I? Well, now…" Looking quietly to the right, he spied basket sized block of wood, sitting forlornly amidst the rest of detritus of the table-in-progress.
With stunning, blinding speed, the sea-mink wheeled about and brought his pawlm heel down on the block; splitting it in two with a loud crack, though his paw barely seemed to touch the wood.
"…I wouldn't say that." he concluded, turning back to his cousin with an almost beatific smile. Both the envelope and tote bag were right where they'd been when he started.
The move was somewhat less effective than Danny's gesture had been; Junior didn't go tail-over-teakettle again, he only reeled back a little.
Even so…
"You'll be sorry, both of you." The skinny sea-mink glared from Danny to Kieran and back again with moist, shining eyes.
"Just wait," he promised, leveling a finger …and then hurried off in the direction of the elevator, scurrying on all fours.
As soon as he was gone, Kieran turned to Danny with a skewed, sardonic expression on his face.
"D'yer want to kick me first or shall I start?" They both knew where Junior was headed.
"Let's just get down to business." The swift fox answered in a tired, grating voice. Behind him, the beavers had finished work on the table and chairs and were starting the clean-up process.
"Right," Said Kieran, pointing to the backpack, "You got the goods then, boyo?"
Danny patted the side of the pack, "It's all set. Just gotta get the regular stuff packed on top and it's good to go." He set it down, nodding toward the Manila envelope still nestled under the sea-mink's arm, "What about your end Druid, you ready to roll?"
Kieran clamped his jaws and hissed through his teeth.
"Shhh, don't call me that in front o' them beavers, boyo."
It wasn't that the nickname bothered him—in fact, Kieran reveled in it. But only Danny, the Mister and one other animal was permitted to call him by that name and nobody had better be heard using it in public.
"Sorry," the swift fox answered, looking uncharacteristically apologetic.
Kieran nodded and removed envelope from beneath his elbow.
"All set." He answered, patting the side, the way Danny had done with the backpack.
"What about that?" the swift fox queried, pointing towards the tote-bag, still nestled under Kieran's arm.
A corner of sea-mink's mouth pulled inwards.
"Tha-a-at's not goin' with Dylan, boyo…it's the laptop, the Hail-Mary laptop if yer know what I mean. The Mister wants me to keep it with me all times today. I think yer can understand why."
Danny glanced for a second towards the finished table, a richly carved, baroque design, then back at the sea mink again.
"At least he's tryin' to cover his bets a little," he said.
He'd have liked to say more, but just then Kieran interrupted with a small hiss of air from the side of his mouth.
"Sssst, better brace up boyo…here he comes now, looks like."
Danny turned and looked backwards. Yep, there was the elevator, descending slowly from the club's upper terrace. He tried to peer closer but all he could see through the glass were the backs of two more bears.
Kieran saw it too, and let out a long, stuttering breath.
"Oi, and he's got a PAIR of the wide boys with him; s'not a good sign, boyo."
Danny sighed, nodded, and then the both of them were standing up ramrod straight, prisoners on the scaffold awaiting the noose…which might soon very well be the case.
After a too-long moment, the elevator finally reached the ground floor. For an even longer second, nothing happened…and then the door slid opened and the bears stepped out, moving to stand on either side of the shaft while James McCrodon Jr. and James McCrodon Sr, (aka The Mister) also made their exits.
At the sight of their boss, Danny and Kieran had to force their faces to remain immobile, not because they were afraid (although they were) but rather to keep from betraying even a hint of their disgust.
The Mister wasn't just overweight, he was grossly, almost obscenely fat. (If Benjamin Clawhauser had chosen to step out onto the dance floor right now, he'd have looked half-starved by comparison.)
The Mister was also confined to a wheelchair, a GOLD plated wheelchair… a display so ostentatious it was practically hilarious; (although no one with half a brain would ever laugh at James 'The Mister' McCrodon…not within earshot anyway.)
"At least he's wearin 'a hat." Kieran observed in a whispering aside to Danny.
"Quiet!' Danny hissed, although privately he had to agree. The scalp beneath the Mister's touring cap could best be likened to the innards of a pink grapefruit.
In addition to the headgear he also had on tan slacks, a striped polo shirt…and a scowl a mile deep. Laying across his lap was his famous blackthorn walking stick—another sign that he was not in the best of moods.
Junior, on the other paw seemed almost ecstatic, jabbing a finger in Danny and Kieran's direction while practically dancing on his feet.
"That's them, Daddy…there they are!"
'They' just rolled eyes at each other; 'Daddy'…and as IF The Mister couldn't see them for himself.
Moving behind the chair one of the bears tried to take hold of the handles, but The Mister angrily waved him off and grabbed the wheels, barreling towards his pair of underlings like a freight train getting up steam.
"You…YOU! Get yer stinkin' tails over here an' right now!"
His voice was throaty, guttural, and gutter-coarse.
Danny and Kieran didn't need to guess who he was talking to, and they met their boss at the halfway point, nearly getting run over in the process.
Slamming to a halt only centimeters away from the pair, the Mister pointed to each of them in turn with his blackthorn stick.
"Awrite, Tipperin, Kieran, what's this I hear about youse two messing with my kid…again?"
It's Danny who answered first…or that is, he tried to.
"Mister McCrodon, it was all a misunder…"
"And what the heck is THIS stuff?" The Mister demanded, pointing angrily at the table with his stick, "Who gave you two morons permission to build a table right in the middle of my dance floor, huh? It's just a good thing Jimmy came along when he did to help get things cleaned up."
Normally, something like this would have prompted Danny and Kieran to exchange another look, but for the moment they were distracted; standing behind the wheelchair, invisible to his father, Jimmy Jr. had his thumbs in his ears, and was waggling his fingers and sticking his tongue out. Even the bears seemed to find this an outrageous display, but of course neither one would say a word.
Not Kieran though; THIS was just too much.
"Now wait a minute, Uncle James…"
That was far as he got before The Mister raised the blackthorn stick and brought it down in a sidelong slash.
Danny winced at the sound of the impact, but otherwise managed to keep his face straight. (Jimmy Jr. looked like a kid who'd just found a brand-new bicycle under the Christmas tree.)
"Mister McCrodon if you please." The Mister growled, rising halfway from the chair to lean over his prostrate nephew. His voice was low and surprising matter-of-fact…which Danny and Kieran knew meant that he was REALLY mad.
"No one calls me James," The Mister continued, a teacher correcting a particularly slow student, "or Jim, or Jimmy, or Uncle James. No one, period; not anyone in The Company, not either one of my brothers," Here he finally turned up the volume, "and especially not my cousin's kid! You got that, punk?"
He rolled the chair backwards and waited for Kieran to get up again.
Then he pointed with the stick once more, first at him, then at Danny.
"Never forget, the only reason you two idiots aren't in jail is 'cause of ME. I got you out…and I can put youse right back in again with one phone call. And when I hear about you picking on my boy, it gives me an itchy dialing finger…unnerstan'?"
Before they could answer, Junior tapped his father on the shoulder, looking quizzical.
"Dialing finger dad?"
'Dad' groaned and threw a paw in front of his son's face
"Shaddup!"
Junior shut up quickly and moved backwards, while his father turned an icy glare on Danny and Kieran…both of whom were struggling not to laugh.
"Unnerstan'?" he repeated, cocking an eyebrow.
"Yes, Mister McCrodon." Kieran answered, looking down and wincing.
"Yes boss." Danny nodded, slowly.
"Good," their boss nodded back, satisfied for the moment. He turned in his chair, speaking to Jimmy Jr., "Son, why don't you run along? I got some other business to talk over with these guys."
His voice was soft, almost affectionate…a tone which would have had anyone else scrambling for the door right NOW..
Not Junior though, "But Dad…!"
"Run along," his father said again, this time with an edge to his voice.
"Yes, sir." His son answered, and then sulked out the door with his tail dragging…but not before offering Danny and Kieran a farewell smirk of triumph.