A/N
Disclaimer: This is a work inspired by and based directly off of Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Mr. Tod. I claim no rights to that work, but I would appreciate it if no one were to re-post this work of fan-fiction anywhere else, please and thank you!
Mr. Tod did not consider himself to be among those needy, annoyingly helpless folk who, rather than figuring things out on their own, asked for aid or food in any possible way that they could get it. No, he was higher than that, and if he couldn't catch a rabbit or lead a simpleton duck away from their homestead, well, he resorted to other methods. And those 'other methods' included fishing.
While the stunningly dressed fox was in no way a veteran fisherman, he supposed that he had the potential to be an adequate one and decided that it was worth a try. Now, in order to catch up on current events, we must skip past the bit where Mr. Tod strides out of his home, cane pole in hand, and is confronted with the sight of a grey and white menace digging through his flower beds with dirt sprinkled all throughout his fur. We must also, sadly, avert out eyes when the gentle-fox stomps over to the unfortunate, yet extremely uncouth being, and soundly beat the living daylights out of him with the fishing pole while receiving nothing more than a few gruff cries and the occasional swing. Then, of course, we have to move on to next part of the story before we are able to see a very panicked blur of orange-y red fur dash over the hill and down to the river, leaving a very disgruntled badger in its dust.
Yes, all of those events must be skipped in order for the story to go on!
Birds sang to their heart's content as blades of healthy green grass and colorful flowers swayed, seemingly with the tune of their lively song and not the persistent blowing of the wind. Their hearts must be greedy little buggers, the fox, Mr. Tod in case you had not yet figured it out, thought scornfully, before looking up from the fishing pole at his most recent object of distaste. Said object of distaste was currently rooting around a shady spot that was not far off in the distance, looking for worms and God-knows-what-else-he-manages-to-consume.
It had been a lovely, sunny morning until that brute had shown his ugly mug around the quaint little cottage that the fox called home. Mr. Tod hadn't the foggiest idea about why Tommy Brock decided it would be proper of him to slink around the fox's territory for the umpteenth time, just this Spring. Then again, the fox hadn't exactly been the victor of their last squabble, so maybe that was the cause of the badger's boldness.
Glaring balefully at his nemesis' hulking form, from a relatively safe distance, Mr. Tod ground his teeth together in barely harnessed anger, and sulkily busied himself with his fishing.