Another drabble taking place during that one month gap, this time in the depths of everyone's favorite crime-ridden shithole!
Drabble 19: The Naked G-underground
The Nocturnal District
Zootopia Police Department - Precinct 7
5: 14 PM
It was late when the new recruit arrived, but really, who could even tell down here?
The opossum stood outside the station for a moment and straightened out his uniform, checking his reflection in the glass doors. His gray-furred face was calm and relaxed, but he could see his long tail flicking around nervously behind him. It would have to do, he supposed. Steeling himself, he stepped through the front doors, ready to do all he could in the service of Precinct 7. He spoke with a slight drawl. "Howdy, everyone, Gunther O'Possum here. I'm the new recruit, come to help in your crusade for...justice?"
He tried his best not to be immediately disappointed.
The building looked fairly small from the outside, but he was honestly hoping it would be bigger on the inside. It wasn't, and not just in terms of the building itself. He could count maybe ten officers max in his field of vision, which was admittedly unreliable since they were moving so quickly from place to place, desk to desk, drawer to drawer, desperately trying to keep up with the influx of orders they were getting. Others were on the phones, taking calls no longer than thirty seconds before hanging up and immediately taking another. No one had even noticed the young possum enter.
That was probably why two officers, a mole and a badger, had no problem stopping in front of him and having a conversation as if he wasn't there.
"How much did they pay you this time?" the mole whispered.
"Fifty bucks. Can you believe that?" the badger replied, taking out a suspicious-looking envelope. "But no worries, it's a daily payment now. See, I made this new deal where the Barks drop it off at my doorstep every night to ignore anything they do that day, even if they don't do anything at all. It's pretty sweet."
"Aw, lucky! I'm only getting two hundred a week from the Pets! You'd think they of all mammals would know how to throw someone a bone." The mole showed off an envelope of his own. "I'd switch providers, but I like my fingers where they are."
"Yeah. I feel ya, but them's the breaks."
Gunther couldn't believe what he was hearing. He wasn't an idiot; he'd heard the stories about how much of a criminal cesspool the Nocturnal District was, but he thought that the ZPD of all places would be free of such filthiness. Instead, he was watching these crooked cops openly display their corruption right in front of him. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, but he had to say something, right?
Fortunately, a harsh, raspy voice beat him to it. "Mitch! Gerry! If you're going to have a pissing contest over your dirty money, at least take it out of view of my office!"
The two officers jolted. "Y-Yes, Chief," the badger said quickly, both of them taking off in opposite directions and leaving Gunther face-to-face with the chief of Precinct 7. As soon as he looked down.
His name was Giles Farrow, a naked mole rat whose wrinkles had nothing to do with his age or species and everything to do with the stress of perpetually fighting a losing battle. He was somewhat of a legend to the cadets back at the academy, albeit one that most of them had no desire to ever meet in person. Gunther wasn't too excited about it himself, but he couldn't blame the guy for being the way he was. Not in a place like this.
Now if only he would stop staring at him.
The old rodent's milky blue eyes looked him up and down, so glossy that Gunther could only really tell by the way the light reflected off of them. Though he couldn't imagine his standards were terribly high, he was pleased when he gave an approving grunt regardless. "Hmph. You look to be in pretty good shape. Follow me."
Gunther did as he was told, weaving between the other officers as they continued to scramble back and forth. Farrow just walked calmly forward, letting them move around him and showing no fear of being stepped on despite his miniscule size. Gunther was pretty sure he wouldn't get the same courtesy in his position.
They entered the chief's office toward the back, up a short flight of stairs so as to give him a view of the entire work area. But he shut the door and closed the blinds anyway, probably so he wouldn't be distracted by another incident like the one he had just witnessed. Farrow sat himself down at his desk, not even waiting for Gunther to take his own seat before he started speaking. "So what type are you?"
"Pardon me, sir?"
"In the forty years I've been chief of this shithole, there are two main types of mammals I've seen get assigned here," he explained. "The first type is lazy and unambitious, content to get paid for a thankless job where they accomplish little good and get extra money not to act half the time. The second type is overzealous and hopelessly naive, thinking they'll be the one to fix the Nocturnal District, only to inevitably have their body and/or spirit broken beyond repair." He gave him a second to stew on that. "So I'll ask again, what type are you?"
Gunther's prehensile tail curled and rested on his lap, giving his paws something to squeeze nervously. "Well, sir, Major Friedkin said I was mighty resourceful when I wanted to be. Okay, that don't sound too great when I say it out loud. I'm just trying to do my part to help mammals, so I didn't actually care which precinct I got assigned to. By which I mean to say I'm happy to serve any of them! See, my cousin actually just became a defense lawyer, and granted she hasn't been doing it for very long, but I can still pick up a thing or two from her. Have picked up, I mean! So I'm ready for whatever ya can throw at me. I mean, whatever this district can. I mean-"
"Type 1, got it," Farrow said, cutting off his rambling. "And please, don't give me your life story. I don't want to get attached."
"Um, right." Gunther cleared his throat. "So I'm good to get started then?"
"Yes, and you start immediately. We don't pussyfoot around here."
"Great!" He smiled, trying to hide the nervousness he still felt. "Who's my partner gonna be?"
Farrow let out a barking laugh, not an ounce of humor attached to it. "Partner. That's a good one. You think we have enough officers here that we can afford to pair them off?"
Gunther reflexively tried to look back outside the office, only to remember that the blinds were still down. "...No, sir."
"The only reason I even let scumbags like Mitch and Gerry work here is because if I didn't, we'd be even more hopelessly irrelevant than we are now. But don't worry, I'm not just going to throw you to the wolves," Farrow assured. "Or anything else unfortunate enough to live down here. I'll be personally training you until I'm confident you won't just up and die on me in the first month."
Gunther looked back, unable to hide his shock. "You're going out in the field, sir? Just to train a rookie?"
"There's no one else I trust to do it right," he said bluntly. "Besides, I'm always working cases, just like anyone else here. The chief of Precinct 7 doesn't get the luxury of staying behind a desk all day. I just get the top priority ones."
"What do you mean by that?" Gunther asked. This was already so different from what he'd been taught in the academy.
Farrow pointed to a black phone stationed at his desk. Unlike every other phone in the building, it hadn't rung once since he'd gotten here. "This is my personal line. In case you haven't noticed, there is far too much crime in this district for us to respond to it all, so the cases are sorted by priority." He raised a furless paw to stop Gunther from speaking. "Yes, I know how that sounds. I'm not happy about it either, but it's a system that works. When crime is the norm, only the highest priority cases get redirected to me, the ones that pose the most threat to what's left of civilization down here."
"And you're gonna take the newest recruit with you on one of these cases?"
"Correct."
"Where you're basically admitting that I could potentially die. And, in fact, have the highest probability of dying possible."
"Like I said, it's a system that works," Farrow said, unsympathetic. "It's not too late to walk out, you know. Whine to Friedkin about wanting a different placement. You wouldn't be the first and there's, officially, no shame in it."
"Just making an observation," Gunther muttered. He was tempted to accept that offer, but the mammals down here needed all the help they could get. That much was clearer than ever now. "We sit here and wait then?"
The phone rang.
"It's never a long wait," Farrow said bitterly, answering the call. "Chief Farrow speaking."
Gunther waited patiently as he received the report, wondering just what kind of "top priority" case he was about to be thrust into.
"What?!" Farrow snapped, gritting his buck teeth. "Say that again!"
The chief hadn't seemed surprised by much of anything so far. That was already a troubling sign.
"I see. I'll get right on it then." Farrow hung up, so deep in thought that he seemed to forget he wasn't alone.
"What is it?" Gunther asked, his suspicion confirmed when he made him jump.
"There are two savage mammals on the loose out there," he said. "The Night Howler kind of savages, not the regular kind."
The fact that he felt the need to clarify that gave Gunther some pause. "That is serious. Alright, we better get out there then."
Despite his cynical attitude just minutes prior, Farrow hesitated. "I know what I said, but...you don't have to come along on the very first case I get. That's just a guideline. Maybe you could stay here until I get a homicide case or something. Mammals who will just shoot you instead of literally eating you alive."
"I can't do that, sir," Gunther said, the possum forcing himself to sit up straight. "I might not have a lot of ambition, but I do care about helping others, and these savages pose a huge risk to innocent lives. I want to do my part to stop them."
Farrow looked him over just like before, as if rethinking his initial read on the rookie. Finally, he smiled. It wasn't a wholly pleasant smile. "Alright then. I'll show you to the car."
5: 48 PM
Gunther had some concerns about how he was going to fit in the chief's car, but as seemed to be a tradition amongst the precinct chiefs, it was far bigger than Farrow required and more than big enough for his passenger. Big enough that it almost didn't meet the criteria for a small mammal vehicle. Down here though, it was understood that the more protection you could afford, the better.
As they left the station, they hit a bump that Gunther really hoped was just a rock. He did his best to cast his gaze upwards, towards the beautiful arrays of stalactites and glowworms that hung from the cavernous ceilings, and not the scum and villainy that stayed at ground level. He wondered for a moment if he should be looking, if he was contributing to the problem by averting his eyes, but the reminder that he was actively doing nothing for all of these innocents simply because they weren't considered high enough priority was too much to handle right now.
"I used to have the same problem," Farrow said, keeping his eyes firmly on the road yet still reading him like a book. Doubly impressive for someone with impaired vision. "That's the worst part about working down here. Not the crime or the corruption, but how little we can do about any of it. Try to save everyone and you'll save no one. Had to learn that the hard way."
"And here we are, just cruising on by, in the safety of a patrol car," Gunther replied. He had pressed his face up against the window to see the depravity outside and found himself unable to pull it away. Not being terribly large himself, he could sometimes only see the carnage from the knee down, which somehow made it worse.
"Unfair, isn't it? Even down here, no crook is going to blatantly attack the police unprovoked, no matter how stupid. It's an unnecessary risk when there are far easier marks around. Not to mention all the bribe money. Precinct 7 is one of the safest buildings in the Nocturnal District, just for all the wrong reasons."
Gunther was going to get seriously depressed if this conversation kept going much longer, so he decided to change the subject. "How are we gonna deal with the savages?"
"Well, that matter is a little bit tricky," he said. "And part of the reason why I was reluctant to bring you along. The thing is, we don't actually have the antidote to the Night Howler toxin readily available."
"What?!" That much was enough to finally get him off the window. "Are you serious? Why not?"
"Unlike most of the city, that whole crisis never really hit us." Farrow replied. "I guess Bellwether didn't bother trying to cause chaos down here. Wouldn't exactly stand out. One of the few benefits of being so cut off from everyone else."
"Sure, except now we don't have any way to cure these guys," Gunther stressed. For how concerned he'd been before, the chief was remarkably calm about it now.
"Relax, I already had it special ordered. Just, instead of darting them with the cure on-scene, we'll have to bring them in the old-fashioned way and fix them up later."
"That was kinda the crux of my concern, sir." He didn't consider himself a coward in any fashion, or else he'd already be heading back to the academy for a reassignment, but the primal fear of being torn apart by savage mammals was about as natural as it gets. Yet the chief, at a solid fourth of his size, was still driving.
Gunther was eager to save lives. That didn't mean he was looking forward to risking his own. But in the face of this kind of courage, or possibly just resignation, he found himself unable to back down.
A few minutes later, the car pulled into a parking garage a few stories high, but which was currently abandoned thanks to the sightings. Even squatters and junkies knew to clear out when there was someone going around mauling them.
Which did not mean the presence of such occupants was not felt. In between all the abandoned vehicles, the two cops could spot the occasional worn mattress or suspiciously large hole in the wall as they scouted out the place. They also picked up on a variety of exotic scents, not that unusual in this setting up until the sounds of low growling and rummaging began to accompany them. "Over there," Farrow whispered, gesturing with his tranq pistol towards an old pickup truck near the back.
The vehicle itself hadn't been used in some time, judging by the cinder blocks where its tires should be, but the loading bed was a different story. A large blanket was draped over it, poorly hiding what was clearly an extensive amount of contraband. The kind of contraband that two much larger mammals were currently digging around in, only their tails hanging out, one thick and one bushy.
"This is just what we need," Farrow muttered. "Strung out savages."
"Maybe these are the kind of drugs that will make 'em docile and easier to capture," Gunther suggested, displaying the kind of optimism that this district preyed upon.
And it responded accordingly.
One of the tails vanished, and a pair of slitted eyes peeked out at them from under the blanket. They looked a little less intimidating than usual as they blinked erratically and seemed to have trouble focusing on anything, but they soon settled on the two of them.
Growl, growl, moan ("Oi, it's the fashion police!")
Thump, kick, whack ("Play it cool! We don't want any trousers!")
The savages burst out from under the blanket and the two officers dashed to the side to avoid them as they landed. They were a dingo and a kangaroo, both smelling of a combination of blood, sweat, and too many controlled substances to count. The Outback mammals had been through quite a lot if the numerous bites and scratches covering them were any indication, some of them from each other. Perhaps most disturbingly of all, they were both wearing nothing but sparkly wrestler masks and speedos, their names printed on their butts in sequins: Fangs and Boomer.
Farrow shook his head. "There are some real sickos in this district. We need to take them down."
"Right!" Of course, it was around this point that Gunther realized they didn't really have a plan for how to go about that. Even with two trained officers on the scene, one trained to a far greater degree than the other, savage mammals were no joke. They moved unpredictably, never backed down, and were resistant to both pain and tranquilizers. Being significantly larger than either of them and doped up on whatever was in that truck likely elevated all three of those traits. Put simply, this felt less like arresting suspects and more like doing battle with great demonic beasts.
They did have one advantage though: knowing how to use cover.
Farrow was already ducking behind another small mammal car, firing off a dart that struck Boomer in the shoulder. As the roo roared, Fangs charged for Gunther. A bit slower on the uptake, the possum only had time to make a mad dash for the same car before the dingo lunged in his direction.
He might not have made it had Fangs actually been aiming for him. Gunther got behind the car as the dingo aggressively tackled a parked motorcycle to the ground and started chewing on its front tire.
Snarl, grooooowl ("What did you say about my mom?!")
Perhaps they did have another advantage: knowing what was real and what wasn't.
While he was distracted, Gunther took the chance to fire another dart into his speckled butt.
"Good thinking, rook. It'll get into his system faster than way," Farrow praised.
"Honestly, it was just the easiest target, sir."
Sure enough though, one tranq in each of them wasn't going to do the job and the savages still had some sense of reality. The car they were hiding behind shuddered as Boomer's weight landed atop it, the roo snatching up Farrow and causing him to drop his gun in surprise. While not a predator, he certainly looked ready to rend the rodent asunder with those sharp claws of his.
"Chief!" Gunther impulsively climbed up onto the car and barreled into Boomer, sheer momentum making him stumble a little, but still not enough to topple the larger mammal. Boomer growled and raised his foot to stomp down on him, but that was the kind of opening Gunther needed. His prehensile tail snaked up and around the roo's ankle, then yanked, causing him to drop Farrow and tumble over the side.
Stomp, hiss, stomp, stomp ("Why you gotta harsh my mellow, mate?!")
Attracted by the commotion, Fangs leapt at Boomer next, who kicked him into another car with his powerful legs. They both snarled and hissed a bit more, then ran off together, disappearing out into the street.
"What is with those two? It's like they can't decide if they're dangerous or just comic relief," Farrow remarked, rubbing at his throat. "Thanks for the help. Honestly wasn't sure if you had it in you."
"Like I said, I'm serious about saving lives," he answered with a shrug.
"I remember. That's just easier said than done, and there's a lot of cowards wearing a badge down here." Farrow clapped the marsupial on the leg as they headed back to their car. "I'm glad you're committed and all, but be careful. That kind of attitude can be both a blessing and a curse. You go charging after every mammal you see in trouble, then you're the one who's gonna be in trouble, got it?"
"Try to save everyone and I'll save no one," he echoed back, albeit reluctantly. "I got it."
"Good. Now let's go bag those savages."
6: 13 PM
Fangs and Boomer had a decent head start, but they hadn't gotten far. In fact, the cops found them again almost the minute they started looking, as if the savages' drug-addled brains had forgotten they were being pursued as soon as the pursuers left their sight.
The kangaroo hopped over a burning garbage can, absently turned around, then did it again, repeating this ritual several times for reasons only he understood. His dingo partner, meanwhile, had taken up perch on top of a dumpster and was furiously howling up at...not exactly the moon.
Hooooowl, hoooooowl ("Stop mocking me, ceiling spikes! Come down here and fight like minerals!")
He took another dart to the side of the neck and yelped, shaking his head violently to dislodge it.
From the patrol car, Gunther reloaded his tranq pistol. "You're quite the sharpshooter," Farrow noted.
"I didn't get assigned here just for my youthful optimism, sir."
Less impressed by the display, Fangs took off running again. A few jumps later, Boomer noticed and hopped to catch up with his partner. "No you don't!" Farrow shouted, stepping on the gas and tearing off after them.
Gunther kept his fingers on the gun, shaking with a mix of excitement and dread. My first car chase. I didn't think the day would come so soon.
For once, the lawless nature of the district worked in their favor. No one got into traffic jams down here, most residents too afraid to leave their homes unless absolutely necessary, and those that did rarely bothered with silly things like traffic lights unless they warned of oncoming crossfire. That made it pretty easy for their car to keep up with the fleeing savages, although it required some dexterity on Farrow's part to steer them around the other vehicles or stray objects in their path. "Can you get a clear shot?" the rodent asked.
"I'm trying!" Gunther answered, having to grip the edge of the window with one paw while he attempted to train his weapon back on them with the other. Just as he got another lock on Boomer, a sharp swerve to avoid a rolling tire threw off his aim. "But all this jostlin' around is making it real difficult!"
"Yeah, well it's about to get worse," Farrow said grimly. "Looks like there's a gang war up ahead."
What few cars remained on the road with them immediately turned off onto another street, following a helpfully-marked detour sign:
Barks vs. Pets, 6-7 PM
Be kind, pay no mind
Nocturnal Relative Safety Committee
"Catchy," Gunther remarked.
"It used to be 'Steer clear, don't interfere', but that came across as too threatening. Unfortunately, I don't think our friends got the memo."
They watched as the ripped rippers ignored the sign completely, Boomer rudely knocking it over as he hopped over it.
"We're going in," said Farrow, undeterred. Gunther didn't even have time to object before they followed after them, soon assaulted by the sounds of fierce growling and scrambling claws not belonging to their targets.
"So what's the deal with the Barks and the Pets anyway?" Gunther asked, the question starting to become unnervingly relevant. He rolled up his window.
"The Pets are a gang of domesticated dogs," Farrow explained. "They've had a long-standing rivalry with the Barks, a gang of nondomesticated dogs. Apparently, the Pets feel that the Barks are 'oppressing their existence', while the Barks are highly territorial and just want the Pets to piss off. Got it?"
"Yeah, I think so," Gunther said, flinching as a stray bullet struck their vehicle. "Just one question?"
"Make it fast."
"What's 'domesticated' mean?"
On the road directly ahead, two canines in street clothes clashed with knives, the heads of their respective gangs. One was a jackal with a bone on a chain hanging around his neck, and the other was a border collie wearing a studded collar.
"ACKNOWLEDGE US!" the collie shouted.
"NO!" the jackal screamed back.
They both stopped only when two savage mammals leapt over their heads, followed by a police car speeding right towards them. They gasped and dove to either side as the car flew between them.
"Hey, what the hell, guys?!" the Barks leader protested. "We had a reservation!"
For once, the Pets leader agreed. "The only thing I hate more than the Barks is mammals who can't respect a schedule!"
"Temporary truce?"
"Deal. Everyone, GET 'EM!"
Back in the car, Gunther gave a nod. "Very concise definition, sir. Thank you." Before he could say anything else, several more bullets tore into the paint job, no longer by accident. "Shit! The gangs are mad at us now! We need backup!"
Once again, Farrow let out a non-genuine laugh. "Backup. You're killing it tonight, rook. We're on our own."
Gunther had to duck, another bullet whizzing through the window. Farrow was short enough to not have to duck at all. "Then what do we do?!"
"We bring out the big guns," he answered. "And I mean that literally. Check the glove compartment."
Gunther kept his head down as he did so, a little surprised at what he saw. "Are these…?"
"Illegal firearms? Don't worry, we've got permits. It pays to be prepared for the worst. The academy still teaching you how to use them?"
"Yeah," Gunther said hesitantly, reaching in and switching out his tranq pistol for a more pistol-y pistol. "Doesn't mean I'm happy with it though."
"I'd be concerned if you were. Suck it up, but don't get too trigger-happy." A bullet cracked their windshield. "We're not in much of a position to fight back!"
Gunther nodded, trying to keep both the angered gang members and the fleeing savages in sight. Thankfully, the latter were helping to throw off the focus of the former, bowling them right over without a care in the world. No one wanted to shoot at them either, out of fear that it might knock their current "flight" instinct back to "fight", and even street toughs didn't want to fight savage mammals.
They had no such qualms with trying to pile onto their car though, a wolf from the Barks and both a black and brown lab from the Pets hanging off of their roof. The relatively small size of their vehicle meant that they were covering nearly the entire windshield with their flailing arms. Farrow wordlessly turned on the wipers, watching as the wolf's face was caught between them and smushed back and forth. "It's the little things that keep me going," he said. "Alright, take them out."
With only some reluctance, Gunther opened his window and aimed for the conveniently-positioned kneecap of the labrador retriever. The dog let out a sharp cry and rolled to the left, knocking both of the other unwanted passengers off along with him. "Degenerates," Farrow spat in disgust. "What kind of idiot actually tries a stunt like that these days?"
"The kind of idiots who seem to be blockading us?" Gunther asked, pointing to a long line of both Barks and Pets that stretched from one end of the street to the other. They formed a gap in the middle just wide enough for the Outbackers to get through before closing it up and standing their ground.
"Now what, sir? We can't just run them down."
"Can you kneecap a few more?" was all he asked in response.
The Barks and the Pets were getting close now, daring them to keep driving. Then the four gangsters closest to the middle all suddenly collapsed, their kneecaps blown out. Their allies on either side quickly rushed to pull them out of harm's way, realizing too late that this also gave the police car a chance to slip through. "I love this district," Farrow said, "but it's a tough love."
Gunther looked back as they sped ahead. The gangsters, as if personally offended by not being run over, started to give chase. "They're still after us, sir!"
"Not for long!" They managed to stay ahead of their pursuers just long enough to pass another sign by the road.
Gang war ends here
Don't groan, stay in your zone
Nocturnal Relative Safety Committee
As soon as they reached the sign, the Barks and Pets both screeched to a halt and muttered amongst themselves, not sure what to do now. Their leaders caught up a moment later. "Damn, they got away!" the collie huffed.
"Back to business?" the jackal asked.
"Back to business." She promptly turned and socked him in the jaw, setting them all off again. Balance had been restored.
"Phew. We caught them on a rough day. Usually they just snap their fingers a lot and dance menacingly at each other." Farrow wiped his brow, focusing back on the road ahead. Their car was riddled with bullet holes and one broken headlight, but it was still more than capable of finishing the job. Having been lucky enough to avoid most of the commotion, Fangs and Boomer hissed back at them, then made a sharp turn to the left and went straight into an alleyway.
"I'm sure that seemed like a really clever move to their warped minds," Farrow snorted, easily turning the vehicle to keep after them.
"Oof." Gunther winced. "Nothing about that could be called clever."
As they turned the corner, they were greeted by the sight of the two Outbackers having apparently run headlong into a dead end. They were pressed comically against the wall, slowly peeling off and regaining some small portion of their senses. It was enough for them to realize that they were trapped, the police car now blocking their only way out.
Boomer stomped furiously. Stomp, stomp, rooooooar, stomp ("They may take our lives, but they're never take our high!")
Gunther heard a rather unnerving revving sound. "Uh, sir?"
Farrow revved the gas pedal again. "Yeah?"
"You're not actually gonna-?"
"Savage mammals are resilient. They'll live."
It surprised the Outbackers just as much when the car charged straight at them. Boomer made to leap over the vehicle, but didn't get the chance when Fangs springboarded off of his head to do so himself. Growl, grooooooowl ("Get TRIPLE-stuffed, you rutting traitor!")
The front of the car plowed into his belly, slamming Boomer into the wall. Snarling, the roo hefted his large feet against the grill and used his powerful hind legs to slowly push it back. It was a pretty impressive effort on his part, but futile. Gunther used the brief pause to switch back to the tranq pistol and unloaded another dart into Boomer's arm. That didn't stop him, but the four follow-up darts sure did. The roo let out a gurgle and collapsed against the hood.
Gunther smiled. "Well, that wasn't so baaaaah!" Fangs' jaws clamped down around his arm, making him drop the gun as he was lifted up to the roof. Gunther screamed as the dingo shook him back and forth a few times, but managed a kick to his collarbone. The next thing he knew, he was being flung across the top of the car, rolling to a stop on the trunk.
Fangs loomed over his prey, intent on eating something that didn't make his head spin, when his nose twitched. He let out a cry of pain from the sharp odor emanating off the limp possum, rubbing a paw over his snout. He nudged him a little, not quite sure where to go from here.
That question was answered for him when Farrow leapt onto the back of his neck and stabbed two tranq darts into his throat.
Whimper ("Another loss for Fangs and Boomer. Is this to be our lot in life now? Are we but a cosmic joke to be exploited until it goes stale? No. Surely, we must have some greater role in the grand scheme of things. The true purpose of our existence is still out there. This, I believe.")
Fangs, too, fell unconscious.
Farrow stepped off of the dingo and approached the fallen possum, still unmoving. "Alright, get up, you drama queen."
Gunther poked one eye open. "Actually, sir, the whole 'playing dead' thing is involuntary. I only just woke up now."
"Well, you just involuntarily helped me take down the other perp, so good work anyway." He reached down and helped the possum get back to his feet, despite being much shorter than him. "This is the Nocturnal District. You take credit where credit is due, and any assignment that doesn't end with you actually dead is a win."
"Duly noted." He winced at the pain in his arm, the dingo's jaws leaving him bleeding profusely. "But maybe spoken too soon."
"Here." Farrow tore off one of his sleeves to fashion a makeshift bandage for him, wrapping it around the wound. "This kind of thing happens a lot, so I have many spare uniforms."
"Thanks." Gunther looked over at the prone savages. "So how are we getting these two back anyway? They're a little big to fit in the trunk."
"Check in the back. I've got something that should do the trick."
"Um, excuse me?"
They turned to see a new mammal entering the alleyway, a raccoon in a trenchcoat doing a poor job of concealing his knife. Yet he didn't seem intent on using it anyway. "I have a license to mug here."
"We'll be out in a minute," Farrow growled.
"Yeah, sure, I'm just trying to keep my quota here. Got some pretty good reviews and-" They both pointed guns at him. Not the tranq ones. "Alright, I'll come back later then." He quickly backed out.
"In the back, you said?" Gunther asked.
"Yep."
6: 52 PM
They pulled out of the alleyway a few minutes later, Fangs and Boomer wrapped up in thick chains attached to the roof of their car.
"You get a closer look at those garments they were wearing?" Gunther asked curiously. "They've got bite and scratch marks all over, some stretched fabric, tears, like they really wanted to get 'em off and just couldn't."
"I can't blame them," Farrow said. "Those things were hideous. But they can wait until we get them cured to find them new clothes. My career hasn't yet devolved to the point that I'm willing to parade two naked guys around."
"Fair enough. I'm just glad to make it out of there."
"Ah, good, you're learning."
"Still, that was a bit more than I was expecting," Gunther admitted. "And I was expecting danger. Just didn't think I'd suffer even a fake near-death experience on my first day."
"Hey, for what it's worth, you did good, rook. Couldn't have done it without you." Farrow gave him an encouraging pat on the good arm, which Gunther suspected would be the most he ever got from the cynical rodent. To him, it was enough. "We get more cops like you in Precinct 7 and we might actually be able to turn things around someday." Lest he think he was getting too hopeful though, that last part wasn't spoken with any expectation of it actually happening.
"Thank you, sir," he said anyway, smiling brightly. "Hoping we don't get any more savage Outbackers dressed like masked wrestlers anytime soon though."
"Yeah, that was pretty freaking weird, even for here," Farrow agreed. "What do you think Outbackers were doing all the way in Nocturnal anyway?"
He smiled brighter. "Well, sir, this is 'the land down under'."
Farrow stopped the car.
"Did you just make a pun?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long were you waiting for me to set that up for you?"
"Since we found them, sir."
"Do you want me to retract every kind thing I just said about you?"
"No, sir."
"Because if we weren't so critically short-staffed, I could fire you for that."
"Understood, sir."
Pretty much any time there's a glaring loose end in the main story, we feel somewhat obligated to make a drabble about it. That includes Fangs and Boomer suddenly showing again, now cured, with the explanation glossed over. Truthfully, my original idea for this drabble was to write it from THEIR perspective as they went around causing mayhem in the Nocturnal District, but Jack convinced me that it should be a little more than that. Like having an actual plot, for example.
Gunther O'Possum belongs to Jack. To make the obvious connection, he is Delilah's cousin. The Barks and the Pets, if I even want to take credit for that, belong to me.
Shoutout to Upplet for using a twist on his version of the Nocturnal District. Shoutout to J Shute for suggesting that window wiper bit.