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The Fire Triangle—A Zootopia Fanfiction
Part One:
Fuel
Chapter 13 – Facts are Stubborn Things
(Continued…Pt. 2)
"YOU BUNCHA JERKS! YOU STINKIN' LOSERS! I AUGHTA WHACK EVERY SINGLE ONE A' YAS RIGHT NOW!"
Rocco 'The Red Pig' Peccari stood with hooves at his side, big fists clenched into mace-heads, and screaming like an engine about to blow all its bearings at once. From the corners of his mouth, a whitish-yellow foam dribbled, while his wide-stretched jaws revealed the full length of his dagger-like tusks. He was so angry that, even through his facial fur, his cheeks were visible as the color of a cherry-tomato.
Not that this was anything his gang hadn't seen before, and many, many times. It was this characteristic that had earned The Red Pig his underworld nickname. He was dressed for the occasion in shirtsleeves and suspenders, an ensemble that, if such a thing were possible, only served to make him look even more enraged.
And mobsters didn't come any more rage-prone than this javelina.
"THE ONLY ONE A' YA THAT EVEN TRIED TO MAKE A STAND WAS BENNY SIB…AND YOU BUMS WENT OFF AND LEFT HIM. YOU WENT OFF AND LEFT ONE OF OUR OWN!"
Listening to his boss going off on a tear, Vinnie 'The Painter' Truffalini could only wince and try to look pitiful. It wasn't hard; he was currently on crutches, and had his left arm in a sling.
"YOU'RE PUNKS, YA HEAR ME? PUNKS!"
In truth, Vinnie was half a step away from a meltdown of his own. It hadn't been his idea to leave Benny behind. He'd been out of the loop at the time, knocked into oblivion when that bathroom door blew. He'd literally never known what hit him and had needed to be hauled out of that flower shop. It was only later, when he'd regained his senses that he'd been told of what had gone down in Flora and Fauna after his fly-swatting.
That was also when he'd learned that Bobby Mudd had already told the Boss his own, highly slanted, version of what had happened—blaming everything that had gone south on his crew chief.
Bobby…that two-faced little dirt-bag! When Vinnie finally got his mojo back, him and that loudmouthed punk were going to have it out, once and for all.
He and his crew were gathered in Rocco Peccari's private office, an enclosure tucked away in the back of the Sahara Square Mob's social club. Typically, the Red Pig had let his soldiers stew for several days before calling them on the carpet.
Well-l-l, not quite; this place didn't have a carpet—or a whole lot of anything else. To describe the furnishings in here as Spartan would have been the understatement of the year; rickety chairs, a Catstro convertible sofa that screeched in protest when anyone sat down on it, and a one-room air-conditioner that looked as if it had been picked up at yard sale for five bucks. The same could be said for the desk and the swivel chair dominating the back wall. The paneling was peeling, the ceiling-fan was missing half a blade, the lighting was as dim as a dive bar and the air in here in hete was never without a musty smell. Except for the portrait of Ex-Mayor Lionheart, hanging behind the desk, today might have been the first time in ten years anyone had set foot in this place. (Mr. Big would have been appalled.) The only hymn to opulence was the espresso maker stashed in a far corner…a real one, not one of those modern imitations; big as a shrine, and rendered in gleaming brass, complete with a flapping eagle, perched on top.
"No…I take that back, not ALL of yas are punks."
Peccari's face was rapidly returning to its normal color. Always quick to anger, he was equally quick to regain his composure once he'd finished venting. "Bobby," he said, brushing his hoof along the back of a chair, "You go ahead and take a load off, huh?
Vinnie Truffalini would later admit—but only to himself—that if it hadn't been for his injuries he'd have been sorely tempted to go after his boss right then
But then, when Bobby tried to sit down, Peccari whipped the chair out from under him. As the confused mob soldier went tumbling to the floor, he looked upwards and saw the Red Pig, raising the chair high above his head.
"Wait…!"
It was the last thing he would say for the next two days.
"Guys in this family don't backstab!" Peccari screamed at the unconscious heap on the floor, "And they especially don't LIE to me about it." He looked furiously around the office, as if everyone else had vanished, "Vinnie, where's Vinnie?"
"Right here boss," the giant forest pig answered, straightening up as best he could—and at the same time barely able to keep a grin off his face. "YESSSS…eat it Bobby!"
His Goombatta, meantime, was pointing a quivering finger at the animal he'd just cold-cocked.
"This jerk is outta The Razorbacks, and RIGHT NOW! I don't care if you gotta use a belt-sander, but the next time I see him, his tattoo is GONE, you hear me?"
"Yes boss," Vinnie repeated, trying to look solemn, and all but salivating at the prospect. This was almost worth having gotten his tail kicked.
…Almost.
"Get him outta here!" Peccari snorted, waving an angry hoof and raising his voice to a tire-squeal. "ALL A' YAS, GET OUTTA MY STINKIN' SIGHT!"
He watched as the others took Bobby by the arms and legs, and trundled him out of the office, all the while grunting and drumming his foot on the floor, small eyes glistening with impatience and disgust.
When the door closed, a surprised voice spoke up from a darkened corner.
"Why'd you go so easy on 'em, Boss?"
Joey 'The Shadow' Porcini took his name from his habit of constantly emerging from apparently out of nowhere. He was Peccari's consigliere, his elder statesmammal, the pig he trusted above all others, even his underboss.
Joey's nickname also stemmed from the fact that he was almost jet black in color—and surprisingly thin for a wild boar. A running joke in the Sahara Square mob was that The Shadow never came in through the door, he slipped in under it. Something of a dandy, he was always dressed as if he'd just come straight from his tailor. He was also as tough as tempered ironwood.
"Believe me," The Red Pig sighed gruffly, "if I didn't need every guy I can get right now, I wouldn't a' eased up on 'em." All at once his features darkened, and he aimed a finger at the remnants of the chair he'd destroyed. "Except for Bobby; there's SOME lines you don't never let nobody cross."
"Agreed," said Porcini, flopping down hard on the sofa. He was the only member of the gang permitted to take a seat in his boss's presence without permission. In return, Peccari was the only member of the gang permitted to call him 'Joey-boy.'
"Sheesh," the Red Pig rubbed at his face with his hooves, propping himself on a corner of his shopworn desk, "You warned me that the shrimp might send in a ringer, but I never expected nothing like…SHEESH!" He massaged his cheeks again and then shook his head, "What the heck was that, Joey-boy?"
Porcini crossed his legs and shrugged.
"Dunno Boss…but one thing seems pretty obvious to me. Whoever it was—or whoever THEY were—they didn't come in with those polar bears. They were already there, waiting inside of Flora and Fauna, when Vinnie's guys showed up."
Peccari rolled his ears for a second, mulling this over.
"Yeah-h-h, that's something the shrimp would do." (He never referred to his Tundratown rival by name.) "Only, what the heck WAS that?" he reiterated, arching his brows even higher.
Porcini chewed his lip for half a second. Intimately trusted or not, there were times when even HE had to circumspect while addressing his Padrone.
"Too early to say for sure," he finally said, and then added quickly, "But I got guys looking into it. One thing I do know," he was barely able to meet Peccari's gaze as he spoke his next words, "Until we have some idea of what Mr. Big threw at us back there, we don't even want to THINK about getting any payback."
Saying this, he tightened his fists, a piglet grabbing onto the safety -bar of a roller-coaster, just before it crests the big hill.
But the Red Pig only grunted and waved a hoof.
"Ahhh, we gotta do that anyway, Joey-boy. I got a call from Camelson earlier this morning." His voice took on an ironic tone. "He's 'concerned' about the rising level of 'discord' between me and the shrimp."
A puzzled look swept over his consigliere's face.
"That doesn't sound too serious."
"Oh yeah?" Peccari's eyes had narrowed into grating slits, "when I said 'earlier', I meant like at two o'stinkin' clock in the morning! And it was Camelson himself that called me, not one a' his gofers—all the way from Macaow and he wanted to talk to me right NOW! That serious enough for ya, Joey-boy?"
"Oh geez," Porcini's ears were standing up and quivering, "Don't tell me he's thinking of…"
"Not yet, but that was sure as heck the drift I got," the Red Pig snorted, and then his mouth dropped open, showing the daggers again. "I swear, if that no-good shrew messes up this deal, I'll whack him my…!" He stopped, taking a breath and putting his hooves on his hips. And then he turned slightly, nodding in the direction of the Rube Golbear contraption in the corner. "Ahhh, I need an espresso. You want one?"
"Yeah."
Ambling over to his beloved coffee machine, the Sahara Square mob boss grabbed a pair of tiny cups and began working levers. A whoosh and a rush of steam followed, and then a familiar bitter-black aroma filled the office. He didn't bother to ask Porcini how he liked his espresso; they both took it the same way, hot, black, and hold the sugar.
"Here ya go," Peccari said, offering one of the cups to the wild boar. Porcini took it and then raised it in his boss's direction.
"Salud!"
"Salud!" the Red Pig echoed…and then the two of them tilted their heads back and slammed their coffees like shots of whiskey. That was another thing Peccari had always found endearing about Joey-boy; he was the only member of the gang, besides himself, that knew how to drink espresso properly.
"All right, so we have to lay low for a while." Porcini set his cup on a little side table, "But that doesn't mean we can't start making some preps. Boss, I think NOW is the time to start bringing in some outside muscle."
"Yeah," Peccari grunted ruefully, "Won't be easy though. The word I get is that's just what the cops is expecting from us. They're watching the airport and the train station REAL close; bus depot, too.
"What about the Palm?" Porcini queried, referring to the Palm Hotel Casino. His ears had pricked up again.
The Red Pig shrugged and threw up a hoof.
"I ain't heard nuthin', but they'd be stupid not to; since when have we EVER hired an independent that was able to keep away from that joint?"
"Well, it's not like we ever had a problem with it." Joey-Boy winked, and then grinned…and then turned completely serious. "Listen Boss, why don't you let me handle it; I've got an idea."
Now it was Peccari whose ears were standing erect.
"Whaddaya have in mind?"
"I was thinking," Porcini gestured with both hooves as he spoke, "How about we get the Palm to set up a private gambling room—away from the hotel and open only to our out-of-town guys."
The Red Pig grunted and waved him off. "Ahhh fuggeddaboutit, that'll never work."
"It will if we raise the table limit and offer 'em better odds than the Palm," his consigliere insisted. "Won't need to be much; even a taste'll do."
"Yeah-h-h," Peccari was pursing his lips and nodding reflectively. "Yeah, good thought; take care of it, Joey-boy."
"Done and done," the other pig said…and then he said, "Listen Rocco, there's something else we need to discuss."
"And what's that?" The Red Pig was all ears again. Calling him by his first name meant Joey the Shadow had something very sensitive to discuss.
Porcini rolled his lips before answering.
"WE didn't burn down that tux shop or that limo-stand—so who the stink did?"
Peccari leaned back on his desktop, the wood yawning and creaking as he braced against it with his hooves.
"Ya know…I been thinkin' about that, Joey-boy. And I'm mostly convinced the shrimp gave the order himself."
The other pig's ears went shooting skyward again. "What, he burned down his OWN…?" But then they dropped back down again and a light seemed to dawn in his eyes. "Ohhhh, I get it…for the insurance, right?"
"That…and to give himself an excuse to 'hit us back'," the Red Pig snorted and then swiftly raised a hoof. "I know, I knowww…I shoulda kept my mouth shut; you already said so a hunnert times."
"Look, you know me, Boss," his consigliere ventured, tentatively, "Nobody hates a snitch more than I do…"
"What's done is done, Joey-boy," Peccari cut him off with a chopping wave of his hoof. "I can't take back what I said now." His ears began to redden again, "And after what happened to my place in the Canal District, I wouldn't want to anyway. Ahhh, speakin' of what started this; what's the latest on the jackals?"
"Ain't said a word about us, so far," Porcini answered, unruffled. If he hadn't become used to his boss's mercurial nature by now, it was never going to happen. "But from what I hear, they aren't gettin' along too well with their attorney. You want me to send the rat over…?"
The Red Pig squealed, and his ears went even darker
"No…I DON'T want you should send the rat over; after what those pezzi di spazzaturi did to me, I wouldn't…." His eyes angled downwards and he started to mumble, mostly to himself. "Think they can run blood diamonds behind MY back… If I didn't have the shrimp to deal with…and that other thing with Camelson…." His voice trailed off and he looked up sharply. "Lissen Joey, if them Rafaj brothers make bail, I want eyes on 'em. I don't want nothin' DONE to 'em, not yet, but if either one 'em of so much as breathes wrong, I wanna know about it."
"Okay," Porcini nodded, not entirely happy with the idea. The Sahara Square Mob's resources were stretched thin enough as it was. "But I got one suggestion. If our guys see a good opportunity, I think they should go ahead and take it." He raised a quick hoof, "No-o-o, I don't think they'll get one either—but you never know."
"Do it," Peccari nodded and cocked a finger…and then changed the subject again. "Talking about the rat reminds me of something else. What's the latest on Benny Sib?"
"Ahhh, you want the good news or the bad news?" Joey chewed his lip, and then answered without waiting for the prompt. "The good news is, the ZPD got diddly-zip out of him, and that's all they're gonna get. The bad news is, it's not because of Rodenberg, even though he's done a great job so far." He grunted and locked eyes with the Sahara Square boss. "No point in trying sugar-coat it, Rocco; Benny's a basket case. He no sooner woke up than they had to sedate him again. From what the rat told me, he's a complete loony-bird. I didn't believe it at first, but then yesterday, I saw it for myself. I swear Boss, if you saw Benny now, you'd never believe he was the only guy in that crew who tried to make a stand against…ahhh, whatever the heck that was, in the flower shop."
The Red Pig's face went flinty again.
"Well he WAS the only stand-up guy in that place…and so we do right by him, capisce?"
"We will," Porcini assured him, "What I'm saying is, Benny won't be good to come back to work again for a lonnng time—maybe not ever."
"What, that bad?" It wasn't often you saw the Red Pig wearing a shocked expression—about as often as you saw triple rainbow…but that was exactly what his consigliere was looking at right now.
"That bad," The Shadow nodded grimly.
"Dang!" Peccari spat out the word like a bad taste, "Not only a stand-up guy but a good earner, too." His features went dark momentarily. "That's one MORE thing the shrimp's gonna pay for."
Someone rapped on the door. The Red Pig instantly raised his voice, in order to be heard on the other side
"Beat it; I'm talking to Joey-boy in here!"
"Sorry, Boss," an apologetic voice called through the partition, "but you need to see this; message from Mr. Big."
The Red Pig and Porcini both looked at each other.
"The shrimp…sent me a message…NOW?" Peccari was almost slack-jawed with amazement, "What the STINK, Joey-boy?"
"No idea," the rail-thin black boar shrugged, and then nodded at the door, "Only one way to find out though. Shall I?"
"Yeah."
Porcini cupped his hooves around his snout. "All right, let's have it."
The door swung open and Pasquale 'Squally' Alvarez entered the office. He was a brocket, a smallish species of jungle deer that ran the Sahara Square Mob's Rainforest District and Old Growth City business operations. He was a great earner but nobody's tough guy. He could never be made and didn't want to be; (wrong ancestry, in any case.)
"Okay, give it here," Peccari held out a hoof. Alvarez shuffled forward and dropped a bundle of paper into his grasp….and then quickly retreated as, if it might be booby-trapped.
In a way it was.
"What the STINK!" The Red Pig was showing his tusks again, "This thing's like two inches thick; what'd the shrimp do, write me a book to read?"
"Ahhh, you'll see for yourself when you open it, boss." Alvarez reached up to tug at his collar, and then realized he wasn't wearing one.
"Awrite, never mind…but where'd it come from, Squally? How'd you get it?" Peccari set the papers aside, eyeing the deer suspiciously.
"And how do we know it's from the shrew?" Joey Porcini queried from the sidelines.
Alvarez answered the questions in the order they'd been asked.
"It was given to one of our pizza drivers, when he made a drop up in Tundratown. We know it's for real because the guy who gave it to him was Koslov. And yeah, we're sure; the driver recorded it on his cell phone." His voice lowered to a deep, Slavonic rumble. "Give this to Red Pig…or I come find you."
"Son of a…" Peccari slapped his hooves against the desktop and then aimed a hard finger at the brocket-deer. "Lissen Squally, an' lissen good. As of right now, we don't deliver no more pizzas to Tundratown. That's OVER, capisce?"
"Yes Boss," Alvarez replied, glancing uncomfortably over his shoulder at the door. "Uhhhh, can I…?"
"Yeah, yeah…get outta here," the Red Pig told him, dismissively waving him away.
"All right," Squally answered, turning to go; but then he stopped himself. "Oh…s-sorry; your stepsister, Marie is outside, waiting to…"
Peccari's ears began to color again.
"Tell her I'll see her in a minute. Now beat it, before I…"
Alvarez all but flew out the door. It made Porcini suspect he'd been given the task of delivering the message by way of a time-honored tradition in the Sahara Square Mob—getting the short straw.
The Red Pig waited until the brocket-deer was gone and then reached for the paper he'd brought. When he started to unfold it, he began to comprehend a few things.
"What the…? This thing's as big as a stinkin' ROAD MAP!"
"Hmmm," Porcini observed bemusedly, "one the Big Shrew's bears must have taken it down while he dictated it. What's it say, Boss?"
"Hang on, hang on," the Red Pig grunted impatiently, holding the paper out to arm's length—and then nearly dropping it. "Son of a…! Can yas believe this, Joey-boy? The shrimp wants a sit down—at HIS house."
"What? Lemme see that thing." Porcini held out his hooves…and for the next two minutes he and his boss performed a low grade slapstick routine as the oversized message passed between them. When the consigliere finally got hold of it, he studied it for a moment and then shook his head. "You're not going, of course."
"Nope," Peccari returned the head-shake, and aimed a finger again, "You are."
"What, ME?" Porcini thumped himself in the chest so hard, it sounded like a tennis-serve, "Are you serious? Why, Boss?"
"Several reasons," the Red Pig answered, heaving himself all the way up onto his desktop and causing the wood to sigh. "First of all, it'll make Camelson happy—and whatever else happens, Joey-boy, we can't let nuthin' mess THAT up."
In response to this, Porcini's expression changed swiftly from aghast to one of bitter understanding. Like it or not, his Padrone was right; to keep that deal from falling through, NO sacrifice was too great.
"Second," The Red Pig went on, raising a pair of fingers, "A meet with the shrimp on his home turf will show everybody we ain't afraid of this guy—even after what happened in Flora and Fauna."
"Right," The Shadow answered with a slow, uncertain nod. This was also true, although he liked it even less than the first point his Boss had made.
"You ain't gotta worry about it being a set-up," Peccari told him, having mistaken his consigliere's reticence for something else. He pointed at the message. "Down by the bottom there, the shrimp says he guarantees the meeting."
That was good for another nod; old school Bosses like Mr. Big regarded their word as sacred. Porcini would not be walking into a trap.
"And," the Red Pig grunted, "I gotta admit Joey-boy; I 'm curious as to why he wants a sit-down—and like you said a minute ago, there's only one way to find out."
"Yeah, I hear you," the other pig said, "I'm curious about that myself." He raised an eyebrow. "But I get the feeling that's not the main reason you want me to go."
"It ain't," The Red Pig snorted, "I also want yas to take The Painter with you."
"What, Truffalini?" the horror-struck look had returned to Porcini's face, "Are you kiddin' Boss? He's useless right now!"
"Not necessarily, Joey-boy," the Red Pig answered, looking as sly as Nick Wilde on a good day. He tapped a finger against his muzzle. "You know the shrimp; he never could resist a good gloat. When he gets a load of what his goons, or whoever, did to Vinnie, he's liable to drop a few hints as to exactly what he had laying for our guys in that flower shop. And, also like you said, that's something we gotta know before we can make any kinda move on that stinkin' shrew."
"Okay," Joey nodded again, satisfied at last.
But his Boss wasn't quite finished yet.
"And last, but not least," he said, patting his ample midsection, "I gotta REAL strong feeling down here that this is one sit-down we don't wanna miss. An' much as I trust you, Joey-boy, I trust my gut more than anything."
Porcini grunted and his mouth moved sideways.
"Then…forgive me Rocco, but I have to ask. How come you're not going yourself?"
A noise came from Peccari that might have been either cough or a sigh, and then he heaved himself up off the desk.
"Ahhhh, Joey," he said, glancing towards the window with an almost wistful expression. "I know I gotta short fuse; nobody knows that better'n me. Didja know, I actually thought about Anger Management once? Nah, don't look at me like that, I wasn't gonna do it; any mob boss that'd see a shrink should have his head examined."
Porcini laughed at the old joke, but he was still uneasy. Any mob boss that would see a psychiatrist WAS going to have his head examined—by a coroner, (and so would the shrink.)
But then the Red Pig said, "If I go myself, I know I'm just gonna end up shooting my mout' off again an' make everything worse…and that I can't afford." He came over and laid a hoof on his consigliere's shoulder, "So it's on you, Joey-boy. Can you do this thing for me?"
"You got it Boss," Porcini said, reaching to clasp the javelina's hoof with his own. The 'request' hadn't been a request, but he didn't care. His Padrone was handling this situation in exactly the right way…and so he was determined to help in any way he could. With that in mind he slapped his hooves down on the sofa and pushed himself up again. "Okay, I've got a lot on my plate over here, so if you don't have anythin' else for me, I better get cracking."
"Ahh, we're done here, I think," the Red Pig answered, waving him in the direction of the door. Replying to Mr. Big's message would be easy enough; simply summon a ride from Tundratown limo and give it to the driver. But then he said, "On your way out, if Maria's still there, tell her I'll see her now."
Porcini stopped, regarding his boss over a shoulder—an expression of, 'better you than me' plastered across his face.
"You really want to do that paisan? I'd think you've been through enough torture for one day."
"I gotta do it sooner or later, Joey-boy," the Red-Pig answered with half a shrug and a rumbling sigh, "So I might as well get it over with."
In response to this, his consigliere raised a cautioning finger.
"She's going to want to know if Vinnie was one of the guys in that flower shop."
"Aw, that's not a problem," Peccari snorted, actually smiling a little. "I know just what to say to her. 'How many times have I told yas? Don't never ask me a question that the cops might later ask YOU.' That'll do it, Marie knows the score." The corners of his mouth turned downwards, becoming a hard frown, "Nahhh, if I know her, she's gonna be all over my tail to hit the shrimp back right now…and we can't hit him yet, and I can't tell her WHY we can't. That's my problem, Joey-boy—and I ain't looking forward to having to deal with it."
Porcini's eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth became a crooked line.
"Well as the robot said to the space crew, 'I can't lie to you about your chances—but you have my sympathies.'"
"Ahhh, get outta here!" Peccari squealed, but this time his expression was almost playful.
At that moment, in the territory of The Red Pig's most hated rival, an animal that looked like a young arctic fox was carefully reading a set of instructions.
1. Turn handle to the right to open locker.
2. Place item in locker
3. Close door and turn handle to the left
4. Enter a four digit access-code of your own choosing; write down or memorize
Conor followed the directions, and then shoved the box with the Amazoon logo inside of the locker and closed it. After punching in the 4 digit access code, he pulled out his cell phone, called up Text, and entered it a second time. He was about to press 'Send' when an alarm bell went off in the back of his head. Double-checking the numbers, he saw that he had accidentally reversed the last two digits and quickly corrected his error.
He could forgive himself for a near-miss like that; he had every reason to be nervous. Heck, he'd be well within his rights to be terrified right now. This would be the biggest chance he'd taken since escaping from custody. The box he'd left inside the locker held at least five figures worth of cash…and he dared not lock it up any more securely, for fear of arousing suspicion.
And that was just for starters; if the animal coming to collect it ended up ripping him off, there'd be NOTHING he could do about it. And…making a dead-drop exchange was exactly how he'd wound up in jail in the first place. Nonetheless, it had to be done.
He was in the foyer of the Tundratown Grocery Ocelot, a market that did not allow patrons to bring bags, and/or backpacks inside the store; hence the lockers they provided for their patrons' convenience. Back in his money-lending days, Conor had once used a Grocery Ocelot in the Canyonlands as an exchange point, and he'd known about this one for some time. (He'd just never expected to have need of it.)
Forcing himself not to look back, the fugitive young silver fox grabbed a basket and pushed it through the front entrance of the store…and then jerked to a sudden halt. His left front wheel was only centimeters away from a mouse with two kids in her shopping cart.
Luckily none of them had seen him, and he pulled back quickly, before they could. The last thing he needed right now was to cause a scene. "Dangit dude, you're gonna mess up everything. Relax and pay attention, willya?"
Yeah, easy for his inner voice to say… He began to stroll his way down the aisles, idly picking out items, and putting them back again, his mind not really on his shopping—or anything else except for the package he'd left in that locker.
The past couple of weeks had been the same old, same old for Conor Severus Lewis. Get up, work out, shower, eat breakfast, guitar practice, lunch, check for messages, check the ZPD database, chores, cleaning, another, shorter workout, dinner…and after that came the only time his routine varied from day to day. It was all as boring as heck, but little by little, he knew he was making progress. Between his daily exercise routine and his change of diet, he'd become not only thinner, but also much more wiry than when he'd started. And while there'd been no noticeable change in his physical strength—he was still bench-pressing more or less the same weight as before—his stamina seemed to have increased almost exponentially.
The most dramatic change, however, had become apparent when he'd awakened from a dream one night—and realized there was an intruder in the loft, another fox, whose scent he didn't recognize.
It was only after he'd snapped on the light that Conor had understood—it was his own scent he'd caught; the switch to a mostly-seafood diet had worked like a charm.
Meanwhile, out on the street, things had been staying relatively quiet. Just as the young fox had hoped, kids were putting the V-For-I-Fight-The-System design on their skateboards and T-Shirts rather than spraying it on the walls. That change of behavior wasn't all on him however, and he knew it. Much of the credit, (if you wanted to call it credit,) belonged to several parents' groups that had taken very serious exception to the wearing of that logo…perhaps even more so than the graffiti which had sparked it. On Tweeter, on Furbook, in call-ins to talk shows and letters to the editor, adults of all species were venting their umbrage at the 'epidemic of disrespect,' as one local pundit had tagged it.
Conor had no idea exactly who had first coined that term, but it had caught like a rash, and promptly escalated. There was even a petition making the rounds, calling for the logo to be banned outright. He'd almost fox-laughed himself right out of his task chair when he'd read about it. Yeah, riiiiight—as IF! Aside from trying to ban a design being strictly a non-starter, didn't these idiots know ANYTHING about their kids? T'was ever thus; the more 'the system' tries to crack down on a young mammals' favorite activity, the more the kids will try to push back.
And they were; according to what the fugitive young silver fox seen on Snapcat, kids that might have otherwise had no interest were lining up around the block to purchase V-For-I-Fight-The-System t-shirts; once they'd learned the grownups had a problem with them that had been all she wrote.
Thinking about it, Conor could only hope Finnick was making a buck or two off the craze. If anyone deserved it, it was that little desert fox.
Still…a lot of kids were getting grounded because of the V-For-Fight-The-System movement, actually more than if they'd stuck to their markers and spray cans. It's easy to deny having tagged a street sign with graffiti. "Where's the proof, did anyone SEE me?" Attempting to deny wearing that same graffiti on your furson, on the other paw—that was majorly more difficult; the evidence is right THERE.
Conor consoled himself with the knowledge that not all the parents in Zootopia were reacting like jerks to the movement. Some—a few at least—had gotten the message, and understood that their kids had a legitimate gripe about their situation in life.
It was enough, he'd settle.
Besides, Conor had other things to think about right now; three days ago, he'd awakened to find his whole routine upended—although not necessarily in a bad way. Booting up his laptop, he'd discovered that the local news cycle had undergone a paradigm shift. Suddenly, the name Conor Lewis was no longer being mentioned in the media; the press had found a new toy to play with—the rash of arson fires sweeping the city. While the young silver fox didn't understand it, he'd take it. With the spotlight pointing somewhere else, he could finally begin to think about…something he really didn't want to think about, getting his bushy tail OUT of Zootopia.
To be sure, it was not a happy thought; Conor didn't want to go. In plain language, he loved it here. Even now after all that had happened to him, he still loved this city. Except for the time he'd been with his mother, Zootopia was the first place he'd ever lived that actually felt like home.
Only…what kind of home was it now, when he had to stay cloistered most of the time, when he couldn't go out and experience life in Zootopia? Ahhh, forget about that; might as well try kissing a vixen through the mail.
And so, he'd made the decision to leave. The only problem was…it was something much more easily said than done. Before he could even think about saying 'Sayonara, Zootopia' there were four big hurdles he'd have to clear. In order of difficulty, easy-to hard, they were… 1, Convert his funds into crypto-currency. 2, Find a place to live in another city, 3, Figure out how to get there, and 4—the big kahuna—Obtain a new identity.
It was in pursuit of his first goal, currency conversion, that he was here today…and again, he could only hope he hadn't made a huge mistake, never mind that he had little choice in the matter.
As for the rest of it…
Conor actually did know of a place where he could go; the problem was, he didn't know where to find it…not exactly. All he knew was that it was somewhere in Zoo York City, a place where he seriously didn't want to live—but better that, than back to Granite Point. Besides, he knew ZYC, and it was likely the last place The Mammal would expect him to go.
And Zoo York held one other advantage, a ready-made place for him to live. Somewhere in the Five Burrows was another hideout, very much like the one where he lived now. Why it had been built and for what purpose, the fugitive young silver fox had no idea, but it existed—he knew that much for certain—and he also knew that it was located somewhere in Zoo York City.
And that, unfortunately, that was all he knew about the place. And he wasn't even supposed to know that much; what little he'd heard about the Zoo York hideaway was stuff he had OVERheard. And he had never mentioned any of it, not to anyone else. At the time, it had seemed like a wise course of action. Now he felt like a dumb, dumb, dummity-DUMB fox for having kept his fox-trap shut. There was only one chance left of finding that other hideout…and a slim chance at that. Kieran, he assumed it was Kieran, would never have built another hideaway like this one without providing a secure communication channel between the two. If he could locate that channel—if it existed, it would be somewhere in the belly of The Beast—if he could find it, then maybe, just maybe, he could find the location of that other hideout as well. (He had already made several attempts in fact.)
By rights—assuming Conor could figure out the location of that other hidey-hole—getting there should have been the easy part. Three years previously, hadn't he made a safe exit from Zoo York to Zootopia? Yes, he had…but things were different now. Back then, only Aker Security had been looking for him; now it was Aker and John Law. The ZPD also knew he'd arrived in town by air, so they'd be keeping an especially keen eye on the airport.
In fact, they already were…and the train station and the bus terminal, too. Conor had learned that from his forays into the ZPD database. And while the officers posted to those locations weren't there looking for HIM—he didn't think so, at least—there they were, nonetheless.
And they only needed to make him once for his house of cards to come tumbling down. Aggggh, grrrr, it was so dang frustrating! As the Joker said to the Thief, 'there must be some kind of way out of here' – some alternative method of getting to Zoo York that he hadn't as yet considered, but right now he was hanged if he could think of it.
And last but not least, he was going to need a new identity…and therein lay the real rub. The last time the fugitive young silver fox had assumed a new fursona, he'd had Kieran there to create it for him. Now, he was on his own...which meant he'd have to risk going on the dark web, a prospect he regarded with dread and loathing. There was no way he could obtain a new identity without revealing his actual age to the seller—thus exposing himself to possible blackmail, or even worse.
Catch-22 on steroids!
And…truth be told, there was another reason he was going to have to stick around Zootopia, at least for a while longer. It was probably the stupidest reason ever to keep hanging—but it was also a moot point. No way he would he be able to get all those other tasks accomplished before the big day came.
Conor spent a another half an hour moseying through the store, ending up with three big bottles of Dr. Peppurr, a loaf of sourdough bread and a bag of frozen Impawssible-Meat tamales; nothing he really needed, but all of it stuff he'd use.
He was just about to make the rounds again, when the sound of a hunting horn echoed from his cell-phone; the signal for an incoming text.
When he looked at the screen, he saw only a single word, 'Done'. He quickly deleted it along with the text he'd sent from the store lobby and headed for the cash register. When he passed the bank of lockers on the way out, he saw that the one where he'd left the package was now empty. So far, so good, but the hard part was yet to come. Did he dare trust Guild THAT far? And even if he could, what about the animal his online partner had sent to pick up the money…or the one he'd recruited to launder it into cyber-cash? Once again, there was only one answer, 'no other choice fox.'
So many unknowns; too many unknowns.
He exited the store, heading straight for the bike rack. He could fret all he wanted later; right now, he needed to get his tail home.
All the way there, Conor found himself caught up in a game of Paranoid Poker. Every eye that turned his way, he was certain had just recognized him; every approaching vehicle, he just knew contained a squad of ZPD cops. By the time he crossed the border back into his home district, he could have sworn he'd spotted Nick Wilde and Judy Hopps at least half a dozen times. (He was unaware as yet that they were both on administrative leave.)
Entering his loft, he felt a sudden, all-consuming need for a shower. He shunted it aside, instead making a beeline for the Furraday cage in the center of the loft, aka the Furrison Hotel, and the computer workstation nestled within, known by the nickname of The Beast.
He HAD to know.
It seemed to take The Beast one hundred years and a day to boot up, a fact not helped by the young fox getting his passcode wrong the first time, and then again when he tried to log into the secure chat-room.
And then, when he finally entered the chat…no sign of Guild. Great, wonderful; all that time to get online and then—nothing! (It had actually taken him approximately three-and half-minutes to log on and get logged in.)
For what seemed like another three and a half HOURS, Conor stared at the center screen as if attempting to bring Guild online through sheer psychic energy. No such luck, and after another twenty minutes, he gave up and went to the fridge to grab himself a pop.
When he came back, he saw a message on the screen.
Guillycrakks75##3 : Hey, Who RU & What are you doing here?
Awwww, FOXTROT! The can clattered and bounced away, spraying soda across the floor as he literally threw himself into the task-chair, scrabbling frantically for the Furraday cage's door-handle. (The Beast would instantly shut-down if he tried to use it with the door still open.) On the first attempt, the door pulled halfway shut and swung back open. On the second try, it almost got away again, but then closed with a solid 'thunk.'
Conor began to type frantically; he had a minute at most before Guild logged out, (assuming he hadn't already.) No time to proofread, he could only hope he'd made no typos.
Eiffelsogudd_x9%: What MI doing here, what are YOU doing here?
For an eternity of seconds, there was no response.
And then...
Guillycrakks75##3 : Lkn 4 a frend
Guillycrakks75##3 : FRIEND
Conor heaved a momentary sigh of relief…but only for a moment. There was still much work to be done.
He typed in the next leg of the security code.
Like everything else this afternoon, the recognition ritual seemed to take forever. But once it was complete, things moved quickly. Switching over to voice-chat Guild wasted no time in getting down to cases.
"The transfer's complete. Are you ready to upload, Conor?"
D'aggghhhh…no, he wasn't ready; all that rushing to get here, and now he was the one holding things up. Lucky thing he always kept a few spare thumb-drives in the Furraday cage, for just such occasions as this one.
"Gimme a second?" he said, and flipped open a hidden storage nook in the zero-grav task-chair's right arm.
Conor had never liked using cryptocurrency…ironically for the same reason cyber-criminals adored it; digital money was incredibly easy to move online. While that might make it all the more difficult for Law Enforcement to trace, it also made it a tempting target for thieves and hijackers. For someone like Kieran, that hadn't been a problem; only a mammal with a death wish would have dared to try ripping off The Company's computer wizard. A 14-year-old fox-kid, left entirely to his own devices; that was an altogether different kettle of fish…especially if said fox-kid was currently on the run from The Mammal.
And that, ironically enough, was why he had to do this. At the end of the day, raw cash is a bulky item to transport. (Conor's shoulders had ached for days after the pick-up he'd made when he'd first arrived in Zootopia. ) Cryptocurrency, on the other paw—you could fit a zillion bucks worth of Bitecoin onto a drive the size of a postage stamp.
Therein lay another paradox; crypto cash might be easy to steal, but only as long as it's accessible online. Put it on an external drive and then disconnect it from your computer, and cannot be stolen from you…physically yes, but not by hacking. And you can hide a USB drive in a key-fob.
Will all that in mind Conor plugged his thumb-drive into a USB port and then spoke into his head set, addressing The Beast rather than Guild.
"Transfer incoming download to…" He looked quickly at the left-side flat-screen, "…to external drive XC and scan for malware."
His last four words were spoken in homage to a fictional newspaper character named Mr. Zooley, who'd once said, 'Trust everyone…but cut the cards.'
He switched his headset over to voice-com with Guild
"Okay ready."
The transfer took less than the blink of an eye, hardly surprising, considering the nature of The Beast. The scan that followed took a few seconds longer, but was more than justified by the results.
0 Threats Detected
But Conor wasn't quite finished cutting his cards just yet. Right clicking on the file he'd just downloaded, he clicked next on 'File Properties.'
The money was there, all of it, every penny….and only now did the young fox finally start to let go of the breath he'd been holding back all day. At last he knew; Guild could be trusted with his money. And so could whoever he'd recruited to convert it into cryptocurrency… at least for now.
Oops, Guild…
"Everything looks good," he said, offering a thumbs-up to his web-cam, "Hold on another second while I get this bad-boy encrypted."
"Roger that," his only compatriot replied, in a strange wavering tone. As before, he had digitally altered his voice.
Conor switched back to The Beast and spoke. "Encrypt external drive XC using Z-Ray protocol." And when the window on the right-side screen appeared, asking him if he was sure he wanted to do this, he answered at once in the affirmative. A split second later, the computer informed him, 'Encryption Complete.'
Now, the young fox could finally relax completely. The thumb-drive was encrypted up to ransomwear level, completely untouchable. Even The Beast couldn't access the money now, the decryption code could only be found on his laptop. Just the same, Conor pulled the drive from its port as soon as the process was complete; trust everyone, but cut the cards.
"Okay, all done," he said, speaking to Guild once again, "And thanks again…for everything." For the hundredth time, he was tempted to ask, WHY his mysterious benefactor had always been so willing to help him. He didn't; he knew he'd only get the same answer as before. 'I made a promise, kid.' He would also have loved to know just who it was that Guild had recruited to launder his money for him, but that was also...
The money...
There was something he'd seen when he'd examined that file; something…not exactly wrong, but not quite right either.
"Good," Guild spoke in the tone he usually adopted right before announcing he was logging off. This time he didn't; instead he said, "I'm assuming these money transfers mean you're planning on leaving Zootopia sometime in the near future? (Conor had already mentioned that at least several more currency conversions would need to be done.)
No point in denying it, the young fox shrugged. "Yeah, now that the heat's dying down a little, I figured it's time to start making preps to boogie."
Guild didn't answer for a moment, but the young fox had the distinct impression he was nodding his head in agreement. Finally he said, "Sensible decision. I won't ask for any details, but do you have any kind of idea where you're going to go?"
"I have a place in mind," Conor answered, cryptically…which was the only way he could answer the question without lying. An unexpected thought ambushed him right then. Attempting to shrug it off, he found that he could only wrestle with it. Did he dare bring THAT up? If he did, and then if Guild betrayed him…
"Ah what the heck; I'm already toast if he gives me up, so why not?
"My big problem is that I need a new identity—but to get one, I'll have to go looking on the dark web."
"Uh-UH, you want to stay out of there, kid," Guild answered back immediately…and almost coolly. His matter-of-factness came as a slight surprise to the young silver fox. He would have expected the news to horrify his online partner. In fact, it did seem to have had that effect…just not nearly as much as expected. (Of course it could just be the voice-changing software.) And then Guild had another question. "How did you manage to change your ID the first time?"
"Kieran set me up with it," Conor answered, caught unawares yet again. Didn't Guild know that already?
"No, no…I mean, how did he set it up?"
"Oh," the young fox responded, finally understanding what his online partner was driving at. "I-I don't really know for sure, it was on this laptop he gave me…but the message he left said I could only use it once."
"No," Guild was actually starting to sound…excited? Had to be the voice-changing software again, "He was talking about the ID he created, not the app he used to create it; that you can use again."
Conor's ears went up and felt as if they'd stay that way forever. What, now? How the heck would Guild know about that? Had Kieran also created a new identity for him? Yeah, that made sense, but…was the app the sea-mink had used to create a new identity for the fugitive young silver fox even on his laptop?
And then he realized…aw, heck, even if his laptop DID have the app…
"Even if that's true, I'm not Kieran; I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to run the thing."
"Go check anyway," Guild insisted, "You never know; even if it'll take you some time to figure out, that still beats going on the dark web."
"Yeah, for sure," Conor answered, speaking in a shallow growl. There was no arguing that point, and what did he have to lose by trying? "I'll check it out when I'm done here."
"Yes, about that," now Guild sounded uneasy, as if he'd just now realized he'd said too much, "I need to log off and you should too…and you might want to give it a while before you check your laptop for that app. You've probably been online too long already."
"Yeah, thanks again for your help," the young fox said, and as usual they parted company without a farewell.
Shutting down The Beast, Conor stretched out his arms, while his mouth stretched open in a wide fox-yawn. Dang, but he felt tired all of a sudden. He needed a shower and some sleep. But first, he needed to get that soda spill cleaned up and grab another one; much as he wanted to rest, his strongest sensation was of a stress-parched throat.
He had just opened the refrigerator door, when he stopped...stock-still and rigid as he watched it swing shut again. His ears were up and his eyes had gone wide with astonishment.
The money…it had just come to him. When he'd examined the file, it had all been there…ALL of it.
"Who the fox launders that kind of cash and doesn't charge you for it?" he wondered aloud to himself. The short answer was…nobody. That cryptocurrency file should have been short a few hundred bucks at least, a more than acceptable fee for services rendered. Instead there was zilch missing, not even so much as a penny out of place as far as he could see. Had Guild paid for it? That made absolutely no sense; Conor was more than good for it himself, and who knew that better than his online cohort?
So, why…? Noooo, that couldn't be it, could it? Guild would never…
"Ahhhh, the heck with it, I need to sleep," Conor growled under his breath and then shook his head, as if attempting to dry it off.
He opened the refrigerator door again, reaching for another can of pop.
This time, he did NOT allow his thoughts to get in the way.
