Let it go, it's Happytown

by Gabriel LaVedier

Tired, dangerous, the trash can of Zootopia. Home for native predators and all manner of immigrants. A place of gangs and private investigators. One unremarkable death becomes, for a PI and his assistant, something far more in the misery of Happytown. (Sort of an odd AU of the French show Sherlock Yack in Zootopia, connected to the Translation of Dawn Bellwether universe.)

17. Small Favors

I do not own Zootopia, that belongs to Disney. This a fan work made solely for the sake of amusement.

"Let It Go, It's Happytown"

Chapter Sixteen: Small Favors

By: Gabriel LaVedier

"I know little enough, that was why I hired you," Fleabite said, quirking his brow as he looked across at Sherlock and slowly sipped a cup of tea.

The coyote's office was the back end of a building in legal limbo, not quite condemned but tied up in probate court to untangle the messy collection of speculators and flippers who thought then un-thought that Happytown might be coming into fashion. It never really did. He had a desk and filing cabinets, near the back of the space, but he and Sherlock were both sat down on battered but nice pillows while tea was served from a chipped service heated via a hot plate.

"Any small piece looms larger. Now tiny pieces cast large shadows in light of what has been learned," Sherlock said, taking a small sip and nodding. "I must say, I am surprised to see this. It reminds me greatly of home."

"From many cultures of Tanukitown come many things. I spent some time there studying... the art of gaming, let us say, and fell in love with the pleasure of a kneeling or cross-leg service of tea. I'm only sorry I cannot offer you anything comparable to what you may know," Fleabite said.

"I ran out of home-grown tea many, many years ago. I try as much as I can to find proper tea. And it is certainly better than that sweet mess I bought the other day," Sherlock said with a smile. "And that excursion made everything clear. CloverCorp. The ones who owned all those businesses you spoke of. They tried very hard to obscure the connection, but no. The logo of the company was on the necklace of the murderer who harmed your employees. They staffed all the stores with horned college students, each one taught the same script, taught to pretend they belonged in Happytown to encourage their customers."

"Diabolical. And brilliant. A dangerous combination when motivated far enough to kill," Fleabite said, taking a long, slow, contemplative sip. "Presumably there is nothing more to it than a shell, a holding that says nothing about who would be in control."

"I have no idea. The trail goes cold. I would need larger hooves with stronger caps to crack the shell of it. These businesses, do you know anything at all? Just one small outcrop onto which someone might cling to seek purchase to higher levels. Anything?" Sherlock asked.

"Rumors. Rumors which I discount. There are too many addled minds, lost to substances taken injudiciously, or abandoned by the city when they could not find any way to have their mental issues cared for," Fleabite said with a sigh. "But not all rumors come from such. My own customers, my own workers. They've seen horned persons who look too nice going around. Those nice and legal card clubs hire such, outfit them with nice uniforms. But they should not have been out and about. Everyone from outside fears Happytown. In and out, to work and home to nicer places within the city. There would hardly be a reason to loiter around."

"Unless they had, say... other jobs to do?" Sherlock inquired.

"I doubt they staff the Vesper and Night shifts at the stores. And yet they seem to be in those areas. The revitalizing areas, the border areas being bled into," Fleabite mused.

"They need to work somewhere. They would hardly be willing to stay here for any reason other than money and threats to that job. They have seen what the bottom looks like, working with eyes gazing into Happytown. The horned hoofers like them have always lived well and comfortably. Understanding where their soft life could go if someone decided it would be best for them to lose everything. That would be why college students are selected. And for the others..." Sherlock tapped his chin. "Of what age were these others?"

"From what the others have said, some were older folks, others seemed on the edge of the age one could work in gaming. Quite a lot of complicated laws, there," Fleabite noted.

"First jobs, necessary jobs, for those locked into a contract that will give them freedom, or that they cannot afford to lose at their age. Like the college students, working here makes them see the bottom, makes them fear what could happen if they refuse or fail," Sherlock said. "Clever, yes. Those who cannot escape from the occupations that keep them independent and away from the fearful place they have been trained all their lives to execrate. It tells me little about who would do it but I know there may be some connection to all the legitimate businesses."

"I see it now. I even see why those like me needed to be harmed. Charlie wanted more recognition, which would be more laws, more transparency, more law. Money is much easier to make away from fiddly laws that can become very confining when they all need to be followed. I assure you, sir, I am quite careful, my safety record is peerless. But some of the hiring laws don't work well with the homeless or those with some minor blemishes on their records. And perhaps my refreshments are questionable. I give a good salary to some of those women you know that does not require that they perform on their backs or on all fours. And most certainly, tax laws are..." Fleabite laughed softly and shook his head a little. "You may well imagine I have little respect for those. A few more bucks in my pockets and in the hands of the ones who toil for me and truly make the magic happen."

"Prepare to... become creative. When law comes, you will need to smooth over those little gaps in taxes. According to a close friend, that, more than any other crime, will lead to disaster," Sherlock noted.

"I'm smarter than the average low-life. I realize that tax issues are something very few of these scrounging thugs take into consideration. Tax fail, then jail. An easy way to keep someone locked up while digging for more. Not me. No, not me..." Fleabite said, fading into a mutter.

"Thank you very much for this insight," Sherlock said, draining his cup of tea and carefully setting it back down. "Once I have some more, it will be easy to look into all the hiring. Get the police to look at the hiring practices. All those laws, they can serve just as well as hurt if used precisely to make things apply equally to all."

"You trust these police quite a bit," Fleabite noted. "That's not how we work, not how we do things here in Happytown."

"That must change. Stagnation is rot, rot is death and decay," Sherlock said. "Change is an eternal constant and we all must learn to change with it when it comes. Anyone who fails will be swept away. I find you the kind that may work with change."

"Maybe change I understand. Maybe I'm not used to working in legitimate areas. I don't know..." Fleabite sighed.

"Look on Nicholas Wilde... Hopps. Look on Duke Weaselton. Duke Lanige. Mammals of hustle, as they say, who made the successful transition," Sherlock asserted.

"Bucks help cushion the fall. And don't say Finnick either, first off he's a transient, came from Sahara Square just to gaffle with Nick after he had no where else to go. And he still needs bucks. I hear Duke buzzes him into his building to work his sparkly underpants dance routine on widows and heiresses," Fleabite said, though ended with a sigh. "I still take your point. I will not be swept away. None of us will. The gangs can rot in Desolation. But the survivors, we'll survive in our ways."

"Mmm, gangs, yes..." Sherlock muttered. "Or those who purport to be so..."

o o o

"Ugh!" No one generally paid attention to the sounds of a brawl, to grunts of pain and calls. If someone didn't deserve it, there was little that could be done. But mostly, it was gangs having petty squabbles. With the police so rare, problems by necessity sometimes had to take care of themselves. Impacts in an alley, cries of agony, that was day-to-day life in the area. One tiger was figuring out that, for many reasons, no one was coming to help him as Sherlock brutally threw him against the wall, and pressed his hooves down on points that exploded with pain.

"Your kind should be gone from here," Sherlock intoned deeply, his composure maintained with all his skill, face a mask of neutrality, his cow eyes burning in the depths with little pinpricks of hate, flaring when he struck, beat or pressed a pressure point on the tiger. "The cleaner was cleaned up, so Mr. limo will never again hurt the New Old Girls. The pipeline plumber was put away, giving up the secrets that kept your product flowing. But I caught you. You no longer belong here. You will give me the answers that I seek. And I will graciously allow you to limp out of my home. A favor precious indeed after what your employer had done to that home."

"I just want out! You think I got any money up-front?" The tiger cried. A hoofer. Just a hoofer. The ratty coat, the stupid hat. Nothing. A nobody. He came up, saw right through the image. One punch should have been the end. One punch, and suddenly he was in a world of pain he had never imagined. A big, tough tiger, twisted into a pretzel by a cow-eyed hoofer. It wasn't ending. It wasn't ending.

"I care little for the bad deal your employer forced on you to spread your poison and suck our blood. You have answers. Tell me of who at Clover Corp gave you the assignment and why you came here, to Happytown," Sherlock demanded, evenly.

"What? You think I'm that high up? They threw me bags of junk, told me to stink and said I'd better keep my numbers up and give them their cut. Sell it all and I can pocket what's left," the tiger said, wincing as pressure was put on a limb. "That's all! I'm not a big shot. I barely heard the other guys got tagged. They just throw us in here and only notice if we keep their money."

"They. They. They. Tell me of these that provide you, that equip you with drugs and means to hide yourself among those of us here. Tell me, so you may run away and have your life be your own," Sherlock said.

"Look, I don't know much. That's gotta make sense. I didn't run the pipe, I didn't make the stuff, I just sold and pocketed what I could get away with. I needed a job. It's hard for a predator, even outside of here. Just let me go and bother some other loser. There's still a few of us trying to get out of this," the tiger insisted.

"How were you recruited, then? I will climb this mountain one tiny jut at a time, but you must give me that jut if you expect to be allowed to walk away and not given over to the police," Sherlock said.

"You just, you get a handshake. If you already do some... shady work, you can get in on this. I can say it, I was good at dealing nip, but just a little. Nip's easy to peddle to anything that's even a little catty. Savanna's the place, but if you're like me, you could make a quick business of it out of the caracals in Meadowlands. And if you were stupid, you tried to make some cash off the servals in Sahara Square and had Mahmoud find you a cozy spot underneath one of his vendors' stalls. I did Savanna, mostly. Played the big mammal, hustled like I was important. You always work for somebody, they make the stuff. One day you're buying it from some new guy, says he knows the score, never been tapped but laid out anyone who looked at him. Big talk, spoor. You don't lay out the ones that can lay a hand on you, you start taking out the ZPD, you're lucky if you go down for life with a divot taken out of your skull. But I learned. He meant PIs. You can get rid of them and nobody cares. How they sold me the job. Said somebody would clean up any mess. Guess that's not true anymore..."

"As I said, the cleaner is unavailable, and with how he fought, the replacement will be either insufficient or long in coming," Sherlock asserted, stroking his chin slowly. "Sometimes the job is dangerous, but your work is precarious as well. A Savanna wholesaler sent you, where do you deliver the money? Where do you get your things?"

The tiger hesitated until another pressure point push made him hiss. "Th-the limo, or you just gave it to the fox in the coat. Maybe you were told to make the trip to Sahara Square, but that was a warning. Underperformers went there once. They shaped up or vanished. The boss was letting them know if they were skimming or failing they'd be sent to the sandbox and have those fennecs take care of them. Is that enough?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment before he pulled the tiger's arm, spinning him a bit out of the alley and off of his paws, moving to stand menacingly over the crumpled body that panted on the broken sidewalk. "This is Happytown. We must have flexibility. Leave now, and never come back. If fate should push you so low you must, then leave the city-state. Better a mountain hermit than what will happen when genuine citizens learn of your mimicry and what you did to them."

As the tiger scrambled off, briefly on all fours before breaking into an upright run, Sherlock was left to consider how little he had learned. Of course, the lowest levels knew nothing. His greatest chances had been with that Madra Rua or with Mr. Limo.

He had a company name. It was implied that someone in the company had been taking over drug production from other sources and sent in other dealers. Those with no strong connections, those who could be held on a threatening tether from several sides. The police, and those who operated in ways the police could not. Subverting even good vigilantism to serve the needs of evil. Such was the power of malevolence.

There had been something significant said. PIs. Like him. No doubt his recruiter had not been the one to eliminate them. It had been the cleaner, Mr. Limo, keeping everything orderly. He had stayed out of some cases simply because he was seldom the first choice. He had a way about him, and scruples that could be inconvenient. Others survived by the luck of the draw or by having finely honed instincts for survival. That was the next hold upward.

o o o

Sunlight slanted beautifully into the windows of a relatively large apartment, shining on antique nick-knacks arrayed on antique tables and shelves, all of them in a diminutive size that was at odds with the size of the apartment. Fancy, high-quality runners and steps crisscrossed the apartment walls and even some city-grade resin transport tubes went around the place. Most of the furniture was new, and surprisingly middle-class for a space filled with older heirlooms, and also little in evidence. A couch and coffee table were the main things in the central living space, that coffee table being what was once known as a Division Prop, of late called the Harmony Spread. It was a normal coffee table with a second, smaller table raised up in the center for a smaller mammal. Spread around the walls, photographs of a relatively petite male margay and a relatively large female white mouse. Wedding photos, vacation photos, even pictures of the mouse in a hospital bed with a thickly-built spotted, pointed-eared, fluffy-tailed mouse baby.

The two from the photographs were sitting at the Harmony Spread, the mouse at the central table with a spread of sweets and a tea service fed from a system attached to the larger kettle. On the couch were the margay and Sherlock, who was attempting not to crowd out his host. The mouse was elegantly attired in a white shoulder-revealing dress with ruffled sleeves and lace hem. The margay was more comfortable, with dark slacks and a white shirt, suspenders hanging on his shoulders.

"Keeping up with the news as I do, I must say that you've done an impressive job. All that time in those days, I always suspected you'd go places," Nick Entrechat, the margay, said, lifting his cup to Sherlock and taking a sip. "Mm, darling, think it would be appropriate for a wee nip of something in this?"

"Now, Nicky, you know the doctor said you should cut back a bit. You keep your head but really, with Nicky jr around, even with a nanny, it's just better we limit it to very special occasions," Nora Entrechat, the mouse, said with a little click of her incisors.

"A guest is surely a reason. Oh, but you don't drink, do you? One of the defining characteristics of you that I recall. All that monk training back home. You're certainly made of stern stuff," Nick commented with a toothy smile. "We come from the same location but dealt with it rather differently."

"A will of iron and hooves of straw," Sherlock noted. "No one is ever stronger than the world, they can only deal with it as best they are able, and hope for the best."

"You always had a very intelligent way about you," Nick noted. "You took cases sensibly, and always knew better than most. I like to think I did as well but I did my share of risk-taking."

"But not anymore, right, Nicky?" Nora asked. "We have better things, society functions and fundraisers and such."

"Much like our fellow Happytowners, Duke and Hu Lin, I stumbled my way into a comfortable retirement, let us call it. Hung it up for the chance to be here in Macrocosm, living the life of an heiress' husband. Though perhaps more like Seedsworth's bride, she also came from there," Nick said.

"The poor dear, incarcerated because she took a job that she shouldn't have, her and her brother both. It really weighs on Cecil, though given you work for him in some capacity you probably know it well," Nora said with a wiggle of her whiskers. "We do our best to be friendly and often go over and offer help with the triplets, even if it's our housemaid Asta, that does most of the work."

"Now, I recognize that I have my own child with something of a head-start on life and that getting friendly with others in this sphere helps that but please don't misunderstand our intentions. I'm not saying that I'm trying to potentially set up my mousegay son with one of a trio of rich and politically connected wolmming girls somewhere down the line, but I'm not not saying it," Nick said with a pop of his brows and slow sip of tea to the sound of his wife's laughter.

"Mrs. Seedsworth taking a job she shouldn't have..." Sherlock mused. "And you said the same. We both knew it. Our lives were precarious, and some jobs, well, they were never worth it."

Nick looked serious all of a sudden, glancing into the distance. "Quite. I considered them. It seemed like there was something to them. Sometime noble perhaps. Prudence must meet ideals at some point. I remember the cases one should not have pursued, and I remember funerals, or memorials, for those of our lot that went forward."

"We all desire to lift ourselves up from wretchedness. Even my assistant, fatalist that she is, keeps some secret hope in her for a time when our lot will be better. But there was a price for trying. It used to be only desperate investigators found out too late they were paying it. But then Charlie paid it. Innocent workers paid it. That poor queen Red paid it," Sherlock sighed.

"And you caught the one that did it. Surely the police will make him pay," Nick rumbled. "He will see a courtroom, but perhaps with no more teeth and all his limbs nothing but bags of bones. Mm, perhaps... my former home impressed itself too much on me..."

Nora pressed a button on her little table, a light flashing and a low buzz briefly sounding, which brought out a very petite arctic fox in a very long and concealing maid outfit. She bowed her head a bit on reaching the table. "Aye, mum. What can I do for ye?" She asked in a thick Scots accent.

"Asta, please see about Nicky. If he's awake please bring him out here. I find the little one always gives Nick such a rush of joy."

"As ye say, mum," Asta replied, dropping a curtsey before padding away.

"I caught the perpetrator, friend. The one that did it is a bigger question. I have been scaling the mountain of this case one small hold at a time, seeking favors and information from those who know. He will send another cleaner, another Mr. Limo to deliver his will again, and worse. He will enslave those brave women that stood on their own once Wulfberg cleared the way for their revenge. He will hold all the addicted in a single hold, everyone bowing to a new god for their needs and wants. It only ends with him," Sherlock stated.

Nick took a small sip of his tea. "I want to savor being rid of him, rid of the cleaner as you call him, rid of the monster who acted against those that accidentally found themselves in the wrong case doing something of real substance. I avoided it, but only just. Maybe... maybe that's why I liked the sauce. Maybe that's why I hung it up. Maybe that's why I can be assured Nora saved my life."

"Nicky..." Nora said, stepping over to gently pat her husband's nearest hand.

"The wee bairn made like he was dozing but squeaked a little roar when I came close. He takes after you, sir," Asta said with a laugh, handing off a plump little bundle of blankets and fuzz to Nick.

The look on Nick's features went from distant and melancholy to bright. He nuzzled at his little son, who laughed and grabbed his father's nosepad with his little paws. "And maybe this little troublemaker is why I hold out hope for the future. CloverCorp. I always mistrusted that name. No clovers in Happytown, no reason for a prey business to be anywhere near it, even with those like you there. It was more subtle then, another speculation company buying and selling property. But... buying, ejecting, and selling the building again, sometimes at a loss. One of those cases... I nearly took it. You can guess what became of the one who was more than just almost. I looked a bit, a small bit. Clearly, clearly someone there was involved. But that's the rub. CloverCorp is packed with executives, with power and control. But who leads, in this area... I always had my suspicions. There was someone that saw something. Likely several, but one I know is alive and safe. A hob like me. He was always skulking, always seeing. He saw everything but always knew better than to say anything."

"I have gone very far in this quest. Very, very far. One more quest... but in a bit. It seems pleasant here. I wish to enjoy this success of yours, and the joy it has brought you," Sherlock said, peering at the small child and smiling.

Nora climbed onto her husband's offered hand and was moved over to her child. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like. You've been through what Nicky went through, and you certainly had the rough life he did. I hope this delay won't hinder the investigation."

"A moment, two moments. Small moments may add up in drips to hours and days, but anyone with the mind to note it can spend the free pieces they have to recover themselves. Even catching the cleaner, I have need of some rest. I have done things that drain my mind," Sherlock said, very gently stroking the small mousegay.

o o o

Sherlock had had quite a lot more tea that he had had in a long while, and seemingly in escalating quality. From Fleabite, to Nora, and at last an ever so slight bump from even that. He was seated in a beautiful, natural-feeling red stone condo, the rock walls clear-coated for protection and shine. It was a space filled with some antiques of more moderate size as well as new furnishing that had a very upmarket look to them. Appropriate for the surroundings. Light was delivered by the very strong fixtures to make up for the only other source being the single large floor to ceiling window with the door standing wide open and showing off the balcony patio that overlooked the wadi and the carved-in condos on the other side.

"Never thought I'd see anyone from the old neighborhood. You still pallin' with that classy dame?" Duke asked, settled against Muffin's side. The least weasel was looking especially classy, dressed in a casual pair of brand new slacks and a white silk shirt, of the long-sleeve variety with gold cufflinks. The chinchilla he was leaning on was in a very loose and filmy shift in pastel pink, drinking her tea with her last finger extended.

"Mlle. LaBelle would object to both assumptions in that statement," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "She will openly admit she is a wretch, no grander than any other suffering one in the trash can of Happytown. And she would be professionally offended by that classification. She calls herself an understudy, and she does study under me, to become a professional detective. She has her provisional license now and has used it on an investigation."

"Oh you know my dear, or seem to," Muffin said with a soft titter, hugging Duke in against her soft and ample puff. "From the same place, perhaps crossing one another as similar spheres met. He is quite the audacious hob, and speaks perhaps a bit roughly. But that is an appealing thing. He speaks plainly and directly, a refreshing thing."

"I had little interaction with him specifically. I will say one thing for him, small praise but praise. Like Nicholas Wilde-Hopps, he ran his schemes far from home and brought the money he made back into Happytown to spend in local places. Thank you for that bit of good," Sherlock said.

"Eh... I saw what was goin' on. I ain't so politically sharp or nothin' but any idiot couldda seen it. I gaffled an' grifted just like cousin Nick an' we both spent the money back home 'cause moon above knows they needed it. Ya see a lot when yer mouth is shut an' yer eyes are bogglin' out on watch fer polar bears looking fer yer knees," Duke said with an easy nonchalance.

"That was what I came here to talk to you about. Do you remember another detective, also called Nicholas? Nicholas Entrechat," Sherlock queried.

"That lush got lucky. Not lucky as me but, heh, not even cousin Nick got as lucky as me," Duke said, stroking Muffin's cheek.

"Entrechat? Oh that lovely couple from Macrocosm, they occasionally socialize with Councilor Seedsworth. We move in similar circles. The Support Network set," Muffin noted with some pride.

"The very mammal. He made me aware that there were certain individuals who entered Happytown to buy property. Buy, evict, and never make a profit. You saw the one. Saw which one of the executives they hide behind was making the deals," Sherlock said.

"He's got a name," Duke said, hollowly. "Got a name that means somethin'. Name that ain't just part-a that board. His hooves are too clean, ya'd never get him in front of a judge... that he ain't bribed an' taken golfin' yet."

"Given the caliber of his cleaner I expected no less," Sherlock neutrally noted. "It was no ordinary thug thinking ordinary thoughts. A malevolent mind scheming and dreaming of the domination and degradation of my home and my fellows in Happytown, that was what I expected at the top of this accursed mountain. I must find him, and I must defeat him."

"He'll get ya too. He got all them others. If ya don't escape Happytown on Happytown's terms, if ya don't find a moonring glow ta lift ya..." Duke choked up a touch and squeezed Muffin especially tight. "If ya don't go the right way, ya go his way. Don't matter he ain't got a cleaner no more. He's got bucks enough ta make anyone disappear, even you with yer magic powers and kung fu movie moves."

Muffin pulled Duke in and squeezed him tight, crushing her puff in as she tried to comfort him. "I assure you, whoever this pretender god may be, his name is in no wise older nor more richly powerful than ours. My apologies, Mr. Gyag, but I cannot assure your personal safety, but darling... I can assure yours. Whoever this creature is he would never dare strike here. The police would be out en masse and a city-wide mammal-hunt would be underway within the hour. Even if he chose a patsy to do the crime, he would be in grave danger of exposure. Please... tell him. Perhaps he can do it. He can free your home from fear."

Duke looked at his twitching fingers for a moment, looking to be tabulating the odds. For all his lack of book smarts, pragmatic reality had made his very good at calculating the money he couldn't pay back and the odds he ignored. "Dressed up like a silk version-a some workin' stiff, everythin' cost loads, wearin' a hard hat like he was foolin' anybody. Saw him here 'n' there, heard he gave some kinda speech somewhere, one-a those types that tried ta make the company look better than it deserved. Jes remember, ya asked me fer this. Takes a lotta legwork ta get at him. Yer gonna wanna focus up on Gregory Gnuston. Yeah, that one. The one no one wants ta elect but no one wants ta get rid of. Better as a warm body on the CloverCorp board, much as I can tell. He pops up in the business section. I take the time ta try and read it now and then. Dunno why he was always buyin' an' sellin' them slum row buildin's with no value. But he was, always said he had big plans. An' never paid up. He paid fer 'em, but they jes sat there."

"Gregory Gnuston..." Sherlock felt the name on his tongue, rolled it around his mouth to figure out how it felt. A painfully ordinary name it the city. It had been said, somewhere, in some time, that evil was banal. It was composed of base instincts, simple, base motivations and inclinations. It was a dull thing. Evil was petty as well. Evil suffered no affronts of outrages to its fragile ego. Evil would have a cleaner to sweep up minor offenses and petty threats to the business of, usually, making money from the blood of others. "I will learn of him, I will find the secret of his pettiness and rage, and I will show he was the cap to this peak of lies."

"It ain't my fault if ya end up out. Ain't my fault... always gonna be his. Don't go hauntin' me if that classy whitecoat ya got workin' fer ya ends up... what was it babe? Holdin' vigil at some nameless grave 'r a hole in a wall?" Duke asked.

"That was the substance, yes. So, is that how it is?" Muffin asked.

"Don't gotta be a detective fer everything," Duke replied. "Gregory'll do ya in. Sure as scat hope not, but know what yer in for."

Sherlock took a slow, bracing sit of tea and set down the cup gently. "If the facts work out to show he is my target, he will find me harder prey than innocent Charlie and Red. He has put a resolve in me not easily broken. I will not bend to him, and I will make sure he knows it well."