66. "Only Fools and Horses (Do the Right Thing), Pt. 1"

Ah yes, horse racing. One of the oldest sports in the world. A species that prides itself on not only its speed and strength but also its stamina and its ability to run long distances without getting tired, something they can do even better when they run on all fours. And for this reason, much like how Japanese sumo wrestlers eat ridiculous quantities of food despite it lowering their overall quality of life because it will improve their abilities in their dedicated craft, successful racehorses invariably begin their training as foals and elect never to get the surgery to break up their hooves into something they can grasp things with. This lifelong training process is taxing on the racers, and there have been countless tales of former racers lamenting that their parents forced them into this life without their say in it - which is almost always the case, but because of the hoof thing, it's a tragic necessity of the sport that training begins before the colts and fillies are even remotely old enough to make their own decisions. But if there's one balm for their mental health, it's that these horses never walk their paths alone - they've got their jockeys at their side. Or rather, on their backs, as a very near-literal ride-or-die.

Rob and Johnny, Mari and Annie, Ed and Edd and Eddy, have yourselves a seat, you have not seen camaraderie until you've seen a racehorse and their little friend. It's not just that the rider assists in being their eyes and ears while the racer simply focuses on running as fast as they can. They just make good partners in general. Racers and riders are known to frequently hang out in public together. Early in their careers, when they're struggling to get invited to the high-paying races, the duos will frequently be one another's roommates - a nice arrangement, since the hard-hooved horses need someone to open jars and such for them anyway while the little riders need someone to reach high shelves. If two horses or two jockeys get into a scuffle at the track, their partners will always take it up with their opposite number, always. And it should come as no surprise that in the years following the events of this story, one of the first high-profile instances of a same-sex wedding between two professional athletes was between a racing mare and the vixen she was already used to being in close physical contact with.

And to demonstrate their equal partnership, racer-rider batteries always have themselves colorful team monikers which they were always to be addressed as when together; if you were referring to either Bill or Bob individually, go for it, call them by their government names, but if you were referring to the both of them, don't you dare call them 'Bill & Bob', call them 'Lord Pickles' or whatever tag-team title they came up with for themselves. Coming up with such names was an artform as well as a tradition; duos had to come up with something spunky and memorable while also not taking any name that was already claimed, as there were at least a couple international racing organizations that ensured that no pair raced under a name that was already taken by any other pair, past or present. So in addition to all the "normal" names having been used ages ago, these teams often held it to themselves to come up with something that was personal in at least some capacity, and then you had the legacy horses who tried to think of a name that would invoke their mother's and/or father's team's name, and you get all sorts of wacky names like

"'Peek-A-Blue', what the fuck?" George asked out loud as he thumbed through a program, riding his boss's shoulder as the group walked through the concourse. "'Save Me Skulltooth', is… is there supposed to be a comma in there? Is it that they want Skulltooth to save them, or do they want Skulltooth to be saved for them? …'Cold Hard Mitch'? What, like the song 'Cold Hard Bitch'!? Hey, Mitch, good on you for being comfortable enough in your masculinity to call yourself that, but that's not a good look for you… and 'Ballyhoo'!? That means, like… vapid, uh… vapid talking-up of… something! It's like brouhaha or hullabaloo and shit like that! It's not a good thing to call yourself if you know what the word means!"

"Well, we can't all be geniuses like you, Nutsy," Ward grumbled. He was still not in a good mood.

"Hey, I don't even consider myself that smart! If I was actually smart, I would have figured out how to do something with my life besides becoming a cop! That's why it alarms me so much that I keep discovering that there are so many people who are somehow even dumber than I am."

"Well, if I may say, Deputy Nutzinger," said Mayor Norman with a surly sneer, "if you find your line of work so unfulfilling and regard yourself as insufficiently competent, I can always have you relieved of your duties."

"Gentlemen, please don't quarrel over nothing," the lion's niece urged sweetly, "must I remind you all that we're here to have fun?"

"Och, of course!" added her friend. "What's more fun than gamblin' on a bunch of lads and lasses abusin' their bodies for our amusement!?"

If you wanted to bet on some ponies in the Nottingham Metropolitan Area, you technically had two or three options. You could cross the border into Maryland to Ocean Downs down in Berlin during the warm months or head up to Dover Downs in the state capital during the winter, but both of those places only offered harness racing, which was the equine equivalent of speed-walking, so you really had to be a gambling addict to want to go there. No, for most people, there was only one option: Club Milton Park, located just beyond the northernmost reaches of the Nottingham city limits and its eponymous upper-middle-class Milton Park neighborhood, built in an unincorporated area but considered to be part of the suburb of New Market.

A relatively new establishment only opened in 1986, it filled a large hole in the flat-racing map and offered the best-quality races in Delmarva by a wide margin. For this reason, it attracted audiences of both the wealthy looking to have some reckless fun with their disposable income as well as regular people who'd like to spend a nice day sitting outside in the sunshine and maybe turning a few bucks into a profit. And also gambling addicts. So between its suburban geography and its money-burning nature, you wouldn't find too many of the urban poor at a place like this, but there were some, plus plenty of middle-class people who sided with the lower- rather than upper-classes; there were a fair number of patrons at this place who would have had an opinion on the city's mayor and the municipal-chief-of-police-cum-county-sheriff with that opinion skewing towards the negative.

And for that reason, the wolf was not having a good time. At times like these, he actually kind of cursed the fact that he was enormous for his species in all three dimensions, because he was sticking out like a sore thumb (and the fact that the mayor had insisted he and Nutzinger just attend the races in their police duds wasn't helping). Woodland couldn't help but notice that he was getting a lot of dirty looks - not a sea of glares, but as they made the long walk from the parking lot through the admission gate and towards the luxury boxes, about once every thirty seconds he'd notice somebody giving him a pair of evil eyes. It was enough to keep him in a constant state of fuming anger.

"Free Kellen Huffman!" somebody somewhere jeered from amongst the crowd. Ward couldn't tell who.

"The guy's already out, what more do ya want?" Woodland growled under his breath. But somebody else responded to the mysterious voice much louder:

"Hey, don't say that too loud, he might arrest ya for it!"

"WHO WAS THAT!?" the sheriff hollered, spinning his head and body around violently to seek out the critic and getting the attention of everybody in the immediate vicinity as he did, a fifty-foot radius around the wolf stopping in their tracks and staring at him in stunned silence. But he got his answer:

"That was ME, you fucking idiot!" the squirrel screamed up at him, now hanging on by the sheriff's epaulet after being shaken unsteady. "You seriously don't recognize my voice when you hear it after all this time we've been stuck together!?"

And for a split second, the wolf was stunned speechless. But when the synapses in his head started firing again, he grabbed the rodent in his massive paw and forced him into a face-to-face discussion.

"YOU!?" Woodland barked. "WHAT THE HELL DIDJA DO THAT FOR!?"

"Hey, Ward, I know I might be prettier than you in ways you'll never be, but I'm not actually your Barbie doll, so don't hold me like one, okay?"

"I SHOULDN'T HAFTA DEMAND YOU RESPECT ME ENOUGH NOT TA' ENCOURAGE PEOPLE TA' MAKE FUN A' ME!"

"I was literally discouraging them."

"WILL YOU QUIT BEIN' A SMARTASS FER TWO GOT-DAMN SECONDS!?"

"Okay, this is weird: I can definitely smell toothpaste on your breath but apparently it didn't eliminate any odor and it's just mixing with the other smells leaving your mouth to make something that smells even wor- ACK! ACK!"

"BOYS, BOYS, BREAK IT UP, BREAK IT UP!" Rocky hollered as he peeled the sheriff's fingers off the deputy, while onlookers gasped at the sight of the wolf strangling the snarky squirrel.

"Aw, don't ya talk ta' me like I'm the bad guy!" Ward shot back at the rhino, now holding Nutzinger in his hooved hands.

"Dude-!" George had to stop to cough. "-You were literally trying to kill me for real this time and everybody saw it!"

"Nutsy, when you're drivin' someone crazy, ya can't act surprised when they go fuckin' crazy!" the wolf growled. "Nobody made ya run yer mouth ta' me but you!"

"That's quite enough, gentlemen," Mayor Norman said as he approached the three, "...and I use that term loosely. You two mustn't be misbehaving in a public place all over again, especially after last night! Eddward, I brought you here in spite of your poor public image, not because of it, and you're completely squandering the opportunity to openly show this city that you have regret for your actions at the comedy theatre!"

"I don't regret mah actions at the comedy theater!"

A few more gasps from the crowd, plus one guy shouting back, "Of COURSE you don't!"

Woodland looked in every direction to find this new protestor. "Why, I oughta-!"

"Don't you DARE retaliate against that person!" the lion cut in. "They're right to criticize you for your misbehavior and if you're truly a man, you'll take it on the chin and not let it bother you!"

"Says the guy with a long history of working rebuttals to newspaper editorials into his press conferences," Nutzinger muttered.

"And as for you, George!" John continued, turning to the deputy. "Your criticisms of your superior may be valid, but ask yourself: knowing his volatile nature, do you think it's a good idea to excoriate him like that? What will be accomplished by mocking him to his face aside from provoking him!?"

"Motherfucker, given what he did yesterday, you should be telling him off in public at every opportunity too to prove you don't approve of them!"

To this, the mayor simply smirked. "But would you not say that was what I just did?"

"Yeah, but I liked it better when you didn't immediately follow it by telling me I shouldn't do the exact same!"

Meanwhile, the other three in the party were watching with intense fascination.

"Hrm… I must say, Charles," Marian remarked quietly, "I don't recall my uncle being this… well, like this. Has he always been this… somewhat rational, and I just hadn't noticed?"

"He hasn't," Hess answered bluntly; one thing that they each remembered from Mari's previous stint living with her uncle in Nottingham was that the weasel wasn't particularly awestruck by his boss, either, so freely discussing John's flaws had never been risky for either of them. "It's been… something we've been working on."

"...Hrm," the vixen pondered. "Well… good for him, then. Always good to make progress." Though this certainly won't make it any easier for Robin.

"Och, old Johnny's still the same deep down," Annie scoffed. "You'll notice the cowardly lion waited to intervene until Rocky already broke the lads up!"

But the feuding authorities heard none of this talk occurring behind their backs, as another lion (who looked to be nearly a foot taller than the mayor and appeared to be more physically robust in every way) soon approached them, looking like he was there to fulfill some duty; indeed, a quick glance at his uniform told them that he was Club Milton Park security.

"Excuse me, Officers," the guard began, "but we can't be having you two starting trouble if you're not on duty, so we're going to have to ask you to leave-"

"We are on duty!" Woodland interjected, flashing his badge at the stranger. "And as such, I outrank you!"

This promptly shut the CMP security guard up. "Uh… Cheryl?" he asked into his walkie-talkie, his eyes noticeably widened as he backed away. "So about the guys you told me to throw outta here…"

The incensed wolf glared at the lion as he walked off to loop in his boss, but the wolf's own lion boss demanded his attention once again.

"Eddward, we've hardly been in the building for five minutes and you've already nearly gotten us ejected from the premises! True as it is that they cannot do such a thing to individuals of our stature… perhaps we'd best behave ourselves as if we hadn't such immunity, shall we?"

"What the hell do I gotta say ta' get ya ta' stop tellin' me I'm some kinda jackass!?" the sheriff protested.

"What must you say?" Prince John sneered. "I'll tell you: say nothing that will make myself or the power we represent look bad! Do I make myself clear, Sheriff?"

Ward still looked deeply annoyed as he stared down at his boss, but - call it a hunch - he didn't think his boss would let him win this one. "Yes, sir." And part of him still did crave the mayor's approval, as much as he knew he shouldn't.

"As for you, George…" John snarled as he turned back to the squirrel.

"Lemme guess, you want me to feel like I'm equally responsible for whether or not another fight breaks out between me and him?" Nutzinger asked with his eyelids barely open.

Mayor Norman replied with a self-impressed smile. "You most assuredly are the brains between the two of you."

"Deputy Nutzinger," the rhino bodyguard piped in, sounding as formal as ever, "would you prefer to ride with me throughout the day instead of with Sheriff Woodland?"

George looked intrigued. "Not what I had in mind, but I'll take that offer."

The wolf scoffed. "Fine, no more a' ya diggin' yer claws inta' mah ear ta' hang on-"

"ENOUGH," the lion growled. "Now let us go; I don't want to be late for the first race because of your insipid bickering!"

And while that may not have been the most inspiring way to phrase it… nobody else in the party wanted to be late either, so they went and allowed themselves to follow the ornery mayor.

-IllI-

Holy shit, the luxury boxes were actually pretty luxurious. You had the actual seats on a shaded balcony jutting out from a small air-conditioned mini-lounge for your group, tables and sofas and such so you could all hang around out of the sun between races. Snacks and non-alcoholic drinks were on the house, and while you had to pay extra for full entrées and grown-up beverages, all of this would be brought to you by wait staff who could be called at the push of a button, as could a bookmaker who could process your bets on a small computer in the room and could retrieve the payout of any winnings you might encounter. You could even say despite the pricey fee, the experience paid for itself.

Sheriff Woodland was most assuredly getting his boss's money's worth with all the free food he was eating as the crew of individuals who didn't really like each other sat around in an awkward near-silence, thumbing through the programs and trying to decide who and what they wanted to put some cash on. Ward was likely focusing more on the nachos and soft pretzels than he was on thinking critically about a good choice of a horse to back, Marian and Annie were just looking at all the amusing names that the rider/racer duos had come up with for themselves, Rocky understood that he was there to do a job and wasn't even entertaining the idea of enjoying himself, Charles's mind was elsewhere as he tried to brainstorm a way to take advantage of this situation, and that just left George and John to take the idea of scouting a potential equine financial investment.

"So," Nutzinger began to say, seeing as nobody else would say anything, "you come to the track a lot, Johnny?"

"I… cannot say I do," Mayor Norman replied, trying to sound dignified while hinting that he actually didn't know what he was doing looking through those pages. "Mostly as a social excursion when I do, I'm no gambling addict if that's what you're asking."

"Naw, man, I was just asking whether you knew how to pick out a horse or not," the squirrel insisted as coolly as he could, "because don't sweat it if you don't, I don't either. When I take my mom here for Mother's Day, my strategy is always just to pick the team with the name I like the best."

"Oh!" Marian piped up from across the small room, pointing at the deputy. "I like his strategy!"

George chuckled at that while Prince John didn't hesitate to roll his eyes.

"Like, hey, here's one you'd probably like," Nutzinger said with a nudge to the lion and a gesture to a name on the page, "they're a team out of England!"

That did indeed get the mayor's attention. He took a closer look: "Hrm… so they are!"

He'd already noticed the bolded name of the racing team, Stoked-on-Trent, but he hadn't looked at the fine print declaring that they weren't just stealing the name of an English city for their ridiculous name as he'd originally thought; where other teams were stated to be from "DE" or "MD" or "KY" or "CA", this Stoked-on-Trent's origin was allowed three letters: "GBR". And as if to clear up any remaining ambiguity, the program listed the racers' and riders' legal names as well, and when it came to Stoked-on-Trent, well, you just don't see too many Gavin's and Neil's in the States, now do you?

"So, there ya go!" the squirrel said with sarcastic triumph. "There's your horse. Easy decision."

"Well, wait, wait, hold on now!" the mayor protested. "I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions!"

"That you can, sir," said his assistant, "but it does seem as if this duo does have particularly favorable odds!"

"And what odds are those?"

"Five-to-two."

"Which is basically two-and-a-half-to-one," Nutzinger elaborated. "Just look at the paper, dude, you're not gonna find better odds than that. You're not gonna have a huge profit margin, but you've got a pretty good chance at making one."

(Alright, and I think this would be a pretty good place to take a timeout. So, Dear Reader… this narrator does not fuck with math. Me and numbers don't hang. I can get the concept of betting odds just fine, but when it comes into how that all pays out, you might as well be asking me to write in Swahili. And for what it's worth, everyone who was there that day either doesn't remember specifically how much money was wagered and won or they are no longer around to ask, so for the sake of the narrative, I… I'm just gonna bullshit the exact numbers. Like… are we cool with that? Are we all cool with that? Alright, I appreciate it. Besides, the precise monetary sums are probably the least important thing about this day.)

George kept explaining: "You can bet that they're gonna win, you can bet that they'll place first or second, you can bet that they'll show, that means anywhere in the top three… you've got some options to make a damn-near guaranteed profit."

And indeed, nobody else in that race had even remotely as good of a shot as Stoked-on-Trent had, as per the stats in the program. But Prince John couldn't help but feel… contrarian.

"Yes, yes, and that may be so," the lion conceded, "but think on it: how often does the best racer actually win the race? Luck may not be a cosmic force playing our hands, but it is a phenomenon that does happen, and there's no way to know that this duo won't fall into foul fortune!"

The squirrel just raised an eyebrow at that. "I mean, yeah, but the point of us being here is to make you money, dude. Do you wanna make a profit or not?"

"Oh, I do, I do, I just…" John knew that George was absolutely right, if left to his own devices, the Englishman would have picked his fellow countrymen every single time. But he wanted it to be his decision. "What kind of man would I be if the only qualifier I paid heed to was one's country of origin? You all may think of me as some stereotypical haughty jingoist, but I will prove to you that I am more than the person you see me as!"

George just stared at him. "They literally have the best odds, though."

But the weasel (mink?) chimed in, trying a different strategy: "But sir, the deputy does make a good point! If our goal today is to win back what was spent on these tickets, playing it safe and perhaps predictable would likely be our best strategy! Besides, we're in a private booth, are we not? Nobody will even be able to judge us outside of this group besides the bookkeepers, and who minds what they think?"

But the mayor was unmoved, and he simply gave his assistant a weak smirk as he prepared to lay down some half-confident wisdom: "Ah, but I mind, Charles, as they may well have good reason to pass judgment! I would not have succeeded in politics as much as I have if not for-"

"You're in private company, Johnny," the ewe cut in, "you needn't pretend your political successes were of yer own doin'."

"...I would not have succeeded if not for one key attribute: cunning social awareness. The fact of the matter is, Hess, that as a stranger in a strange land, I need to make it look like I want to be here and that I'm not constantly pining for home! It's the plight of the immigrant, Charles, surely you understand in turn."

The assistant just squinted his eyes at his boss.

"Didn't this guy literally grow up in New York, though?" the squirrel asked as he gestured to the little mustelid thing. "To parents who just happened to be rich British people? Presumably with a nanny named Fran?"

A quick pause as George glanced around the room to gauge reactions to that clever quip.

"...Nobody got that pop culture reference?" he continued. "Okay. Got it. You all need to start watching more Nick at Nite. But in any case, Princey, it really should be telling that even Charlie is agreeing with me on this one."

"And you lads are not alone!" the vixen added. "I'll be picking Stoked-on-Trent as well myself, I don't care if it might seem predictable. It's not every day I see other English people in this country!"

"Except it literally is every day now," Annie remarked, nudging her friend as her eyes pointed at John and Charles, eliciting a chuckle from Marian. "But I'll also be puttin' some money on Stoked. I want to start this day with a victory, no matter how small!"

"Aw, hell, I'll pick 'em, too," said Ward, who had been too busy pigging out to take his mind off his fuming thoughts to be able to seriously scrutinize the racers' statistics. "I mean, shit, if er'rybody else is doin' it."

And indeed, Mayor Norman felt left out of his own party. He looked around the room, trying not to make his glare too glaring as he met eyes with each of his betrayers.

"Rocky, what about you?" the lion asked the rhinoceros. "Which team will you be picking?"

"I'm not here to gamble, sir," the bodyguard answered, seeming annoyed that he had to remind his boss of that. "I'm on duty."

"But - so are Eddward and George! And technically Charles and Anne, too!"

Rocky did not answer.

But Charles did. "And so are you, Mayor. And we're here on a work assignment to regain what was lost paying for these tickets. Should we not be doing everything we can toward that end?" And he finished this off with a look that screamed Don't you recall how you agreed to start listening to me?

And that face might just have worked had the two of them been alone. But even if giving Hiss credit was part of their arrangement… Prince John didn't want the rest of his inner circle thinking he was that easily swayed by the little invalid. Therefore he stayed steadfast against his better judgment and kept forcing a smile to project faux confidence in his ability to predict the future.

"Hmmm…" he pondered as he looked again at the program, before shortly thereafter sticking a triumphant finger in the air. "Aha! I've found my racers! I'll be placing my bet on Horse Number 1! 'Hooves of Clay', now that's a delightfully colorful moniker!"

The deputy gave the mayor a twisted look of horror and disgust as though John had just selected a team called 'Prolific Child Molester'. "I'm sorry, Hooves of Clay!? As in feet of clay? Do you not realize why that's a terrible name? Does anybody else here know what 'feet of clay' are? Charlie, you look like you read, you wanna take this?"

Charles took it. "Sir… 'feet of clay' is a poetic term to refer to one's weakness. It's a term not unlike Achilles heel."

"You just picked a team whose name means they have a fatal flaw," said Nutzinger to Mayor Norman, looking and sounding deeply unimpressed. "They also have the worst odds out of anybody, which makes me wonder whether you didn't even read that part or if you did and specifically decided not to care."

The room was mostly silent after that, save for the girls trying to stifle their giggles.

"Well… what can I say!?" said the lion, whose show of cheerful faith and conviction still had not fooled anybody. "I love an underdog! I simply have a feeling about them, don't you lot ever just get a feeling about someone or something? And as for their name, well, I… I admire that they can have a sense of humor and humility about themselves! Whom among us truly does not have a flaw that can be our undoing?"

"Yeah, but most people don't advertise it," George clarified. "For better or worse, being too upfront with your flaws is considered a red flag. This is why people go gaga for people who project some semblance of self-esteem."

"Kinda like those sum-bitches in the woods…" Sheriff Woodland grumbled under his breath, his words muffled a little with the chewed-up bite of strawberry churro in his mouth.

"Goddammit, Ward, did you have to make this about work?"

"We are at work, ya stupid little piece a' shit! Hell, one a' mah pieces a' shit is prolly bigger'n you!"

"I bet it is with all the garbage you're constantly shoving down your gullet! Either that, or you've got permanent diarrhea-"

"Gentlemen, that is disgusting!" the mayor protested (and it seemed like the others in the room were actually on his side for this one). "We're here to earn back lost finances, not to wax nostalgic about one another's bowel movements!"

"Well, you're not acting like we're here to win back lost money, but whatever, if you say so." The squirrel looked around the room. "Should I press the button to call the bookie? Are we ready? No objections?"

There were none.

-IllI-

The mobile bookmaker, his employee card stuck into the room's computer so he could process the bets, was in the process of printing out the City Hall crew's receipts as the public-address announcer came onto the loudspeaker to address the crowd:

"Ladies and gentlemen… please rise and remove your hats for the singing of our national anthem."

The group was still inside the room, waiting for their stubs to finish printing, but they heard the announcement loud and clear. Woodland stood up, took his cap off, and held it over his heart without even thinking, as one might expect of him, making his way toward the balcony so he could be present for the ceremony. Nutzinger was certainly less eager to go through the motions of performative patriotism, but he was used to living in this culture, so, already standing on a table, he put his own cap over his chest and faced the television monitor in the room, which was currently showing the Stars and Stripes blowing in the warm breeze of that eighty-six degree day; he was joined in this by Rocky, who was not wearing a hat. Neither were Marian, Annie, or Charles, but they'd each been in the States long enough to know how to play along, so they likewise faced the TV and put their hand-like appendages (if applicable) over their hearts. That left two individuals in the room not facing the flag.

And just as a female voice outside started singing, the wolf realized he was the only one actually going outside to see the flag with his own two eyes. This simply would not do, so he stopped at the sliding glass door and turned around to face the offenders. But when he realized that most of them were at least watching on the screen, he focused his displeasure on someone who wasn't even attempting to do that.

"Hey! Ain't ya gonna stand fer the flag!?"

To this, the boar silently conceded that he should have been doing that all along and took off his CMP employee hat, putting it over his chest as he likewise turned to the TV like most others in the room had. But the bookmaker was not the individual Ward had been addressing.

"Mayor!" the sheriff clarified.

"Hrm?" the lion asked boredly, barely raising an eyebrow - likely to avoid tipping his tophat.

"You're the mayor of a major American city, you should be standin'!" He said this while pointing his sheriff's cap at the boss he found to be behaving treasonously disrespectfully at that moment.

And it was now that the others in the party - who had kinda-sorta noticed in their periphery that John hadn't been standing but hadn't thought it was worth heeding - began to heed the fact that this mayor of a major American city was indeed refusing to even pretend to care about the customs of the land.

"Oh, if you all wish to stand for the anthem, you may, I won't judge you," Prince John said in a rather snooty tone. "But I'm quite comfortable, thank you."

It was a response so jarringly mind-warping that for a moment, nobody could think of anything eloquent to say to that.

So Ward said something ineloquent. "Mayor, it's not a choice, it's sumpthin' yer suppose't ta' do!"

"Yeah, wait," said George, "Wolfie actually makes a good point. Didn't you just say, like, ten minutes ago that you feel an obligation as an immigrant to prove that you wanna be in this country?"

"I did and I do, but does being an American not give me the freedom to decline to participate in something I disagree with, such as silly and obnoxious rituals of overbearing nationalism such as these," John answered, sounding moderately to severely disgusted as he gestured to the TV set. "Is that not covered by my First Amendment right, Eddward? Or would you know nothing of that right, seeing as how you wouldn't let that comedian exercise it last night?"

Woodland's eyes narrowed. He looked like he was about to bite the skinny cat's throat out.

"Okay, I hate how much that makes sense," said the squirrel, "but… Ward's making sense, too. As the mayor of an American city, as a politician in general, you should be standing for the flag anyway, just… by default, no matter how 'hur-dur America' it is. Like, by your own volition, you should just be choosing to do that."

"Indeed, sir," added Charles, who as we've established was probably the most American of the British people in that room, "going through the motions for such traditions is… arguably a key tenet of your job description."

"Hess, the point of my job is to make the rules, not to be subjected to them!" the lion snapped at the weasel, snapping his own neck around to face him and having his top hat fall over his eyes in the process. "In a role meant to take control of a great many things, whatever would be the point of it if not for the power to choose my own fate!?"

Once again: John Norman actually said this; you'd better believe that those private booths had security cameras with mics after 9/11. And as the woman on the PA system sang about watching ramparts, everybody in the room was silent.

"Besides, we're alone in here," the mayor continued, "the public isn't even here to see us go through this silly lip-service to a ragged piece of cloth!"

Off to the side, Marian whispered to her friend: "You'd think he'd have more reverence for a ragged piece of cloth considering our famously cunning use of flags!" (Okay, no she didn't say that, but she tells me now that she wishes she had.)

In actuality, according to the tapes, George was the first to respond: "Okay, so first things first, lip service refers to something you do verbally, not physically, we're not first-graders mindlessly reciting the Pledge of Allegiance here, number one! Number two, dude, we have a normal person in the room right fucking there!"

The deputy gestured aggressively to the CMP employee, the boar keeping his eyes on the TV screen and pretending not to hear the loud argument all around him.

Mayor Norman didn't budge but to adjust his hat. "Yes, and he likely heard me state my opposition to Eddward's blatant ignorance and apathy towards the freedom of speech guaranteed by the law of this land! Is that not what you recommended I do, Deputy?"

"Yea," answered the ewe on the squirrel's behalf, "and he likely also heard ye use that freedom of speech to declare that you're driven by a desire for power!"

Silence again as everyone looked first at the boar as one might look at a condemned man, then at the mayor, who was indeed giving the boar a look of condemnation.

"Ye really think he won't be tellin' people about what he heard-!?"

But Marian gave Annie a nudge and, for real this time, whispered something to her. "Klucky! Don't make this poor lad a target!"

The sheep's expression softened as she realized her words might genuinely have directly endangered this innocent bystander.

As for Prince John? He was simply fuming, but was clearly forcing himself to remain calm. "...Yes, well, that would be within his…" He turned slowly to glare at the sheriff. "...First Amendment right, now wouldn't it be?"

"Aw, what in the hell are ya givin' me that look for-!?"

"WOODLAND!" the lion growled. "Today you will speak when spoken to!"

"YA DID JUST SPEAK TA' ME!" the wolf growled right back. "About the FREEDOM ta' SPEAK! I am a GROWN-ASS MAN! I don't care if you're mah boss, I am not gonna let ya talk ta' me like-!"

"Do you want me to sack you!?"

Ward stopped talking, his mouth hanging open for a second. He wasn't scared, he just had no idea what sack meant in this context.

"Uh…" George mumbled, "I… I think I know what that means in British, but um…" He gestured towards Charles and the ladies. "...do you guys wanna take this one, or…?"

"SACKED!" The mayor repeated. "Fired, let go, relieved of duty, DISMISSED!"

Aaand Ward was right back to being angry. "Aw, you're bluffin'! You know damn well that you'd be powerless without me!"

"...And how much better am I with you, Eddward?" the lion asked quietly, calmly, and with a disturbing amount of composure. "You've proven yourself to be a liability when it comes to garnering the people's trust and support, and while few in the Police Department wish to work with you, surely many of them would find great joy and fulfillment in replacing you… is it best to just cut you loose, Sheriff?"

The wolf just narrowed his eyes tighter at the lion. But Woodland didn't say a goddamn word.

"We've come to the conclusion that to… fulfill our goals, as it were, something needed to change, haven't we, Eddward?" John hissed. "We're no closer to achieving our goals, and the definition of insanity and all that… perhaps that change is you, Sheriff Woodland."

As the two glared at one another, everyone else in the room was too stunned to speak. The only voice that could be heard was the singer outside:

"...aaaaand thehhh hooooooome, offfff thehhhhhhhhh… braaaaaaaaaaaaaaave!"

Followed by light cheers and applause from the crowd of spectators below, and then the PA announcer:

"Five minutes to post time. Betting closes in two minutes."

Prince John slowly turned his head to the employee, the poor boar still holding his hooved hand over his heart and staring at the TV, too terrified to move.

"Sir, please process our bets and exit the room to give us some privacy."

"Uh… yeah, they're… almost done," the man mumbled as he finished printing out their receipts. He handed all of them to John himself before seeing himself out, and then, for a moment, it was quiet again.

"...You're gonna have that guy killed, aren't you?" asked Nutzinger rather flatly.

The mayor simply scoffed at this. "George, are you mad!? After your superior's actions last night, it would be incredibly stupid of me to do anything to harm a naysayer lest it seem I did want Woodland to arrest that comedian! Besides, Deputy, I didn't even catch the gentleman's name." (Aaand neither did I, Dear Reader, which is why I can't just Google whether the guy is still alive today or not.)

To this, the vixen rolled her eyes, the ewe covered hers with her hoofed hand, the wolf took out his frustrations by wolfing down a room-temperature hot dog, the weasel just sort of stared awkwardly at a corner, the rhino kept chilling there not doing anything, and the squirrel threw his paws in the air and yelled:

"Jesus, Mayor, you're saying the fucking quiet part out loud again! Goddamn, I really need to get a new job or people are gonna start thinking I'm cosigning on your cartoonish brand of evil!"

But a few minutes later, the City Hall crew had migrated into their seats on the shaded balcony, watching as the mobile starting gate was slid into place, whereupon seven horses converged, trotting on all fours and carrying their medium-small-species friends on their backs. The PA announcer gave the crowd a helpful introduction.

"Ladies and gentlemen… the racers are now approaching the starting gate… in the red saddle, number 1, Hooves of Clay… in the white saddle, number 2, Hot Harley… in blue, number 3, Stoked-on-Trent… in yellow, saddle 4, Southie… in green, racers number 5, Summer Soldier… number 6, in black, Cold Hard Mitch… and saddle number 7, in orange, Iwannabetheguy. Two minutes to post time."

"Oh… NOW I get it," the deputy murmured, not so quietly, "you didn't wanna bet on Stoked because his jockey is a fox."

Everybody in the group heard that, but only John felt the need to raise an eyebrow. "Whatever are you talking about!?"

"So this one's on me, this is me being an idiot this time, but I didn't realize earlier that the name of the jockey in Stoked-on-Trent clearly belonged to a fox." The squirrel gestured to Racer #3, who was indeed carrying a fox friend on his back. "It didn't click with me when I read his name in the program, but now that I see him, no duh, Neil Redford, of course he'd be a fox. You probably picked up on that, and you didn't wanna bet on him because you're at war with a fox - a British fox, no less!"

The lion's face flashed about a half a dozen emotions in the span of a few seconds, including confusion, frustration, embarrassment, and something close to amusement. Truth be told, he hadn't put two and two together, either, but while he could concede that it was funnily fitting, he was also annoyed that George was just saying this out in the open.

And sure enough, Mari and Annie noticed him glance nervously at them for half a second to gauge their reaction to Nutzinger's accusation before he answered the squirrel:

"Oh, that is preposterous!"

…And that's it. That's all he could come up with.

"That's all you could come up with?" asked George.

"Please, let us not tarnish the day. What's done is done. I'll be pulling for the, er…" He squinted to get a glimpse of the team he'd bet on. "...Is that a skunk?"

Meanwhile, Ward was feeling bored, irritated, and quite a bit lonely. Everybody seemed to be against him; he and George were pissing each other off more than usual, John and Charles clearly had no interest in being truly friendly with him, Annie and Marian wanted nothing to do with him, and Rocky was literally under orders not to make unnecessary banter. And this loneliness was just making him feel even bored-er and giving him nothing to do but pass the time focusing on his anger.

He leaned out over the railing and looked out over the throng of animals below, just glaring down upon them. Look at 'em. Either they scoffed at his authority or they didn't even remember he had it. He didn't expect everyone in the city and county to revere him like a king, but he did frankly expect that at least a plurality of them would have some respect for his hard work in the position he occupied, if not a majority of them. People just didn't heed and trust authority like they used to, which was why so many people in this godforsaken city looked up to the bandits instead of him. And yeah, not everyone here was a citizen of the city, let alone fans of the outlaws; some of these people probably didn't even live in this county, some weren't even from this state. But fuck them, too. He could barely care about the people he was supposed to serve and protect, he couldn't be asked to extend that to people outside of his jurisdiction.

Almost immediately below the balcony stood a pair of giraffes, whose heads weren't bumping up against the outpost or anything but were certainly a lot closer to it than the heads of anybody else in the crowd. Apparently the two gangly gentlemen could hear the wolf mumbling and grumbling to himself above them, as something inspired them to look up.

"Hey, look, it's the county sheriff!" one of them exclaimed as he pointed up with his free hand, his other one occupied holding a clear plastic cup half-full of beer. "H-hey, Sheriff Woodland, fuck you!"

And at first, Ward didn't even feel angry; if anything, he stared wide-eyed back at them, almost feeling embarrassed as though he'd just been busted sneaking into a party to which he'd not been invited.

"Suck my dick, Woodland!" the other giraffe drunkenly jeered.

"Naw, man, he'd probably bite it off!" said the first giraffe. "Like… and not even in a sexual way, just… he'd probably think it was a snack or something!"

"Y'mean… because he's fat, or because he's a wolf?"

"Uh… both, I think?"

"Alright, fair point, fair point. Wul, either way, freedom of speech, bitch!"

"FREEDOM OF SPEECH!"

By this point, some of the other patrons around them were also staring up at the wolf, some giving him a dirty look, others just presenting completely blank faces like one might when seeing someone with an enormous facial tumor. Most of the crowd either didn't hear the giraffes over the rest of the noise or didn't care to heed their inebriated hooting and hollering, but just enough were giving Woodland a look to make him see red all over again.

"If only there were someone who could dissuade those guys from saying those things," the deputy piped in, musing sardonically. "But apparently that's not in my job description. Actually, the opposite, is!"

Ward rolled his eyes and glanced towards the mayor. "Are you really gonna pitch a fit if I go down there and arrest 'em fer public intoxication?"

"I will, and you may not," Prince John said bluntly, "they're in an enclosed place where alcohol is being served lawfully. It alarms me slightly that you don't realize that."

So Woodland just kept his mouth shut and went back to glaring down at his detractors.

Meanwhile, Dear Reader, I couldn't blame you if you thought that the girls hadn't been doing very much so far. But that was entirely part of the strategy: lay low, observe all they could about how these idiots interacted and brainstorm how they could use this information to help Mari's boyfriend accomplish his goal without any of them winding up dead or in prison. Only trouble was, said idiots weren't giving as straightforward ammunition as the ladies had hoped.

Post time drew nearer. Then it ran over a few minutes as it often does. But if the goal was to delay the action on purpose so as to build the tension and suspense even greater, then perhaps Club Milton Park was right to take a page out of The Chuckle Bunker's playbook. But eventually the time came, and the horses and their jockeys were locked into their voluntary cages, corralled until the ring of a bell. And everyone on that balcony had their eyes on the chestnut-brown steed with a fox on his back - even the lion who had bet against him.

"We're getting ready for the bell…"

DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

"...AAAND THEY'RE OFF!"

And this begins a new challenge for me as a writer: describing the action of an athletic event that I've never seen for which no clear footage is available besides security tapes with shitty filming angles and which furthermore nobody there remembers as well as I'd need to make it exciting, and then I need to make it exciting. But luckily for me, the first race is a narrative layup: it was basically over as soon as it started.

Hooves of Clay badly squandered their advantage of drawing the innermost lane; by the time they were halfway down the frontstretch at the line which would signify the finish the next time around, No. 2 Hot Harley had already cleared them and moved in front of them; by the time the racers got to the first turn, No. 3 Stoked-on-Trent had done the same to Hot Harley. The seven were all pretty tight around the bend, but once they got to the backstretch, Stoked-on-Trent just started pulling away. By the next turn, they were ahead of second-place Cold Hard Mitch by a length and a half, and while they and Iwannabetheguy did close the gap somewhat through the final curve, Stoked-on-Trent came around the bend to a decisive victory, almost a second ahead of the rest of the pack. There was still some excitement from the crowd, though, as the finish for second (and all the wager money riding on it) was much closer; Iwannabetheguy had their horse's neck about level to Cold Hard Mitch's shoulders when they came across the line.

And as for old Hooves of Clay? So maybe if you're into horse racing you already knew this, Dear Reader, but apparently racing record-keepers add official notes into the results, and the one I saw read "exhausted, no speed". They finished three seconds behind sixth-place Summer Soldier, both #1's rider and racer looking visibly frustrated with themselves as they finally finished the race.

Up in the private booth, most of the group were delighted by the result, not completely losing their minds but definitely cheering. Even Sheriff Woodland was finding himself smirking and nodding a little, glad that something had finally gone right for him that day.

And while part of me feels like it would be a waste of syllables and sentences to point it out, this narrator also feels like it's his duty to confirm that Mayor Norman was just sitting there slumped in his seat, glaring at the world at large, not making a peep.

"Hey, there's a button out here, too!" George observed; indeed, there were two, one to call room service and one to call the bookmaker, both on a little metal box jutting out from the wall next to the sliding glass door. "Rock, call the bookie for us, would ya please?"

The rhino did, and shortly after, a CMP employee knocked on the glass to enter the balcony. This bookmaker was a coyote, and everyone in the group noticed it wasn't the same guy as last time, that boar they would never see again.

Deputy Nutzinger, standing on the railing, was the first to present his receipt, which the employee ran through a small handheld device that scanned the words and numbers, then he unzipped a large fanny pack and started leafing through different denominations of cash cut into three different sizes. He pocketed the receipt and presented the squirrel with the smallest twenty and five he had to give.

"Thaaank you," George said as he accepted the money.

"Thaaank you!" echoed the mayor as he cheerily plucked the money from the deputy's paws.

"HEY!" the squirrel barked. "Excuse me, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Oh, so now you've forgotten the reason we're here?" the lion said with a self-satisfied grin. "All profits you lot earn are to be put towards regaining the money spent on these seats-"

"Yeah, the profits, you dumb motherfucker!" Nutzinger shot back. "I put down ten and got back twenty-five, that means my profit is fifteen!"

(Is that how the payouts work? Like I said, the fine details of the bets were long forgotten and Camp Milton Park tossed their receipts from these transactions years ago. I'm just guessing that that would be the payout at 5/2 odds, 2.5x10=25 and all that, I dunno man numbers scare me. Let's just roll with this, that cool?)

Well, in any case, Dear Reader, this narrator wasn't the only one who sucked at math. "...I don't see how that matters," John stated plainly, any look of joy on his face thoroughly evacuated. "We need all the money we can get to-"

"Dude, I'm not gonna give you my money."

"You pledged this money to me, George."

"I pledged the profits, which is fifteen fucking dollars!"

"You had zero dollars and the gentleman gave you twenty-five. That is a profit of twenty-five dollars."

The squirrel was incredulous, his mouth hanging open just a little as he was stunned into silence for a moment before throwing his hands up in the air. "And then you wonder why your city is always fucking broke!"

Marian had to take this opportunity to make a relevant remark under her breath to her sheep friend: "My, Klucky, Richard was notoriously bad about overspending, but at least he understood the arithmetic of why he was making poor decisions!"

Annie giggled at this, but none of the boys heard the girls conversing because they were still going at one another. While the vixen was delivering her one-liner, George was appealing to the bookmaker for backup:

"C'mon, tell him!" George implored the employee. "Tell him that my profit is fifteen dollars!"

"...For a ten-dollar bet with a twenty-five-dollar payout, the net gain would be fifteen dollars," the coyote answered rather bashfully.

Prince John's eyebrows pointed in on themselves. "Young man, you are to address me as Mayor!"

"You realize you're out of your fucking jurisdiction, right!?" the deputy asked. "But you know what? I'm not. Ward, can we arrest this idiot for stealing from me?"

Sheriff Woodland only very tentatively understood the math of this controversy himself, but he was already inclined to begrudgingly side with his deputy. "I… think if it comes ta' that, we can-"

"NOBODY IS ARRESTING ME!" the lion growled.

"Well, why shouldn't he? You'd be stealing his money, too!" observed George. "And you, you, and you," he added, pointing to the weasel, sheep, and fox, "you guys should be angry about this too because he's gonna pull the same shit on you!"

"Och, don't worry, Georgie, we're on your side!" said Annie. "We're just keepin' quiet because you're sayin' it well enough for all of us!"

"Mister Mayor," added Charles, "please realize that you're outnumbered here. Even if you're right - and I do confess, I cannot say I believe you are - perhaps this is a battle best not chosen." And he was again giving his boss those listen to me, goddammit eyes, but the lion refused to even look down at the little mustelid, let alone make direct eye contact with him.

"Mayor John," Ward chimed in, "Nutsy's makin' a good point here. Ya messed around outta yer jurisdiction at the beach the other day and it bit ya in the ass; if ya don't wanna play nice, we can have that happen again."

Of all the criticisms being tossed at him, this is the one that set Prince John off the most. "EXCUSE ME!? Eddward, you would dare to use the powers I personally bestowed upon you against me!?"

But Ward looked stony, steadfast, and one might even say self-assured. "Don't put me into a position to hafta, Mister Mayor."

The mayor proceeded to shoot a dirty look at everybody on that balcony, including Rocky, who hadn't even said anything and furthermore wasn't even looking in the direction of the conversation. But there was one individual he spared:

"Marian, my dear niece, I thank you for not going out of your way to vilify me like everyone else here has."

Everybody looked at the fox to see how she'd respond to such a bizarre remark; pretty much everybody else knew that she was only keeping quiet because she didn't think telling her stupid uncle off each and every time he did something stupid was a good expenditure of time and energy. Hell, even the coyote somehow seemed to understand that Prince John was either mistaken in thinking Mari was on his side or was claiming such with such subtle sarcasm that nobody was even picking it up.

But the vixen wasn't bothered by the states. "Of course, Uncle," was all she said.

"My money, sir?" asked Nutzinger.

Mayor Norman gave him one more death-glare for good measure before looking at the cashier and handing him the Jackson. "May we have this broken, please? We'll be needing two tens." And to the rest of the group: "Although I believe this greatly defeats the purpose of our endeavor, I will concede to surrender what monies you lot have won back in exchange for the difference, allowing myself to compromise for all of you because evidently I'm the only one here who's a mature adult."

Nobody even bothered remarking at that. The coyote doled out the winnings to everyone else with a winning ticket and saw himself out.

"...I also like how you said the power I bestowed upon you or whatever when you were referring to making Ward the county sheriff instead of just the city chief," George noted to the mayor when the coast was clear. "You'd better hope he doesn't put the pieces together on that one. You're gonna have that guy killed, too, aren't you?"

"NOBODY IS GETTING KILLED TODAY!"

And while the rest of the group looked shocked at how bad that sounded out of context (or, hell, in context), the squirrel just found it hilarious.

"Oh, yeah, Johnny Boy, just… scream that at the top of your lungs, why don'tcha?" he guffawed. "Hey, speaking of which, a bunch of people probably heard all of that, didn't they? Let's see!" The squirrel leaned over the railing he was standing on to observe the crowd below. "Oh, yup! There they are! Hi, civilians!"

As the deputy waved down at the strangers, the mayor covered his face with his paw and growled at himself. "Well, everyone, that first race was exciting," Prince John began, trying to will himself out of his tone of frustration, "but we'd best start preparing for the second one! Shall we confer inside?"

"Yes, we ought to," his assistant agreed, "though the thought does cross my mind… while our fortune was good this first running, we did, as a group, get very lucky! We all bet on the same racers and all won-"

"Well, most of us…" Annie muttered, causing Marian to need to stifle her giggle.

"-but what if we'd all lost? Perhaps we'd be better off spreading our bets across multiple teams? More opportunities to win, better odds that we walk away with a profit!"

Everybody in the group stopped to consider that.

"That… actually makes a decent amount of sense," Deputy Nutzinger admitted, sounding surprised to hear himself say that.

"Och, that's actually a wee bit brilliant!" Annie chimed in. "The weasel lad makes a good point!"

"Erm…" Marian muttered to her sheep friend. "'Weasel'? Klucky, I was under the impression Charles was some sort of mink."

The mustelid heard this, but was not offended by the confusion. "Oh, ladies, actually I'm a-!"

"He's someone who's needed in my private company!" the mayor declared, pushing his assistant forward and along with him towards the sliding glass door. "Hess and I need to have a private conversation for a moment, if you'd please excuse us!"

"We-we do?" asked Hess.

"We need to chit-chat about how we're gonna spread our bets, though," said George. "We only have, like, twenty minutes until betting closes, maybe not even that. We gotta strategize among ourselves sooner than later."

"Oh, we'll be but a moment!" Prince John insisted as he kept guiding his assistant along to the indoor section of the suite. "Charles, open the door for me, would you please?"

"Er… okay, sir…" Dutiful as ever, Hess pushed along the very bottom of the long handle with his head to slide the heavy door open. He wasn't letting the fact that he had no arms stop him, same with the fact that he was much smaller than I'd originally imagined. No, he knew that to keep his lucrative position, he had to work for it, and that meant pushing his entire miniscule bodyweight against the door with the top of his scalp.

After thirty seconds or so, he'd opened the door about two inches.

"...You're a real sick fuck for making him do that," observed the squirrel. "You know that, right?"

Marian was the one who decided to put an end to this ridiculousness and pushed the door open for the two gentlemen, closing it behind them when they were inside.

Now alone, the lion collapsed onto the couch and let his top hat fall onto the cushion next to him. "My word, it is sweltering out there. It never got quite this hot back home, now did it, Hiss?"

"I can't quite recall, sssire," the weasel-y creature responded, his speech patterns going back into 'alone with the boss' mode. "I ssspent much of my youthhh ssstatessside."

John just nodded, staring at the TV in the room, wearing an annoyed look on his face.

"...What wasss it you wanted to converssse with me about?" Hess pressed, still not sure of the answer himself.

"Oh, everything and nothing," answered the mayor. "So many thoughts crossing my mind, and yet more than an answer to any of them, I just want to be away from those imbeciles for a moment."

Charles nodded back, trying not to look too annoyed himself now. Honestly, yes, if the goal of the day was to win money, then this truly was a waste of time when they should have been strategizing their picks. And the weasel most certainly wanted to prove that his idea to spread the bets was a good one to his boss, who seemed to be forgetting about their little agreement that he'd start listening to him more.

So in the interest of curtailing this little powwow, Charles pressed on: "But what quessstions can I answer for you, sssire?" As if you'll heed a word I have to say.

The lion crossed his legs, leaned over to the table, and grabbed a half-drunk glass of wine that had already been sitting there from earlier. "Ah, Hiss… what are we to do with Eddward?"

Hess cocked his head. "...Do with him, sssire?"

John gave him an unimpressed glance. "I meant it when I said that redneck's idiocy has become a liability. Did you think I was joking, Charles?"

Charles had indeed thought that. "Sssire… I cannot disagree that Sheriff Woodland's actions last night were… rash, and… irRATIONal, but… he has been nothing but loyal to you in all the years before this, and it does seem that this faux pas was an isolated incident, one done with the best of intentions, no less." (Note, Dear Reader, that Charles was so caught up in trying to talk some sense into his boss that he wasn't even remembering to do the hissy thing at every opportunity.)

The mayor turned and reclined sideways across the couch, taking up as much room as possible and giving a subtle hint that his assistant was not welcome to join him upon it - not that the armless little guy could climb up onto it anyway. "Hmph. Perhaps if he were apologetic about his actions, I'd see your point, but have you forgotten already how defensive he's been about it today? He's still of the mind that that was somehow a wise decision!"

Standing on the floor and looking up at his boss, there being few other positions he could be in, Hess tried to succeed at the eternal challenge of talking to a superior in a way that came across as confident without being insubordinate. "Yes, but I get the impression, mayor, that the wise decision on your part would be to tell him - privately, and to stress that this is to be kept between the two of you - that you do recognize and appreciate those good intentions upon which he acted out of line! I'm certain - cccertain that would go a long way to recapture his loyalty!"

With the angle Mayor Norman was sitting, he could see straight through the glass door, and his eyes were fixed on the Sheriff. "And I'm sure that would work, Hiss, but I'm not sure I truly want to bother. Have you been seeing and hearing the way he's been addressing me today? Not just his words and his steadfast refusal to admit fault, but his body language. He isn't interacting with me in a way that one interacts with someone they truly respect. I expect this kind of rebelliousness from George, not from him!"

For both the conversation itself and to address the time-crunch they were in (hey, Charles kind of wanted to have some fun at the track himself, he didn't want to have to spend it all day talking his boss out of doing something stupid), the weasel decided to skip to a more dire point:

"Well, Mayor…" (notice he didn't even bother calling John "sire") "...far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but it strikes me as foolish to cut loose a man who's worked so well with you for so long when your common goal is in sight!" And he leaned in for emphasis: "Which is to say… doing away with a certain group of outlaws. Something that has just become much more plausible now that we have one of said outlaws' love interests in our midst."

Charles did not correctly guess how his boss would respond to this: Mayor Norman giggled.

"...I'm afraid I misunderstand what is so humorous, Mayor."

"Oh, simply put, Hiss: schadenfreude. It did my heart glad to see that woman walk into the kitchen this morning declaring her feelings of lovelessness. I don't know whether she found her boyfriend after Rocky lost sight of her yesterday and discovered that he'd moved on from her - which, come now, after all these years, they should move on from one another - or whether she just simply failed to find him altogether and felt despair at that. But all I know is she mysteriously disappeared, during which time she'd be stupid not to go off in pursuit of her lover… and she came back the next morning looking heartbroken. It gladdens me, Charles. Truly it does."

…We know from Charles's journal that after hearing that, if he'd had his arms, he would have jumped up on that couch and slapped that lion across the face.

"Mayor, may I remind you that your niece is a thespian!?"

"...Hiss, are you mad? She's clearly attracted to that tod-"

"A THESPIAN! An actress, Mayor! A professional pretender! A tale-spinner by trade! A lady who lies for a living!"

John let out a scoffing chuckle with one tight nod before sipping his wine and then answering: "Oh, and what a successful actress she is! Isn't that right, Charles? Still living in a city with no arts scene with my idiot brother paying most of her bills. Have you seen her star in a film recently, Charles? I certainly haven't!"

Hess was trying hard not to just non-verbally scream as loud as he could, as much as he wanted to. "Mayor, your niece Marian has dreams of the stage, not the screen!"

The mayor rolled his eyes. "Does she, now?"

"Yes! Do you know nothing about this woman!?"

"Why would I?"

"Because she's your niece and you live with her!"

The lion just chuckled to himself again. Another sip. "Well, if she really did want to be on the stage, she could have simply gone to London instead of crossing a bloody ocean. The fact of the matter is, Charles, she's not presently in Hollywood, Broadway, or the West End, and if she were actually good at her craft, especially at her age, she would be. A performance like that was simply too good to come out of a failure like her. There's no way that she's good enough at acting to fool me."

But as much as the weasel wanted to drill it into his boss's head that he'd been bamboozled, he had another question that struck him as more… important.

"Then why would that be a good thing, Mayor!?" Charles demanded. "If she has truly fallen out of love with the outlaw, for whom we are using Marian as bait, then what would even be the point of keeping her around!?"

And for a second there… it seemed almost like this interrogative had worked. For a couple moments, Prince John's gaze redirected into middle space, looking pensive, puzzled, and perhaps even perplexed. But this look dissolved back to his regular faux-confident smile just as quickly as it had come, and the mayor seemed relieved that he'd been rescued by his own genius intellect just in the nick of time.

"Oh, Hiss, I wouldn't understand this to be understood by someone who is so repulsive to females, but it simply boils down to the fact that Marian is a woman. Women: hopeless romantics, each and every one of them! Heartbroken as she is, she'll come crawling back to him." Siiip. "I'm sure of it."

His assistant just blinked and processed the madness of this conversation. "...Really."

"Yes, Charles, really. And when she does, we'll be there! Why even bother using her as bait when she can lead us right to him?"

Charles looked to the left, then to his right, just in case there was anyone else in the room who he hadn't noticed who could bear witness to this insanity alongside him. But fret not, little mustelid thing: the security cameras picked it up, too, so we have more than just Hess's journals and Mayor Norman's shoddy memory to go off of.

"I… was led to believe that your entire thesis statement, Mayor… was that she didn't know where he was. And that's why she was so distraught."

"Oh, it was either that or she found him and he now has some other concubine to occupy his time, and the more I think on it, the more I'm beginning to believe it's that one." He waved a dismissive paw at the weasel while keeping his eyes fixed upon the vixen outside on the balcony. "But I have faith in my predictions - perhaps not in horses, but in the actions of a lovesick lady…"

Outside on the balcony bench, Rocky found himself sitting silently and stoically between the two cops on one side and the two assistants to the mayor's assistant on the other. And on the latter side, the women were talking a lot about why one of them hadn't been talking very much at all.

"Och, I know you're tryin' to lay low, Mari, but your daft uncle's been sayin' the most egregious things today and I could use your backup when I call him out on it!"

The vixen shook her head gently with a smile that was warm if a bit condescending, in that oh, you poor dear sort of way. "Annie, I can't help but find it amusing for as much as you don't care for Robin as a person, you certainly are guilty of some of the same things you criticize him for!"

The ewe looked skeptical. "Explain."

"Well, you agree with me that, for all his bravery, I'm a bit more discerning about the battles I pick and choose than he is, don't you?"

Kluck nodded, still wincing. "I do."

A coy smirk and a shrug from Marian. "Well, in my estimation, calling my uncle out whenever he says something silly - which will invariably be often - simply isn't worth all the effort."

Her friend glared at her for just a moment before rolling her eyes and throwing her hooves up in defeat. "Och, fine, point taken! I can be just as feisty as he is! I'm a Scot, he's a Yorkshireman, it's in our blood!"

And the lass from the Midlands had to chuckle at that. "Perhaps that's why I'm drawing to both of you: maybe I just like hotheads! Talk about having a type, eh, Klucky?"

Mari, don't tease me with lines like that… "Aye, speakin' of hot: I've just been assumin' you've been quiet because you're mind's been preoccupied by visions of your lad!" Because the sheep knew that she'd been particularly irritable that day because she'd been trying to dispel intrusive thoughts about another lad they'd be seeing that night.

Mari just giggled again. "Oh, come now, Annie, do you really think I'd spend all day lost in a fog, distracted by daydreams of my tod?"

Annie was still looking rather stern. "Yes."

This time the vixen only laughed out her nose. "Okay, you're half right. I'm thinking about Robin inasmuch as I'm trying to think how we can make tonight's meeting more useful than just a sweet moment. We'll have plenty of time for romance with time to exchange vital information left over."

The sheep's expression softened. "So you've been brainstormin'."

"In conjunction with sitting back and observing what my uncle and his cohorts are doing, yes. I've been trying to use this outing as an opportunity to observe how all these lads operate in each other's company together, hopefully gather some information about what they might have up their sleeves judging by how they interact, but…" She paused to make sure Rocky and the cops weren't eavesdropping on this outdoor conversation happening barely a few feet away from them. "...I was hoping to have a plan of my own to pitch to Robin, but thwarting these lads' plans would be a lot easier if they had any idea what the bloody hell they were doing."

Now Kluck had to concede a snicker. "Aye, I can see that, lass. But tell me, Mari, did your lad tell ye anything about what he has planned?"

The fox kept smiling, but her look did seem to acquire a note of melancholy. "He did not… and I'm beginning to get the impression that they're out of ideas, too. And as glad as I am to see him again, I'd feel a little guilty if it turned out that they were putting their goals entirely on hold just to see me again."

"Which sounds exactly like somethin' an enormous ham like Robin would do."

"I can't say you're wrong, Klucky. Hence why I'd like, if I could, to be able to present them with an idea they could use to finally achieve their goal."

"But what is their goal?" Annie challenged, politely but firmly. "We know their goal… but what is their… goal, specifically? What does that look like?"

At this point, the fox was having trouble smiling. "He always was one to leap before he looked; he probably thought he could jump right into the fight and figure out the rest eventually… that's the price of confidence like his, I suppose."

The ewe gave a wise nod with pursed lips. "And now the heroic lad needs his damsel in distress to come and save him. Och, tale as old as time."

"My thoughts exactly," Marian said to the balcony railing.

A moment of silence.

"...So…" Annie felt the need to keep the conversation flowing. "...even without the luxury of bein' able to build up on whatever that stupid cat has planned… any ideas of what we could do to get your uncle out of power?"

"Oh, Klucky, plenty, plenty," said the vixen with a rough shake of the head. She proceeded in an even more hushed voice than before: "We could go the route of blackmailing him, we could dig up records of his corruption and force him out-"

"Bold of ye to think his wee friends will have the nerve to impeach him, Mari."

The fox almost looked annoyed at that remark. "I'm trying to think of something that won't end up with Robin and the lads incarcerated or deceased, Annie; it would rather defeat the point if they were."

And the sheep gave her a look that was neither snarky nor savvy, but just vaguely sorrowful, as if afraid to say what was on her mind.

So Marian said it herself: "...And I know how severely limiting that is…" She trailed off as she put her head down and covered her eyes with a paw, not devastated, just exasperated.

"Mari. Mari," Annie said as she put an arm around her friend. "You're a smart lass. I'm a smart lass. And as much as he does make absolutely daft decisions sometimes, Robin's a smart lad himself. Not to mention his friends, who I don't know too well, but they seem like intelligent lads."

That got Marian to grin again. "Well, you'll be getting to know one of them very well tonight, now won't you, Klucky?"

Annie gave Mari a half-amused, half-annoyed look and gently backhanded her on the shoulder with her hoof. "My point, dearie, is that we'll figure somethin' out. And maybe that's me bein' like Robin again, foolishly overconfident, but call it a hunch, lass… I think with our heads out together, we can outfox Johnny and his lads any day of the week."

The vixen wasn't done yet. "You mean Bad Johnny rather than Good Johnny, right? Or shall we call them My Johnny and Your Johnny?"

Annie just buried her face in her hooved hands and groaned loudly.

Her friend voluntarily incapacitated, Marian glanced behind her at the opposite end of the bench. "And much to your point, Annie… with the dramatics between these two lads, I think that might buy us some more time to think."

"So…" Deputy Nutzinger mumbled to his direct report, "...are you at least kind of enjoying yourself?"

Sheriff Woodland simply huffed, not even attempting to look at his partner. "As if you give a shit."

The squirrel just sighed, sorry he'd bothered. "I do care because I'm not gonna have a good time if you're bringing the mood down. We went through this yesterday night, déjà fucking vu."

They were quiet for a moment, listening to the chatter of the crowd below.

"...By the way," said George, trying again, "in complete seriousness, thanks for backing me up when stupid P.J. couldn't grasp the concept of numbers. Glad we could agree on something for once. That and the limey bastard thinking he was too good to stand for the anthem when he's the goddamn mayor."

The wolf glared at him from the sides of his eyes, still not even turning his head. "And that's supposed ta' make up fer all the shit you been givin' me all day long?"

"Oh, Jesus fucking-" Nutzinger stopped himself when he realized this would be a waste of breath. "Fine! Sorry I tried to be fucking diplomatic and recognize that you can actually make sense sometimes!"

Only now did Ward turn to face his deputy. "Or maybe you can apologize fer bein' shitty at yer job," he spat, "which is to be loyal ta' me unconditionally."

"So, what?" the squirrel barked. "I'm just supposed to completely surrender any sense of individuality and just blindly follow your lead even when it runs completely at odds with ethics and rationality?"

"If you were good at yer job," Woodland explained, sounding bored having to do so, "the thought wouldn't even cross yer mind that my decisions would be irrational or unethical. You'd just listen ta' me, like a young man listens to his father."

"My father's an even bigger retard than you, Ward, I don't listen to him, either."

"Well, maybe ya oughta have, then you'd understand what it's like ta' do a job and have a boss. Yes, Nutsy, you're ta' back me up no matter what you think. That's how leaders and followers work."

"I don't consent to be your follower."

"Well, then, quit."

"Can't, then I can't collect unemployment. I'd rather they fire me."

Another lull in the banter.

"...You wanna go ahead and get me fired, Wolfie?" George continued. "I'd actually be curious to see you try. My hand to God, I wouldn't even be mad."

The wolf just grumbled.

"...Because if not, Ward, you and me are still gonna be stuck together for a lonnng while, in which case it'd behoove us to at least be able to speak to each other like adults."

Woodland glanced at the squirrel, then back to the crowd below, then back to Nutzinger, but somewhere along the line acquired a strangely perverse smile. "Heh… don't be too sure that we'll be workin' together for much longer."

The deputy had to wonder whether that meant what he thought it meant. "And whatever would lead you to believe otherwise, Wolfie?"

The sheriff turned his entire body in his seat to face his partner, the wolf still wearing that c'mon, don't play dumb look. "Nutsy, you were in the room when he threatened ta' stuff me in a sack or whatever."

Yup, that was what George thought Ward was getting at. "Oh, what, when he threatened to throw his ballsack at you? C'mon, man… you can't possibly be this stupid. Please tell me you understand that he was bluffing."

Woodland seemed to find that almost amusing, as though his deputy had unknowingly just proved him right. "You can't possibly be this stupid either, Nutsy. Don't go pretendin' we work fer a guy who makes good decisions."

For all the squirrel could tell, the wolf was talking in circles. "So you do consciously recognize that we work for a complete dipshit! So why're you so gung-ho about defending the dumb son of a bitch?"

And if it helps, Dear Reader, let it be known that Ward Woodland himself most assuredly wasn't bluffing about thinking their boss wasn't bluffing, and that was probably why he felt at all comfortable saying what he was about to say:

"Well," he shrugged, "if I don't get his approval, whose do I get?"

That statement struck George as both strangely familiar and yet still shocking; their previous conversations the last few days had danced around such a thesis, but this was the first time the sheriff had been so disarmingly straightforward about it. "...So it is all about that. You really aren't gonna feel good about yourself until someone else tells you ya did a good job, are ya?"

Only now did the wolf seem to become genuinely irritated in this conversation. "Aw, don't act like that makes me pathetic or the worst kind a' special, Nutsy!" he snapped. "We all need someone to tell us we're doing good, we're all like that! You're like that! Ya just don't realize that 'cuz ya still got yer mama ta' tell ya you're a good boy!"

"Oh, my mom is a fucking psycho! She's just tolerable compared to my dad! Way to work in a way to call me a mama's boy out of nowhere!"

"I ain't even tryna make fun a' ya though, Nutsy," the sheriff explained, seeming to let his anger give way to disappointment. "In a way, I'm jealous that ya still got yer mama's love - I know ya tell me she's a few acorns short of a bushel, but I can tell she at least thinks she loves ya."

And something about the way he said that actually got the deputy to mellow out and feel a tinge of sympathy for him. "...Oh. I get it… It's because - your parents didn't even try to be supportive-"

"Ain't just that," Ward muttered plainly. "I… I thought I had someone else in my life who thought I was doin' a good job - no, I did have someone in my life who thought I was doin' a good job! I did, I really did! Thought I was doin' a great job! But…" A wordless grumble. "...they don't feel that way… anymore."

That thoroughly took the snarky wind out of the squirrel's sassy sails. "Um… shit, uh… fuck, dude, I'm sorry to hear that, that sounds… that sounds rough. Like… yeah, no shit, I criticize you that nobody new is gonna like you with the actions you take, but having someone already like you and then losing them, well… God, that can't be easy. I don't even think you deserve that. I-I-I'm sorry, man, I didn't know-"

"I know ya didn't know because I didn't tell ya, and I ain't gonna tell ya nothin' more'n that," Ward interrupted, not rudely or harshly but not softly or kindly, either. "And you're right, Nutsy… I ain't gonna get this town ta' like me. That ship's set sail. Much as I wanna demand their respect, I know that's just gonna make things worse. So…" Another shrug, this one with his paws up and palms towards the sky. "...when all I got left is mah boss to give me his approval… I'm sure you can understand why it drives me crazier than an outhouse fly when he's goin' around callin' me an idiot every chance he gets."

George could indeed understand. "Well… I'd be remiss not to suggest that you - and, hell, everybody for that matter - I'd suggest you, we, try to find a way to make peace with just whether you approve of yourself and not rely on others to make us feel good about ourselves."

But the sheriff simply scoffed. "Wouldn't that be nice, Nutsy? But some folks really don't give a hoot what nobody thinks about 'em, and they like themselves when nobody else does because they're fuckin' delusional. You know that, Georgie, we work for a guy like that." And he nodded his head behind him to gesture to the glass door, beyond which the mayor was watching them.

"Hmmm… you make a fair point," Nutzinger conceded. But then he thought a little more about Woodland's statement. "...You really think he approves of his own actions, though? I mean… I can see it going either way. The guy is the weirdest fifty-fifty split of self-confidence and self-loathing I've ever seen. Mister 'I-Have-Amazing-Social-Awareness'."

By now, the sheriff just seemed bored. "One thing's for sure: the guy makes mah ass itch when he thinks he's right and er'rybody else is wrong." A pause before he added a question: "You see what him and Chuckie are up to in there?"

The deputy tried to discreetly glance through the glass door to get a good luck; the glare from the abundant sunshine made it a tad difficult, but one George realized what he ought to be looking for, he saw it crystal-clear: "Sucking his thumb," he told Ward, "what else?"