67. "Only Fools and Horses (Do the Right Thing), Pt. 2"

"The racers are now approaching the starting gate… in red, number 1, Cappie Ever After… number 2, in white, Peek-a-Blue… in the blue saddle, number 3, Sister Kristin… in yellow, racers number 4, Ballyhoo… number 5, wearing green, Bonnie Brae… and in saddle number 6, in black, Ryan's Hope. Two minutes to post time."

The second horse was a mares' race, held on the smaller inner grass track rather than the main outer dirt ring, with only six teams entered and a significantly smaller purse than the first race because of course there was, and yet, especially by 2005 standards, horse racing had a reputation for being one of the most level sports in terms of male and female athletes getting comparable recognition by the public; only tennis was really in the conversation as an egalitarian rival, at least in North America. After all, with sometimes as many as a dozen races held at the same venue on the same day, the crowd didn't care about the competitors' genitalia - they just wanted a sport they could legally gamble on back before all the states decriminalized betting on all the others.

With six horses and jockeys in the race, the six members of the City Hall party each put ten dollars a different one to win; perhaps the cold and methodical nature of their strategy took a little bit of the fun out of it, but that was at least partially made up for by the fact that they were guaranteed a winner among them. At this point it was merely a lottery for which one of them it would be.

"Ready for the bell…"

DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

"...AND THEY'RE OFF!"

Odds-on favorite Ryan's Hope was doing well to overcome their disadvantage of starting on the outside row, but while they were having no trouble outrunning the first four inside runners going into the first turn, they couldn't get around Bonnie Brae. But racers No. 5 couldn't clear the lower pack any more than No. 6 could clear them, and coming onto the backstretch, the horses were practically five wide, with No. 2 Peek-a-Blue getting squeezed out as they all tightened in on one another. Perhaps having trouble getting traction on the less-worn grass of the outer line, Ryan's Hope seemed to begin to fade as Cappie Ever After and Ballyhoo started pulling ahead of Sister Kristin and Bonnie Brae. Going into the second bend, Peek-a-Blue tried to take advantage of getting pushed out by following Cappie on the inside line, with Ryan's following right behind them, the crowd gasping with excitement when they realized that had been Team 6's strategy all along. Halfway through the turn, it looked like Peek was going to peek under Cappie to squeeze into the favorable lane, but it seemed clear to all racers that that would simply be too risky and No. 2 eventually backed off. Coming out of the turn, Ryan's Hope did their best to push around Sister Kristin and Ballyhoo and make a mad dash to the line once they found open space on the outside, but in the end, it was too little, too late, and despite the stellar jockeying for position, ultimately Cappie Ever After had successfully held the inside line the entire way around and were just fast enough to make sure nobody could catch them on the outside.

As the mare galloped around victoriously and the sylvester cat on her back waved triumphantly to the crowd, the six in the balcony consulted their receipts.

"Which of us has the winning ticket?" asked Mayor Norman; he didn't sound too impatient, but this group all knew him well enough to know that he was extremely impatient.

"...I did!" Sheriff Woodland declared. "Huh, I actually won sumpthin'! I think I like your strategery, Chuckie!"

"Ah, ah, ah, WE won something!" John corrected. "And I think I like your strategy as well, Charles! Tell me, tell me… how much did we win?"

The weasel used his toe to skim through the program open on the ground. "It seems that Cappie Ever After had five-to-one odds! So five times a ten-dollar bet-"

"-Is fifty bucks," Deputy Nutzinger cut in. "We collectively just spent sixty bucks to make fifty bucks. As a group, we're out ten dollars."

Everyone immediately stopped being happy as they did the math in their head and confirmed that that checked out - although at least one of them wasn't even trying to be happy in the first place.

"Well, in my estimation," the Scottish sheep piped up, "as an individual, I'm out ten dollars bettin' on a horse I dinnae even want to bet upon!"

The boys all looked at one another as they pondered this.

"That's… kind of a really good point," said George. "Shit, that's a really good fucking point."

"Ah, but ladies, gentlemen!" the weasel said with a coo to calm them down. "May I remind you the fun of it was that we each had one horse to ourselves? We all knew one of us was bound to win; we were each just hoping it would be us!"

"And that was nice in theory, Charles," said the vixen, a tone of kindness but a look of composed seriousness, "but the fact of the matter is that each team's odds were not equal and we didn't each have an equal opportunity to win."

Annie gave Marian a quick smirk, happy that her friend had decided to skip being discreet for a moment to pick a worthy battle - that being their own personal finances being affected. "And I certainly dinnae remember choosin' Ballyhoo, that was just the team you assigned to me, Charlie!" Mari, we ought to tell Robin and the lads that your rich old uncle and his little friend stole from a poor couple of starving artist lasses!

"Your idea fucking sucks, Charlie!" exclaimed the squirrel.

And as he said that, the mayor gave an irritated look towards his assistant. "I may just be inclined to agree."

Hess wasn't saying anything at first. Truth be told, he could admit that all these criticisms were correct, this hadn't panned out quite as he'd been hoping. But he had to be careful with how he admitted that, because he was in the presence of at least a few people - most notably, his boss - who were very much the type to stop listening to him and perceive him as lacking confidence if he did admit he was wrong about something. This wasn't part of some long game, this was Charles taking a genuine L when he was trying to reaffirm the mayor's trust in him and his ability to make sound decisions; he couldn't exacerbate the effects by looking like it shook him.

"Ah, well…" he began, "...I can see why it might not be everybody's cup of tea, but I-"

"No, wait," Ward suddenly spoke up again. "...I like Charlie's idea. I think it worked pretty well! Hell, I made fifty bucks off it, didn't I?"

And as if by instinct, everyone else in the group immediately turned to George.

"...Why is everybody looking at me?" asked the squirrel.

"Why is er'rybody lookin' at him?" asked the wolf.

"Well, Georgie, tellin' Eddward why he's wrong does seem to be your strong suit!" Annie beamed.

…Perfect. As soon as Nutzinger decided he didn't want to rip on his boss for five minutes, the universe gave him a reason to and forced him to do it anyway. It was as if he were put on this earth for the express purpose of telling Sheriff Woodland why he was a dumbass.

Ward's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, Nutsy," he spat, "why am I wrong? You wanna tell me fer the fifty millionth time why exactly it is that I'm stupid?"

Any other time, he would want to, but after the wolf had just spilled his guts to him earlier… "I-I mean, it's not that you're stupid," the squirrel ventured carefully, "there's been, like… actual studies that show that we, uh, y'know, erroneously think that unfair things are fair when they work in our favor, uh, that's not even a smart or a stupid thing, that's just, uh, that's just us being dumb animals-"

"And don't forget that sixty is a bigger number than fifty!" Kluck threw in.

Woodland just glared down at his deputy, growling at an almost imperceptibly low volume, giving Nutzinger a look to ask how he could do this to him after they'd seemed to have had a breakthrough.

And George gave Ward a nervous smile in return - George wasn't afraid of Ward, he was more-so anxious over the fact that he was genuinely trying to be nice and it just wasn't working, the world wasn't letting him. "I mean, hey, let's, let's just be pragmatic about this. Um…" he jumped down and walked over to the program on the ground, turning the page to the starting lineup for the next race. "Look, the next race has eight teams in it, that's too many for our strategy to work out!"

Right as he said this, the breeze caught the booklet and flipped the page once more.

"...Oh, shit, there's another page!? I didn't even notice that! So that's, what, eleven total? Yeah, we… we just can't pull that off again, not with so many, um… entries."

Nutzinger simply didn't want to look at Woodland's glare anymore, so he didn't. Instead, he looked at the mastermind behind this failed plan, the weasel looking rather disappointed but ultimately accepting of the fact that his idea was D.O.A.

"And I acknowledge that my plan wouldn't work brilliantly in every situation," Charles confessed as classily as he could, "but I don't think that means that-"

"And I acknowledge that no matter what I say or do, mah deputy's always gonna think I'm some kind a' dumbass!" Ward barked, eyes locked on his partner's.

"Oh, do you two ever learn!?" Prince John suddenly snapped. "Truly, I can't take you two anywhere without you behaving like children! And to think I dare to ever leave you two alone together!"

"Okay, stop," said George, "do you even realize I wasn't even trying to piss Ward off this time?"

"Try or not, ya still did it!" Ward huffed. "Didn't try this time, my ass-"

"Hey, they're fighting again!" came a voice from down below.

"Let's see what they're up to! Hey! Hey. Andy. Andy, lift me up on your shoulders so I can get a good look at them!"

The City Hall crew waited in anticipation of what the heck was going on down there, and a few moments later their questions were answered as the head of one of the drunken giraffes from earlier rose up into their line of vision.

"Oh, shit! The city mayor's here, too!" the stranger hiccoughed. "Hey, hey, what're you guys fighting about- whoa, whoa, WHOA-!"

Several members of the crowd below screamed bloody murder as the giraffe tower toppled down onto the concourse. The members of the City Hall party all stood up and looked worriedly over the railing to see what kind of a disaster had just unfolded. Thankfully, judging by the reactions of those who were actually down there, everyone had gotten far enough out of the way to avoid being seriously crushed, just a few smaller mammals knocked down here and there with minor injuries, if any.

"I'm okay!" confirmed the giraffe who had once been on the top.

"Hmph," went the mayor with a snorting chuckle, "I didn't think I'd witness a third skyscraper collapse in my lifetime!"

The reactions of the others in the group were entirely nonverbal, their facial expressions ranging from unmitigated disgust towards that line to sheer bewilderment that he'd actually thought that would be a good thing to say.

"...I gotta go to the fucking bathroom," George said, shaking his head as he excused himself from the suite.

-IllI-

The luxury suites weren't very size-diverse, so the rodent sections of the restrooms on that entire level of the building rarely saw a lot of traffic. Deputy Nutzinger entered the men's washroom and flew right under the radar of all the larger species to the smallest row of urinals. Hey, if he could functionally have this place all to himself, he wouldn't complain. He unzipped his fly and prepared to get to business.

"Hey, uh… excuse me."

If he'd been peeing already, George might just have missed the bowl from how startled he was. He turned to see a chipmunk walking up to the stall next to him and preparing his own arsenal to assault the porcelain.

"Oh, uh… hi?" the squirrel stammered.

"Hey, I…" This guy seemed like he was pushing through nervousness to do something important. "I know I'm breaking man-law by having a urinal conversation-"

"And by taking the urinal next to mine."

"That, too. But hey, man…" The chipmunk's eyes pointed at the NPD insignia on George's sleeve. "I might not've recognized ya if you weren't in uniform… but you are, so I did."

The awkwardness of the situation was no match for Nutzinger's curiosity. "...You know who I am, then."

"I do, and I think it's bullshit that more people aren't talking about the fact that you did at least try to stop your idiot boss from arresting that guy over some fucking jokes… which from what I've heard through the grapevine, weren't even that funny because they were just plain accurate." This stranger didn't look nervous anymore. "Honestly, I'm not surprised that everyone's ignoring you, us little guys always get overlooked-"

"Tell me about it."

"-but I feel like I gotta say, now that I have the opportunity to… we appreciate what you did. And there's people out there who recognize what you tried to do - and not even just our community. You've got fans around town, Officer."

…Well, hell, maybe stupid Ward was right: hearing this external validation was making George feel good about himself in ways that self-approval just wouldn't. Honestly, if he got praise like this every day, he'd definitely feel a lot better about the job he felt stuck with. Of course… this just seemed to be another example of how the natural order was demanding that the squirrel spare no sympathy for the wolf, and there was that tinge of regret that being a guiding light to the poor old sap by being the only person in the sheriff's life to show him any mercy simply was not in the cards, but it made him not feel bad anymore about being overly harsh towards his boss. And he certainly wasn't going to tell this stranger any of this.

"Hm… shit, good to know!" he replied, a hesitant smile growing on his face.

"Yeah, Officer, I- I'm sorry, am I supposed to address you as Officer, or…?"

"Man, fuck that shit, just call me George."

"Well, George," the chipmunk ventured cautiously, "...I won't be, like, screaming it in the streets without anybody asking me to, but if it comes up in conversation, I'll make a point to mention that you're doing a much, much better job than your boss is. Honestly, since… apparently the City and County are the same police department now - how did that happen, exactly, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't mind you asking, but I am mega-fucked if I answer that question."

"Fair enough. Well… I certainly wouldn't mind you being the county sheriff. And I'm sure a lot of other people would, too… which, I mean, 'the sheriff' is an elected position…"

…The deputy had genuinely almost forgotten that. The merging of the departments had really screwed with things and Mayor Norman had exerted control over the county department in ways he otherwise wouldn't have been able to do, but yeah, when things stabilized… the position Woodland had inherited without contest was a four-year term due up in three years' time. Granted, George hadn't necessarily wanted to be the county sheriff… but knowing he had the option and the fact that it was even a feasible possibility would certainly put some pep in his step. Just to give a big middle finger to all the cocksuckers who didn't like him or who thought a rodent couldn't or shouldn't occupy such a position. Yeah, fuck being gentle to Ward, he was the competition now. Even if nothing ever came of these thoughts, the idea of them would probably give him a high he might just ride for a while.

"Well, uh… thanks, good to know! I'll be thinking about that when, uh… 2008 rolls around, I guess."

"Hey, no problem."

But as long as the squirrel and the chipmunk had this weird spur-of-the-moment rapport, there was a question burning in Nutzinger's mind that he needed to pop while he had the opportunity.

"By the way, mind if I ask you a question, Mister, uh…?"

"Oh, you can just call me Joe."

"Joe. Got it. Nice to meet ya. So, Joe… you like any particular horses for the next race?"

Joe chuckled through his nose. "Actually haven't thought about it yet, I was gonna hit up the procession out of the paddock after this and put my money on whoever makes the best impression on me."

Interesting idea. The squirrel had to wonder whether that might break the tension of the feelings-versus-logic betting-strategy debate back in the suite. "Hm… hadn't even thought about that! I think I'll check that out myself!"

"Hey, glad I could help you out."

"I appreciate it."

"..."

"..."

"...Neither one of us has been peeing this whole entire time, have we?"

"...I mean… I know I haven't been, I haven't exactly been listening for you-"

"Well, I haven't."

"...You want me to take the stall-?"

"No, no, you were here first, you were here first."

-IllI-

"I agree, this is actually a splendid idea," Charles said as the group made their way through the concourse once more en route to the patio area, by which the horses and their jockeys would be parading towards the infield. The weasel didn't actually feel strongly one way or another about the deputy's plan for deciding which teams to bet on, he just wanted to seem affable to get back on everyone's good side so they'd forget his gaffe from earlier.

But the mayor wouldn't. "Certainly better than your idea, Charles," he sneered. "At least this way we can rest assured that we'll be putting our hard-earned money on racers we think we'd like to have a pint with."

"Hard-earned," the ewe muttered to the vixen.

"Klucky, stop making me laugh! Tee-hee!"

"Oh, what are you two ladies giggling about now?"

"Oh, Uncle, we're just excited to see the racers up close!" Marian answered.

The lion chuckled out his nose. "Ah, of course you ladies would be."

Annie felt the need to address that comment. "Och, and why would that be, Johnny?"

"Oh, you know…" the mayor mused coyly, "...I've been informed that women are particular fans of racehorses…"

"And why is that?"

John was still smirking slightly, but said nothing.

"Oh, c'mon, Mayor," Nutzinger grumbled. "You already went halfway with making this conversation weird, just finish it off by telling them that you vaguely remember hearing somewhere that female jockeys get their cherry popped riding horseback but you don't have the balls to actually say that entire thought."

John was no longer smirking.

"And ladies, I'm sorry for being so gross and ungentlemanly," George told the women, "but with this guy, I just can't handle him half-committing to inappropriate remarks without just spitting them out." That, and the squirrel was feeling freshly invigorated to be a rebel, thinking that there might come a day where he would have been democratically elected as the county sheriff and there would be nothing the lion could do about it.

"Ah, not to worry, Georgie," the sheep insisted, "you're still the most gentlemanly lad here."

They arrived at the railing at the edge of the patio, past which the teams would be walking. There was plenty of space and they had no trouble getting a spot right up front. But as soon as they got there, Prince John began looking around impatiently.

"...Where are we meant to enter?"

"Enter?" several members of the group asked.

"Yes, to meet the entrants!"

For a moment, nobody wanted to be the one to say it, so George felt obligated to take this yoke upon himself once again.

"Well, this is… it," the deputy explained. "We watch them walk by and… and that's it."

"That's it!? I thought we'd be having a meet-and-greet session to get to know them!"

"Uh… no? I mean, this is like a meet-and-greet, it's like, uh… an autograph session!"

"Then what information could we possibly glean from that!?"

Nutzinger was too confused to be snarky at that moment, he could hardly believe this was even a question. "Oh, dude, plenty. Like… look at their posture, look at their body language, see if they seem friendly or not, see if they seem confident or not… hell, I was thinking we take turns telling them 'I'm rooting for you!' to see how they react. Y'know, if they say 'thank you' or if they just totally ignore us-"

"And I can't use my status as the mayor of Nottingham to get a personal meeting with these racers!?"

"Unfortunately, Uncle," Mari spoke up, "I don't think that will work since we're not in the city you govern."

"Govern," the ewe again joked quietly to the vixen.

"Annie, stop! Tee-hee!"

"Eddward!" John said, pointing at the wolf. "This is still your county! Can you use your powers to get us in there?"

"Meh… it's still private property, I ain't got no warrant or probable cause." Honestly, Ward was bored and just didn't give a shit about this day by this point.

Thus the mayor crossed his arms and pouted, not even adjusting his top hat as it fell over his eyes again.

Meanwhile, Deputy Nutzinger was standing on Rocky's shoulder, skimming through the program again as they awaited the parade. One particular entry way at the end of the starting grid caught his eye.

"Heh! …Ward, I found a team you can bet on!"

Woodland barely pretended to be interested. "Yeah? And who's that?"

George turned the program around to show the wolf on the off-chance the sheriff could read. "Number 11: Childhood Obesity."

That name was indeed so wacky as to perk up some ears in the group, and even the bodyguard rhino felt compelled to break his vow of silence to comment on that: "Wait, they named themselves what?"

"Childhood Obesity. Man, if I can catch their ear, I'm definitely asking them why they called themselves that." George turned back to his direct report: "So, whaddaya think of that, Wolfie?"

Woodland just shrugged. "That's nice."

A few minutes later, the horses were trotting out, their little friends on their backs. Some were all business and kept their eyes forward at all times, others were sociable with the crowd and did indeed stop to sign autographs - the jockeys, the only ones in the pairs able to hold a pen, always signing their tag-team's name on both of their behalfs. And the City Hall party did attempt to employ George's strategy of seeing how the racers would react to encouragement:

"Mayor, you take this one," George instructed. "This is Joshua The Tree." (Capitalized "The" theirs.)

"Erm… Joshua The Tree!" Prince John called out. "I'm rooting for you!" He felt extremely silly loudly proclaiming such a thing, but he told himself that he needed to seem fearless to his cohorts.

But his anxieties were validated. The pinto horse came to a complete stop and he and the coyote on his back stared at Mayor Norman as though he were an extraterrestrial.

"...Did we just walk into the Victorian era?" asked the jockey to his friend. "I did not wake up this morning expecting to run into a British guy with a cane and a top hat."

"I dunno why," the horse added, "but seeing and hearing this guy is giving me flashbacks to us having to read Jane Eyre in high school."

"Oh, God, that book sucked," the coyote groaned as his friend started trotting away, "and Mrs. Bigelow was such a bitch-"

"Yeah, who was twisting her arm to make her teach twelfth-grade English when she clearly wasn't enjoying it?"

And as the duo walked off towards the tunnel to the track, Prince John watched them leave, absolutely fuming, while the rest of the group tried not to laugh.

"I beg your pardon!?" the lion growled. "The nerve! The gall! The sheer bloody audacity! Do those rapscallions even know who I am!?"

"Well, actually," said the deputy, "says here in the booklet that they're from California, so… probably not."

In fact, according to the program, there was only one team of Delaware natives in Race No. 3, and despite the poor reception he got to his first attempt at cheering a team on, Mayor Norman wanted to try again with the locals. Wouldn't you know it, it was the same team with a name George had taken exception with when they'd first arrived.

"Ah, er, Save Me Skulltooth, is it?" John asked, projecting his voice as loudly as he felt comfortable. "Delawareans, I see! As mayor of Nottingham, I'll be rooting for you!"

Everybody in the group was close enough to see both the gray horse and the gray fox on his back give a disapproving side-eye to the lion who had dared to wish them well. They didn't even turn their heads as they passed right on by.

Prince John was even more livid than he was at Joshua the Tree, and the rest of the group found that more worrying than amusing.

"What the bloody hell was that!?" he demanded to know. "You saw that, didn't you!? You all saw that! They heard me, they looked at me, and they consciously chose to give me a dirty look and carry on as if I were birdshit on the sidewalk!"

"Er… yes, it seems they did." Marian volunteered herself to be the one to say something, so she chose to say something honest.

"You'd think they'd be overjoyed that the mayor of the largest city in their tiny state was giving them his blessings!"

As the mayor kept his gaze laser-focused on Team Number 7 walking away, the others gave each other glances to nonverbally consult with one another: did John actually think that a local would be itching for his approval? But none of them thought it was worth it to say anything; besides, the line was moving fast, and they still had racers to vet.

The lion's frustration at Save Me Skulltooth didn't last too long, as it was soon replaced by frustration at another team, a black horse and a raccoon from Kentucky who called themselves "Big Richard".

"Oooh, if I didn't know they were from far away from here, I'd think they'd called themselves that just to vex me!" Mayor Norman grumbled loud enough for his party to hear.

"Calm yourself, Mayor," Charles pleaded. "It surely has nothing to do with your brother. My educated guess is that it's simply a play on Little Richard, the musician!"

"Or, y'know, we could be adults and accept that it's clearly a 'big dick' joke," said Deputy Nutzinger. "I mean, it's probably one of those things where they say it's a spin on 'Little Richard' to the press to keep it family-friendly, but in reality it's one of those if-you-know-you-know sort of things. But yeah, he's a horse, for Christ's sakes, if it wasn't a penis joke, it'd be an enormous missed opportunity."

The mayor just rolled his eyes and looked onto the next pair, the last team in the line. "Ah, George, isn't this the team you thought Eddward would find spiritual kinship with?"

"Oh, hey, it is!" the squirrel beamed (while the wolf barely cared to look at them). "Hey - hey, guys!" he called as the racers neared, a bay horse and a white-nosed coati. "Don't mind me asking, why do you guys call yourselves 'Childhood Obesity'?"

And much to everyone's surprise, the horse and coati shared a glance and actually did come over to the City Hall group to field the question. And they looked very happy to do so.

"Was it you guys who asked that?" asked the horse (real name: Jarrett Wagoner) with all the kindness in the world.

George certainly hadn't been expecting such an eager reply. "Uh… yeah! Just, y'know… curious is all…"

This seemed to especially delight the coati (real name: Julian Perez). "We actually love when people ask that. See, long story short, I was a fat kid with no self-esteem growing up, but then I ran into Jarrett here who was struggling with his racing training… so he inspired me to take up running while I inspired him to push himself harder, too."

"Julian and I picked that name to send a message," added Jarrett: "it's fine to acknowledge you were worse off in the past. Because it's not about who you were, it's about who you are and who you're becoming. Because we shouldn't let our pasts dictate our futures, y'know?"

"Plus, y'know…" The jockey chuckled to himself. "...It's a name you don't soon forget, now ain't it?"

"Uh… shit, ya got that right!" Nutzinger agreed with a guffaw of his own, several other members of the party nodding, moved by the unexpectedly wholesome message of it all. Several other members of the group, meanwhile, couldn't help but notice that several other teams down the procession line had slowed or stopped entirely to see Childhood Obesity break from the ceremony to have a chit-chat with fans, a move that wasn't considered sinful in their sport's culture but wasn't exactly encouraged, either.

The horse and coati seemed to notice. "Ah, well, it was nice to meet you folks," said Jarrett as he turned to get back in line, "but we've gotta get going. We're holding up the parade."

"Oh, but really quick," said Julian, bringing his friend to a stop. The jockey looked back and forth at the various members of the City Hall group, then leaned into his racer's ear: "Jarrett, get me close to the lion, I wanna say something to him. Just two seconds, it'll be fast."

Jarrett did so; he had no reason not to.

The members of the party had no idea what was going on - though at least one of them, Sheriff Woodland, clearly didn't care, seeing as the wolf was leaning over the railing onto his folded arms, looking clear in the other direction with his eyelids half shut. This was precisely why the jockey felt confident enough to make his move.

"Uh… y-you're the mayor of Nottingham, right?" the coati asked quietly.

The lion was taken aback by the question, but he was cognizant of the fact that most of these racers were out-of-towners who had no reason to know who he was - if anything, he found himself rather pleased that a team listed as being from Titusville, Florida knew who he even was.

"Why… yes! Yes I am!" the mayor replied. Loudly.

"Alright, cool. Well, uh…" A quick glance to make sure the wolf wasn't paying attention; he wasn't. "...Hey, Jarrett and I saw the news in our hotel room this morning, obviously what happened last night was a big deal, but, uh…hey, I, we, just wanna say, we really do respect that you made a point to denounce what the county sheriff did, um… especially hearing that the comedian was making fun of you. Like, man to man, I hafta respect defending a guy's right to say bad things about you when it woulda been so easy to just… not. So… yeah, hey, respect, man. You stood up for somebody's God-given rights. That's commendable."

Ward might not have heard that quiet commendation, but everyone else in the party did, and they each grew silently nervous as they saw the smile on Mayor Norman's face grow like he was a kid in a candy store that was also a toy store and an amusement park. They knew all too well that Prince John didn't take praise very well.

"Oh-! Yes yes yes yes yes! I do believe it's important to stand up and uphold one's inalienable rights! Even from one's enemies! Not, er, not to say that I regard that comedian as an enemy, quite the opposite, I'd love to have a private chat with him about what he thinks I could do to improve! Art is meant to speak truth to power and I am certainly man enough to accept criticism and embrace a challenge!"

Woodland still hadn't bothered looking that way, but even if he somehow didn't tune into the mayor shouting all this as theatrically as he could, he couldn't choose to ignore what Prince John said next:

"Even if SOME INDIVIDUALS IN MY EMPLOY see me as too weak and cowardly to fight my own battles!" the lion bellowed directly into the wolf's ear, causing the sheriff to jump. "Humiliating not only me but also some poor starving comic all out of some perverse desire to play the hero while clearly misunderstanding what heroism is!? Let the record show, people of Nottingham, city and suburb: just as these fine athletes have just praised me for, I REJECT THE ACTIONS OF SHERIFF WOODLAND-!"

"Oh, what the FUCK is wrong with you!?" Ward growled right back. "You really ain't done enough today ta' tell the entire got-damn world that ya think I'm some sort a' stupid fuck!?"

"No, Sheriff, I haven't!" answered the mayor, grinning ear to ear. "These two strangers praising me for denouncing you proves that George was right, it would be a good move to further express my distaste, disgust, and disapproval for your asinine actions last night, loudly and repeatedly, until the entire world has it drilled into your head that your deplorable choices do not represent me!"

At this point, Marian recalls glancing at Childhood Obesity; they looked completely spooked, especially Julian, as if his words had just caused a nuclear holocaust.

As for Ward, as angry as he was with his boss, he was even more furious at his subordinate: "Goddammit, Nutsy, why the hell didja hafta put that idea in his stupid head!?"

"Oh, what the hell did I do!?" demanded Nutzinger, who you may recall hadn't actually said anything for a few pages now.

And yet the sheriff wasn't the person in this scene fuming the most. You may also recall, Dear Reader, that this narrator broke horse-racing convention and included Childhood Obesity's real names when I seemingly didn't have to. Well, my reasons for that will soon become clear in three… two… one:

"Julian, what the HELL are you doing talking to that asshole!?" came a gruff voice. "Why's he saying you were praising him!?"

Everyone looked down the line to where the teams were almost out of the green and into the entrance tunnel; it was Save Me Skulltooth, who had turned completely around in line to face Childhood Obesity - a big entry-parade no-no. Not that the gray horse (real name: Trevor Stabler) cared much for honoring tradition at this point as he made his way over to Team No. 11, his gray fox jockey (real name: Mason McClimans) looking none too pleased himself.

"Chill out, Trev," said Julian, paws up to diffuse tension, "I was just telling him it was good that he took a stand against the county sheriff arresting the comedian."

"Back off, Trevor," said Jarrett, a lot less placidly.

"No, you two back off!" Trevor shot back. "You two aren't from around here, you two don't know how much damage this cocksucker has done to his city!"

I'm sure it wouldn't surprise you, Dear Reader, that it really steamed Mayor Norman to hear that the only local team in the race had such a poor opinion of him, stated right in front of his face no less. But he didn't have a chance to get a word of protest in; the boys were going at it.

"Trevor, Trevor, we know," the coati insisted, "we've heard plenty about all the bad things this guy's done - heard it from you - but man, that doesn't mean we shouldn't, y'know, recognize when he does something right-"

"YES IT FUCKING DOES!" the gray horse screamed. "He is LITERALLY past the point of his good actions even mattering anymore! He does good things so rarely amid so many fucked-up things that he literally should not be getting a word of encouragement, unless we're encouraging him to fucking quit!"

"Trevor, I told you to back off," the bay horse repeated sternly. "Leave Julian alone."

"We're from this town, we grew up in Gum Hill!" Trevor continued, giving a quick side-eye to the mayor when he name-dropped his neighborhood. "You know why I'm so good at running? Because I had to practice on the shitty streets of this city full of potholes this guy is choosing to never have fucking fixed!"

"Julian," the gray fox piped up, "you realize that the sheriff is only the sheriff because he was the city's chief of police first and took over the entire county when Norman used his corruption magic to get that department dissolved, right? You realize this wolf was never democratically elected, right? No, you don't, because you don't know anything about this city!"

"We don't tell you how shit works in shitass Florida!" said Trevor. "You're being a peacenik with somebody who has dreams of being a fucking dictator! This is the same maniac who got arrested for trespassing on a beach after hours the other day, he is insane!"

"Trevor," was all Jarrett said this time, even though most of Save Me Skulltooth's words had been said locking eyes with Julian specifically.

"We're not talking to you, Jarrett," Trevor spat, "it was your jockey that was tryna play nice with this asshole-"

To emphasize his point, Trevor raised a hoof off the ground to point directly at the coati's chest. But it seemed the gray horse pointed a little too far and a little too hard, and before anybody knew it, Julian was on the ground. And then all hell broke loose.

"HEY!" Jarrett snapped as he got up on his hind legs and started taking swings at Trevor. "I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE!"

Trevor got on his own hind legs to return fire, knocking the gray fox off in the process. "KEEP YOUR FUCKING JOCKEY IN LINE THEN!" he hollered back between grunts of exertion with every punch he threw.

As the stunned crowd watched the behemoths go at it, many of them missed the sideshow: as soon as Mason got on his feet, Julian tackled him right back down, the fox and the coati wrestling and exchanging blows as they rolled on the ground. To an outsider, Julian coming in and decking Mason before the latter even had a chance to truly regain his composure might have seemed like a cheap shot. But you have to understand, Dear Reader: in horse racing, that was something you had to just do. Just like how every baseball player knows to clear the benches to support their teammates during a brawl, or how hockey players are honor-bound to punch back when someone grabs their sweater, when your racing partner is fighting their corresponding member in another team, you had to do all you could to beat the tar out of your counterpart, no matter how dirty of a hit it might require. You had to. You didn't have a choice.

"I DON'T FUCK WITH YOUR JOCKEY!"

"MY JOCKEY DOESN'T TELL EVIL FUCKING MEN THEY DID A GOOD JOB!"

"HE'S NOT A SUPERVILLAIN IN A FUCKING COMIC BOOK, YOU MAN-CHILD!"

That's when somebody in the City Hall group remembered something:

"Sheriff Woodland!" the vixen pleaded. "Break them up! Please, before they hurt each other too badly!"

"Och, yes!" echoed the ewe. "You're on duty, it's your moral obligation!"

The wolf, however, simply seemed annoyed by the thought of it. "I was led ta' believe I shouldn't intervene in performance art no more."

"Ward, this isn't performance art, you fucking idiot, this isn't professional wrestling!" Deputy Nutzinger exclaimed. And he was going to say something more, but as long as Ward wasn't doing his job, Rocky decided to go above and beyond with his own. George felt himself suddenly picked up and put upon the railing before the rhino hopped over and got to breaking the horses up, just as several other teams arrived to do the same, racers breaking up the racers and jockeys breaking up the jockeys.

"If you've got a problem with Julian, you take it up with ME!" Jarrett yelled as he was handed over from Rocky to another horse and pulled away from his rival. "Pick on somebody your own size, you fucking COWARD!"

"Then tell that little cocksucker to stop talking like he's a big guy!" Trevor yelled back as he was being dragged in the opposite direction.

"Hey, Mason!" Julian called to his fellow jockey as he was being taken Jarrett's way. "Trev doesn't think you don't have as much of a right to talk because you're smaller than him, how does THAT make you feel!?"

"FUCK YOU AND THE HORSE YOU RODE IN ON!" was all Mason had to say to that.

"...Should we expect those gentlemen to be scratched from the race for their actions?" Prince John asked once the dust had settled.

"Uh… actually, I don't think so," answered Nutzinger. "I think… skirmishes like that are pretty commonplace, they're probably gonna just get fined and chewed out by the officials and get told they're on extremely thin ice if they fuck with each other during the race, like super-probation. I think the stewards realize that it'd be a bad move to scratch them both from the race because so many people already placed their bets on them."

And John just stood there nodding in silence for a second, staring at the spot in the wall where Jarrett and Julian had disappeared to. "...And remind me what the silly name of that team was with the raccoon thing who sang my praises?"

"I… wouldn't exactly say they sung your praises-"

"Childhood Obesity," Woodland answered for his deputy, just wanting to get this scene over and done with. "A name Nutsy won't let me forget."

A beat passed, and then Mayor Norman clapped his paws together. "Excellent!" he said as he turned around and made his way not for the escalators back up, but to one of the many cashiers taking bets on the main floor. "My decision has been made!"

"Och, someone says one nice thing to ye and ye bet your life's savings on their success!" Annie scoffed.

"Oh, please, Miz Collins, not my life savings," John scoffed right back, "only… er, excuse me, sir," he said as he approached a ram manning a register without a line. "What is the maximum allowed bet?"

"A thousand dollars," answered the clerk, almost robotically.

The rest of the group gave each other nervous looks; even Woodland had zoned back in to what seemed to be an act of insanity transpiring before his eyes.

"And what are the odds on, er… Childhood Obesity, good sir?"

The ram took a quick moment to consult a computer screen. "Seven-to-one."

"So a payout would be…?"

The bookie raised an eyebrow. "Depends. What're you betting on, to win?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Seven thousand." (I mean, I'm guessing.)

The lion was nodding again as a wry smile overcame his countenance. "Seven thousand… yes, yes, that would pay for the cost of the luxury suites twice over!"

"Wait, stop," said George, "how much did they cost in the first fucking place!?"

"Sir, this is the first I'm hearing about this price tag myself," noted Charles.

"Er… yes, Uncle," added Marian, "I was under the impression we were trying to win back several hundred rather than several… thousand."

"Ah, but no matter, ladies and gentlemen!" the mayor beamed. "Did you not see the fighting spirit in that stallion? In that raccoon!?"

"Uh… no, no, that guy wasn't a raccoon."

"He wasn't a raccoon, Mayor."

"I dunno what they're called, but he wasn't a raccoon."

"Those two were warriors!" John went on. "And the fact that they were fans of mine? Simply icing on the proverbial cake! Even if they don't win, I'll rest assured knowing that they deserved my support - but I frankly don't see that happening! Hess, hand me my wallet! Sir, one thousand dollars on… er… Number Eleven!"

Everyone else in the group exchanged nervous glances once more. It wasn't that they were afraid of what Prince John might become if his racers of choice lost; they just didn't want to deal with what would become of him if that team did.

-IllI-

"Ladies and gentlemen… the racers are now approaching the starting for race number three… in red, racers number 1, Fastball… in white, number 2, Freestyle… wearing blue, saddle number three, Bullethead Billy… number 4, in yellow, Joshua The Tree… number 5, in green… Wheatie… wearing the black saddle, number 6, SmackBob… number 7, in orange, Save Me Skulltooth…"

"WHOOOOO!" went many in the crowd as they heard the name of their hometown boys.

The public-address announcer took a moment for the cheers to subside before continuing. "…wearing pink, number 8, Switchback… racers number 9, wearing turquoise, Two Left Shoes… number 10, in purple, Big Richard… and number 11, wearing gray… Childhood Obesity."

Many in the crowd also chuckled at the final team's particularly strange name. And Mayor Norman took that personally.

"Go on, laugh, all of you!" he dared them. "Those two are going to make me a handsome sum in hardly five minutes' time, just you watch!"

The rest of the City Hall group was frankly bored of Prince John's dramatics and just elected to not engage with him at this point. Of course, the lion's little statement of defiance had been directed at his cohorts as well, none of whom had joined him in betting on Childhood Obesity. Deputy Nutzinger had put ten bucks on Joshua The Tree for the express purpose of pissing the mayor off; Marian and Annie had each put five dollars on Big Richard, claiming it was in honor of Mari's beloved godfather (but it was clearly also to piss the mayor off); Charles had excused himself from all the drama and put twenty dollars on Two Left Shoes getting a top-three finish just because that team had the best odds and it seemed like a safe bet, which pissed the mayor off; and Ward, no longer obligated to play along with the scheme to win back lost ticket fees, didn't place any bets and formally stopped pretending to care about being there.

This race was gonna be a big one. The course would be slightly longer; they'd be starting further back on the little slip lane sticking out of the frontstretch; their course would look not unlike the letter Q. Since they were so far away from the grandstands, most of the crowd had their eyes on the jumbotron, which was panning over the entrants one by one before giving some wide shots. Many in the crowd were aware of the conflict that had occurred between Save Me Skulltooth and Childhood Obesity, and they looked intently at the screen to see whether the teams were giving one another dirty looks or any other signs that a fight might break out during the event.

But neither pair was looking at each other. They were just looking straight ahead, determined. Perhaps that was to be expected; they knew how to be professionals.

The crowd went silent with bated breath.

"Ready for the bell…"

DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!

"...AAAND THEY'RE OFF!"

With eleven horses and eleven riders on the course, it was a bit of a challenge to see who had what advantage as the gaggle bunched together coming down the frontstretch. But as they came across what would be the finish line their next time around, they had spread out just enough that the naked eye could see how things were shaking out: SmackBob, Freestyle, and Switchback were at the head of the pack in that order, the other racers 1 through 10 compressing down into a two- and three-wide pack behind them, four rows deep, with the hometown heroes towards the back.

But as for Racers No. 11? Childhood Obesity were keeping pretty good pace with the second row, but they were roughly ten feet outside of the pack. It seemed their strategy was to avoid the chaos of the traffic jam and try their luck running the outside line.

It seemed like a wise move as things started to get rowdy going into the first turn. Freestyle got an advantage on the inside line that caused SmackBob to slip back from them, and Switchback in turn started fading away from SmackBob. This opened the door for Joshua The Tree to poke their nose in under SmackBob and force an opening, inspiring Big Richard to do the same to Switchback moments later. This caused a fan-out among the top five, and the other five in the pack all tried to use this as an opportunity to dive for the lowest lane they could, something made easier as Bullethead Billy and Wheatie started to lose their pace. That left Save Me Skulltooth squarely in the middle of the crowd, flanked by Fastball on their left and Two Left Shoes on their right. And Childhood Obesity seemed to be fading on the outside, but maybe that was just what they wanted everyone to think.

Coming into the backstretch, Freestyle still had the lead, but Joshua The Tree was right at their neck, and Big Richard had peeked out from between SmackBob and Two Left Shoes, finding an open lane on the outside. Fastball was starting to lose it on Save Me Skulltooth's inside, and eagle-eyed spectators may have noticed that Childhood Obesity was making up a lot of time with their straight-line speed.

Mayor Norman most certainly did: "Come on, boys…" he whispered to himself, "you've got this! Win King John some money!"

The PA announcer was narrating as professionally as ever: "Going into the second turn, it's Freestyle, then Joshua The Tree with a good run, followed by Big Richard, Save Me Skulltooth with an edge on Fastball, Two Left Shoes with Childhood Obesity coming up close behind, SmackBob and Switchback fading back, Bullethead Billy and Wheatie bringing up the rear…"

Only now did the crowd seem to see that Childhood Obesity's strategy was paying off; they had a longer route to run around the bend, but it seemed no issue as the others were losing their momentum trying to take the corners as tight as possible in such a claustrophobic bunch. Joshua The Tree had been getting a good run on Freestyle, but the preferred line gave Freestyle the advantage right back. But even as Team No. 2 ran as close to the inner metal railing as they felt comfortable, they just weren't fast enough to use this advantage to pull much farther ahead of No. 4, who were themselves breaking even with No. 10, much to the chagrin of No. 7, who were hoping to use any of the leaders' momentum to thread past the others and get into open air once they were at the straightaway.

Jockey Mason McClimans could see that things were getting squirrely as they came towards the end of the turn, the horses all around him beating and banging like stock cars. Not only that, but he could see that Childhood Obesity had somehow worked the outer groove to get almost neck-and-neck with the leaders. Even if Freestyle, Joshua The Tree, and Big Richard didn't cause a calamity right in front of them with their tight racing, Mason knew that refusing to make a move now would be surrendering any chance to win, a fate worse than death. But there was a very, very slim opening that they could use to get out of a physically and honorifically dangerous spot, and the gray fox was feeling rather sly that day, brimming with confidence in himself as well as in his equine friend. And besides, they couldn't let their fellow Delawareans down. The jockey knew that this would be itself an incredibly risky move, but there was no way they would be okay in the situation they were in, so they needed to do what they could to get out of it. I need to be very careful with describing what happens next.

The crowd was going wild as they approached the frontstretch, and while they all had their eyes on either the racers themselves or the jumbotron, the PA announcer helpfully described the scene for them anyway:

"Childhood Obesity with amazing momentum on the outside! Freestyle, Joshua The Tree, and Big Richard still three wide! Fastball fading, but Save Me Skulltooth sees a gap to the inside - is there space!?"

Those were the last words he said for about a minute. Save Me Skulltooth dove to the inside right at the end of the corner, trying to squeeze ahead of Fastball to get under Freestyle, right along the inner railing. But as the turn straightened out, Freestyle came down and into the railing themselves, and Save Me Skulltooth had nowhere to go - nor did Fastball, who No. 7 hadn't even fully cleared. Freestyle felt something bump hard into them around their horse's left hip, ruining his sense of equilibrium and turning him sideways to the left before tripping and tumbling to their right. Save Me Skulltooth had nowhere to go but up and over Freestyle, but having come down on Fastball, Save Me Skulltooth similarly got plowed into right as Freestyle was collapsing in front of them. While Freestyle landed on their side and slid along the dirt, Fastball got bumped back into the wall, where their horse collapsed under buckling knees while their jockey got bounced over the fence, and with Save Me Skulltooth falling sideways while six or eight feet in the air, the gray fox was thrown hard from his saddle while the gray horse came down with most of his body on the course but his head out of bounds, his neck snapping hard on the metal railing before his limp body flailed back onto the dirt, twisting every which way like a ragdoll until his momentum finally ran out.

"...Oh, my fucking God," Deputy Nutzinger murmured to himself.

"...Holy shit," Sheriff Woodland muttered.

"Oh - no…!" Marian squealed into her paws over her mouth.

"Ohhh, deary me, that's not good," Annie mused under her breath.

"Oh… oh dear…" Charles sputtered.

"Ahhh…" John whispered to himself, "yes, yes, YES! THAT'S what you get for speaking ill of me!"

For about five seconds, every single person in the crowd got their Oh my God's and Holy shit's out of their systems, and after that, the entirety of Club Milton Park fell completely silent. You could hear a pin drop.

Or, more accurately, you could hear the galloping hooves of the remaining racers. The show had to go on, and indeed, the people operating and directing the cameras for the jumbotron weren't pointing them anywhere near the site of the accident, clearly fearing the worst and knowing they couldn't take the crowd's mind off of it but knowing they still needed to try. When Freestyle got bumped, they bumped Joshua The Tree, who in turn bumped Big Richard, taking a bite out of their inertia and opening up the door for Childhood Obesity to get a big run into the lead. Joshua The Tree made a decent recovery, Big Richard not so much, and by the time they were approaching the finish line, Joshua The Tree was the only one who could give Childhood Obesity a run for their money, still being a body-length behind. It seemed as if the race was all over. And indeed, there was at least one person in the crowd who was excited to see such an anticlimactic finish:

"YES!" Mayor Norman couldn't help but squeal in a much louder whisper. "Go on, go on, take your victory! Make me my money!"

But while the remaining horses and jockeys knew they had a race to win, they were all too aware of how eerily quiet the crowd had gotten. They'd all been in races where there had been injuries before, this was nobody's first rodeo, but while they knew the sounds of a crowd reacting to one horse tripping and falling, this response from the grandstands was an entirely new level of somber. They knew something was wrong.

And as Childhood Obesity was clear on their way to an easy victory, Julian Perez felt obligated to turn his head to the spectators to gauge their mood, and this confirmed to him that something dire had just occurred.

Therefore he pulled up on the reins to signal to Jarrett to slow down, then pulled them sharply to the right. The horse couldn't come to a complete stop, but he didn't need to; he bucked back and forth as he turned himself all the way around, and he and the coati rode off in the wrong direction to attend to their fallen competitors.

And as they did, Joshua The Tree, the team who had mocked Mayor Norman for his sense of dress, took the checkered flag without contest. Two seconds later, Big Richard, the team whose name reminded Mayor Norman of his brother who was his superior every way, crossed the line second, followed shortly thereafter by Two Left Shoes, whom Mayor Norman's assistant had defiantly bet on using statistical probabilities, to round out the podium.

Prince John's jaw dropped. He wasn't talking anymore.

Neither was anybody else in the crowd, still as quiet as a snowy meadow on a winter night as they watched the fallen runners and riders attempt to get themselves up, with special attention drawn to Mason McClimans, who struggled to get himself up and who spectators with binoculars could see was limping on a twisted right leg and nursing a right arm that was very clearly broken. But he wouldn't let his injuries stop him until he was next to his friend, whereupon the fox fell to his knees and shook the horse's shoulder as hard as he could, and then entire crowd could hear him hollering in agony:

"TREVOR! …TREVOR, TALK TO ME!"

There was no response.

"TREVVVOOOOORRR!"

Only now did the PA announcer speak up again: "Joshua The Tree… will be the unofficial winner… The stewards are calling an inquiry for the third race, hold, all, tickets, hold all tickets, stewards' inquiry here for the third race…" And then the PA system went silent again.

But while the ambulance and paramedics were slow to arrive so as to ensure they didn't lose control on the gravel and cause an even bigger accident, Childhood Obesity arrived on the scene first. Julian jumped off of Jarrett's back and went straight over to Mason while Jarrett slowed down to get the momentum out of his system. The first thing the coati did was get on his knees next to his fellow jockey and put an arm over the fox's shoulder to give him a side-hug, which many in attendance took to mean as a sign for man, he's gone. But far from being consoled, Mason just kept shaking Trevor with his good arm.

"TREVOR, WAKE UP, MAN!" The breaking of his voice just made the higher frequencies echo farther throughout the facility. "TREVOR, I'M SORRY, I THOUGHT WE HAD IT, PLEEEEEASE WAKE UP!"

Up in the balcony, the lion was steaming. "They surrendered their victory and cost me one thousand dollars just to help those arseholes!? Were they not enemies twenty minutes ago!?"

"Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you!?" the squirrel demanded. "A man is clearly dead!"

"Hmph. Well thank the heavens it happened to those two. Tell me, Eddward, is this how it felt when that skunk you despised perished in that auto-racing accident? This feeling of catharsis?"

Far from the apathetic person he was five minutes ago, you'd be hard pressed to say the wolf had ever looked so disgusted. "Mayor, are you jokin' around or are you just nuts!?"

"Gentlemen!" the vixen said rather sternly, though that sternness was directed mostly at just one of them. "Now is not the time for this." And she put her eyes back upon the gray fox and the coati kneeling over the motionless mass of the gray horse.

But Julian seemed to notice something, and eventually Jarrett slowed down enough that he could get down on his own knees to see Trevor for himself. Freestyle and Fastball were watching with dour looks as they kept their distance, and the rest of the teams had gathered by the start-finish line to observe from afar, several horses and jockeys down on one knee, at least a few of them visibly praying. But as the megafauna medics jumped out of the ambulance and barked at Childhood Obesity to step away from the victims, the bay horse and the coati remained steadfast. The medics tried to shoo them away, but they stayed there, Julian with his paw in front of Trevor's nose and Jarrett with his hoof on Trevor's neck. And they stayed there until suddenly they each got to their feet and started gesturing to the crowd: Jarrett waving his hooves towards his face and putting a hoof under the crook of his chin, Julian giving thumbs up to everyone he could see. And when the paramedics finally started getting to work on Trevor, they found out what Childhood Obesity already knew, and what they were trying their hardest to call to a crowd who was just now able to read their lips and get their signals:

He's breathing.

He has a pulse.

He's alive.

And when they understood that, the crowd once again went wild.

The PA gentleman spoke again: "Please keep holding tickets until the stewards' inquiry has concluded, hold, all, tickets. Thank you."

But nobody was thinking about winners and losers at that moment, they were simply thinking about the horse that was currently getting his neck immobilized and hurried onto a stretcher.

Well, okay, one person was thinking about winners and losers:

"Hmph, that inquiry had better call the race before the finish line!" Prince John huffed. "They'd better give the victory to Number 11, they earned that, not Number 4!"

The others in the group just ignored him.

Number 11 themselves were walking down the frontstretch towards the other finishing racers. As they did, the crowd started clapping and cheering for them, at first just a few standing from their seats, then everybody who wasn't bound to a wheelchair. Childhood Obesity looked exhausted, but they graciously looked and waved to the adoring crowd, the coati tipping his jockey helmet and the horse pointing back at the crowd to let them know that they were the reason why they did the things they did.

Everyone in the City Hall suite was part of the standing ovation for the good show of sportsmanship. Even Ward, who ten minutes prior would have rather been anywhere else. Even Rocky, who was under explicit orders not to display emotions during working hours. Even Prince J- oh, wait, no, no, I tell a lie, not Prince John, not Prince John, my bad.

"Och, Johnny, are ye just feelin' tired today?" asked the sheep. "You've not been standin' for anythin'!"

"I'm just waiting for the official results to be announced," the lion replied bitterly.

"Ovvv course you are," muttered the squirrel.

All of the injured horses and riders were loaded up onto ambulances and taken to local area hospitals. Their actual statuses wouldn't be public for several more hours, but we have the benefit of hindsight, Dear Reader; Trevor Stabler made it to the hospital in critical but stable condition and while he would ultimately be rendered a quadriplegic, he is still alive today, able to live a pretty full life thanks to having the dutiful and unending assistance of his friend Mason McClimans, who made a full recovery, but who was not forgiven by Trevor for making the fateful mistake in the race on the grounds that Trevor saw no mistake to forgive. The two of them have spent the intervening years touring North America as motivational speakers, appearing everywhere from elementary schools to NFL games, and are frequent visitors to Club Milton Park, where they not only enjoy free admission for life but have a special cocktail named after their team served at CMP's bars. And wherever they do show up, they're always seen together. I'm tellin' ya, Dear Reader: you cannot get between a racehorse and their jockey, so don't even try.

Many members of the crowd didn't even attempt to sit down until the emergency vehicles had left the track, and some of them still couldn't sit down after that, either, just too worked up over what had just transpired. Thankfully this wasn't the olden days when badly-injured horses were traditionally shot in the head to spare them the dishonor of living as a cripple; such practices were outlawed throughout most of the world in the 1920s and in the US in 1939. But the murmurs of the excited crowd were soon quieted by the PA announcer making one last statement on the race:

"Ladies and gentlemen… the stewards have concluded their inquiry. The official winner is Joshua The Tree, number 4, Joshua The Tree, followed by number 11, Childhood Obesity, number 10, Big Richard, and number 9, Two Left Shoes, rounding out your top four."

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL!?" Prince John growled as he threw his top hat on the ground. "What sense does THAT make!? Number 11 was clearly the winner!"

The PA announcer seemed to answer him: "Results were calculated by looking at video footage of the running order at the time of the accident, at which point the field was frozen. Again, the official winner is being declared as Joshua The Tree in first, Childhood Obesity in second, Big Richard in third, and Two Left Shoes in fourth."

"Mayor, calm yourself…" the weasel begged, knowing damn well that his boss would do nothing of the sort.

"And why should I calm down, Charles!?" the lion demanded. "I just lost out on seven thousand dollars! I put in one thousand dollars of my own money and was robbed of a profit! This is almost worse than what those bandits do to me! Those goody-two-shoes racers stole my money from me all to help a competitor - one who didn't even die!"

"Okay," said the squirrel, "I think I speak for all of us when I say that I'm really not comfortable with the extremely callous things you're saying."

"I certainly agree with you, George," said the vixen.

"Mayor!" Hess repeated, his patience with his boss growing thin. "Do you recall how that racing duo praised you for doing the right thing? Do you think they wouldn't rescind that praise if they saw how you were condemning them now for trying to do what they believed to be the right thing? Do you not think everyone under your governance would be appalled by your reaction to this!?"

"I don't care how they feel!" Mayor Norman shot back. "It was transparently wrong and stupid of them to give up on the race just to stick their noses where they didn't belong, and all to do what? To give us a thumbs-up that the horse was breathing!? They didn't save any lives, they just gave up on their objective to relay a message we'd hear from the professionals anyway and now they expect us to regale them as heroes for it! The point, Hess, is that I want my public to adore me to the point that when they hear me say such a thing, they'll agree with me because they realize that if I'm saying it, then it must be right!"

Charles was speechless. This was the guy he was struggling so hard to gain power over? If the public saw this interaction, they'd surely agree that John was even more insane than they'd ever imagined and that Charles should be the one in charge, formally or otherwise.

…And that was a splendid idea.

"Well… if you feel so strongly about that, Mayor, tell them!"

"...I beg your pardon?"

His assistant nodded his head towards the jumbotron. "Look, sir! They're interviewing the racers! And look where they are!"

Everyone on the balcony glanced at the screen. They were indeed interviewing other teams from the race, starting with horses and jockeys who had been further back in the pack and had witnessed the disaster unfold before their eyes; if Prince John hurried, he could be there before they got to interviewing Childhood Obesity. And he knew exactly where there was: the background made it clear that they were back on the parade path between the tunnel entrance and the paddock.

So he didn't waste a moment. "I will!" the lion declared as he stood up, adjusted his top hat, and made his way out of the suite.

"Wait, what?" asked George.

"Och, are ye mad, Johnny!?" asked Annie.

"Uncle, I'm not sure this is the best idea," warned Marian.

"Mister Mayor, I cannot protect you if you enter places you do not have the clearance to be," reminded Rocky.

But Prince John was already out into the hallway, making haste towards the downward escalators.

Now it was time for Charles's step two: playing dumb. Or, rather… playing indecisive. "Ah, actually, sir, perhaps it'd be best to just play along and praise them for what they did!"

"Charles, are you mad!? You saw what nonsense they pulled!"

Excellent. The weasel had delivered his line with just enough conviction to plant the seed in his boss's mind, but not enough conviction to change his mind prematurely. Exactly as intended.

Down to the ground floor, the mayor made a beeline for the patio, his unwitting entourage in close pursuit.

"Ah, mayor," said the assistant who knew the rule of threes all too well, "this crowd doesn't seem quite as frustrated with Team 11's decision…"

"They're all a bunch of blasted morons, Charles!" So it went.

To the edge of the patio, which was far more crowded than before. There was indeed a doe reporter and a black bear cameraman interviewing a team, that team in question being Big Richard at the moment, but Childhood Obesity was waiting in the background, and you could tell by their body language that they were getting ready to be spoken to next.

"Argh, now how do we get in there!?" the lion grumbled.

"I remind you, sir, that you are not in your jurisdiction and I must discourage you from going into private spaces where you are not supposed to be," said the rhino, stoically as ever.

But the weasel had a strategy. "Sheriff Woodland! There was just a major accident with severe bodily injuries! Doesn't that require the police to come investigate to officially rule out foul play?"

The wolf clearly had to think about that for a second. And it dawned upon him that yes, there was precedent for that; indeed, when there had been a deadly accident in a midget-car race at a quarter-mile dirt track outside of the city a few years prior, Elkins's County Sheriff's Office had to come in to formally declare that there was no actual crime that had taken place. "Uh… maybe, but, uh… I think that's only if there's an actual fatality-"

"Goddammit, Eddward, get us in there!" Mayor Norman growled.

Well, to some extent, Ward did want the mayor's approval. "County sheriff, move aside, folks!" he boomed to the crowd before getting to the fence, which he simply hopped over for lack of an opening gate before helping the mayor climb over himself (John, of course, going over the railing in the wimpiest way you could imagine, even you and I would look cooler than he did hopping that fence). As for the little weasel? Oh, he just shimmied between the bars.

The timing couldn't be any more perfect. The onlookers gasped and murmured in confusion as the mayor of a city they were not currently in welcomed himself onto the bridleway. The wolf and lion approached the horse and coati just as the doe and bear had already gotten to them.

"Childhood Obesity…" the reporter began with a sigh, herself sounding as exhausted as the runner and rider looked, "...if I may break tradition, I think you two deserve recognition for your actions under your real names, Jarrett Wagoner and Julian Perez."

The racers just nodded; they were not offended.

"You two gave up a sure victory to try to help your fallen-"

"County sheriff!" Woodland barked. "Injurious accident investigation!"

All four of them standing there were understandably shocked to see Sheriff Woodland approaching, followed by Mayor Norman no less. But the doe and the black bear gave one another a knowing look: they were going to keep the camera rolling and the mic on. Whatever was about to happen was probably going to be something significant, something they could probably make a pretty penny selling to the local news later on.

"You two!" said the lion. "I want to have a word with you where everyone can see and hear us! What on earth went through your heads when you-!?"

"Mayor!"

John stopped to glare at his assistant. "What?"

"Mayor, please, look at these people around us!" Charles pleaded - standing as close to the doe with the mic as possible and speaking as loud as he could without screaming. "Do they not look awestruck by these athletes' actions!? Don't rebuke them for making you lose your bet, praise them for being so sporting! I'm sure of it, Mayor: it would be a popular decision, and it would be the right thing to do!"

Prince John did turn to look at the crowd - all of whom had heard Charles loud and clear. Some, who knew better than to piss this lion off, turned to face Childhood Obesity again, making a point to put on their best faces of admiration and reverence. Others, not so familiar with who this dangerous whack-job was, stared straight at the mayor - and the mayor, thoroughly believing that the tiny little weasel was too small and insignificant to be heard by a crowd who probably wouldn't even want to listen to somebody that small and insignificant, didn't even think for a second that they had just heard Hess tell everybody that Prince John was here to tear Childhood Obesity a new one over a lost wager. Not to mention all the people in the grandstands and throughout the concourse who heard it on the hot mic. Didn't even cross his mind. All he saw were people waiting on him to laud Childhood Obesity.

"...Why should I listen to you, Charles!?" the mayor demanded. "You were wrong about our strategy to bet on every horse to make a profit, why would you be right about this?"

"Because I was right that you should come down here to publicly praise the racers to show everybody that you respect good sportsmanship."

"That wasn't your-!"

"Mayor," Charles said firmly, "I am not merely your assistant, I am also your advisor - please, as we've agreed… let me advise you."

The lion took one more glance at the waiting crowd before turning to the in-house reporters. "Are we ready to begin filming?"

The doe and bruin gave one another a look, then the bear pretended to press some buttons on his camera while the deer held up her microphone. "Uh… we're joined here by a surprise guest, Nottingham mayor John Norman, who… I understand would like to make an announcement if he could about, and to, Childhood Obesity here."

"That I would!" the mayor said with a tight nod, formal smile on his face and hands folded behind his back. "So, Misters Obesity… what on earth went through your heads when you, er… decided to sacrifice your winning position in order to check up on a competitor, with whom you two had a rather public row just before coming to the track?"

Far from seeming honored, Childhood Obesity looked very uncomfortable, shooting each other awkward glances and hoping the other had the answer this guy was looking for. Neither did, but they knew they had to roll with it.

"Uh, well…" the horse began, "...I had my blinders on, so I couldn't see it happen very well, but when Julian pulled on my reins and told me to turn around, I knew something was up, and I'm glad I did, because it looked like Save Me Skulltooth both got hurt pretty bad there."

"Yeah, and, uh…" the coati added on, "...when I realized how bad it was, I had to turn us around, because… you know, if things had been different, that coulda been us, and yeah, sure, they're our rivals and we don't see eye-to-eye on everything, but… hey, we've got a camaraderie thing between us all, we gotta treat others the way we wanna be treated."

"Excellent, excellent, you love to hear it!" the lion beamed. "And for this, gentlemen… I want to publicly commend you for your bravery and diligence to do the right thing, even when it was not to your benefit!"

He snuck a glance at the crowd. He totally bought that they totally bought that.

"And now," he continued, "may I give you some more private congratulations up in my private suite?"

The racer and jockey looked at one another. "Uh…" Julian mumbled, "I think we need to go talk to the stewards-"

"Criminal investigation!" Sheriff Woodland cut in. "We supersede them! We gotta clear y'all of any wrongdoin'! Officially!"

…Now Childhood Obesity just looked scared. Reluctantly, they walked off to follow the wolf and lion, wondering how they were going to explain their absence to the officials later.

Meanwhile, in the grandstands, amid the crowd who had just seen and heard everything on the jumbotron:

"...Does that guy actually believe we bought that?"

"He was seriously gonna bitch them out for losing him money!?"

"Does this guy even have a heart?"

"Does he even have a fucking soul?"

"Who was that other voice we heard? Not the sheriff, the other British dude."

"I think that was that crippled weasel guy he uses as an assistant."

"Or as an advisor."

"Thank God he is the advisor, he's clearly the brains of the operation."

"And he's the only one who isn't a complete psycho."

"I mean, is he? He said 'this would look good' like all he thinks about is PR."

"Yeah, but he also said 'this is the right thing to do,' the fucking mayor didn't say that."

"I'll give the weasel the benefit of the doubt that he had to frame it as a PR move just to get his sociopathic boss to give them the respect they deserved. We've all had bosses like that."

"Man, why can't he be the one in charge?"

"Wait, I thought the assistant/advisor guy was a mink…?"

Charles could hear this all from the balcony of the private suite, and it made him smile. He hardly even minded the screaming coming from through the glass door behind him.

"YOU TWO IMBECILES COST ME SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!" the lion roared at the horse and the coati, who were all alone with the malicious mayor while everyone else was outside in the hallway.

"I… how were we supposed to know you bet on us?" asked Jarrett.

"And why does money matter when Trevor's in a really bad state?" asked Julian. "And why did you bother telling us we did good to help our competitors if this was all you really cared about?"

"Was that all bullshit!?"

"OF COURSE THAT WAS ALL BULLSHIT!" Prince John growled. He then grabbed a pen and notepad on a table and handed it to the one who was physically capable of using such implements. "Now then: write down your billing addresses. I will be invoicing you each for three thousand, five hundred dollars. I care not whether you each pay equal sums or if one of you covers it all, all that matters to me is that I get my money, seven thousand dollars in total."

Julian was refusing to write a word. "...Sir, we don't owe you any of that."

"WELL I SAY YOU DO! Give me my money or I'll see to it that my police have you charged for causing further injury by mishandling that injured horse!"

Childhood Obesity looked skeptical. "Aren't there Good Samaritan laws that prevent things like that?"

"I will disregard them," the mayor said flatly. "I can do that."

The pair were quiet for a second before speaking again:

"Trevor was right about you," said Julian.

"We got into that fight with him for nothing," said Jarrett.

Prince John just smirked. "If you'd like, I can have my police seize your assets from your bank accounts as a fine for failing to cooperate with police while having you charged for causing unnecessary harm to your fellow racer."

Childhood Obesity didn't look afraid, but they certainly didn't look proud or triumphant or anything either. They just looked like they were pissed at themselves for not listening to Trevor - and, as they later realized, for setting this entire chain of events in motion by bothering to be nice to this lion in the first place. The coati acquiesced and wrote down their address.

Mayor Norman pocketed the paper and told the duo to see themselves out; opening doors was beneath the mayor's dignity. When the door opened, they saw the sight of Sheriff Woodland strangling Deputy Nutzinger again while Rocky, Marian, and Annie all tried in vain to pull the squirrel out of the wolf's grasp.

"EDDWARD!" John yelled. "What the bloody hell are you doing now!?"

Ward released his grip on George and gave his boss a look warning him to mind his own business. "I'm givin' this disrespectful little shit what he deserves! Stop questionin' mah judgment!"

Safe in the rhino's hands, the deputy swallowed a few times before speaking, sounding very strained: "I didn't even say nothing this time, some guy just saw us from all the way down the hallway by the escalators, saw Ward, and screamed 'Free Kellen' again!"

The mayor just scowled as he shooed everybody away from the door with one paw and used the other to scoot the horse and coati out of the suite. He was done repeating himself on this subject. Something had to change, and soon. And he was starting to think he knew exactly what he needed to do.

This and the preceding chapter are dedicated to Arlington International Racecourse

1927-2021

I think it's an incredibly stupid idea to put ANY major-league sports venue out in the suburbs, but they ain't listening to me.