Trolley Hangover
Saturday night.
And the trolley treacherously stalked. The new-wave guard trolley from Sheridan, Kentucky ... now slid down the cobbled streets of Sheridan, Indiana. The pavement. The occasional patch of brick. With a slight, slight click-clack of its thinner, golden wheels, and when it turned, it made a bit of a lumbering, low whistle. Almost a rumble. As if it were moaning out in exertion. As if it were alive.
And it was. In many, myriad ways. The mechanics of it? Far too technical to be truly known, especially to the French-knowing tabby cat and the music-loving sheep, who were inside the belly of the beast, sitting in cushy seats, holding to the firemen-like poles in the middle of the aisles. These things weren't equipped with seatbelts.
They would take care of Spitznagle tonight.
Certain she'd be home. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant no school ... today, Saturday, had been a school day, sadly. But such was part and parcel for a town like this. Even a town as 'liberated' as this one. "The Board" still controlled the school system, and had seen to that. Were convinced that, if they had school on Saturdays NOW, this early, that, over time, enough days would build up so that they could end school at the end of April. As long as they went 180 days and gave all the furs a lunch ... the state would leave them alone. So, Saturday School was a mandatory institution: later, avoid all the snow days and whatnot and what-have-you.
Shorter school year. Less free time DURING it. Less time to incite trouble, too, "The Board" figured. Break your will.
Wear you down.
Summer was a peak time for all. A season of fruition. And a time when "The Board" was always at the height of its scheming ... they wanted the summer to themselves. And, being that everyone else did, too, there were ultimately few complaints. Except from the students, who resented having to be academically prodded on days reserved for cartoons and laziness and college football. But what could they do? What could they do to stop it?
"Is there a brake?" Stone asked.
"It's your trolley," was Evelyn's response.
"It's not MY trolley. It's A trolley, and all trolleys have brakes ... I just need to know how to stop it when we get there."
"Voice command, presumably. I mean, it was voice command that made it move ... so, voice command should make it stop."
Stone, sitting a seat in front of the sheep, turned, and squinted her narrow, feline eyes. Sometimes, Evelyn D ... could make a bit of sense. Sometimes, she could be rational. But when she was in such a lucid state? Better watch your back.
"Your squint doesn't scare me, Stone."
"It better."
"And why's that?"
"Because I have claws. You don't."
"You were always good at making threats."
"Using the past-tense on me, Evelyn? Why's that?" Narrowing her eyes even more. Their forced partnership already showing signs of wear.
The sheep shrugged her wooly, jacket covered shoulders ... casually. "No reason," was her whisper. No discernable emotion could be read from it.
The tabby cat breathed a bit. Breathed. Detecting no signs of ... a coiling, impending attack from her 'partner in crime,' but ... one could never know. Very few teachers could be trusted. They were all pawns in this game. And when pawns tried to take OVER the game ... it was every pawn for herself.
Evelyn looked out the clear, darkened windows. They were moving at about, maybe, fifteen miles per hour. A few lights were on inside the trolley, on the floor, in the aisles. Like those lights on the floor in movie theaters. Creating enough of a glow to let you see, but ... not enough to be conspicuous from the outside.
And the trolley was quiet. Used to, you heard the trolleys before you saw them. Their ding-a-lings, and their clang-a-clangs ... but this trolley was currently locked in silent, stealth mode, so as to draw the least amount of attention (and suspicion) as possible.
Stone, craning her neck a bit, said, "It's not California here ... we should be on California Street. We're on Jerkwater."
"I thought Spitznagle lived on Mulebarn."
"She does." A pause. "Trolley ... "
A small chirrup sound of acknowledgment.
"Trolley, take us to Spitznagle's house. On Mulebarn Road."
Chirrup. And the lumbering vehicle made a turn ... on the first road going left. And then backtracked, going in the opposite direction: to the Southern end of the town of three thousand hapless, rural furs.
"Someone will see us. See THIS. The guard trolleys have been gone for months, and suddenly ... one's on the streets? It'll cause a stir. They'll report it. 'The Board' will find out what you've been up to, and ... "
"'We', Evelyn. 'We.' You're not gonna make me a scapegoat if this doesn't work. And it WILL work."
"Just saying ... "
"Don't JUST say ... just be quiet!"
The sheep frowned. She didn't like being scolded. Especially by someone who could speak French.
Click-clack ... hum, thrum ... thrum! The trolley went. Went down the main street. Past the Village Pizza and the soon-to-be-replaced library. Past the IGA grocery store, and past the barber shop, and the hardware store, and the pub, and ...
Evelyn, looking out at the signs on the shops, said, a bit absently, "I know we both have it in for Spitznagle, but ... you know that, by doing this, we're only gonna fan the flames, right? I mean, the Conspiracy was in a lull. Aren't we just gonna be helping it, you know, to ... flare back up again?"
"It was going to flare up," Stone assured, "anyway. The furs of this town are too weak and middling to truly keep it at bay. One hundred and fifty years does not breed a lack of competence. 'The Board' got cocky."
"They've always been cocky."
"They just needed a good punch in the nose. In some ways, those meddling fools of the resistance ... did us a favor."
"How so?"
"General Sheridan is gone. Mandy's no longer in Sheridan, Indiana ... her line of robots is elsewhere. So, who does that leave to directly deal with? 'The Board' themselves? They rarely show their faces. They work from the shadows. We can work anywhere we want. We're more versatile. We have the edge."
"You sound so sure."
"One has to be, Evelyn, in this line of work. Doubt breeds death."
"Poetic."
"Perhaps," was the tabby cat's whisper, and she licked her fangs. And stared deep into the autumn night. As she leaned back in her seat.
A minute more, at the ambling speed they were going, they were there.
"Spitznagle's."
"Yes," said Stone, in a whisper, as she left her seat and went to the front of the trolley, where there was a railing in front of the windows. She placed both of her feline paws on it, and leaned forward, looking through the windshield of the trolley. To her right, steps ... that led a bit down, and ... the door was there. But they weren't getting out. Not yet. No, she wanted a full view of this.
"Her lights aren't on."
"She's sleeping. It's eleven."
"Does she sleep at eleven?" Evelyn asked.
"Eleven, Evelyn."
"How do you know?"
"I KNOW. Now, just ... be quiet," the cat hissed, tired of talking. Tired of thinking. Tired of plotting. Wanting to ...
... do. To see.
Action!
"Trolley," she commanded. "Load missile launcher one."
"It has more than ONE missile launcher?"
"Two, to be precise. Both on the underbelly ... is where the missiles are stored. Now, just wait," the cat said, "and watch."
The trolley grumbled a bit, and ... on the outside, one of the headlights flipped open. The bulb retracted, revealing a hollowed shaft, through which ... a missile crept forward, the nose of it sticking out into the open, chilled air. Dappled in the pale light of the moon. And pointed directly at the porch of Spitznagle's quaint house. Here on the edge of town. Here beyond the reach of any help.
She would not, could not ... get away.
No.
No, it was time to ...
" ... fire, trolley," ordered Stone, with a visage just like her name. "Fire."
The trolley went thrum-THRUM! Spit!
The missile flew! Flew, flaring ... forward!
Ka-boom!
Smashing into the porch, and in a contained fireball of light and smoke, the front of the house was torn apart. Wood splinters and little blocks of cement, and everything else. Spatulas, egg-whisks ... chair legs. Thrown every which way, raining down like a surreal shower in the dead of night.
Evelyn, very quiet, very wide-eyed, was a bit fazed by such destruction. Came up, on her hooves, behind the cat. To watch. Disturbed.
But not Stone. Oh, no, not Stone. Not the same cat who harbored a quiet affinity for French-Canadian black market weapons ... projectile-launchers. Experimental lasers. Anything that could and would create a proper, unfailing defense.
And keep lesser furs in their place.
"Fire again!" was her hiss. Without hesitation. Without remorse. "Fire," she said, "again."
The other headlight hatch opened, and the other missile launcher glowed, hummed, and ... ka-chunk!
Launching ...
... to a KA-BOOM!
And the back of the house went up in smoke and cinders, and flames that lapped into the zenith (seemingly) of the sky, and ...
Stone, taking a deep, satisfied breath, allowed herself to smile. For the first time tonight, she smiled, and she nodded briskly, returning to her seat. And looking back at Evelyn, who was in a bit of a state, said, "Sit down. It's only a bit of chaos."
The sheep did as told.
And Stone commanded the trolley to back-track. Back to the school. Back to the bus barn. Where they would park, and disengage, and ... deny all knowledge of this incident.
If only they had known that Spitznagle had gotten out in time! Upon hearing the trolley pull up into her gravel drive, she'd hustled out the back door, into the corn field ... and had watched, simmering with rage, as her house was destroyed.
Oh, Spitznagle had not been done in!
Sunday morning.
The hanging light over the silvery sink was on.
Ma grimaced a bit. She'd gotten the frozen orange juice concentrate (in the can) as opposed to the already-made juice (in a bottle or carton). Saves time, money. Saves juice. Make it when you want it. It didn't necessarily taste better, but ...
... too much bite, this stuff. Not that, technically, she NEEDED it.
"Dammit," she sighed. And she put her mug down on the counter. Her house was quiet.
Was empty.
Sorta like how she felt. Sorta like drinking this orange juice.
And she swallowed. Didn't need to eat or drink, or do many of the things that others furs did. But why not? It was pleasant enough. Gave the illusion of her being more 'normal' than she really was. And ...
... she paused. Thinking.
That beaver. The head coach of the football team.
Did he REALLY fancy her?
Super C wasn't the type to lie about something like that. But, then, maybe she was prone to histrionic exaggeration. At times. But, still, the thought of it ...
... had her curious.
Had her wanting.
Had her wondering if love was a want or a need? Or neither?
Field and Adelaide seemed to NEED it. It helped define them. And being that they were her closest friends, she settled on their relationship ... as a model. Of what love should be. But those two were different. She was telepathic, strong-willed. He was artistic, effeminate. Both of them devout Christians. They weren't your salt-of-the-earth furs. Your everyday furs.
A sigh.
Ma didn't expect she could ever have love like that.
She opened and closed her paws in the early-morning air of her modest, little kitchen. It was still dim outside. The sun really wasn't up yet.
Maybe she should ...
Knock-knock.
The door. Someone at the door. And who? On a Sunday morning? It was barely after seven, and church wasn't for another two hours. It couldn't be Field and Adelaide (who always picked her up for church ... at 8:45).
Cautiously, the panther padded, in bare, poised foot-paws, to the door. The screen door. With the heavier wooden door behind it. Propping open the screen, and turning the door-knob, and ...
" ... let me in," was what she heard.
"Spitznagle," was Ma's reply. Her squint. Her predatory-to-prey look.
"Let me in!" The raccoon waved her paws, squirming past Ma. And into the heart of the kitchen, where she sighed and sank into a chair at the table.
Ma, frowning, shutting (and locking) the door, showed her teeth as she padded to the librarian.
The raccoon raised her grey-black paws. "I know. I know." A huff. "I know what you're going to say ... "
"DO you?" Ma asked, showing her teeth. They were sharp. But, then, she was a panther. She put her paws on Spitznagle's chair, and SPUN it!
A squeak from her.
"Answers. Now."
"I'm paying a visit!" was the vague response. Spitznagle squirmed. "I'm just ... "
"We're not friends." A fact.
"It's the Sabbath."
"You don't have faith, Spitznagle. Not in anything that can't punch you in the nose."
"That a threat?"
"What are you doing in my house?" Ma asked again, still standing.
"Why? You busy?" The raccoon looked around dryly. Immaculate, design-less walls, floors. No sounds. No sign of activity. "I can see I interrupted quite the hoe-down."
"I was ... "
" ... brooding, no doubt. 'Bout a certain beaver?"
"I was reflecting." A pause. "And how do you know about that?" The panther flushed.
"Brain-freeze, Ma? I'm ON the team. Little I don't know ... when it comes to those involved."
Ma's eyes darted. Looking steely. "Answers," was her repeated demand.
A sigh. A shrug. "My house blew up."
"BLEW up?"
A snap of her fingers. "Just like that." A nod. "I need a place to crash."
Ma gave a disbelieving look. "So, you chose here? With me?" Ma leaned in. Close. So that the raccoon's scent was in her nose. Her nostrils flared. "Why?" she whispered.
Spitznagle's heart beat a bit faster, and her prey instincts ... welled. To have the feline's breath on her. "Because," she whispered weakly. "I know you won't kill me."
Ma, unblinking, pulled back a bit.
The raccoon remained frozen, submissive.
And the panther sighed, looking away.
"That's why I chose you," Spitznagle said, breaking the silence. "You've gone soft, Ma. It's not like the old days, when you were a rebel-on-the-run. You've got a soul now. A conscience. If I go to anyone else in this town for help, I'll be betrayed. Or worse. At least I can trust you."
"Unfortunately ... I can't trust YOU. It doesn't go both ways."
"You're not kicking me out!"
"It's my house!"
"I need help," the raccoon said, with desperation in her voice. "Okay, I admit it. I bit off more than I could chew. I should've anticipated a pre-emptive strike by Stone ... BEFORE I garnered myself all that clout."
"Should've."
"I just need you to get me back in the clear. I need those two off my tail."
"Two?"
"Evelyn's in with Stone," the raccoon said, "on this. They're both morons, but ... somehow, Stone got a hold of a new-model guard trolley. It has a missile launcher. That's how they destroyed my place."
Ma's eyes widened.
"So, you see: my problem is also yours, and that of your friends, as well. Stone's no longer just a threat to ME. But to everyone."
Ma paced a bit, sighing, and then slipped into a chair on the opposite side of the table. After a moment, saying, "I help you put Stone and Evelyn back in their place, and neutralize the new guard trolley ... and YOU help me cleanse the team of 'Board' interference."
"I assume," the raccoon said with heavy regret, "that means me ... forfeiting my new starting position?"
"You assume correctly."
"Dammit, Ma! I worked hard to get on the team."
"You did not," the panther scoffed. "All you did was intercept a pass. Which should've been called illegal for too many furs on the field. And you're forty-odd years old! You're not a high school male. All against the ... "
" ... antiquated rules."
"You didn't MAKE the team, Spitznagle. The crowd and the refs PUT you there ... because they got greedy. They wanted more, more. Another championship. Bigger storylines. Bigger plays. You benefitted 'The Board' just as much as yourself ... with that little stunt. You're still a pawn, Spitznagle. And you always will be."
The raccoon bristled, but made no motion. "I'm nobody's pawn."
"You like 'The Board'?"
"Course I don't. They're meddling fools."
"Then why are you playing for their team?"
"Cause I want my DUE," the raccoon emphasized, slamming a paw on the table. "I'm sick of being in the shadows, of being ... the one who doesn't count. The one who's just THERE. I'm not an imbecile. I mean, Super C, Mr. Science, YOU ... you've all gotten moments in the sun. I want my moment. This is my moment."
"A fleeting one," Ma whispered, "at that. Give it up. And I'll help you."
"And if I don't? Will you really allow Stone and the new guard trolley to bring this town to its knees? Are you that cold, Ma?"
"This town is already on its knees, Spitznagle. Has been since it was built. The only difference is how you interpret that stance: as one of defeat, about to be beheaded ... or even sexual. Or on your knees in prayer. Devotion." A pause. "On its knees? Yes. But in better ways. And one errant French teacher is not going to undo all that we did ... to free this place."
The raccoon just slowly shook her head. "You don't know what you're saying, Ma. You know, I just can't figure you out. You rebelled against 'The Board' from the moment of your activation. But why? What triggered you ... to do that? What made you do it?"
Ma gave no response.
"Was it an impulse? A feeling? Did you witness something?"
"I chose purity," said Ma, in her veiled way, "over being a peacock."
Spitznagle blinked.
"I didn't need the fame, power, prestige. All the eyes. I didn't want to control the world. I wasn't that vain. 'The Board' stands for all that is sinful and corrupt, and ... you've been in their shadow for so long that you can't think in any other way BUT darkness. Suspect everything. Jump at every chance for advancement. At what price, Spitznagle?"
"You're just a goody-good, Ma. And you know what? That's disappointing. It really is," the raccoon said, with a fierce, brown gaze.
"Then get out of my house," the panther replied. Besting the raccoon's posture, tone of voice, and gaze. "I'm a predator. You're not. I'll give you ten seconds to run. Or maybe I should be sporting, and give you twenty."
"You wouldn't dare," Spitznagle whispered.
"One, two ... "
A grin from the raccoon. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "You're bluffing, Ma. You wouldn't hurt me. What would your friends say? That cotton candy bat and her ... limp-pawed mouse? They wouldn't look at you again. Talk to you, either. You'd lose everything ... in one act of revenge."
"I don't need revenge," Ma promised, "on you. I just need to get rid of you. You're a tree that gives no fruit, Spitznagle. You need to be uprooted for a tree that CAN grow something. Three, four, five ... "
She didn't move."
" ... six, seven, eight ... nine ... "
Still nothing.
Ma's paws gripped the edge of her table. Her claws extending from her pads, and her teeth showing, and a bit of a purr now rumbling, and playing ... from her throat, and her muscles tensed beneath her black, night-like fur. She was in shape, Ma was. Unlike Spitznagle. The panther would have no problem in the hunt.
Spitznagle began to sweat beneath her fur. Began to fidget. Ma was still counting. Wasn't stopping.
" ... fifteen, sixteen ... " Her chair scooted back on the linoleum. Making a scraping sound. The only sound in the kitchen: save for the raccoon's breath, and the purrs from the panther, and ...
" ... okay, okay!" Spitznagle cried, cowering. "Don't look at me like that! Just ... please!"
The panther, who'd been BORING her slitted, narrowed, feline eyes ... right into the raccoon's skull ... blinked and nodded simply. "We have an agreement?"
"An agreement," she whispered, her throat dry. "Damn you, Ma."
"You quit the team and help me remove the Mandy-bots, and I neutralize the trolley ... and put Stone and Evelyn back in their place."
"Whatever. Whatever ... just ... fine," was the raccoon's relent.
Ma nodded. And looked at the clock. "You're welcome to come worship with us. At 9. Field and Adelaide will be picking me up."
"I'm not going," the raccoon said, with more than a bit of disdain, "to church."
"You are," was Ma's steadfast response. And the way she said it, and the way she was looking, and the way her paws were so clenched, with claws still extended ...
... the raccoon had to weakly nod and sigh. "Fine," she mouthed.
Ma nodded, and rose, and gave a polite smile.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Lording over me like this?"
Ma didn't respond to that. Only went to the cupboards, opened them, and asked, "Breakfast?"
After church, the four of them convened at Field and Adelaide's. To have lunch. And to come up with a plan for Monday, which was tomorrow.
Outside, a light, light breeze blew. The sky was an azure, marked with bold and rising islands of white. The clouds. They moved laboriously along, as if they didn't wish to go. As if trying to will themselves to sink and stay. While the leaves in the trees, colored copper, red, and yellow (anything but green) still hung on. Many of them filtering down, creating little clusters in the grass.
Spitznagle stood in front of a window. Looking out. At the woods, the creek. And then turned around. "Well, it's obvious where she's keeping the trolley. Underneath the bus barn."
"You're sure about that?" Adelaide asked, sitting on the couch.
"Where else would she keep it? In her driveway?"
The bat gave the raccoon a look ...
... which the raccoon returned.
Field poked his head into the room, with a quick, "Lunch is almost ready!" And then he disappeared just as quickly (back into the kitchen).
The three femmes (Ma, Adelaide, and Spitznagle) were in the living room. In the room next to them, the television room, the TV was on ... priming up for the big Indy Car race (the Colts game wasn't 'til later).
"So, your mouse can cook, huh?" Spitznagle asked.
"He's a very good cook," Adelaide said.
"What else is he ... 'good' at?"
The bat made a face.
"Lot of rumors 'bout your mouse."
"I'm sure there are."
"Just wanted to find out which ones were true."
"I'm not the kind," Adelaide said, "to kiss and tell."
"Too bad."
Ma sighed, interrupting with, "Leave her alone, Spitznagle."
"I'm just having a polite conversation with the bat."
"You're trying to get under her fur."
"I doubt there'd be any room under there. That's the mouse's job, to get ... "
" ... rid of the trolley," Ma interrupted, cutting the raccoon off. "We need to get rid of it. I think Adelaide and Field should do that."
Spitznagle squinted. "Can they HANDLE it?"
"We've been in the underground before," Adelaide said quietly. "Paid a visit to Mr. Science. We know how to maneuver. We both have good noses. I can echo-locate ... like a chittering radar thing."
"Bats are full of hidden talents, aren't they?" A suspicious look. "Still, someone like me ... I'd know the whole layout, and ... "
" ... may use the opportunity to back-stab us and take the guard trolley for YOURSELF," Ma said. "Or lure us into an underground trap. Hard to escape. No, you're staying above ground with me, and we're going to cleanse the team of Mandy-bots ... like I said. Like you agreed."
A bit of a huff. "Fine," was the raccoon's eventual response.
"And we'll handle the trolley," Adelaide reiterated.
Any further discussions of conspiracy-fighting were ended by Field's squeaky, whisker-twitching call of, "Lunch-time!"