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Arden didn't have much time to ponder the events of that day, however, as the next day he got confirmation that he had indeed been selected for the magic campaign. The next week was a whirlwind of orientation meetings, etiquette instructions, and rehearsal. He really felt like he was in a Howlywood production, living the dream, until the reality of the actual working conditions were revealed with sudden and startling clarity.

The heat had returned with an attitude, and an agenda: kick tail and take names. At least it had in LA's other valley, where the giant thermometer on the bank read one-hundred-two degrees as Arden pointed his muzzle out the open window of his convection-oven-on-wheels, simultaneously trying to find his way to the next theatre - well, supermarket - and desperately trying to cool himself off. Even so, he chuckled to himself that this experience would be so amusing as a couch chat on Johnny Corso. "You know Johnny, they say I'm an overnight sensation, but oh, yeah, I put in my dues. I wasn't always fabulously wealthy, no, I suffered for my art. I performed at supermarkets. In the valley! In the summer!" "Hey-oh!" He smiled inwardly as he imagined Ed McMastiff favoring him with his signature howl.

Back in the present, however, Arden reluctantly parked in yet another crowded lot in yet another random strip mall, in yet another undifferentiated section of the City of Angels. He had lucked out and got a space next to his assistant for the summer, Dan. As Arden pulled up, the serval slid out of his brown Toyota, looking as limp in the heat as the wolf himself felt, even though his lineage supposedly hailed from the sub-Saharan wilds. Though, when Arden had mentioned that once, the serval had rolled his eyes, and stated flatly, "I'm from Wisconsin."

"Man, I wish I could do this show in shorts and a tank," the wolf offered.

"Yeah, don't even man," Dan replied with a smirk. "Until you walk an aisle in my shoes," he pouted as he removed said kicks from the trunk. Oversized, and more overweight than any pawwear had any business being, the costume clodhoppers were supposed to look like a cartoon rendering of piped white frosting, if one had applied said icing with a pastry bag the size of a muumuu, and piled it in artless lumps three times larger than the largest footpaw, before stomping in them like unanticipated cowpies in a farmer's field. They made a solid whump as he dropped them to the asphalt. "White turds, man," said the sleek, slender feline as he shook his head.

Arden looked on sheepishly. "Sorry man, how can you take it? I feel so bad. I mean, I'm dying already, and I don't even have my coat on. Well, my other coat."

"Eh," shrugged the cat, "it's a paycheck, right?" He proceeded to heft what for all the world looked like a body bag out of the trunk of his compact car, struggling as the amorphous package caught on the lip of the compartment, and refused to extricate itself.

Arden quickly stepped over to help wrest the blob out of its pit. "No way to ventilate this thing, huh?"

"Naw. But I think your idea of setting up near the dairy case is good. At least my butt can be cool if I back up to the yogurt and cheese. That's gotta help, right? Even through the tights?"

Arden shuddered...tights over fur. Eesh. "Hey whatever you like. You want a frigid keister? Your wish. My command," joked the wolf, as he made a show of crossing his arms out in front of himself before blinking with a pronounced nod. "C'mon let's get this over with."

The marketing team must have been patting themselves on the backs all day when they came up with this one, Arden mused as he assembled his card table, arranged his bowl of Boareos, part of a complete breakf - no wait that was another empty-calorie product. He wondered what the meeting must have been like...

Ok, so how are we gonna push more o' these damn flavorless, lard-filled, dust-cracker sandwiches? Oh, don't look so appalled, this is a safe space - the clients can't get in! But really, anybody got any ideas? -Um, how about 'Unlock the Magic?' -Really? Magic? That's even a stretch for me, and I can sell water to otters. Alright, so what's the pitch? Remember we have NO budget. -Well, how about point of sale demos? -You mean like tastings? -Well, yeah, but we make 'em work for it. Like, how about little popup magic shows in your local supermarket! The kids'll love it! They watch the show, there's a life-size cookie there to take pictures with, they get a little bendy to take home, and they whine until their parents buy them some empty calories to shut them up. -Well, we got nothing better, and it's lunch time, so let's go with it. Maybe it'll take their minds off the brand slogan, I mean, uegh. 'Make a pig of yourself?' Insensitive much?

Arden looked over to his partner in mime, as the serval, now completely obscured as a species and as a person by what amounted to a large, brown, doe-suede-covered, circular mattress topped with another unreasonably-sized splurt of "cream," - if mattresses were worn vertically - endeavored to remain upright while trying to convey some sense of sentience through the gesticulations of his two glove-covered appendages, which stuck straight out to his sides, virtually unable to move in any direction other than straight up and down about three inches. Jazz paws! With glasses. Oh, you couldn't miss the huge, and hugely heavy, pink-framed, blue-lensed, fiberglass-constructed shades that, only affixed with a couple of patches of hook-and-loop tape, threatened every other minute to dislodge from their precarious placement covering the middle third of the mattress, and crash to the linoleum below, stopped in their downward trajectory only by the tips of Dan's...no, the Boareo Cookie Man's, cloth-encased fingers; three of them on each glove.

"You doin' OK Dan?" the wolf whispered as the last "audience member" gave a walking ovation for the most recent performance, taking a mitful of free product but no package to actually purchase.

Wave.

"Do you need to take a break?"

Wave.

"Um, is that a yes, or a no?"

Wave.

Huffing, Arden walked over to the circular monstrosity that had swallowed his friend and talked to the prisoner through the eye-screen. "Squeeze my paw once for 'yes' and twice for 'no.' Are you doing OK?"

Squeeze.

"Do you need a break?"

Squeeze.

"Ok, gimme a minute."

Glad for any excuse to take a break, Arden put his 'Back in a flash!' sign with the picture of the bunny that was either appearing in a shower of sparks, or being cruelly detonated, on the card table, and packed up his cards and coins, before taking the cookie dude's glove in paw and slowly leading him to the warmer, but more secluded area at the back of the store, behind the heavy, drooping plastic doors that never seemed to hang properly in any supermarket ever.

It was a tricky procedure, but four weeks into a six-week schedule, Arden and Dan had the process for the de-cookiefying of the serval down to a damp, fragrant science. Glasses first, gloves next, then...pulling off the mattress as the cat bent ninety-degrees at his slim waist, the wolf held his breath for a bit so as not to inhale fully the odor of eau de encased serval. He reasoned it must be an acquired taste, one he almost resolutely determined he did not want to acquire. Neither it seemed, did the spotted feline, as he let out a huge breath as soon as he was free of his upholstered stockade. The moist and bedraggled kitty gave a weak thumbs up, and fell into an ancient, brittle, plastic chair, which crackled softly even under his feather weight.

"Oh man. Did you see that old raccoon that cornered me while you were doing your ring routine?" wheezed the paroled prisoner of Alakazam. "He wouldn't leave me alone. Just stared at me, from what little I can see in that damn thing," he continued, attempting to kick the now-lifeless cookie corpse laying on the floor, but only managing to nudge his frosting-encased foot forward an inch before giving up and flopping back in the prehistoric chair. "He was pervy man. He got up real close and slurred, 'Are you a beautiful little boy, or a beautiful little girl?' He was either drunk, or crazy, or both!"

Wide-eyed, Arden barked a laugh. "NO!! Oh man, I'm sorry I missed that!!" And though it was uncomfortably hot, and he knew it would only make him sweat more, he laughed long and hard in spite of himself, to the affronted amusement of his counterpart in cookie crime. He handed him a bottle of water. "Seriously? What did you do?"

"What could I do? I just put my hands over the mouth of the costume, and kinda bounced up and down. I mean, it's all I really can do."

It was true. And it had gotten him in some trouble a few days back, when a cub, who was convinced that Dan's costume was supposed to be a ninja tortoise, karate-kicked him in "the mouth," which in the real world, just happened to be about sheath level for the poor, trapped fur inside. To everyone present, the Cookie Man looked like he was politely laughing at the little scamp's antics, while trying to cover his mouth with his unwieldy, short T-rex arms. In reality, he was trying to protect his sensitive anatomy from another attack from the sugared-up brat, and bouncing in pain. And the parents didn't even take a coupon for form's sake. No class. No sale.

"Is this even worth the trouble, man?" said the serval quietly, as he rehydrated in long, deep swallows. "I feel like we've kinda been played. I mean, I can't see this looking that great on a resume, y'know?"

"Nah, but it's good experience, at least for me. I would never have access to this many potential audience members. I can really hone my skills. I mean, yeah, it's kinda low-rent, but then, have you seen some comedy-magic clubs? At least there's no drunk hecklers here - oh I'm sorry man." The wolf snickered as he tried to look sheepishly, but knowingly at the cat, who had laid his ears back and raised his hackles a bit. His usually bright amber eyes narrowed.

"I mean, wow. I just got through telling you about my day - it's like you don't even listen anymore you brute! I'm going home to mother..." wailed the lithe cat as he dragged himself off the future-trash-island settee like a Tennessee Williams anti-heroine.

"Yeah, yeah Blanche. Now be a good girl, and take that icy tush of yours and go make daddy some money, hah?" drawled the wolf as he helped Dan back into his humid, smelly costume. We got another hour-and-a-half to go, buddy."

Cut off once again from the outside world, the serval just frenetically waved his paws up and down.

Arden had to admit that when he and David had talked about the promise of this job, it certainly looked distinctly different from what it turned out to be. In fact, the promised featured spot in Hairy Blackpanther's Vegas magic show would never materialize for any of the magicians who were cast, no matter how good their acts during the summer. The wolf doubted any secret judges ever even came around as advertised. All he ever saw were rapacious furs who would trample one another for free confections, and he didn't think even secret judges would bother disguising themselves to that extent.

He spoke now and then to David, and they discussed magic and the weirdness of Howlywood. Near the end of the run, David announced that he was starting to prepare for his show at the Château for Halloween week. Halloween week! The most sacred time of all for members of the Château! Arden was overjoyed for his friend, and couldn't wait to help start planning his act.

By the time lunch rolled around, Dan and Arden were off to their second location for the day. Just two weeks more, and the magic of that summer would only be a clammy memory.