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(Meta note: I don't think banning alcohol is a good idea; I do think a few more restrictions might be wise, and existing ones should be enforced better around certain colleges. But I'd also like to think that, if there were a complete cultural reboot, like in this universe of mine, it would be ranked differently among the drugs based on its actual social cost, unlike in many parts of the West.

And it's a mystery, so I'm sure Nicholas Meyer would forgive me.)

The 17 Percent Solution

"Morning," yawned the fox as he walked into Homicide Investigator Menson's office, and tossed the weekly paper on the desk of his boss atop the others.

"Morning, Gerome," replied the bobcat, and picked it up. He knew it was quite unusual to read one, but simply preferred the format to a screen of any size. "Anything new?" he asked.

But before Gerome could answer, he read the headline: LIQUOR PLANT FIRE LEAVES ENTIRE CITY DRY.

"Wow," Menson blurted. "The whole factory went up?"

"Two were killed, one of them ours. If you'd bother to activate data on that phone of yours, you'd have known yesterday."

"Yeah yeah," grumbled the bobcat. "So who is'e?"

"Tobias Banes, 20, college student, no record." Gerome handed him a slip of paper with his birth certificate number on it.

Menson pulled up his file on the computer, and skimmed it. No record, indeed. Not even a traffic ticket. It would be another 5-minute inquest, Menson thought. Except...

"But what w's he doing all the way out there?" Menson asked. "That factory is over the border isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. No one knows yet, their Arson team is still working the scene."

"Of course not, the fools," sighed the bobcat with a wry smile, returning to the newspaper. "Just toss 'im off on me without even a phone call." He resumed reading.

According to the article, that plant had supplied the entire city-state's supply of wine and fortified beer. It was right across the border so it could drive out all competition by escaping the confines of the city's Liquor Sales and Manufacturing Control Act -- or as it was more colloquially known, the 17 Percent Solution.

There was almost nothing left of the factory, the article speculated, because the 190-proof ethanol additive must have ignited. Over a million gallons of product -- and a significant portion of Fairfield Capital, owner of the 1699 brand -- went up in smoke.

It was a good thing it happened at 1:30 in the morning, Menson thought. Had it happened during the day, dozens would have been killed.

Menson kept reading another couple of paragraphs before another thought struck him. "I bet a lot of college kids will be disappointed, huh?" he remarked to Gerome, who was still standing there. "The entire city dry?"

"I don't think so," replied Gerome, "they'll just get it under the table."

"Who's table, exactly? Even the crooked dealers'll run out. Maybe we'll finally get a dry city for a couple weeks!" Menson suggested gleefully.

Gerome rolled his eyes, and walked out of the office.

"Fine, you and your cynicism," grumbled Menson once Gerome was out of earshot, "I'm the one who testifies at their inquests, remember?"

After finishing the next two sections of the paper, Investigator Menson put it out of his mind. His plate was full with the Miller kidnapping case, and he felt he ought to dedicate today to it. He might draw the short straw tomorrow.

***

Sure enough, it was Menson who was to testify at the inquest next Friday, giving him eight days Not so much testify as simply to read the report he'd written in an hour: died in a large explosion, needed no more investigation from us. All cut and dried unless (until?) they wanted to extradite someone, and that wouldn't be Tobias, so case closed.

At least, that's what Investigator Menson told himself. His intuition, a force unto itself, was not letting him rest so easy. What was he doing there? it kept whispering in his ear.

But, when push came to shove, this was nothing more than another test of his self-discipline: focus on the case on his whiteboard. He got this job by picking and choosing, not by following every little unpulled thread which came across his desk. And this kidnapping case might get him a raise if no one got hurt.

Unfortunately, his intuition had a co-conspirator. "Farrell," interrupted his assistant about noon, not long after he got off the phone with the forensics department, "I heard you got the Banes inquest."

Menson looked up from his computer screen. "Yeah. More wasted time when I have a kidnapper to catch. Anyone can read that damn script!"

"Well, um... I think you should do more than just read a report."

Menson's suspicious smile reappeared. "Oh not you too. Why's 'at?" he asked, unable to avoid a hint of a growl entering his voice.

"Well, if you would consider an early lunch with me, I'll explain it in detail."

"Fine," answered Menson with a stretch as he stood. "I'll talk about whatever over lunch -- but do work? This'll have to be good."

The fox led his boss outside to the fall day, unusually warm as far north as they were on the peninsula. It was only three blocks to the tea shop where Menson almost always got lunch, both for convenience, and because they never seemed to run out of variations on the sandwich.

"All I want to know," asked Gerome as they walked, "is what he was doing there at one in the morning? He had absolutely no reason to be there."

"That we know of," corrected Menson, feeling more like he was battling his intuition than his assistant. "We haven't looked very far into his life at all, and --"

The fox pulled out several folded pieces of paper. The top was formatted very specifically: a sworn statement.

"Gerome," growled Menson, "yesterday, I asked you to get a warrant for --"

"I did, I did, it's done. I had some time left over, so I thought --"

"So you thought you would pull on a loose thread," Menson finished with a wry smile.

"This just doesn't seem right. At all."

"Let's get lunch first," insisted Menson as he pulled the door open for the fox.

Once they had ordered -- and Gerome paid for both, Menson noticed -- Menson sat down. "I'm listening," he stated calmly once the fox got to the table.

Gerome lowered his voice. "I don't know where you went to college, but a lot of the fraternities here are very... edgy. They're not just getting high on weed; they're into the black market stuff: coke, straight liquor, heroin, everything."

"So you're sayin' he was on drugs."

"No no. When you get a group of students doing one thing, that means there are contrarians. Enter our culprit: Alpha Zeta Kappa."

He pulled out the bottom piece of paper and unfolded it, revealing a printed-out wide shot of three figures. They were in front of a large waterfall, the fraternity's letters carved in stone anchoring the center.

"This is Frasier, a junior," pointed Gerome, going from left to right, "Bart, a senior, and the founder of the frat, Dr. Horus Gryndeen."

The last male puzzled Menson: a very tall, green-skinned furson, but with a facial bone structure he didn't recognize. Fortunately, before he could ask Gerome added, "pterodactyl. Exotic one, he is."

"I see. And they are anti-booze?"

"They're anti-everything."

"And you think that's bad?"

"I think it's a good impulse, but they take it too far. I mean, we have the 17 percent solution, not a total ban on alcohol. They're trying to do social good, but not considering the reason that the legislatu--"

"I know that reason," Menson interrupted. "I watched the Lobbyists negotiate that rounding formula from the balcony when they passed that law, to make sure all kinds of wine and beer would be legal to mass produce. The law enforcement position -- private manufacturing for private consumption, no sales more than 5 gallons -- was steamrolled."

Their food was brought over by a tall hare, and Menson silently illustrated his opinion of the decision by tearing a large piece out of his club sandwich.

"You were there?" Gerome asked in surprised.

"Yeah. Long story," Menson answered chewing on the opposite side of his mouth. "Go on."

"Right, um... Back when I was at University, that frat was always up to something. They got money from somewhere, never knew where, and pulled stunts with it. Some were fundraisers, others were just public calls to action. Others were filling faculty offices with petitions when they become too tolerant, or sending a flash mob to crash another frat during a wild party, and destroy it. If the university didn't handle it themselves, half their members would have disorderly conduct charges by now."

"Okay, I get it. Suppose I believe you. You want me t' think this is what, a stunt gone wrong? I already know it i'n't that."

Gerome looked puzzled. Menson paused to sip on his tea, and smack his lips twice. "The arson investigator called me yesterday."

"Nice of her," interjected the fox.

"And her preliminary conclusion was that it was an accident. She said everything could be traced to a single pipe carrying high-proof ethanol additive. Because of a faulty weld, it leaked out, pooled, and touched a hot compressor. Bang. That heat wave hit the storage tanks, and the rest of the additive auto-ignited under pressure. That took out the whole building. The other vic, by the way, was a truck driver in th' loading dock."

Gerome immediately replied, "that seems sketchy. Surely they have licensing over there."

"Of course they do, but that doesn't mean that all the controls are perfect."

Gerome opened his mouth, but Menson interrupted him. "Gerome. Pause it. I'm not going to play arson investigator," Menson calmly insisted, as if he were talking to a witness. "Those are th' facts, plain and simple. If you wanna argue with her version of events? Talk to her. I'm too busy for that right now."

"But you must agree that Mr. Banes had no reason at all to be there?" The fox put his reading glasses on, and pulled the next two pages out of his pocket, the two-page sworn statement. "This is an interview with the cleaner for the Alpha Zeta Kappa fraternity that I had the liberty of taking."

Two places were highlighted. The first: the cleaner "was sure the frat was on the up and up. In fact, they were quite devoted to stopping illegal alcohol from getting on campus." The second: the cleaner said that he was here that day, because the fraternity "asked me to do my monthly cleaning late. It should have been last Saturday, but I was asked to do it today." Saturday was the day before the accident.

"While the timing of their cleaning is interesting," Menson answered, "that's not nearly enough."

"Timing," said the fox, "that seems a little too perfect, to me. They could have helped him in some way, and cleaned it all up."

"Helped him what?"

"That's the big question. Maybe cause the 'accident'?"

Menson didn't buy it. All it took was one of his looks to tell his assistant so.

"Sir," continued Gerome, always becoming more formal when pleading, "I remember what it was like back there. I know how many fraternities snuck under the rules, and even the law." It was clear that having been graduated for two years had not made him more fond of his alma mater.

Gerome insisted, "The idea that they would break the law to... deal some sort of blow in an ideological war is not far fetched. That's all I'd like you to consider, sir. Only for a couple of days, before the inquest. If you don't find anything, I'll forget about it."

The bobcat thought a moment.

"I know what that school is like," Gerome emphasized. "It's a good place to learn... but there is another side to it. A side that explains why they have a 20 percent dropout rate. A side they try really hard to keep the police from seeing, and you know it, having talked to them."

Farrell knew that Gerome was trying to push his buttons. "Gimme a reason just a little better than that," he offered with gritted teeth, "and I'll look into it. I want something more definitive than just a pile of circumstantial evidence and a conspiracy theory."

The fox nodded. "I'd better get back to work then. See you later." He walked quickly out of the shop.

Menson held firm the rest of the day against his intuition, until he had to go get the student records from the university for Mr. Miller. When he got on campus, Investigator Menson couldn't help himself; he thought he would try just one small lead, something that was surely nothing. It wasn't much of a detour at all.

***

Records in hand, Investigator Menson went to see the student president of the fraternity, the rather tall tiger named Bart Ermann. The office was in the student center, a surprisingly quiet building that seemed more like a library than a hub of activity.

The office seemed to continue the trend, three walls lined with bookshelves, and a very narrow, long desk with nothing to indicate its use but a computer on top, and an office chair at the far end.

Bart stood up when Menson stepped into the doorway. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"I'm Investigator Menson, investigating the death of a student," Menson began much more flatly as he closed the door. "I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions."

Bart seemed surprised. "I didn't hear about any death," he wondered as he sat back down in the chair.

"It's an off-campus death. Alcohol-related." It was true -- technically. "Since we know you're tryin' to stop all the drinking that goes on, we thought y'might know something."

"Oh. I see."

Menson decided Bart was a bit uneasy under all that calm, but it was hard to tell thus far.

"Well, if it's alcohol related," the tiger thought aloud, "then perhaps you should talk to my deputies."

"Deputies?" Menson asked as he sat down across the desk.

"Oh, that's sort of the name we gave our crew who sniffs out banned drinking," he said, getting an audible nervous edge to his voice and a similarly nervous smile on his face.

Menson decided to take this opportunity -- nervousness over the presumptuous use of a legal title -- to reassure him, and get him to relax. "If the reports I read are correct, then your crew is worthy of the title."

Bart sighed a small sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir," he answered with a smile. "We really do our best. That's was Dr. Gryndeen's motto: 'do your best, and the world is open to you.'"

"Dr. Gryndeen?" Menson asked, to see what Bart would say.

"The founder of this fraternity."

"Ah yes," Menson nodded. "Seems to serve you well. I talked to the university chancellor, 'n' he thinks highly of your work." At least, he probably would; Menson only asked him for an official signature to release Mr. Miller's student records to the police.

Bart smiled. "I'm flattered," he answered.

"Although personally, I really wonder whether all of your activities are that effective."

"I know they do some good, even though they aren't perfect. It does cut down on the major problems we have. It's one thing to just smoke weed; this is alcohol we are talking about here. It's like cocaine: something with a very severe impact on the health and academic performance of our students. We want to be good students and good citizens, and help them out."

That sounded a little too rehearsed for Menson's taste. "Is that it? I thought it was in your culture," he gently probed.

"It is true that a lot of us take it more personally," he answered, again sounding like a PR person in Menson's mind. "After all, Dr. Gryndeen got where he did by avoiding all that. He's one of the best geneticists on Giaya, you know. For him, it was about finding joy in subtlety and being at the mental pinnacle. I suppose, for some of us, that has taken on an aspect of... zeal."

"Perhaps it should," Menson sighed, setting the bait. "Every time I've seen anything to do with alcohol, it's been testifying at an inquest. It really is a hard drug. But I bet 'at 'drugs kill' doesn't sell very well in this atmosphere, huh?"

Bart smiled wryly. "Nope. They've tried everything short of destroying the local liquor stores, and it hasn't stopped."

Menson smiled back -- but one of recognition, not sympathy. He let the pause hang -- and the smile quickly faded from the tiger's face, as did his relaxation from his shoulders.

"Is there anything else?" asked the tiger, pulling up his computer keyboard. "I have books to keep."

"Just one more thing," added Menson as he sauntered toward the door, "any idea why your Deputies are so... zealous? Maybe other frats can copy you."

"Oh. Well, I don't think so. All new members must swear off everything when they join -- even plain old caffeine. Anyone who still wants to join in spite of the rules has a lot of discipline, or didn't use that stuff in the first place. But when they meet Dr. Gryndeen, and see all the doors he can open, they decide it's worth it."

Menson nodded thoughtfully. "Thanks," he answered with a smile and a courteous bow, and walked out.

As he walked away, the question on his mind was simple: did "blowing up local liquor stores" seem like a good strategy? Perhaps blowing up a manufacturing plant wasn't too different an idea to Bart...

***

On Thursday, Menson arrived at work well-rested. He slept well last night, as he'd heard right before bedtime that his prime suspect on the run had been found -- and so had Mr. Miller, both alive. The whole thing turned out to be a very expensive stunt to try and get attention drawn to University Security -- and quite possibly, to Mr. Miller to satisfy his desire for fame. This morning, they were going to be booked.

As Menson unlocked his office, his deputy ran up to him. "Sir," announced Gerome, "I think I have something that is more serious about the Banes case."

"What, Gerome?"

"You know how the arson investigator said that it was a failed iron weld in a pipe that caused the explosion?"

"Yes..."

"Well I called the company, and it turns out that pipe was never repaired. They have no idea where that iron came from."

Menson froze for a split second. "That's strange," he blurted aloud.

"Indeed. They're running a test on the weld metal they recovered. I'll let you know what the result is."

No sooner did he walk in his office was there a knock on his open door. "Excuse me, Investigator."

Menson looked up to see a large, green, lizard-like furson before him -- one that he recognized out of that photo.

"Yes?" he asked with his calm confidence.

"Are you in charge of investigating the abduction of Mr. Miller?"

"Yes," he replied levelly.

"I am Dr. Horace Gryndeen. Can we talk?"

"Certainly, come in."

Menson waited until Dr. Gryndeen closed the door. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, I heard just now it all turned out to be a stunt. I'm shocked! Everyone being forthcoming? I could apply pressure if you would like..."

"Everything's fine," Menson replied casually, trying to find a way to ask about the case of Tobias Banes. "I'm going to make sure Mr. Miller doesn't think such a prank worth doing again. The DA'll probably give him a month or two in jail to think about it, then a lot of community service to make up for it. And 'course if the university thinks 'e shouldn't graduate after that, 'at's their decision."

"I understand. A prank is one thing, but they went too far, getting the police involved."

That was the opening he needed. "Say Doc, I do have one or two questions, just routine. Could you tell me a little about the Alpha Zeta Kappa fraternity?"

He seemed unperturbed. "Certainly," he replied.

"First off, the current fraternity leader of Alpha Zeta Kappa, Bart. Do you know him well?"

Horace smiled. "I know almost everyone there well -- except for Tobias, I didn't get to meet him yet before he died."

"Tobias?" repeated Menson.

"Yes. I met him once, in the process of being inducted."

That was a minor surprise. "He was going to be inducted into Alpha Zeta Kappa?"

"That's what Bart told me. He was near the end of the review process. You know, to to make sure he was a good fit. I guess we will never know if he got in."

"What exactly is this process?"

"Mainly it's just getting to know the new furson. I just talked to him for a minute or two. Bart is in charge of the rest, you should ask him."

"Thanks, I will. I've also been assigned to investigate Tobias' death," he admitted, only now.

"I see. Well, I hope you can wrap it up quickly."

"I think I can. Could you tell me a bit about Bart?" asked Menson.

"He is a very good student, with a strong sense of duty," Horace answered with a smile, even getting a little bit of excitement on his face. "He seems to throw himself at things. School is one, but a group of friends, a career, whatever it is, he really goes for it. And he's got the mind for it, that's for sure."

"So he wouldn't be inclined, for example," probed Menson, "to let anything untoward go on in the fraternity he didn't know about?"

Horace snorted. "Of course not," he replied unflinchingly. But after a short pause -- perhaps when he realized how the question was posed -- Horace slowed his pace. "Wait... you think he was involved somehow?"

"It's unlikely, but we do 'ave to consider it," Menson calmly responded. "The circumstances of Mr. Banes' death were quite unusual."

Horace became slightly more agitated, and his voice got a bit sharper. "Well, I wouldn't spend much time considering it," he answered. "This fraternity is about academic performance; it is about guidance, wisdom, and knowledge, not drunken antics. They even try to stop the abuse of alcohol that goes on."

Menson thought this was a bit of an overreaction. "I see," he answered, considering this confirmation of what Bart had said.

"And I suppose, Investigator, that's all I have to say. Good day." He turned and walked out of the office in a bit of a huff.

The moment Horus was walking the other way. Menson scribbled down the key facts on his pad. This new information, and the solution to his other case, was just enough for him to decide to go after this case... if he had one more reason to.

***

The inquest came and went the next Friday. Menson had changed the report to consider the death suspicious, and worth investigating. No one from the fraternity, nor Dr. Gryndeen, attended. Only the parents seemed to be paying attention, and they were quite shocked by both the limited details Menson provided, and the conclusion that it was "suspicious."

It was as Investigator Menson was leaving court that Gerome rushed up to him. "I've got it!" he announced, loud enough that those in the hall turned to look.

Menson flinched. "Good grief," growled the bobcat, "keep it down! Let's walk back to the station."

Once they were outside in the much cooler day, and walking briskly, the bobcat looked up at the fox, and took a deep breath. "Okay, what have you got?" he asked in a much quieter voice.

"I've got this," he declared holding up a picture. It was a desk with three large shards of broken metal on it. They looked like arked lightning bolts, slightly curved, but with lots of burned and discolored areas all over them.

"Which is?"

"This is the 'weld' that broke. I know you're not an expert, but do you notice anything about it that's odd?"

It only took Menson a moment. "It's a bit.. lumpy for a weld, i'n't it?"

"And was supposed to be a weld on a 6-inch pipe."

"Oh! So you mean, it's the right circumference, but --"

"But a bunch of material is missing! Right. That's because, according to a computer model just run by the arson investigator, it wasn't a weld. It melted into that shape, right before the explosion."

That threw Menson for a loop. "Melted!?" he repeated, almost at the volume he'd responded badly to in the hall.

"That's right. And it's not just iron. It contains aluminum. No one would weld with aluminum, because its melting point is too low."

"So what's the arson investigator say about it now?" asked Menson excitedly.

"She says that this is the result of a thermite reaction."

It clicked into place instantly. "A reaction hot enough to make ethanol ignite inside the pipe without being exposed to air!"

"Exactly." The fox was smiling just as much as the bobcat was.

"So it was sabotage," Menson concluded triumphantly.

"That's what she thinks now. Seems pretty clear cut."

"Great work, Gerome," stated Menson, and he rushed back to the office.

Once there, he decided it was time to play hardball. After doing a search of social media, he found the five fraternity members who had been there the longest, and ran background checks. As he'd hoped, Fraiser topped the list of most vulnerable to pressure: he had a string of unpaid traffic tickets totalling almost a grand, from parking his car on the street for weeks on end.

It was time to drop in again for information.

***

Menson waited until after 7 PM, when he was still on duty (barely), but classes were well over. He hung his badge on the outside of his coat pocket, and knocked.

A rodent wearing a tank top answered the door, and started when he saw the badge. "Oh! Um, yes?"

"I'd like to talk to Frasier Donnovan," he said calmly.

The rat slammed the door.

Menson knocked repeatedly, again. When there was no answer in ten seconds, he pushed his way in. And what he found was a room almost 80 degrees -- quite a shock from the outside weather -- and everyone in a state of partial undress. Most were laying around on couches.

"Fraiser Donnovan!" he snarled.

Eyes drifted across the room and landed on the same rat who had opened the door.

"Get a coat on, and follow me," Menson snarled. "We have something to discuss."

He didn't move."

"NOW!" roared Menson.

That finally got the rat into action. He rushed upstairs, and less than a minute later, return down wearing a heavy sweater over the tank top. He tramped out the door, and was just about shaking. From fear or the cold, Menson couldn't tell.

Menson led him around a corner, and under a sidewalk path light. "Now, I've got a couple of questions about last Monday."

Fraiser looked confused a moment. "Last Monday? This isn't about those parking tickets?"

"Givin' the wrong answer could mean you've got a lot more to worry about 'an parking tickets," Menson threatened calmly unconsciously getting him to back up against the wall. "Impeding a police investigation is serious. Now, my question is: what were you doing last Monday -- the night that Mr. Banes died?"

"Uh..." The rat had to think for a moment. "I was having a debate about cell biology... closed-strand RNA self-replication maybe?"

Menson let the air hang a moment, before trying his bluff. "Wrong answer," he confidently stated. "That's not what Bart said. But then, there wasn't a right answer, was there Fraiser? Because you didn't have an academic debate that night, did you?"

That got Fraiser shaking more. He looked around briefly with quick eyes, but Menson stated, "only the guilty run, Fraiser. You planning on running?"

"N-n-no," stammered the rat.

"Well then, how 'bout you tell me what the hell went on that night?" Without touching him, he used his presence to get Frasier to hunch down a bit.

"Because I'll... I would incriminate myself," he stated, trying to find his footing. "And I refuse to do that."

"So I suppose our evidence'll have to incriminate you, then. They found a very interesting piece of melted iron and aluminum in a factory across the state line. They are analyzing its composition right now. They'll find out where it came from -- perhaps a chemistry lab, like the one you work at?"

The rat looked more nervous, not less.

"If you were involved, we'll find out," he threatened, lowering his voice about a third of an octave. "And then the DA'll ship you up to the High Court, for an extradition hearing. You win, you stand trial here for Conspiracy to Commit Arson. You lose, you stand trial there for Negligent Homicide."

Fraiser was now blinking furiously, as he stared at the ground. Menson paused to let him squirm a moment.

"Start talkin', Fraiser. I find out you didn't coax Tobias Banes to destroy a 1699 Plant just across the border? I can tell the DA to let you cut a deal."

Fraiser started silently crying, before finally whimpering between his teeth, "it was Bart's idea!"

Menson then officially arrested him, and ushered him toward the station without cuffs, listening all the way.

***

Tobias swallowed hard, and looked up at the glaring faces from his chair in the middle of the dimly-lit room.

"Your record speaks for itself," growled Bart from his right, holding up a piece of paper. "Three Public Intox charges since you've been here."

"I'm sure you know the rules well enough to know what that means," added Frasier, rubbing it in.

"I've given it up!" begged the wolf-dog.

"Sure you have," sarcastically replied Trevor to his left.

"Why are we wasting our time?" asked Richard. "Just throw him out, and be done with it."

"Because," answered Bart, "I think Mr. Banes here can prove himself."

Once Bart explained the plan, and Frasier pulled out a green backpack with the materials, Tobias got nervous. It was no typical college hazing ritual.

"Are you serious!?" gasped Tobias.

"We're quite serious, Toby. Do you want to get in, or not?" growled Bart, five of the fraternity's members glaring down at him.

"What if I get caught?" he demanded.

"Then no one will be going to jail but you. They'll never believe you if you rat us out," stated Frasier with confidence, and a small grin at the pun.

"Besides," reassured Trevor, putting his arm on Toby's shoulder, "you should really be thinking about the benefits of being in this fraternity." The Doberman gave a mischievous smile. "Like, say, shirtless Friday nights?"

Tobias couldn't help but think about that quite positively, particularly with the doberman and the rat in mind. And how happy he could be, even if he did have to work for it...

"C'mon, Toby," reassured Richard, "You can do it."

With all the faces staring down at him, Tobias blurted, "Okay, okay, I'll do it."

And 20 minutes later, he was at the checkpoint at the edge of the city. Since he was a citizen and a college student, customs didn't search his car, and missed the heavy backpack on the floor of the passenger's seat in the darkness.

It was hard for Tobias not to be nervous. He was shaking, just about. But that didn't matter, he told himself. They promised a friend who would let him in, no matter how nervous he was. He wasn't some sort of secret agent or master of disguise. He was just Toby. And he had to do this.

But as the building drew into view -- the flood-lit parking lot illuminating it on a pitch-black landscape-- he had to almost whisper under his breath over and over: Yes, I can do it. Yes, I can do it. Yes, I can do it...

He pulled up to the leftmost gate, avoiding a tanker truck rolling out even at this time of night. He let the guard stop him, and just said, "Tobias Banes, Evan sent for me."

The guard went back into the small booth, and looked at something with a dim lamp. He walked back out and grumbled, "I don't see anything."

"You sure?" he asked. "Because... Evan said he'd cut you in on it." Tobias pulled out a folded wad of bills and handed them over.

"I'd better call him," he sighed as he took them. But it was only a 10-second phone conversation before he opened the gate without another word.

Tobias drove through it, headed right toward the employee parking lot -- all the time worried and noticing the number and complexity of the divided lanes. Fraiser had given him only needed 5 minutes to get out of the building and away from the area. Between an occasional truck and those dividers, it would be tricky.

He parked in the employee parking lot out front -- telling himself they wouldn't enforce towing at 11 o'clock at night -- and walked quickly to the front desk. Sure enough, the doors were unlocked, and the front hall was empty, just as he'd been told. While the tremendous skylights cast terrible shadows, at least things were going according to plan.

Toby sat down and waited, resting his backpack in his lap, a cross between guarding it and cradling it. He knew it wasn't volatile at all; it could be dropped, kicked, shaken, or even hit with a steam roller, and nothing would happen. But that much Iron and Aluminum were also heavy. And he felt he had to take at least some care for that tightly wrapped fuse.

Fortunately, his waiting was soon over. "Ah, Toby," sighed a familiar voice.

The dog turned to see a rather tall springer spaniel -- the Evan who he know from his last fraternity. "Evan!" He stood up, and gave him a hug -- and the big, strong dog gave him a tremendous kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, Toby, how I have missed you," he sighed.

Tobias couldn't help but agree. "Yeah. It seems like forever since we last got drunk together, huh?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. But I'm not in that stuff anymore. You have to clean up to work here."

"Oh? I thought they would give you happy hour all the time! I mean, they make what, a thousand gallons of 1699 every day?"

"More like 10,000."

Tobias' heart fluttered. "Wow..." Perhaps that fireball would be a bit bigger than he imagined.

"Would you like to take a look around?" he asked affectionately. "It's really cool."

"Sure," answered Tobias, unable to help but try to plan his escape starting now.

As he picked up his backpack, Evan asked, "you okay?"

"Yeah, just... well, this is sneaking around. I don't want to get in trouble." It was the truth, just not the whole truth.

"Oh don't worry about it," Evan reassured with a smile as he got out a key card. "I'm the night manager. I'm in charge of all the trouble you could get in."

"Manager, huh? So I guess that degree was worth something after all."

Evan chuckled as he took out a card, and held it up to a reader to get it scanned. "Barely, but yes. Lemme show you the floor first."

The door opened, and Evan led them down an enclosed concrete hall with low-hanging fluorescent lights. Tobias tried tomake a note of the path they took, but it was a long way, with about five corners in it. But he followed his former best friend dutifully, trying to make sure he didn't get suspicious.

All of a sudden, the pair arrived at two steel doors. Evan announced, "well, Toby, here's packaging."

Looking through the glass, it was a claustrophobic room; but by itself, it was larger than Tobias thought all of production would be. It contained a series of tanks, each two stories high and more than 10 feet wide. Each seemed to be filling up much smaller steel containers that could hold 10 gallons -- obviously, what was shipped to bars to be kept on tap. They were fed in from an adjoining room he couldn't see on a conveyer, and exited toward another.

"This is... amazing," he gasped. "So huge!"

"Yeah, it is."

"Can I go in?"

"If you promise not to touch anything."

"Promise!" swore Tobias.

"Okay," Evan answered with a smile, and had his key scanned by the doors. They unlocked with a heavy clank.

Tobias walked in, Evan following him now at about four paces. The halfbreed dog just looked around in awe for a while -- genuine awe, tempered by searching for a way to get the device out of his backpack. But with Evan behind him, there was none. It was quite frustrating; he saw the perfect spot: a large junction valve between three tanks right next to him -- but well within view of Evan's watchful eye.

"What does this thing do?" he asked, pointing at it.

"Oh, that's the emergency shutoff valve for those. It trips in case of a fire hazard or something like that, to stop the flow and seal the tanks."

"You mean, so they'll all blow up?" Tobias asked as jovially as he could.

"Heh heh. Not quite. Flooding is the issue. There isn't enough alcohol to make them burn -- we ARE legal, you know."

That pretty well deflated Tobias' idea, so he allowed himself to leave after nothing more than an extra "wow."

"So where is the alcohol added?" he asked next

"I'm afraid I can't show you that room. It's too dangerous."

"Could you just show me where it is, even if I can't go in?" he asked.

"I guess so. This way." Evan led Tobias out of the room, and down the hall.

Tobias let Evan get a bit ahead, and at this point, took out the device: a large plastic funnel with powdered aluminum and iron oxide filings woven together in a corkscrew pattern, with a cord of magnesium hanging out the narrow end. It was only twice the size of his fist, but it was very heavy. As he hefted it, he kept thinking it was heavy enough to use as a weapon, even before it burned.

Tobias hid it behind his back, just in time for Evan to pop around the last corner. "Toby? You coming?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," he answered, starting to walk that direction -- and heart pounding so hard, it seemed ready to jump out of his chest.

As Tobias rounded the corner, and saw another pair of locked doors, Evan was looking through them. He suddenly saw his moment: without even thinking, he swung the base of the cone at the back of the rottweiler's head.

It impacted with a shock Tobias could feel, but not hear. It made Evan call out, and hit the ground -- a bit harder than Tobias thought looked good.

"Evan!" yelled Tobias, more fear than anger, "I'm sorry!" But Evan groaned again, his eyes drooped. And then he didn't move.

A cold shot ran through Tobias. Had he just killed a good friend!?

"Hey! You!" suddenly shouted a voice down the hall, "stop right there!"

Tobias panicked. He grabbed Evan's security card, got it scanned, and the doors once again unlocked. But the moment Tobias opened it, a strong, blistering chemical smell made him recoil. But when Tobias glanced back, he saw a tall, angry, uniformed weasel the size of a football player charging toward him.

Knowing he would be momentarily caught, Tobias acted on instinct. He rushed into the room, eyes tearing up quickly, and ran over to the nearest valve similar to the last one he saw. He threw the device behind it, it landing on one of the pipes, and quickly used a sharp edge on the control handle to strip off a red blob of putty from the end of the magnesium. That putty protected a small dot of white phosphorous, which started smoldering the moment it contacted the air. He threw the cord behind the device, right as the security guard charged into the room.

The device set, Tobias turned his mind immediately to escape. Otherwise trapped, he rushed the guard. Either from surprise, or adrenaline, Tobias had enough strength to plow through him, and keep on running. The guard quickly gave chase, as Tobias dodged around the corner, but then met intersections he didn't recognize -- and when he contemplated too long, he was grabbed and tackled.

"You bastard!" shouted the guard as they wrestled, "you killed Evan!"

Tobias struggled without thinking about it.

"I can't believe it! You bastard! You bastard!" He kept repeating, as he punched Tobias.

It took about six punches in the face before Tobias was in too much pain to resist. "Listen," he begged as he felt the cuffs go on him, "we need to get out of here..."

"Why?!"

To answer on Tobias' behalf, a gianting set of horns and bells went off. It was, he presumed, the fire alarm. The magnesium, once it started burning, would behave like a festival sparkler, spewing off more than enough sparks, heat and smoke to set it off.

"I told you!" he shouted over the sirens.

"Fine! So you're going to die here!"

"What!?"

The weasel dropped the cuffed dog on the ground, and kicked him in the abdomen before he ran down the hallway.

It took Tobias half a minute, it seemed, just to get to his knees through the incredible pain. And once there, another minute to get Evan's keycard off the floor. Quickly, he rushed in the direction that the guard had... but didn't know which way to go. He chose left.

That ended up in a long hallway... all the way back to the lobby! Just one set of security doors between him and escape, if he could make it.

He stumbled forward, the hallway almost seeming to get longer the more he went down it. He started feeling a bit dizzy, and wondered what he was bleeding from, but he couldn't worry about that. He had to escape. Fast.

He crawled up to the door, keycard between his hands, and struggled to swing his arms high enough to have the reader detect it. Swipe, swipe, swipe, and nothing. One more try, and the doors unlocked.

But then he felt a gigantic pressure wave -- and the walls and ceiling blew down on him.

***

Three days after arresting Frasier, his confession created enough evidence to arrest Bart, Trevor, and Richard. All four co-conspirators were charged. Only Bart was charged with Arson; all others with Conspiracy to Cause Trespass and other minor crimes.

In the end, as agreed between the prosecutors from both countries, none were extradited. Rather, they would be tried here, and in their western neighbor, summarily convicted of Negligent Homicide in Absentia, and only arrested if they ever crossed that border. It amounted, in practice, to barring their entry under penalty of hefty prison sentences.

With that out of the way, and Gerome hard at work on the summary of evidence for the prosecutor, Menson started preparing for that warrant he'd obtained last week. Since the fire, every liquor store in town had been seeing their stock disappear. This one was the only one with an anonymous tipster willing to help out.

But Menson was interrupted when Dr. Gryndeen once again knocked on his open door.

"Come in," Menson offered, as he was getting his bulletproof vest on. "I'm afraid I only have a moment."

"Um... I just wanted to say, I didn't know anything about what Bart was up to."

"I'm sure you didn't. Perhaps 'at's a problem, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I... agree," signed Dr. Gryndeen. "All that time I spent with all of them on Fridays... and I never knew. I thought I knew them better than anyone."

"I'm afraid any furson can be two-faced if they really have to be. I see a lot of that, as you might imagine."

Horace just nodded, and said nothing.

"I've got to leave, Dr. Gryndeen. Thanks for your help in the investigation."

He stepped out of his office quickly, making sure the Pterodactyl exited before locking it.

As he approached the police car in the back parking lot, shotgun from the weapons locker over his shoulder, Gerome was waiting.

"Are you here to object to this?" Menson asked, shrugging his shoulder to refer to the shotgun.

"You wouldn't listen anyway. Good luck, Farrell."

Menson smiled back. "Thanks, Gerome."

After jumping in the car, and driving three miles with lights flashing, but no sirens, the Sergeant pulled up in formation with three other cars outside Connolly's Liquor. Six in all jumped out of their cars and formed up around the front edge of the one-story building. Menson got his shotgun ready, and pumped it once before getting up to the door.

He counted on his fingers to the Sergeant behind him: one, two, three. And kicked open the door.

"KBI!" he shouted, as he swung around to see two startled college students moving a case of liquor, "DROP THE BOX! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"

They did with a loud clank, and promptly put their hands over their heads.

"Fuchs, cuff those two!" he demanded.

He started looking around, heading down a far aisle as he heard the Sergeant move up to arrest them. And then he heard a voice from behind the register yell, "I've got you covered! Drop it!"

Menson ducked to avoid being seen, but heard Fuchs demand, "put the gun down!"

"YOU put the gun down! I'm getting out of here!" demanded the voice.

Menson crept back to the start of the aisle, and pointed the female shep nearest him out the front door. She nodded and quietly snuck out.

"You're not goin' anywhere! Now, put, the gun, down!"

Menson snuck toward the end of the aisle, and peeked around the corner. He could see the spotted tail of the speaker, but nothing else.

"Eat shit!"

The back door flew open, and she yelled, "DROP IT!"

Menson saw the tail spin around, and on a reflex, he popped up and fired. BOOM, CLICK-CLICK.

The next moment, after a yell, the jaguar was laying on the ground moaning groaning, gun having fallen next to him. Menson rushed toward him, gun still raised. But before he could arrive, the jaguar decided to try and grab the gun again.

BOOM, CLICK-CLICK.

That changed the jaguar to screaming and crying, and put an end to that idea.

Menson stepped on his uninjured right shoulder to make extra sure he didn't get any more ideas. "You're under arrest!" he snarled over the yelling, as he saw the two clusters of flesh wounds from the rubber buckshot starting to bleed.

As Fuchs calmly walked over and handcuffed him, his Sergeant remarked, "So you thought your illegal gun would scare us, huh? Think again."

Once all three of the perps were packed into squad cars, Sergeant Fuchs asked, "Hey, Farrell: why'd you bring the riot gun? Wasn't that a bit excessive?"

Investigator Menson smirked. "I knew this would happen. The worst thing that can happen to a legal drug is a sudden ban. If the damn legislature would have written a personal-consumption bill instead of a --"

"Yeah yeah, we get it already," yawned Fuchs.

"Hey," snapped Menson, "YOU need t' get it already: liquor's just like cocaine to these kids. If the college won't treat it that way, I will. Our friend with the illegal gun's good cause, all by 'imself."

The Sergeant looked at him for a tense moment, then shrugged, and walked out without another word. Menson followed him to the car, and neither of them said a word on the way back to the precinct.

The End.