Handicapping (Pundamentals 1)
If you haven't seen the challenge yet, get details for new writing contest, Back to Pundamentals and join in the fun. This is my first entry (each is allowed three, maximum). Starting off slowly, a mild groaner for no particular reason.
Rated "all ages," although there's a slightly bawdy joke at the end of the second paragraph that should still pass muster. Glad to re-rate, if need be.
Handicapping
She was nervous as a... well, she was nervous, anyway. Her long full tail twitched almost as much as her long whiskers, as she waited for the line to move forward. As a rule, she was patient - most cats, especially those who still hunted for their dinners, were patient - but this new bureaucratic process was enough to set her fangs on edge. The border crossing used to be much simpler; show some ID, state your purpose, pay the toll, and you're on your way. Hunting was so much better on the far side of the border - so many feral mice, rodents, small game of all kinds - and she'd been going hungry for a while now.
The line moved slowly, as did time itself. She made no sound. Ready to hunt from the first moment, she had clothed herself in her most supple and silent fabrics. Her tawny tiger-striped fur set off the soft crimson hues of the whispering silks that adorned her. Few sentients could resist her seduction when she was being straightforward; none could stop her prowess at hunting the underdeveloped beasts. In neither case did anyone see her coming.
After minutes that felt like hours, she finally arrived at the desk. The young uniformed mouse - a tasty treat for the eyes, that cute male - didn't even look up as she approached. "Name?"
"Theodora Fleetfoot," she said quietly.
Still not looking up, the mouse requested ID, which she provided him. "Purpose of visit?"
"Free hunting."
Finally, the mouse looked at her, nose and whiskers twitching. Checking the ID, he turned to his datapad, entering numbers, checking histories, confirming information. He returned the ID. "Please step to the Red Card desk to your left. Next?"
"What about my toll?"
"Assessed at the Red Card desk. Next?"
Confused, Theodora moved warily to a desk she'd not ever seen before. There, an older Scottish terrier, full whiskers neatly trimmed, seemed to be examining his own computer equipment. After a moment, he looked up, a smile too friendly to be welcoming. "Ms. Fleetfoot, isn't it? Welcome, and thank you for your time. We'll have you on your way swiftly, I promise you."
"Thank you," she said, uncertainly. "The other officer said I should pay the toll here?"
"Quite correct. The charge is twenty."
She reached into a snuggly-fitting waist pouch and took out the bills. "That's a bit lower than usual. Thank you."
"Not at all." He paused, accepted the money with a professional air, and then picked up what appeared to be a numbered collar with some sort of visible microchip and a jingling attachment. "Because of Red Card status, you'll be required to wear this at all times while here."
"What?"
"Your record is quite good, Ms. Fleetfoot. Our tiny nation earns a great deal of tourist revenue from free hunting, but we do have to take precautions. More expert hunters, such as yourself, must pay an extra toll - not in cash, but in ... let's call it handicapping?"
"But I..." she began, then found herself gripped by a pair of guards who appeared suddenly at her side. The Scottish terrier rose majestically, rounded the desk, and snapped the collar around her neck. It jingled noisily as she struggled.
"This toll-system collar is electronically tagged and secure from tampering. We'll remove it when you leave."
"But I can't hunt like this! There must be a mistake, this can't be happening to me."
Standing with his muzzle inches from hers, the old dog intoned, "Ask not for whom the toll bells... it bells for thee."