Zig Zag is Copyright © Max Black Rabbit. Sabrina, Darke Katt and R.C. are Copyright © Eric W. Schwartz. James Sheppard, Marvin Badger, Rhonda Badger, Yohni, Alexi, Michael, Esteban, Mia, Wanda Vixen and Tamara Rabbit are Copyright © James Bruner. Jean LeBrun, Francois LeBrun, Marie LeBrun, Gabrielle Ryder, Theodore Bigglesworth-Farthington von Salzburg the Third, Roxanne Bigglesworth-Farthington von Salzburg, Timothy Bigglesworth-Farthington von Salzburg, Malcolm Grazer, Doctor Lupin, Doctor Fox Jones, William Pongo, Captain Archibald, Peter Spermophilus, Miranda Spermophilus, Leo Leon, Vincent Leon, Abu-Yusuf, Sergeant Otetiani, Lieutenant Black, Julie Black, Miriam Redtail, Lizzy Doe, Emma Grey, Rowena Spyke, Jeremy Mustela, William White, Hannah Vulpes, Richard Terry, Hantaywee Twofeathers, Professor Nutkin, Professor Moose Nicholson, Professor Werner Schnauzer, Professor Erica Belge, Charles 'Mouse' Mombay, Ulf Søndergård, Paul Donkey, Harley Davidson (Not the motorcycle manufacturer, obviously) and Pethouse Magazine is © Joan Jacobsen, 2005.
Legal Notice: This story is Copyright © 2005 by Joan Jacobsen. This story may not be sold or used for commercial profit in any form or fashion. This story may not be modified in any way. This story may not be posted on a mirror site or any other Internet site without the written permission of the author. This story may not be distributed on print, magnetic, electrical or optical mediums.
Permission to use characters that are Copyright other individuals was obtained prior to the appearance of said characters.
The author, Joan Jacobsen, hereby asserts moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is an independent work of fiction with no connection whatsoever to Max Black Rabbit, Eric W. Schwartz, E.S. Productions or James Bruner and is in no way meant to imply any connection with Max Black Rabbit, Eric W. Schwartz, E.S. Productions, or James Bruner. This story contains characters created by Max Black Rabbit, Eric W. Schwartz, James Bruner, Tigermark and Silver Coyote. Events and characters occurring in this story should not be considered part of the storylines for either 'Zig Zag', 'Sabrina Online' or 'Sabrina Online - The Story'.
In fact, as far as 'Zig Zag', 'Sabrina Online', 'Sabrina Online - The Story' and 'Zig Zag the Story' are concerned, this story does not exist. The artists disavow any knowledge of and do not officially sanction the events in this story.
Today, it is the 15thof December and everyone should have a very merry Christmas. But for Erica and Arty Smith, Yorkshire, England, and their two wonderful children, Jack and Rachel, it isn't. Erica and Arty are my friends, and some of the most wonderful people you could ever wish to meet. I would like for everyone to have friends like them...to laugh with, share troubles with, lean on and be there for. Real friends. Rachel and Jack are two wonderful children of two and six years, respectively. Rachel has Cerebral Palsy (also called Spastic Quadriplegia) and Bilateral Sensori-Neural hearing loss, and Jack has Autistic Spectrum disorder (also called A.S.D.). In other words...two children with what we, today, call 'special needs'. Two absolutely wonderful, adorable children. Erica and Arty are loving, caring parents...some of the best I've known. I won't start to count the times Erica has had to dash from her keyboard to console her daughter, who was crying. Or the good and happy stories she's told about Jack. Both she and Arty are proud of their children. Only yesterday, Erica came to the computer and told me, almost bouncing with joy, that Jack had picked out his clothes himself and gotten dressed without help, for the first time ever. She was nearly overflowing with pride.
Such is not the reaction of a bad parent. Such is not the way of people who won't take care of their children. But fourteen months ago, Erica and Arty turned to social services in the hopes of getting some help. Any parents with two children who require this much special attention would be well advised to do so, in most cases. But the reaction was not what they had expected. Instead of getting help, social services decided that they were PROBABLY incapable of taking care of their children, and opened cases on both the kids. Cases that could, down the line, lead to the children being taken away from Erica and Arty. For over a year, they have fought tooth and nail, uphill against a system who will not listen to any sort of reason. The social-workers have come by and to give you all a good example, they would complain that Rachel had jelly down the front of her top. They would, in other words, complain that a -two year old girl-...with spastic quadriplegia...had dropped some jelly down her clothes while eating. They would then mark this down as an example of Erica not taking care of her children, because Rachel had been 'dirty'. Two year olds are dirty a lot of the time, as anyone who's ever actually dealt with real, living children can say. The same social workers would complain that Erica's and Arty's home was messy and unclean, because DESPITE Erica spending hours and hours on cleaning, children's toys would litter the floor within moments. Children play. So because Legos and dolls were laying around, the house was unclean. This too would be marked down.
Now, Erica and Arty may lose their children. Or one of them. They're getting to the point of desperation and I for one do not blame them. They have bent over backwards for social services, to the point where Erica recently told me that she was going to see some friends, real life...for the first time in several months. There is no TIME to go out and visit anyone, as things are.
This is the result of turning to social services for -help-. This is the result of being good, loving, caring parents, asking the system to please help a little now and then.
I wish you all...a merry Christmas.
Regaining something lost
For two years, Francois LeBrun had been training his apprentice in the art of baking good, proper bread. Sue, a pleasant young lapine in her mid twenties, had a real knack for it too. There were days now where Francois allowed himself to go home early. There had even been a few cases where he had let her know she was on her own for a day or two. So far, she had not let him down. She had originally been working behind the counter in the shop, but Francois had offered her to teach her the craft of bakery. She had gladly accepted it, once she realized she wasn't being fired, but offered a promotion.
In another year, Sue would be ready to take her final trials.
Francois was proud of his apprentice, though. She'd performed admirably until now, and he had no doubts she'd impress him when the time came.
"All done for today?" Sue asked from across the room. Her already white fur made it hard to see how much flour covered her arms above the gloves, but she was still kneading dough that would be on slow raise overnight.
"Mais oui...it is time to go home. Marie will be waiting with dinner soon," Francois answered and took his beret off the coat-rack in his office. "I think she has something planned for tonight...but I'm not quite sure what it is."
"That sounds promising. She's a nice lady, y'know. Make sure to give her my best."
"Merci, Sue, I'll make sure to tell her you said that."
Francois smiled and left the bakery. Sue would lock up after herself when she left. It was necessary for her to have a key to the place, since one of her duties was to get there half an hour or so before Francois, to make sure everything was spotlessly clean. The last thing they did before leaving every evening was, of course, to clean everything off, but Francois insisted that everything be checked in the morning again to make sure nothing had been forgotten the day before.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath of not quite fresh Columbus air. He stuck his paws in the pockets of his jacket and started walking. It was a long walk home, though, and he almost always caught a bus. Except when he had something to think about. Something serious.
Tonight wasn't such a night, although there had been plenty of them, since moving to Columbus.
He turned a corner and saw the bus up ahead. Waving his arms like a mad fur, he managed to get it to wait until he was on board. Huffing and puffing for breath, he smiled to the driver and paid his fare. Then found a seat.
He leaned back and tried to get as comfortable as he could in the otherwise rather uncomfortable seats. Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself and let his mind wander a little. Life was pretty good. He had a sound business going, which landed a nice profit. He could expand if he wanted to, but he had no such aspirations. Bigger wasn't always better, especially when it came to good bread.
His daughter was doing well for herself...and his soon-to-be son-in-law was as well. They still made a great couple. He had been told about the proposal, of course. He was already planning the wedding cake. It would be the cake to end all cakes.
'La Boulangerie' was a little world onto itself. Despite all the horror of what had transpired in the past week, he had managed to stay calm and on top of things by concentrating on the little things in life that he knew he did well.
That wasn't to say he hadn't been affected. He'd closed the bakery that past Tuesday, and he'd kept it closed on Wednesday as well, because the idea of doing anything but following the news had been impossible to comprehend. But he also knew he had to get on with his life. France had seen terrorism in his younger days. Before he moved to the United States. Not as much as the old West Germany, or Spain...but some. He knew the only thing one could do in such situations was not to let the terrorists win. Their entire aim...their goal...was to make everyone so afraid of living a normal life that they'd conform to whatever sick, twisted ideas they were given as ultimatums, just to be safe.
What surprised him was that no terrorists had ever truly succeeded in that. Yet, furs still tried. Sick...sick furs.
He opened his eyes and looked around. It was almost time to get off the bus.
Getting up, he stretched his back a little and smiled. Whatever Marie had planned for the evening...he was going to enjoy it with her.
Leo picked up the telephone with a grim expression on his face. He had an idea, and he was going to act on it. He'd spent a good portion of his life so far, not taking responsibility for anything except getting the next drink on some beach. Then...he'd met a squirrel named Miranda Spermophilus, on the plane to the Cayfur Islands and since then his life had gone off in a new direction entirely. One he very much enjoyed.
It meant real friends, for one thing, and if there was something Leo would not do, it was to sit back and do nothing when a friend was in trouble.
He dialed the number he needed and waited for the line to connect.
"Hola Esteban...que pasa..." he said, trying to sound cheerful. It didn't work very well.
"Leo...what ees up, Amigo? You sound angree?" Esteban said on the other end of the line. At least the wolf sounded like he was slowly getting his good cheer back.
Leo nodded and looked at the receiver for a moment, trying to figure out how to say what he had to say. "Listen to me, my friend. You and I are going on a fishing trip."
"We are?" Esteban asked, sounding a bit surprised. "Sure. I theenk we could do weeth doeeng sometheeng normal again, for a change, no?"
"This won't be a normal fishing trip, Esteban. We're going to ask Jeremy if he won't join us."
"Que??"
"You heard me."
Esteban took a while in answering. His voice was, at best, incredulous. "Somehow, Leo, I don't theenk thees weell have much to do weeth feesheeng..." he finally said.
"Oh, we'll be fishing, all right. Don't worry about that. I don't intend to harm the sorry piece of shit. I intend to have a word with him. Somewhere quiet, where he'll be facing down two large, fit, strong males...and not some easily cowed, easily beaten up femme like Emma. She's a really sweet girl, Esteban...and she's our friend. We owe it to her."
"Si. We do. When?" the wolf asked, calmly.
"Leave that to me. I'll let you know as soon as I know more. Don't tell anyone about this. Not even Fox. He can't come...he'd lose his license to practice if it got out."
"Not even Jean?"
"No one, Esteban. This stays between you and me. Tell Jean we're going fishing. She doesn't want to know more than that, believe me," Leo said, keeping his voice even despite the anger he could feel, even then, bubbling up inside him.
Esteban paused again. "We're not goeeng to harm heem, Leo. We're just goeeng to make sure he doesn't harm Emma again and that he leaves her life, for good. Comprende?"
"I never intended it otherwise, and that at least is the truth. But I won't deny that I'm very, very angry, Esteban. Livid," the lion said.
"As long as we are een agreement on that. I'll be waiteeng for you to call then. Hasta luego," Esteban finished off, before hanging up.
Leo put down the receiver and cracked his knuckles. Esteban was right. There could be no hurting Jeremy...but Jeremy didn't need to know that.
It was just before noon in Copenhagen. Saturday.
Gabrielle looked at her girlfriend, across the living room table. They'd been in the city for a week, that night. There was still plenty to see. There'd be no problem spending several more weeks there, without getting bored, and they were finally getting around to having a good time again. The city was recovering, too. Televised news still showed mostly news relating to the attacks, and the newspaper front pages still had daily stories about new information. Increased death tolls. That kind of thing. Even though Gabrielle couldn't read Danish, she understood pictures. And Ulf or Signe were usually available to help translate. The equine had even found herself buying a couple of newspapers to have them translate.
Signe was out shopping and Ulf was dropping by his office to hear if there were any news from the company's New York business contacts.
The two Americans were alone in the apartment for the first time since they had moved in.
"Y'know...we could always turn on TV and laugh our way through some Danish program. Trying to figure out what they're saying," Yohni grinned.
"That's one way of telling you're really bored, I guess. I'm thinking of asking Ulf and Signe out tonight though. Our treat. I'm sure they know a good place to eat and they've been so nice to us, opening their home for us and everything. It's the very least we could do," Gabrielle replied, leaning back in the couch and crossing her legs.
"That actually sounds like a fantastic idea. Maybe we could go out for a movie or something afterwards? Or maybe to the theatre..."
"Yohni, are you in danger of growing a sense of culture?"
The mongoose stuck her tongue out and giggled. "Very funny. You know the good thing about theatre is...the atmosphere is international. Even if we don't understand the words...the passion is there."
"Next you're going to suggest we go to the opera, aren't you?" Gabrielle asked and tried to keep a straight face.
"I'm going to tickle you soon, filly. Right above the hooves where I know you're really ticklish."
The door to the living room opened and Signe came in with a rather odd look on her face. "I think I heard someone suggest a movie, from out there in the hallway," she said. She was still wearing her jacket, though she had removed her shoes after being outside.
Gabrielle nodded and got up. She looked a little worried at the canid's facial expression. "Well, we thought we'd invite you and Ulf out to the restaurant of your choice, and then maybe the theatre or a movie afterwards, that's all," she said. "Is something wrong?"
"Well...no. Not wrong. Not really. I just...I did something today I had sworn I'd never do," Signe answered and shrugged. She still had that weirded-out expression on her face. Like she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry...or shout at herself.
Yohni got up as well. She beckoned for the Greenlander to take a seat and smiled reassuringly. "Then we're definitely the right furs to talk to. In many ways, we're specialists in things furs swear never to do."
Gabrielle couldn't help laughing. When she and Yohni started dating, the mongoose had been insecure in the extreme about her own value, and she thought that because of her job, no fur would want to get near her. A statement like that one showed the filly clearly how much had changed in those couple of years.
"Damned, I'm going to have to be careful or you're going to claim the title of 'most attitude at ZZ Studio'," she grinned and wagged an admonishing finger at Yohni.
"Not a chance. I don't hold a stick to you..."
"That wouldn't work either...only canids run after sticks. Sorry Signe."
To Gabrielle's surprise, Signe actually laughed at that and sat down. "Not since I was a pup, I haven't. But I was good at it!" she said and headed to the couch, taking off her jacket. She took out a nondescript plastic bag from a large inner pocket and placed it on the table.
"What is that?" Yohni asked, slightly confused.
Gabrielle couldn't help herself and peeked inside the bag, before bursting out in giggles. "This...is priceless!"
"Not really. Just 200 kroner," Signe chuckled and ran a paw through her hair. "I never thought I'd do something like that."
Yohni looked confused and shrugged at Gabrielle, as if asking the filly to please explain. Gabrielle just grinned widely and withdrew a video cassette from the bag. The mongoose took one look at it and started to giggle.
Gabrielle put the cassette down on the table.
The cover showed Rafe and Esteban, squaring off opposite one another on a sandy arena, with roaring, cheering furs in the background. Both were armed with strange, archaic weapons and Rafe was only recognizable to those who knew him on account of wearing a helmet.
The title said 'Amat Victoria Curam'.
"I only have one condition," Signe said and raised a finger.
"What's that?" Yohni asked and recovered enough to speak.
"We fast forward past the actual sex."
"I think Ulf is going to whine...but no problem with me. How about you, Gabby?"
The filly smiled and shook her head. "Not a problem at all. It's worth watching even without the sex, I think."
Signe smiled crookedly and shrugged. She'd never bought something like that before and the only reason she'd done so was out of sheer curiosity about her two American visitors. It couldn't hurt anyone to watch it once, and then at least she'd have shown as much interest as one could possibly expect. She liked both her new friends. But she still didn't quite grasp their choice of job.
The hospitality of the FBI left something to be desired. Malcolm had regained enough of his wits over night to fully consider the situation. When the federal agents had come to his and Timothy's home to get him, he had been too dazed to protest, and he didn't want to get Timothy in trouble. By now...he wasn't dazed anymore. But he was getting angry.
For one thing, he still hadn't seen a lawyer. He'd been detained for what he believed to be about 24 hours without having his rights read to him, without seeing a lawyer and without being made aware of what he was being held for. All he knew was that he was suspected of being a terrorist or terrorist aide, solely because of him being of Arabian stock. It was so absurdly speciesist he wanted to shout at someone. Of course, he hadn't done so. It'd only make things worse.
The holding cell was small but not uncomfortable. There just wasn't anything to do. For some reason, someone had thought he wanted the Koran with him. That was the only reading material present, and Malcolm really didn't feel like opening it and reading. For one thing, he wasn't a religious fur, for another he felt pretty sure the cell was being watched and him sitting down with that book, flicking through the pages would probably send the wrong message to whomever was watching.
He knew what the word 'entrapment' meant.
So...for the umpteenth time since he got here, he found himself laying down on his cot to try to get some rest. He wasn't tired anymore. There was nothing to do except sleep and eat. But even when food was shoved through the small hole in the door, not a word was uttered. He had noticed the meals had all been vegetarian. Probably someone's idea of making sure no religious sensibilities got hurt.
Finally, he heard keys in the lock and he got up.
Agent Grochy came into view in the doorway. He had the same stern, distant air to him as he had displayed all the way in the car yesterday.
"Am I allowed to go?" Malcolm asked, sitting up on the bed.
"I'm sorry...what was that again?" the agent said, slightly haughtily. "We haven't ascertained why you were at the scene of the attack yet. You're not going anywhere until we know."
"Then can I at least be allowed to see a lawyer? I believe that is my right...and speaking of rights, no one read those to me. And I still don't even know what I am being held for!" the equine said, probably sounding more grumpy than he intended.
"You're being held on suspicion of assisting in directing the flights to their targets. It is just a little bit strange that an Arabian happens to be so close to the scene of the crime," Agent Grochy said, flatly.
"You must be joking. There must be two hundred thousand middle eastern furs living in New York...if not more. And you decide to pounce on me? What about in the buildings around the World Trade Center? Are you sure there were no Arabs in those?"
"I'm not the one answering questions. You are. Now, follow me."
Malcolm shook his head. "Not until I see a lawyer. I am not obligated to cooperate as long as you do not grant me the rights the law dictates."
The agent closed the door behind him and smiled. A nasty little smile as he entered the cell, leaning over towards Malcolm. "For all I know, you are a terrorist, Mr. Grazer...if that is really your name. For all I know, I entered this cell to bring you to interrogation and you tried to jump me. For all I know, I had to shoot you in self defense. Now are you quite done rambling about lawyers?"
The equine blinked. He hadn't, in his wildest fantasies, imagined something like this would happen. "I'm proud to be an American," he said, at long last, and got up. "This is the land of the free, and the home of the brave, as we sing in the national anthem. And while I don't agree with everything that is done in the US of A...I believe that in a democratic system supporting free speech and freedom of thought, I have a right to disagree and show this by casting my vote for someone who will support my views. This is how I felt until the second you said that, Agent Grochy. But if you represent America...I think I'm going to be sick."
With that, the door was reopened, and Malcolm left the holding cell.
Francois sat down by the dinner table. The food looked absolutely delicious. Marie didn't usually do the cooking, so this was a rare treat. He rubbed his paws together and smiled widely at his wife as she sat down as well.
"What prompted this, Marie?" he asked, finally braving the question. He wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he was certainly going to enjoy the meal fully...but he couldn't help his curiosity.
"Does a femme need a reason to spoil her husband a little now and then? You work so hard, six days a week, Cherie. Sometimes, I wonder if I shouldn't do more."
"Marie, you keep the house perfectly. And I like cooking...a lot. I have no problem coming home to cook us dinner every night, but I *do* admit it is nice to have a night off once in a while."
Marie nodded and carved the roast in front of them. She did have her reasons for this. She wanted the atmosphere to be relaxed and pleasant. There were things on her mind that she needed to speak to Francois about. It always ended up in arguments or harsh words and she really didn't like that. The last year or more...they had barely ever mentioned the topic in question.
Her child.
The problem wasn't Francois. She had finally come to realize that. The problem was that she couldn't deal with this, and Francois had been better at handling it. He had been more pragmatic about it, despite the pain and confusion.
She got up and got a decanter from the other table. Smiling, she showed it to Francois and winked. "I found a good Bordeaux...no American wine this time. This is the real thing."
"Ohhhhhh...this is a little piece of home, non?" Francois grinned and wagged his tail, out the back of the chair.
"I hope so," Marie answered and sat down, pouring the wine for both of them. "We do have some things to talk about tonight, too..."
Francois cut a piece of his slice of meat and popped it into his mouth, chewing. A look of serene bliss spread on his face. "This...is sublime," he mumbled and leaned back a little in his chair. His tail was still wagging.
Marie was happy to see her husband enjoy the meal so much. The food and the wine would no doubt help everything move along more smoothly. She wasn't quite sure how to go about all this, but she knew she had to.
"Francois...we need to talk about...about Jean..." she said and cringed at herself as she heard the name come out in the French, male form.
The sound of cutlery hitting a plate was all the answer she got from Francois. The fox looked stricken. The look on his face said it all. Without words, it asked her if all this...the food...the wine...the atmosphere...was just a smokescreen.
Marie looked at the plate. "Please don't get angry," she said, sadly. She felt tired all of the sudden. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea anyway.
"Why now?" Francois asked, sounding very upset and on the verge of tears.
"Because this past week has changed the world, Francois..." Marie began, then shook her head. "Non...I can't use that excuse. You want the truth?"
Francois merely nodded, pushing his plate away for the moment. He wasn't hungry anymore.
"I miss my child, Francois. I can't have my son back...and I don't know how to deal with it. I want to. I'm not some...some evil, selfish hag. I just...don't know how to deal with it," Marie said. Her voice was barely a whisper. Tears were building in her eyes.
"Do you want my advice on how to deal with it?" her husband asked, reaching out to take one of her paws, giving it a reassuring little squeeze.
Marie shook her head and used the back of her free paw to wipe her eyes. "Non. We both know that doesn't work. We have to find our own way, each of us...but I want to find my way. I need you to believe that."
Francois managed a little smile. "You know what, Cherie?" he said, softly. "I never doubted that. I just waited for you to realize it yourself."
"They're...going to get married, right? I heard you on the phone one day, talking about a wedding cake, for them. You...could've told me that," Marie said, quietly. She tried to smile. It wasn't easy. There was a lot of emotion that needed to come out.
"Oui...they are. They haven't set a date yet. And believe me, I planned on letting you know but I wanted to find the right time. I didn't know if you were ready to hear it," Francois said, still smiling reassuringly and still squeezing Marie's paw.
"I'm not ready. But I have to become ready. Don't I?"
"You are the only one who can answer that."
Marie nodded. "Maybe...I should try to meet hi...I mean...her. That is so hard to say, Francois...it is so difficult."
Francois got up. He let go of his wife's paw and walked around the table, leaning down to give her a long, gentle hug. Simply holding her against him. For all he knew, Marie needed to let out some tears. Probably a lot of them. All he could do was really to be there. The food would have to wait, even though his appetite was returning. He wasn't quite sure how to deal with this. All he was sure of was that this was a major leap in the right direction and he had to support Marie in taking that leap. He had to be there to catch her. Not for his own sake. Not even for Marie's or Jean's sake. But for the sake of the whole family. This was the first real chance he got...and for all he know it might be the only chance he ever got...to put things back together again.
"I know it is difficult, Marie. You can't erase more than twenty years of life and memories. And we shouldn't, either. As long as we don't condemn," he said, kissing wife's hair.
"You are a good fur, Francois," Marie whispered and hid her face against his chest. She started to cry. Not loudly. She didn't even shake.
But the fact that his shirt was soaking told Francois that it was the case.
All he could do was hold on and let it pass.
And so he did.
Malcolm folded his arms over his chest and set his jaw.
Across the table, Agent Grochy was looking like a small, barely contained nuclear explosion. Next to him sat a younger, feline agent. Female. She looked incredibly exasperated, but at least not angry.
"Mr. Grazer...you're not helping yourself," the feline said.
She had introduced herself but Malcolm hadn't really paid attention to what she said her name was. He didn't answer. Not a word. He kept his arms folded over his chest, remained leaned back in his seat and he flatly refused to make a sound.
"He won't talk until he sees his lawyer," Agent Grochy sneered. "I've told him this isn't that kind of interrogation but he won't listen."
"Mr. Grazer, just...please understand," the feline said, patiently. "We are not your enemies. We want to help you get home. All you have to do is talk to us and let us ask you what questions we have."
Malcolm inspected the fingernails on his left paw with immense indifference. For all he cared, the two agents could talk themselves into an early grave. He wasn't some simpleton and he knew the 'good cop, bad cop'-routine when it was being used on him. Besides, there was no way he was going to say a word before he had a lawyer present. No matter what these agents said, he knew his rights.
The feline shook her head. "I don't think we're going to get anywhere with this one, Agent Grochy. We might as well let him go."
"Like Hell we can. He's hiding something. I can feel it. He's not going anywhere. Put him in with the others," the Dalmatian said and got to his feet with an angry snarl. He left the room in a hurry.
The feline looked at Malcolm again and sighed. "Come with me, please, Mr. Grazer," she said and beckoned for the equine to follow her.
Malcolm blinked as if he hadn't heard a word she said until then and got up. Still without saying a word.
They both left the room and the feline escorted Malcolm down several hallways until they got to a set of barred doors. A single guard sat outside. Armed. With both a sidearm and a police-issue shotgun, laying on the bench behind him, within easy reach. Beyond the doors, Malcolm could see a holding cell with probably thirty male furs milling around. Several were dressed outlandishly. Many wore long beards.
The female agent exchanged a few words with the guard and was let in, bringing Malcolm along. She opened the door to the holding cell while the guard waited by the barred doors, shotgun at the ready. Malcolm shook his head indifferently and headed inside.
Behind him, the door to the holding cell clicked ominously as the feline closed it. A moment later, he was being sized up by thirty pairs of eyes. He didn't like the situation much but what could he do, he asked himself. Not much, was the obvious answer.
"Malcolm! What on Eearth are you doing here?" a known voice boomed out.
The equine shook his head in confusion and looked around. He knew that voice. It belonged to Abu-Yusuf. The throng in front of him parted as the heavy-set oryx elbowed his way through it.
"Get out of my way. Move. Grrr. Move I said," the fruit-vendor grumbled and planted a short kick on the ankle of one individual who didn't move fast enough. Then he spread his arms out wide and embraced Malcolm in a very overwhelming, fatherly way. "Do tell me, Malcolm...how is your wife taking this? She must be just as worried as mine..."
The equine was somewhat stunned by it all. "My...wife...?" he began.
Abu-Yusuf continued the side-to-side embrace and whispered, hoarsely: "If you want to survive the night, play along."
Malcolm snapped out of his confusion and realized what was going on. "I'm pretty sure she's dying from fright," he said, nodding empathetically. "I've been rather confused myself by all this. What are you doing here?"
"Well, I was stupid enough to run for my life when a mob of angry New Yorkers decided that I was probably a terrorist in disguise, and I was even dumber to contact the first policefur I came across to get help. Now I am here, who knows how long for?" the oryx grumbled and looked at all the other furs in the room. "This is Malcolm Grazer, just as innocent as the rest of us. I know him. He buys fruit at my stall quite often. And by all good graces, he will get out of this just like the rest of us, Insh Allah!"
A lot of mumbles of 'Insh Allah' went up around the room. Everyone else started moving around again.
Malcolm drew a sigh of relief and looked gratefully at the oryx. He'd been dangerously close to outing himself in a room full of furs of whom the majority were quite likely very devout Moslems...not to mention very annoyed ones. Abu-Yusuf's exaggerated embrace had given him the chance to whisper a warning without it seeming conspicuous.
"When we do get out, Abu-Yusuf...remind me to help you get your stall back up and running...if you want to, that is," he said and sat down on one of the benches.
"Of course I do. I'm not going to let terrorist scum run me out of New York, and I'm not going to let New Yorkers do it either. This is my home and I have as much right to be here as anyone else. My passport is American, Malcolm. My heart is American..." the oryx said and patted his chest to underline his words.
"I thought your heart was a pumping mechanism," Malcolm teased and put his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "So...what is all this about? Why are all these furs being held?"
"Fucked if I know..." Abu-Yusuf said and shrugged.
Malcolm blinked and looked at the oryx with wide eyes. "I didn't think you were allowed to swear!?" he asked.
"I'm not. But they're not allowed to keep me without a lawyer and without trial either, so I figure it evens out in the end."
"You know what? You're as solid as the Earth itself, my friend," Malcolm said and grinned.
"Stronger," Abu-Yusuf answered, grinning as well. "You know...you asked me once, not long ago, what I used to do in Iran before the revolution. When we get out...I'll come and find you at home, one day...and I'll tell you the whole story if you still want to hear it."
"I'd like that, actually. And you'd be very welcome. I'm..." Malcolm said and coughed, catching himself in a slip-up, "...sure my wife can cook up something suitable for an evening like that."
Abu-Yusuf nodded and leaned back against the bars. "I'm sure. But first, we have to deal with the FBI."
Malcolm sighed and nodded. He didn't like the idea of that...but there was nothing he could do to change it.
All he could do was wait.