Been a while since I barfed out one of these.
“Can’t believe the yanks think they invented this,” mumbled Dincton Flatt around a bite of luxuriously cinnamoned apple pie, sitting alone at an ornate table within a fancy restaurant. “Delightful stuff.” He dabbed at his mouth with the ostentatious napkin sitting in his lap.
“Nevertheless,” Featherby chimed in from the the floor beside Flatt’s chair, “might it be wise to take it easy on the sweets? This is your third slice.”
Flatt frowned. “Do not flounce upon my joy, Featherby; I’m simply rewarding myself – justly rewarding myself – for selling the Bendsly property. Watley didn’t think it possible, and I’m quite certain even Mr. Cheverly and his immaculate suit couldn’t have closed this deal.” He sat back and offered his coyote a devilish grin. “Child’s play for Dincton Flatt of Flatt’s Flats, however. It merely required a pocketful of charm and the procuring of a client who was mildly afraid of ham.”
“Sir, I–”
Featherby was interrupted by the overly posh clearing of the restaurant manager’s throat, and further interrupted by his words. “I’ll beg your pardon, but this is a fancy restaurant, and we would kindly prefer it if you were to leave your pets outside. People are starting to talk.”
Flatt waved his hand in dismissal. “Featherby is a robot, were the mechanical blue eyes and the speaking not making it sufficiently obvious.”
The manager raised an eyebrow.
“No? Featherby, calculate the square root of Pi.”
“Roughly 1.772454, sir,” the coyote obliged.
Flatt gestured to him in emphasis. “There, you see? Besides, were I to leave him outside, someone would be inclined to make off with him for the novelty of it all, and though he would assuredly be returned once the bandit tired of his nagging, he’d no doubt get filthy in the process, and that’s an ordeal I’d sooner not be bothered with.”
The manager’s face pinched up, but he gave a reluctant nod. “Very well, sir. Is there anything else we can provide for you this evening?”
“Why, yes, my good man – I’ll take two more slices of this exceptional pie.” An uproariously handsome smile broke from Flatt’s lips, and the manager was forced to squint from the very glow of it.
“At once.” The manager took his leave.
“Two more, sir?” Featherby chided. “The sugar alone–”
“Oh, come off it. You know I have the metabolism of an angry child.” Flatt finished off his current pie and admired his reflection in the silver plate beneath it, running a hand through his neatly trimmed and unnecessarily blond hair. “Featherby, calculate the square root of pie – you know, with an e.”
Featherby tilted his head. “I’m…not sure how to answer that, sir.”
Flatt frowned, but his mood immediately re-brightened when the waiter set a new slice of pie before him.
A new slice.
Flat furrowed his brow and looked to the waiter. “My thanks, although as I recall it, I did ask for two more slices.”
The waiter slipped into a sympathetic mien. “Deepest apologies, sir, but the last slice was ordered by Madame Fudgebegotten.” He nodded toward the table across the aisle from Flatt, where there sat a woman with flowing locks of unreasonably orange hair, wearing a resplendent gown that began with the same carrot-like hue before diagonally gradating to a deep red as it descended.
“Fudgebegotten,” Flatt grumbled. “Any relation to a Dabither?”
“His missus, as I understand it – Apricotia Fudgebegotten.”
Flatt narrowed his eyes. “What is their story, exactly? They must be new to Danesbury.”
The waiter nodded. “Candy moguls looking for a place to set up their latest venture. Rumor has it the city has made the appropriate overtures, and we’re at the top of their list.”
“Charming,” said Flatt, attempting to mask his distrust. There was something deviant about trim candy makers. Mrs. Fudgebegotten noticed him looking her way and raised a bite of pie to him in polite acknowledgement – a bite of pie sitting upon a rather slight, graceful fork. A new frown slammed upon Flatt’s countenance. “Her fork – it’s smaller than mine, isn’t it?”
The waiter averted his eyes, nervous. “Well, you see, she is after all an elegant lady…”
“Pah.” Flatt waved him off, and he eagerly made his retreat. Flatt stared across the way for another moment before reaching into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out a sumptuous black jewelry box inlaid with golden scrolling. He carefully set it upon the table and popped it open, revealing the delicate bronze and silver woven fork within, scarcely over five inches from the base of the stem to the tip of the tines. He gently scooped up a bite of pie with the utensil and returned the gesture to the lady Fudgebegotten before slipping it between his lips.
Apricotia’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and her smile became more constrained. She set her fork down and fetched her handbag, pulling from it a beautiful maroon silk pouch from which she in turn retrieved a shimmering golden fork, perhaps three inches in length, including the glittering ruby on the end. She effortlessly produced a bite and raised it to Flatt before enjoying it with not a bit of smugness to spare.
Flatt could barely contain his scowl. He was not going down that easily. He pulled his notecase from his trousers and slipped out a card-sized holder for his coup de grace – a flat, platinum fork at least a half-inch shorter than his opponent’s, tastefully curved and etched with lines of sapphire and garnet. He valiantly cut at his pie with the tiny instrument, steadying his wrist against the edge of his table, and with great caution raised the bite into the air, beaming a confident smirk to Mrs. Fudgebegotten before guiding it to the safety of his mouth.
Apricotia stared across the aisle, gripping the table with one hand, her composure almost faltering before a disturbing serenity overtook her. She reached up and pulled the opulent green hairpin from between the strands of orange it so expertly held in place, then began to twist it, unscrewing the bulk of it and revealing its true nature – a fork of solid emerald, handle fashioned into a tight and lustrous coil, not even two inches in length. With terrifying poise, she worked an impossibly exquisite bite onto her weapon of choice, balancing it upon the practical nothing of its tines as she lifted it high in triumph. She punctuated the display with a pitying smile and the ever-so-subtle angling of her head, conveying an ocean of wordless admonition at Flatt’s audacity for daring to think he could best her at her own game.
Flatt slowly leaned back in his chair, pulling at his collar as sweat beaded down his neck. He wiped his forehead with his napkin, trying to steady his shaky breathing. This couldn’t be it. He wouldn’t be shown up like this. He knew what he had to do.
Finally, after another moment’s introspection, he steeled himself and said, “Featherby, it’s time.”
The coyote hunched down, enlittling himself. “Sir, I must protest…”
“Featherby.” Flatt held out his hand.
Ears flattened and eyes averted in shame, Featherby set his left forepaw onto his master’s hand, splaying his dainty little digits. Flatt took hold of the second claw from the inside with the thumb and index finger of his other hand and began to tweak it from side to side, twisting it gently back and forth. Featherby winced as it at last popped out.
Flatt held up the claw; protruding from the other end of it was an unthinkably diminutive fork, less than an inch long, wrought of pure, shining diamond. Apricotia’s face screwed up in elegantly restrained horror as she beheld its immaculate sparkling from across the way. Flatt set to work, eyes unblinking, burning with focus as he fastidiously carved a respectable morsel of flaky crust and candied fruit. Then, with one last deep breath, body trembling from exertion and purpose, he raised the bite in toast to his vanquished foe and slipped it neatly between his teeth.
The lady Fudgebegotten shot to her feet and slammed her hands upon the table with as much force as decorum would allow, a scouring hatred seething in her eyes alone, and then promptly turned and stormed out of the building.
“This is a fancy restaurant!” some other patron complained.
His victory resolute, Flatt nearly slumped in his chair, tension melting off of him like a sad racoon’s laundered candy floss. After indulging in relaxation for a generous few seconds, he adjusted his collar and straightened himself up, award-winning smile returning to his lips. “Fudgebegottens: 1, Flatt: 1.”
“Sir,” Featherby’s voice piped up beside him, extra small. “Might I have my claw back?”
Flatt magnanimously shared his grin with his robot, and then returned to his dessert. “In due time, Featherby. I still have some pie to finish.”
“Oh.” Featherby sighed and slumped, but then an ear perked up deviously. “Well, I suppose it cannot be said that I don’t give a fork about your interests.”
The apple confection soured in Flatt’s mouth, pulling his frown ever downward. “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir.”
Bene scribete.
Writin' Fish 