Schatzi Von Jiftofen (Part 3)

I'm sitting in a chair with my elbows on my knees. I've got a dead anthropomorphic dog's blood dripping off of the end of my tie, pooling in a tiny puddle on the floor. Around me, chubby girls with felt cat ears on their head and other anthropomorphic dogs, skunks, cats, and pigs walk around me, chattering in either English, broken English, German, or broken German. All of them are wearing brown uniforms with red armbands.

I'm on a ship high above the fair city I've sworn to protect. It appeared here a few hours ago while I was at work. As far as I can tell, it opened fire on several buildings in the Main Street area.

And all of this was just to get at me.

I'm a popular guy with furry Nazis.

My skin is tingling all over. A little over a dozen of these creeps opened fire on me with submachine guns about 15 minutes ago. I can already see bruises developing on my arms and I can see bumps on my shoulders. Big bee-sting-looking welts. They're so fresh and so tender that even a gentle breeze sets them on fire.

This sucks.

There are four guards standing around me, each of them facing me, each of them with a machine gun pointed right at my head.

If there's one thing I hate more than being shot, it's being shot in the head with machine guns.

So I'm playing it cool.

There's an anthropomorphic buffalo standing between the two guards in front of me. "Can I offer you a drink?" he asks.

"Piss off," I tell him, and I spit on the floor, right into the puddle of the dead sheepdog's blood.

"Very well," he says. I don't look at him, but I can tell he's smiling. I'd like more than anything to wipe that smile off his face, but on the way up to the command deck, he explained to me that there are at least a dozen soldiers posted throughout the ship with their finger on a button that will reduce Vincennes to dust and ashes. He may be bluffing, but I don't think I'll take the chance.

Besides, they've piqued my curiosity.

A door on the other side of the command deck opens. "The captain will see you now," Says a feminine voice. I look up in time to see a fox in a black uniform looking in my direction before she disappears into the room she just came out of.

"To your feet, Punchernaut," the buffalo says, but I'm already standing up. I'm eager to get this over with. Two machine guns push into my shoulder blades, not unkindly, and lead me to the door. Two guards stay in front of me. The buffalo brings up the rear.

Through the door is a small anteroom. Stationed in the center of the room is a reception desk. Foxy Lady is motioning to a red leather door beyond the desk. "Right this way."

The guards in front of me stand aside and the buffalo opens the door. They all follow me inside.

The first thing I notice in the office is the dark figure silhouetted in front of a tremendous picture window that's looking out over Vincennes. The next things I notice are the short, cropped, triangular ears on top of the figure's head, sticking almost comically out from the sides of a short black cap.

The figure stands tall and proud in its black uniform, hands clasped behind its back. One hand, I see, looks deformed at first, but then I realize it's a dog's paw. Clutched in the other hairy, but relatively normal hand is a black riding crop.

The figure speaks in a deep, thick voice that for some reason reminds me of chocolate. "Leave us."

"But mein Herr --"

"Leave us," the voice is still calm, smooth, almost hypnotic, but this time there's a sharp edge on the words.

"Jawohl," the buffalo and the four armed guards say at once. They exit the room and close the door.

The figure remains silent. He stands rigid and strong, more like a statue than a man, or whatever these things are. The authority in the room is almost palpable. My eyes wander as I think of what to say. There are framed portraits all over the walls. The majority of them are marching brownshirts, screaming Hitlers, and army tanks. Others are maps and battle plans. Others are of various animals. The figure stands on the opposite side of a wide mahogany desk covered in a lacquer so thick and so clear the objects on top appear to be floating an inch or two above the surface.

"From up here," the figure finally says begins. His accent is so thick it gets jammed up in my ears and I have to let it sink in slow to understand him, "Your little town is very beautiful, Chassit."

I don't say anything. Words fail me. How did he know my name?

"You're very quiet," I can hear him smiling, "Didn't sink I'd know dat, did you? Vould you prefer I call you by your Earth name?"

My throat is dry. I manage to croak out, "No. Punchernaut is fine."

"I much prefer Chassit," he says this conversationally. He's still not looking at me, and it's driving me insane, "I've met many people in my life, Chassit, und none ever had such an interestink name..."

"Hm." The shock starts wearing off and I get bored.

"Vhat does it mean?"

"Nineteen," I tell him.

"Very interestink..."

All right, the shock is gone. I've had enough.

"Listen, bub," I begin, "I'm not here to play your little namby-pamby Nazi wargames. I'm here to send you and your glee club a-packin'."

He just chuckles.

"Shall I give ze order to level zis beautiful city? It vould be a shame..."

"It'd be a real damn shame if I sent your flea-bitten ass flying out that window," and I leap across the desk, my elbow cocked back, ready to send him on the ride of his life, when suddenly the unthinkable happens.

I don't even see him move. I feel a strange heat around my wrist, tight as a vice. He's facing me now, and I'm staring into the deep black eyes of a German Shepard. "Not zo fast," he coos. He twists my arm and I'm facing away from him. He's got me in a classic half nelson, and believe it or not, it hurts like hell.

"I could zmell your anger a mile a way," venom drips off of each syllable. The accent makes it worse, "Und I could feel ze air movink around you as you moved to attack me. You are very predictable, Chassit."

"Leggo of me you mutt," I gasp as I wrench my arm away. I'm just strong enough to do that, and I think it surprised him. That makes two of us.

"Are zere any more ztupid ideas going on in zat little head of yours, Chassit?"

If I could kill with a glare, I think this would be the one to do it. I'd be standing over a crumpled, dead, Nazi German shepard right about now. "I guess not."

"Vould you giff me a chanze to explain myself?"

"Yes."

"Zen haff a seat," He gestures with his paw toward a high-backed chair on the other side of his desk.

"I'd rather stand."

"Nonzense. Ve may be here a little vhile."

"All right, fair enough. But first you have to wash my shirt."

"Of course."

"Get the bloodstains out of my tie, too."

"Of course."

"Then we'll talk."

"Of course."

I pull off my tie and white shirt and lay them on the desk. The blood's already dried on my black t-shirt and wristbands, so I let it go.

I sit and wait to see what's next...