In the land known as Westshire―there was never an Eastshire or any other shire―there were only two villages, Citytropolis and Dirt Brick. The former was named Citytropolis in the hopes of deceiving foreign tourists. It often worked. The latter was named Dirt Brick because it originally consisted of nothing more than dirt mounds and burrows. The name had been updated from Dirt to Dirt Brick after the invention of the first brick, even if it was only a single brick and used purely as a lawn ornament. Decades later, someone had the sense to discontinue the name updates, and since then, the animals were left with Citytropolis and Dirt Brick.
A long dirt road connected the two of them. If you followed it all the way east then you reached Dirt Brick and if you followed it all the way west then you reached Citytropolis. The now ruined home of Mr. Fluffington used to be somewhere in the middle.
The poor cat was one of many travelers that day heading toward Dirt Brick, the larger town, in hopes of finding answers to his current predicament. Cattrap, the self-proclaimed only news journalist in the area, went back to her own home to pick up new material. She planned to send out the news that day. It was one of the only ways they were going to find the criminal.
The entire time he walked, Mr. Fluffington tried thinking about the clues up to that point whilst also looking out for danger. He would peer around at the tall grass and woods on either side of the dirt path, lose himself to a long-winded train of thought, and then furiously glance around to make up for five minutes of lost caution. His thoughts often circled back around to self pity, loathing, and confusion.
Someone wanted him dead despite his entire life’s work consisting of nothing more than freelance local assistance. Occasionally, one of his neighbors would need help with home maintenance, picking up items from the village, or figuring out how to work their wizard-bought contraptions. Older animals sometimes needed help with mundane, everyday tasks like getting food or opening their house’s front door. The even older animals sometimes needed help transitioning to the dead. In the case of Old Jerry Salamander (he was actually a gecko, but his ancestors hadn’t known at the time), he helped keep him company and find his lost tail.
But life went on. For Mr. Fluffington it probably wouldn’t go on for much longer if he couldn’t track down whoever wanted him dead. That was why he approached Dirt Brick. He hoped someone might know something about Equl Livs, Equl Rits, but he also went there because he no longer had anywhere else to stay.
Dirt Brick consisted of ten buildings. There was the clinic, the tavern, the store, the church, and six residential buildings. Their walls were constructed of sticks and mud. They had triangular shaped thatch roofs.
The village’s only brick took up a spot at the center of everything. It was made of baked mud. It looked enough like dirt that everyone called it the dirt brick. Animals usually lulled around the dirt brick. Some of them were workers on break. Others were merchants who often passed through and peddled goods. Outside of the village center, puppies, chicks, calves, bunnies, and hatchlings pranced around in the surrounding grass fields. Sometimes they would play too near the crop fields and get yelled at by one of their parents. The overall idyllic setting was usually spoiled by the stench, mud, and lack of plumbing related issues.
Today it was spoiled by something else. Not only did Mr. Fluffington see his killer in every shadow and every animal, including the kids which he normally saw killers in anyway, but the scene was spoiled by something else. There was a crowd of animals gathered in a wide area between the dirt brick and the village tavern. A shout occasionally rose over the group. He tried approaching the edge of the circle when Big Harry, the local blacksmith who was also a yellow finch―but a very big one, mind you―came up to him.
“Hey, Floofs, we’re hangin’ a witch.”
“A witch?”
Mr. Fluffington tried peering over the other animals but couldn’t see anything.
“Yeah, we caught her good.”
He tried and failed to look again. “Who is it?”
“Old Dusty.” Big Harry bobbed his head up and down which was the closest a bird could get to an oblivious, unthinking smile.
“Dusty?” said Mr. Fluffington, appalled.
Dusty was an old owl that lived around the area. She was older than Mr. Fluffington, older than his parents, and probably older than theirs. There were always rumors going around that she was a “sidekick” but he could never understand them. How could she be a sidekick if she was always alone and never did anything? Except now she obviously wasn’t alone. The villagers that stood around her were discussing something.
“Yeah, these two new boys tipped us off,” said the blacksmith, “and you know how witches can get.”
Mr. Fluffington nodded, but he really didn’t know how witches could get. He’d never met one before. Feeling curious himself, he decided to check it out. He slipped past the other animals until he reached the center. There was a rope tied around the old owl, but it was slack enough she probably could’ve flown out of it.
The animals surrounding her tensed up as he approached but loosened when they recognized him by his bow tie.
“Mr. Fluffington, it is great to see you in such good shape,” said Dusty in a broken up, croaky voice.
She had two big yellow eyes, but they weren’t very good for seeing. Mr. Fluffington’s fur was covered in dark soot. Patches of his fur were longer in some areas than in others where it had burned. It was all tangled, frizzled, and frayed. He hadn’t self-groomed or washed since the explosion, and, in fact, he technically hadn’t self-groomed or washed in his entire life.
“Dusty, what’s going on?” he said, ignoring her comment.
“Oh, I’m bein’ hanged, what bein’ a witch and all.”
“You’re a witch?”
“Oh no, ‘course not. These fellas can’t tell the difference, though.”
She swiveled her head eighty degrees in both directions. The other animals flinched.
“Anywho,” she continued. “How’re you up to?”
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He didn’t have a chance to respond before she spoke again.
“Two dogs and a rat. The Equl Rits, Equal Livs believe in levelin’ the playin’ field by killin’ everyone who’s not like ‘em,” she said, but she wasn’t done. “Me, I’m old. You, you’re a cat, their number one enemy. You got those nines lives, you got those other…” She let the thought fizzle out before continuing. Mr. Fluffington’s jaw hang open.
“What I’m sayin’ is that if you don’t find ‘em bastards in a few days, they’re gonna hang us all, and I’m a owl—don’t ask how hangin’ me’s gonna work.”
“But where?” he said. “How do―?”
“Think you got a mouse friend for that.”
He didn’t understand how a sidekick could predict his dialogue or connect to witchcraft in any way, but he wouldn’t have time to ask. Their time ran out, and a few of the angrier animals ended the conversation by closing in around her again. He slipped back out of the crowd and found Big Harry again.
“Hey, you tell them not to harm her or anyone else until I’ve gotten to the bottom of this, alright?” said Mr. Fluffington.
The bird opened his beak to protest but he beat him to it.
“Harry, I’ve known you since you were a chick. I helped you get into smithing, yeah?”
Big Harry nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”
“I want nothing to happen until I find and deal with those two ‘boys’ you mentioned. Can you describe them for me?”
“They were dogs,” muttered the bird. “Fluffy coats. One all black, one all white. Very big dogs.”
“And when have you last seen them?”
“Yesterday evenin’. Anythin’ else?”
“No. Thanks. See you later.”
Mr. Fluffington walked off, knowing full well Big Harry could stall the mob for a few days at the very least. He didn’t stop walking as he circled around the village. It was his way of blowing off steam so that he didn’t explode on someone.
Two dogs, huh? There was no universe where a cat was going to beat two dogs. It annoyed him especially because they were two dogs that didn’t belong to Dirt Brick or Westshire. They were foreigners intruding on his land, killing animals, and influencing the villagers. It was animalistic behavior―in a bad way―through and through. And he couldn’t do anything about it, never mind the fact he didn’t know their current whereabouts. He also had nowhere to stay.
The day winded down and Mr. Fluffington never stopped walking, except to watch the dirt road leading into the town for two large dogs. Sometimes someone would approach him, ask him about the current “witch wave”, or thank him for something unrelated. In every case, he silently nodded and walked off.
The village was busier than usual that day, because the animals that lived in the hills and woodlands came out to see all the commotion. According to floating rumors, Dusty wasn’t the only witch, and, unsurprisingly, all cats were evil. But no one dared to bother Mr. Fluffington beyond small talk. It would take a new level of paranoia and hysteria to give the animals enough confidence to go after him. Even if most of the newer animals didn’t know any better, they didn’t approach him either because he didn’t look like a cat under all his dirtiness.
The number of new arrivals peaked in the evening. By then they had set up torches to light up the village at night, barricades for some reason, and pitchforks for the animals capable of carrying them.
Mr. Fluffington circled around it all, simmering down enough to plot his revenge. Rage and spite were fuel, and he had enough to continue plotting until night. Unfortunately, food was also fuel, and he eventually had to enter the tavern.
It was packed. The animals went out the door, but he managed to get by and to the bar.
“Three strip synths,” he said to the tavern keeper once he got there. The poor beaver that owned the tavern was also its only employee. Business boomed, but he couldn’t keep up.
“Fluffy, is that you?”
The counter was only two feet tall, but they both had to poke their heads over it to see one another.
“Yes.” Drunken laughter and conversation drowned out Mr. Fluffington’s response. “Yes!”
“Coming right up. I still owe you ten more, right?”
“Yes!”
He returned seconds later with three fresh strips of synth. They were pink and fatty, but they were good enough considering there were no alternatives. Mr. Fluffington sat by the counter several minutes after scoffing them up. It was by far the most efficient way of eavesdropping. The drunk patrons rambled off about a lot of things, oftentimes only joking and bantering without any valuable info. However, someone would occasionally mention something about the current situation.
Dusty the owl, two cats, and a sloth were being kept at Big Harry’s forge because witches (and sidekicks) were apparently vulnerable to iron. It was interesting that no one ever cared about the traveling wizards, but witches were suddenly the problem. A cat’s nine lives had also only ever been a rumor, but now it was a problem. The tavern wasn’t very big and its lighting owed entirely to rows of candles set along the sides, but Mr. Fluffington saw the faces of a wide variety of animals talking that night. There were sparrows, ducks, pigs, lizards, rabbits, and dogs, but not a single owl or cat in sight. Out of all the dogs, none of them fit the previous descriptions.
As he was taking his leave, one of the foreign animals, a muskrat, looked at Mr. Fluffington. He opened his mouth to say something only for a hiss to shut him up. No one else tried stopping him on his way out.
After exiting into the open night air, Mr. Fluffington shouted something explicit at no one in particular. He whipped his to the side a second after and realized he had accidentally said it to one animal in particular.
There was the small mouse, clutching her papers, looking up at him. Her fur color still hadn’t recovered from the soot, soil, and smoke from the previous day.
“Oh, sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay. I got the papers out.”
“Yeah?”
She gave him one.
He read it. It went:
Cattrap News: Weekely Editon: Braking!!!
BRAKING: KILLRS TRY KILLING MR. FLUFINGTON AND HOUS
2 dogs - 4 Feet Tall!!!!!! 1 black 1 whit
Last Seen: Little Woods
Report 4 5 morsls of food!!
He stopped reading after the leading story because the rest was a follow up to the stolen eggs incident. Cattrap beamed at him, and for once he returned pleasant surprise.
“Fantastic work,” he said. “How’d you find this all out?”
“Journalist’s secret,” she said, followed by nothing more until she couldn’t contain her excitement. “So, you know Jimbo right? Well, I was passing by doing interviews and he said there were two new foreigners in Westshire and that they were these two big dogs preaching something about equal lives. Interesting, right? And then as I was walking through the Little Woods earlier today, guess what I see? Two big dogs, one white and one black! They looked so suspicious. Us journalists see that. So, I went back home, wrote out these papers, and―sorry, I didn’t ask you first―I’ve been handing them out and plastering them everywhere.”
“You are a professional, Cattrap. Thank you so much.”
She squeaked. “It was nothing! And about the pay―”
“It’s time I took care of this,” said Mr. Fluffington, mostly to himself.
He had already begun marching off. He knew his next destination, and he knew what the assailants looked like. He only needed to think of a way to overcome them in that time. Surely, he would think of something. His rage cooled off. Things started looking up for the first time in his new life.
“Good luck!” shouted Cattrap after him.
She stood with her papers in paw and watched him head down the dirt road, noticing only too late that the only other two animals to take the road in the minutes thereafter were two very big dogs: one black and one white.