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The Vaudevillian Inn By Limewah Commission for Pandamonium 18+

Branson caught himself holding his breath for a moment, like he was about to dive into the sea. The beagle was young for a detective, bespectacled, with a coat that made his shoulders seem broader and his body seem bigger.

He was still working his way into the deeper parts of the boy’s club. They still looked down on him, sneered and sniggered at him behind his back.

So he was shirking off his usual investigative duties - mostly petty theft- to look into something far more far reaching… not to mention dangerous. A vast network of smuggling all sorts of contraband… including ‘live stock’.

This included Detective Wylett, a veteran who Branson half looked up to, half despised. The old rabbit hadn’t been spotted in weeks, his only paper trail being a crisply type-written resignation note, in some fancy, boutique font that most typewriters wouldn’t have. A Liddell Tabulator to be precise.

Branson had stolen the page, did some private analysis of the make and model… and that had lead him to the one owner of such a model, the boss of this establishment.

His expensive tastes definitely extended past writing equipment.

Branson looked up at the crimson and gilt rococo facade of the Vaudevillian Inn. It was far brighter than all the other seedy dive bars, like a final glistening ember in a burnt piece of charcoal.

Speaking of burning things out, he was nearly done with his cigarette.

No more dawdling. He had a conspiracy to unearth.

The taste of tobacco lingered in his mouth as he stepped past the red and gilt Rococo threshold into the Vaudevillian Inn.

The dry chill of the late November night was left behind, and he was surrounded with a sauna-like fog.

The hot air fogged up his spectacles, and the thick toxicity of the dozens of well-loved cigars tickled at the back of his throat. No one paid him much heed, deep in their card games and conversations.

Branson wondered if he might recognize any of his co-workers here; detectives were known to drink here now and again. It was a good spot for information, and a relatively civil spot. Even if he already knew he was going to stink of the smoke for the next day at least.

Long brightly coloured bolts of canvas were draped from the ceiling, whites and blues and pinks stitched together and rising up towards a central point in the middle of the ceiling. It was like he’d somehow stepped out of the city entirely - from a seedy back-alley to an even seedier carnival tent.

It was almost as brightly coloured as the cat behind the bar. He looked like he should have been in a higher-class place, what with that purple top hat and pinstriped suit. His fur was bright pink, with yellow tiger-stripes.

The piercing headlight-yellow eyes and the wide pearlescent grin cut through that stifling sea of smoke.

Branson felt like he’d been found out already. But he wasn’t going to let that on. Straight over to the bar, get a drink, then strike up conversation with one of those lonely weedy guys in the corner snugs, who spoke to no-one and saw everything.

“What can I do ya for?” the cat had a raspy tenor tone, and sounded a little older than he looked. “Nice coat, is it your dad’s?”

“Whiskey, neat,” Branson said, gruffly.

“Sure thing, pal!”

There was something probing about the golden headlight gaze of the grinning cat; it rarely left contact with Branson’s gaze as the drink was fixed… Bransons swore that the cat hadn’t even blinked. “I’m giving you some top-shelf stuff, but I’m charging you for the rotgut!”

“Thanks,” Branson grunted, leaving a fistful of dollar bills on the table before peeling away.

“Mysterious type, huh? Well, have a good evenin’ young man!”

Naturally, he was not going to just leap into interrogating one of them. That lonely looking rabbit in the half-moon shaped corner booth looked like a safe bet. White furred once, now grey-furred. He was nursing a bottle of ale, so Branson took the liberty of bringing one over as well.

“Mind if I join you?” The dog asked.

“Why, thank you, dear boy.” The rabbit’s voice was both raspy and plummy, with a fancy affectation that suggested his accent was the only thing left of his past glories; and he had no intention of letting it go. “I have a very important date, but I suppose I could have some esteeméd company until then, yes yes.”

Branson smiled. This one was going to keep him occupied for the night, for sure.

The rabbit was quite loose-lipped, content to spill gossip on each and every patron like a high-society dandy. Very rich for Branson’s blood, perhaps too rich.

But he was full of stories, and the rookie detective caught himself actually laughing - not humouring him, but genuinely amused.

Three drinks later, he’d had his fill of conversation, plus the bar was beginning to thin out. Though the smoke had not gotten any less dense.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” Branson said as he looked out across the now quiet ‘tented’ establishment.

The rabbit was resting against the booth, fast asleep, a slight stain of beer on his moustache.

“You can let Mr Tweed doze!”

Branson tensed and bared his teeth - out of instinct and paranoia.

The cat was looking down at him. He stuck out even more than he did behind the bar.

“He’s a good old friend of mine, I’ve got a nice bed in the back room for loyal customers like him.”

“That’s… nice,” Branson said, standing up.

“Have a good night?” The cat seemed to be getting even further into the dog’s personal space, even though Branson was pretty sure he wasn’t moving.

“I did, thank you.”

The dog was trying not to look into the cat’s piercing eyes. Like if he stared too long that the gleaming glare might steal his soul. He turned, only to feel a hand clap him on the shoulder - and with it, a scent of faintly sweet cologne.

“You seem like a nice kid,” the cat said, his voice mellifluous and subtly seductive. “Come back again!”

Branson’s muzzle flickered into a brief smile, too brief for his conscious mind to notice it as he walked back out into the cold night.

But it left a little whisper in the back of his mind. A desire to return.

He would definitely be back. If only for more pleasant conversation.

…And to continue his investigations.

Anyway, he wasn’t in any rush.

He didn’t need to chase the truth out of the rabbit, it would be fine to tease it out over a few drinks, maybe even a cigar if he was feeling adventurous.

—-----------------------------

Branson usually walked home when he had an office day. The bracing chill didn’t get to him so much, and it was a good way to slough off the stuffy warmth of that desk, the exhausting paperwork, the inane conversation with co-workers who didn’t realise how boring they all were. It was a chance for him to be alone with his thoughts; he blended in with the tired masses of people, all on their own routes home. The beagle’s body knew the route home innately, alert enough to avoid walking into traffic, but automatic enough to allow for deep thought. He was mulling over his first visit to that Vaudevillian Inn… it had been a week, by his reckoning, with nothing conclusive. He was planning on stopping in at some point… but when?

He didn’t realise where his legs had taken him up until he was standing outside the door to the Vaudevillian, and his paw was pushing the door open.

The place had only just opened for the evening, so the crowd was smaller, and the smoke had not yet started to congregate above them like bats in the rafters.

…He hadn’t been planning on continuing his investigations. Every trail he’d followed inevitably went cold. At least, the ones that hadn’t involved this place…

Was it dangerous to be setting foot here?

He considered that as he made his way to the bar. Someone else was tending the bar; a red-furred raccoon who looked as thin as a playing card.

Maybe he’d strike up a conversation with this one, too, see what he could glean about the boss.

He didn’t feel quite so tired anymore.

“I say, good sir!”

As Branson got his drink, he glanced at the booth from last time. The grey rabbit was waving him over, and he caught himself smiling as he went to join.

An hour melted by, perhaps longer, before Branson felt eyes on him.

He looked over his shoulder, and there was the pink-furred feline once more. That warm, friendly, wide smile with the subtle hint of threat lurking just behind it.

The dog held back a flinch. There was something disarmingly familiar about the cat’s demeanour, too… like it wasn’t only the second time they’d met. Like there was something more familiar.

“Hey there, kid!” the cat said. “Mind if I join my old friend?”

“I would be so happy if you did!” Mr. Tweed said, in a strangely energised tone. A faraway look was in the rabbit’s bloodshot eyes, and Branson got the sense that he was being asked to leave.

“Sure, I’ll let you two catch up.”

The dog scooched out of the booth and stood. The cat still watched him. Branson only got a couple of steps before something metallic hooked into his chest. He glanced down at the brassy hilt of the candy-striped cane, before it tugged and pushed him bodily back into the booth.

“I didn’t say you had to leave, kiddo!” the cat said. “You seem like a nice young man, and I’d very much like to get to my old pal’s new pal.”

Was this a threat? Would Branson have to make a run for it?

…He’d never been in this deep. Had he just gone too far?

He clutched his drink a little tight.

The cat was still dressed to the nines, and he spread his legs out to take up as much space on the velour upholstery - he did own the place, after all.

The cat’s besuited leg brushed against Branson’s knee as he found himself shifting over without complaint, allowing himself to be even more hemmed in by the cat and the rabbit. Why he was allowing it, he wasn’t quite sure.

He felt a little tingle from where they’d touched. A desire to feel touch again.

When it came to fur-to-fur contact, the most Branson tended to get was formal handshakes. He had no mother to hug him, no lover to lie with.

…what had he been missing? And why did he feel like he could find it there?

He pushed it down, and focused on the pink cat’s face. Keeping an eye out for any potential tells.

“Don’t believe I introduced myself last time, friend!” the proprietor said, offering a paw. “You can just call me Chet; a friend of Tweed’s is a friend of mine.”

Branson took the paw. The handshake was strangely soft, friendly, gentle, like the hand of a still-grieving widow.

As Chet pulled his hand away, his claws brushed against Branson’s palm and fingers.

There was that shiver again. It felt a little more intimate.

“I hope you’re nice and comfortable, anyway,” Chet continued with a gentle smile. “When you walked in last week, you know what I saw? I saw someone looking for something. Not just snooping and sniffing the way you detectives normally do.”

“I suppose you notice the signs better than most,” Branson said, taking up his drink and peering down at it to break contact with the intense, flood-light eyes. They were like twin sunsets, making him feel small, yet strangely content. Like it would be safe to let his guard down, in spite of his intuition telling him otherwise.

“Exactly, kiddo,” the cat continued with his tired, high-pitched voice. “I don’t mind. This place is a safe space for all walks of life, both sides of the tracks. Think of this as neutral territory! Think of this as a space where you can relax. Leave the worries of work behind, and give yourself permission to cut loose. Here, would you like one?”

Where did the cigar come from? Branson puckered his lips defensively and pulled away. He never touched the stuff, seeing how the constant chain-smoking made some of the older detectives wheeze when they did any sort of physical effort. But both Chet and Mr. Tweed were already puffing on thick, smouldering shafts.

His canine nose was picking up so many more scents at this range. Freshly cracked pepper Chocolate burning on a campfire. The scent of a lounge singer’s neck, if he was to bury his nose in it as he embraced her and guided her into the bed, kissing away the tiredness and the sweat from his…

The smoke poured into his mouth. His eyes crossed as he looked down at the flame burning the end of the cigar.

He hadn’t even noticed the cigar slip into his mouth, or that he was the one lighting it.

He was using his own zippo, a beaten-up old thing that he only kept to flick open and closed.

Or to burn inconvenient evidence.

“That lighter’s a cute little thing,” Chet said, poking it with his finger. “Just like you.”

The cat’s claws poked through his gloves, and traced little paw-steps along the back of Branson’s neck, to his opposite shoulder. As he spoke, his free hand sort of swam through the air, emphasising that showman’s patter.

“I hope you don’t mind me being forward, but, like I said, this is a safe space. And you should feel safe to explore yourself here. I can see it in your eyes, the way you carry yourself. This job of yours, this identity, it’s chafing with you. You’re a lot like Mr. Tweed there.”

Mr Tweed’s eyes had turned from their normal red to a pale, gleaming yellow, and his head was lolling to the side as an easy, relaxed smile spread along his whiskered face.

When had that happened?

Branson chuffed a little from the intrusive smoke, shifting in the booth.

“Don’t tense up,” Chet purred, “Don’t breathe deeply. Just let the smoke in.”

Branson didn’t appreciate being talked down to - he knew how to smoke a cigar, he just… wasn’t used to it.

But the smoke felt nice in the back of his throat, sweetening the lingering taste of whiskey on his palate.

“The way you carry your body, the way you look at the other men in here… You’ve got a lot of repressed desires, kiddo, why else would you be here?”

Branson looked past the cat. Through the lazily swirling ghost-like haze of tobacco, he noticed the other booths, the ones like his. Men’s muzzles were pressing to each other, sharing plumes of freshly exhaled cigar-smoke.

It made him feel… angry. Uncomfortable.

…Tight in the pants, too.

But he had to rip his gaze away, as if staring too long would burn his eyes.

“Hell no, you got the wrong idea. I don’t wanna be around… perverts.” Branson growled, his hackles raising slightly. He was going to have to beat a retreat before someone groped him…

“Oh, we’re all perverts here,” Chet chuckled. “Same as you.”

Branson felt acid in his throat. He yanked the cigar out of his mouth and speared it into the ashtray in the middle of the table. It didn’t quite go out, and Mr. Tweed lazily reached over to take it and puff on it.

“C’mon, kiddo, no need to throw a tantrum,” Chet said, his voice as even and comfortable as ever.

“You don’t realise it, but that desire’s there. And you’re carrying so much weight, holding yourself back, like there’s a weight in your chest.”

Chet’s paw pressed gently into Branson’s chest. He flinched, and his teeth began to bare.

“What the hell?”

“No no, it’s okay,” Chet said, his voice only rising for a moment before it dropped back to the quiet silken tone. It startled Branson again, and made him pause as the soft, gloved paw pushed firmly into his chest. “You can feel the pressure now, can’t you?”

Branson could have disagreed… he thought he could, anyway. But he didn’t feel like disagreeing. He felt strangely comfortable. Something about Chet was familiar, like a long forgotten friend. His words felt familiar, too, like a song that was on the tip of his tongue.

The paw on his chest felt nice, too, firm, magnetised to his chest. The more it pushed, the more he noticed that knot of tension, and the thumping of his heart…

Chet pulled his paw away, and Branson caught himself exhaling, and his heart slowed.

“That’s better, right? You can breathe a sigh of relief here, let that guard of yours down, kiddo.”

The more Chet said, the more the smoke burned away, the more the dog began to wonder if that was why he’d come here after all, maybe the cat was right…

“What’s your name?” Chet asked, and Branson felt the answer on his lips, but… something past the smoke, past the cat, caught his attention. The men in the other booths were stripping each other naked, pawing at each other with teenaged abandon. He caught flashes of pink tongue before they were hidden by muzzles crushing together, jets of cigar smoke pushing downwards through their nostrils.

“Enjoying the show?” Chet continued, giving Branson a hug around the shoulders and pushing his paw into Branson’s chest again. “Feeling more at ease? The smoke n’ drink mix so well, don’t they?”

The more the smoke enfolded him, the more the sweet taste clung to the inside of his mouth… the smaller he felt, the more vast the inn - and the proprietor - seemed to become.

“I’ll ask you again,” the cat continued, “And you’ll answer me if you like, and when the answer leaves your lips, it’ll leave your mind too, for me. What is your name?”

“Branson…” the dog said, with no hesitation. The name slipped from his mind.

“Thank you very kindly,” Chet said with a grin, his stripes still whirling and spiralling with so many shades of pink. His cane glinted as it moved back and forth, seeming to catch the light and shine it into the dog’s left eye, then his right…

He faintly noticed Mr. Tweed handing the cigar back to him, and it was easy to put it back into his mouth and let the smoke seep in.

He went back to the slow metronome of the shining cane, and the comforting hug of the cat’s arm around his shoulders. He was following it back and forth, and each flash made the taste bloom in his mouth and the smoke bloom in his throat.

The cat’s cane-tip traced a slow, lazy spiral in the air, and each flash and glint of light bounced off the inside of Branson’s head. With each flash, a memory came back into his head.

A memory of falling the curling spirals in the cat’s wide eyes, drooling onto the table as the cat purred sweet nothings.

A memory of whiskey-dipped fingers pushing against his tongue, the fumes filling the pores in his mind.

A memory of the darkness beneath the table, and the many delicious tastes and scents he discovered beneath them.

“That’s right. It’s coming back to you now… You’re just as good at following as always. So good at remembering your place here, that you’re among friends… among perverts.”

“You’ve been here so many times, kiddo. More than just three. Why, I’ve seen you just about every night since you first had your chats with Mr. Tweed here. Why, I thought you might have even recognized him by now!”

The dog couldn’t look at the rabbit, but the nice cat must have been right…

“And every night has been the same, we’ve had ourselves a lovely little routine,” Chet said with a smile, and the sleepy dog smiled back in sleepy mimickry, half-mouthing the words in a silent echo

“I’ve served you a drink, you’ve made yourself comfy with Mr. Tweed, and eventually I’ve joined you for some chats of my own. Let you look at my pretty cane, and listen to my nice voice, and remind you that we’re all perverts here. Even you. Especially you…”

“Especially me…” the sleepy dog croaked, giggling vapidly.

“And it only took seven days to work your way up to giving your name to me.”

“To… you…?” the dog repeated.

“And now that I’ve taken that… we can see about taking the rest of you, cutie. And change you ways you never knew you wanted. All you need to do is let me step into your mind, just the same way you let some of yourself go when you stepped into the bar…”

The last gasp of the dog’s will surged forth in that moment, one last attempt to resist and re-connect the hemispheres of his mind together. Mr. Tweed was… what was his name, it began with a W, like his own name began with a B…br…

It was just out of reach, he strained for it through the swirling pink and the fog-light glimmer of the cane… he’d spent so long falling without realising it, and now was his only chance to pull it back - he needed to escape, he was in danger, he needed help, he needed to tell the other detectives that the cat was the one smuggling goods, and he was doing it by-!

“Knock knock.”

As the cat spoke those crisp words, he tapped the glinting handle of the cane on Branson’s forehead.

The dog’s mind split in half like a dry log.

His name was gone again, and he was back to just being a dog. Well, that is, you would have put it together if I wasn’t just gently pulling apart those thoughts and connections, night, after night, after night.”

The dog felt strange, swimming in the ethers of the ever-deepening trance and trying to process the words from the pretty cat’s pretty mouth. This all sounded right, or maybe wrong, or…

“Knock knock.”

The thought was gone again, his mind split into smaller pieces again.

“Now, then.”

The handle of the cane tapped on the detective’s forehead one last, decisive time, like a surreptitious door-knock to send a signal.

“One more knock should open your mind right up, and let me in…”

The dog who once was Branson fell into a trance. His mind split apart entirely.

His eyes rolled straight into the back of his head, and his mind opened up, for the feline Vaudevillian to step right inside, take up space in the widening, smoke filled cavern of his mind.

He felt safe in the inn, and safe in his mind, both of them swirling with dark, acrid sweetness.

It was better this way. Far more right.

The memories of being a detective, the leads he followed, the chips on his shoulder… he didn’t miss them. He didn’t even remember them.

He was happier not remembering them.

He belonged in the opaque smoke, gazing into the gleaming searchlight eyes that pierced through the fog, pierced through him.

The centre of his universe was the eyes, and his Boss, who they belonged to.

His mind was quiet. And he was free to serve.

In the ‘real world’, the dog was sitting upright in his seat. His eyes were blank, unseeing orbs, and his mouth hung open in a smiling, tongue-lolling pant.

Cheshire Chet stood up from the booth and admired his work with a delighted smile, his searchlight eyes leering over him.

“Cute body on this one,” he murmured. “It’d be a waste to mess around with it the way I did with the other one…”

He glanced over at Mr. Tweed - formerly Mr Wylett - and snapped his claws.

“Yes, Boss?” the rabbit sat to attention instantly, eyes spinning gold as his sleepy smile turned wide and tight. No trace of the plummy, put-upon accent from before. “What can I do you for?”

“Help me bring this cute hunk of flesh to the backroom. I think we need to examine him for a spell, see whether he’s worth selling, or worth keeping.”

He was leaning towards the latter, personally… either way, no one would miss the dog. And even if they did… the cat had enough friends to be left well enough alone.

Chet’s gleaming eyes swept over the crowd, drawing their adoring, mesmerised gaze to him.

“Please, carry on, friends, don’t mind me~!” he snapped his fingers.

“Yes, Boss!” the crowd all chanted in unison, and the fatcat giggled with delight. That part never failed to get him high as a kite… and hard as a rock.

He put his hand around the dog’s shoulders as he was brought to his feet, and lead him along, towards the darkness in the back. The clothes would be removed and burnt, any last vestiges of his old self would be obliterated.

Everything would be business as usual.