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Cowboy Blue

Written by Poet, of House Vindonnus

Also known professionally as

“Vinny the Poet”

“When conformity threatens you with alienation

When facism leads to isolation

If you become afraid, for you’ve become alone

Cling to the community that accepts you, whole and individual”

-Briar Pulpwood

The Epilogue

I finish the last chapter of The Curious Foxes. I pour myself a glass of brandy, and stare out over the Hudson. I haven’t had a drink of liquor for years now. I am breaking the streak this evening. I don’t have to prove anything to myself anymore. I know I won’t drink tomorrow.

It is the 7th of November in the year 2024.

I have a close friend from Canada, a hare by the name of Briar Pulpwood. They are a publisher, and I am a writer. And for time immemorial, Briar has asked me to write something for their publishing house. Briar was tired of producing esoteric spellbooks and historical accounts of old archwitches, only for a small little target audience consisting only of magicians that keep themselves hidden from the wider world. For the society are the practitioners and harbingers of magic, and have decided unto themselves that nothing was more important than secrecy.

Briar was tired of publishing for practicality alone. Briar has a perennial interest in culture, of our little society flourishing artistically, and patting itself on the back, regardless of whether it was earned. The historical record is important, but culture should never be resigned to the fate of forever playing second fiddle, according to Briar. They believe that a community that clings to itself is the salve for all of the world’s woes

I was not particularly proud of the Awngaimene community. I didn’t particularly resent it either. And I am a writer, and I write books for the wider Tystwole world. And that spark of artistry lies dormant when Briar asks me, time and time again, to ignite it for the sake of the Awngaimene society. It is not a society that I’ve turned my back on, but it is not a society that I need to play the role of Atlas for. Nothing is gained by me hoisting it up on my shoulders. And so, for that particular era of my career, I didn’t.

And I already have a publisher. I doubt that there’d be any breach of contract if I decide to write for a second publisher tucked safely inside of a secret society hellbent on keeping itself secret, but that primary publisher was greedily awaiting my third book, and writing two books at the same time felt as though it’d be a tad bit draining. So I told Briar “No, I don’t have time for a second book,” and then I wrote neither.

Time passed. And then Briar told me about a friend they knew in Michigan. Some Fangdyne Tystwole fox with a background in musical theater, of all things, and absolutely no training whatsoever as a writer. I got a kick out of that. I got my master’s in creative writing, even though it was on my parents' dime. Grassroots, untrained writing has its place in the canon, though the fox’s book was autobiographical, which I found tacky. I wasn’t about to resign myself to the fate of reading an entire book written by some amateur, but Briar was a friend, and when the hare trusted someone’s talent, I took them for their word.

My first two books still sell pretty well. They’ve become quite popular on Tumblr and TikTok. I’d had enough of a nest egg built to just take a weekend, work on nothing professional whatsoever, and read a book alone in my Manhattan apartment. I’d had writer’s block for so long, I wasn’t about to get anything productive done anyway.

I am not someone who knows the quality of a book. I am not a critic. Though I am someone who trusts in his own emotional response to things. I don’t know the people in this book, and in a way, I don’t know the society that this book is about, even if I was born into it. Before I read the book, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d gotten out. That I was some sort of fugitive having scratched and clawed his way out of some sort of cult’s prison compound. A particular moment in my life cemented that feeling within me, and I don’t think it’ll ever go away. And I felt guilty, because for the longest time, I recognized our society’s privilege in this world, and its fickle little urge to make itself feel special, and I couldn’t be certain that we’d earned it.

We bend the stars in the constellations to our wills, and cure diseases that go on to claim the lives of thousands of animals who will never once taste the panacea of magic. We arm ourselves with strange spells and rituals, and tell ourselves that the keeping of secrets keeps the wider world safe. From what? Monsters under the bed? Hidden shadows in the woods armed with knives? Who were we to declare ourselves so special? To live life in a way in which money is no object, while doing nothing to end poverty. To congratulate ourselves for our own progressive ideals while not once wielding our power to end speciesism or homophobia, running rampant in the wider world. I would never act on that resentment, but for as long as I lived, I knew that I couldn’t celebrate these aspects of our society. And so I went on, feeling guilty, in an abstract, unnamable way. I couldn’t even describe that knotty, sickly feeling in my gut, the dread that there were no good people in the world. That there never were good people in the world. That no one was immune to selfishness. I only paid attention when the little players in their little theater wound up in a situation horrible enough to make the play more interesting. It never once warmed my heart that those horrible situations were often of the players’ own making. Once I’d given a name to the feeling, I was afraid that I couldn’t stop myself from becoming a nihilist. Nihilism had a habit of being expensive and nauseating.

And I finished this fox’s book, and instead began to resent myself for thinking about our society in such a way. Even after I’ve seen the society at its most poisoned, and barely survived the toxicity.

I am not the animal with whom our stories are told. I am no Atlas, nor am I a titan pretender.

But there was one particular tale I told Briar, a couple years back. In 2022, when countries had opened up borders once more, I invited Briar to my apartment in New York. I’d always told them bits and pieces of this particular tale, but I wanted to tell Briar the whole thing in person, from start to finish. The hare had killed a bottle of wine by the time I was done. I had killed a bottle of sparkling water, only to realize that the carbonation wasn’t good for my vocal cords. And I finished the tale, and Briar had asked for time immemorial for me to put it down in written form.

And I didn’t want to, even if I had permission to.

And I never wanted to admit it, but it was because of that resentment I held towards the society. It was a resentment that paradoxically waxed and waned as I told my tale. It was a resentment that I could never fully articulate until I finished The Curious Foxes. And it was that resentment that I had to recognize as foolish and misguided, because it was a resentment that I saw, not in every single person, but only the people who actively chose selfishness. Every single person will fail and falter and succumb to selfishness before my very eyes until the day that I die, and I will never change that. I must learn not to look away when the people of this world claw and scratch their way out of the pit of despair, and reach towards goodness unto itself. But I told Briar in 2022 that I wouldn’t write the book.

I put The Curious Foxes down. I finish my brandy, pour another two glasses’ worth, and watch the bits of New York that I can catch between the river and I. And I watch the city’s countless lights and countless lives, meandering about in its hypnotizing, organic, complicated choreography. None of these people will ever read my third book. I finish my second glass of brandy and begin to type.

It is not for my guilt, nor for my ego, nor to distract myself from the resentment, This is for Briar, and for the hope that we can all be the good and noble versions of ourselves.

This will be a departure from The Curious Foxes. It will be an autobiography, but it will be written in third-person. It will follow three different points-of-view: mine and the Jack of Club’s perspective, the perspective of a Silent Wolf, and the perspective of a tabby cat with a golden tooth. Some additional perspectives will creep in whenever these characters enter the proximity of the Wolf, the cat, the alligator, or myself. All of the scenes in which I was physically present will be told with complete authenticity. I kept a thorough log of the journey. I take artistic license on the scenes where I am not present.

One doesn’t need to read the fox’s book in order to feel caught up in this story. After all, mine does take place first, chronologically. Though I very much so recommend reading The Curious Foxes if you haven’t yet.

It probably isn’t prudent that I explain the Awngaimene society in too much detail. In fact, if you’re reading this book, and haven’t come across that word before, then something absolutely wretched has gone wrong with the way in which Briar has distributed this. But it is good to be prepared, and I respect Fangdyne Tystwoles enough to not leave them in the dark if they stumble across this little memoir after all.

The Awngaimene society is a secretive society that practices and protects the modern world from magic and witchcraft. Those who know nothing of the existence of magic are referred to as Tystwoles, and those Tystwoles who are thrust into the hidden world against their will are referred to as Fangdyne Tystwoles. The society is run like a well-oiled machine by the Mulgywai who facilitate the day-to-day milieu of hiding a secret society, and the Foulgydan are the Archwitches of old who occasionally aid the Mulgywai in their occupation. One becomes Foulgydan either by merit of their long life or strength of their magic. One may also belong to an Awngaimene House if they are prolific enough within the community, but most Foulgydan belong to a house anyway. All of the words are gibberish, and the system was first put together by the Ajai Foulgydan, Chaaya of the Waxing Crescent, at the turn of the 19th century. Various spells, enchanted artifacts, and magical beings will turn up in this book, and each will be explained as they appear, though I do hear rumors that a proper encyclopedia is currently being worked on by another of Briar’s colleagues in the Awngaimene authorial circles; an otter named Mako.

The Pack of Cards, which the fox hadn’t come across in his book, is a group of Awngaimene who call no one place home, even though a majority of them are American. They travel the world, going on grand magical adventures, and aiding the poor and unfortunate animals who come across magical threats too dire to handle alone. The Pack is famous for its renowned skill in spellcraft, for one must have an Archwitch’s capacity for sorcery in order to be accepted within the guild’s ranks.

The book begins in the dead middle of the summer of 2021. A plague had once again rattled the world, and once again, the animals of the world were too blind to treat it with prejudice.

A raccoon named Poet steps into an old dusty saloon in a town in Maine, just south of the border. The Wild West. That’s Cowboy Blue.

Chapter 1 - Bellyaching

The sky looks stunning over a dusty plain.

Anticipation almost has a palpable taste when its presence comes about. It sat on the raccoon’s tongue with the richness of bloody iron. He was about to undertake something entirely new.

But as he stepped into the diner, the raccoon noticed that the alligator with whom he was to meet had failed to show up.

An older, gray-furred jenny approached from behind the bar. The raccoon suspected that the waitress knew more recipes for milkshakes than cocktails. Her outfit, much like the rest of the diner, had attempted to capture the nostalgia of the 1950’s. One needn’t look far to see the black-and-white checkerboard tile and vibrant jukebox that didn’t seem to be plugged in. The jenny’s long dress was pastel pink in hue, and her white apron and collar were fringed with lolling half circles. The outfit came with a neat, pink little hat, which sat casually on the diner’s counter. A plain white surgical mask was draped over the waitress’s equine nose, the straps long enough to accommodate longer faces.

“Table or booth?”

The raccoon, too, had a surgical mask covering his nose and mouth. A cardboard box was held tightly under his left arm, small enough not to slip from the grip of the mammal’s arms alone. Something the size of a football tumbled around inside, as though the container lacked proper packaging material. There was no address on the box, simply the drawing of a sun in black marker, and the word’s “For Beau” written underneath.

“Booth please, ma’am. I’m expecting someone.”

The jenny responded with actions instead of words, and placed two menus atop the baby-blue aluminum booth table closest to the door to the kitchen. The raccoon wasn’t too offended. He hadn’t gone out to eat in public for a while, but had little difficulty imagining that the clientele in the middle of a pandemic weren’t altogether deserving of top-shelf customer service in the eyes of the animals working in that field. The procyon mammal placed the package on the table, with the little picture of the sun facing the opposing seat, and sat in a pale pink booth with his right leg crossed over his left. He took care not to place his elbows on the table. The raccoon set his mind to keeping a watchful eye out the window, even though the sun had set half-an-hour ago, and the dim light of dusk was anything but illuminating.

Another couple sat in the restaurant. A crow woman and a rabbit man waited for their food, and paid the raccoon no particular attention. This suited the lone mammal just fine; any potential north country hick might bemoan him for being flamboyant, and ambivalence was preferable. He was dressed in a flowing, silk long-sleeved shirt with a lovely orange-and-yellow pansy floral design, and a particularly tight pair of blue jeans that the procyon mammal had long since gotten comfortable wearing. The tightness of the jeans was mitigated by the massive hole in the back sewed in order to accommodate animals with massive, bushy tails. The fur on the raccoon’s mask, and the insides of his ears, was a dark black, which drastically transitioned to white on his brow and muzzle without so much as a single gray strand of fur in between. Where some raccoons would have the majority of their coat decked out in shades of gray, this raccoon’s fur was more of a chestnut brown, save for the black bands on his bushy tail, and the black tips of his forepaws and hindpaws.

He wore a black cowboy hat.

Earlier, he had worn a striking tortoiseshell pair of sunglasses with a cat-eyed frame, but those now hung from the front of his collar, considering that their mortal enemy, the sun, had set.

“Want something to drink while you wait?”

The waitress hadn’t startled the raccoon, but he certainly didn’t expect her to return so shortly. “Oh, just a dry red for me.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t sell alcohol.”

“Oh, hmm… In that case-” The raccoon hadn’t taken the time to look at the menu and made a guess. “I’ll just take a milkshake. Strawberry, please.”

“Sure thing. Whipped cream?”

“No to the whipped cream, yes to the little cherry.”

“Sure thing.” The waitress made no further pomp, nor any broader circumstance, and turned towards the diner bar.

The raccoon usually made a point not to pull his phone out at the dinner table, but he did take the time to check one contact. It simply read “Mal.” Her last text was from three days ago.

The milkshake arrived before the alligator.

The jenny pulled out a little notebook. “Want to wait for your friend still, or are you in the mood to eat?”

A hungry impulse crept into the mind of the lonely patron, but the raccoon waited for the other mammal to leave before pulling his mask off to take a sip. “I may wait a little while longer, if it’s not too inconvenient.”

“Should I keep an eye out for anyone in particular?”

Paw digits tapped on the table’s aluminum. “It’s really a friend of a friend, I’ve never met the guy myself, but I was told to deliver this package-”

“I only asked for the guy’s species, hun.”

“Oh,” the raccoon chittered out a little laugh in embarrassment. “So sorry, I’ve been mulling over this whole situation all day. It’s all very, very strange. Has an alligator stopped by at all today?”

The donkey shrugged. “I’m afraid not.”

“I believe he’s coming in from Canada.” The raccoon gestured grandly out towards the empty streets of downtown Calais, Maine. “Maybe there’s traffic.”

That had gotten a light chuckle out of the waitress. “Yeah, rush hour’s a real bitch this time of day.” The raccoon beamed a friendly smile towards his newfound comedic compatriot, heedless of the fact that it was obscured by a mask.

“I should probably wait a few minutes for him. I tragically don’t have his number.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, then.”

The donkey went to check on the other patrons of the diner. The raccoon carefully removed his mask from his face and gingerly laid it on a napkin that he’d pulled from a metal dispenser. The side of the dispenser had an advertisement for a white water rafting tour. The raccoon then took a sip of the sweet, thick strawberry milkshake. Very few non-alcoholic beverages taste better on a hot summer day.

A third of the milkshake had disappeared before the chiming of a bell rang out over the dull humming of an air conditioner.

The musculature of his arms and torso was larger than most alligators’, at least among those that the raccoon had seen before. His scales were as pale and white as a reptile's scales could be without the animal actually being albino. The hue skewed towards a greenish-yellowish direction. He had on a dark-brown aviator jacket, despite it being summer, and wide-cut blue jeans covered in various mud stains and tears that certainly didn’t come from the manufacturer. He wore a mask that wrapped around the back of his head, for he had no external ears. His heavy tail dragged across the tile of the diner, and no animal could doubt that a bevy of scuff marks lay in its wake. He approached the crow before he approached the mammal sitting alone.

“Dahbin io?”

The black-feathered bird broke her gaze with her lagomorphic friend and stared at the reptile in nonchalant confusion. Most Awngaimene animals tend to slip that little greeting in as discreetly as possible, in order to identify other witches. The alligator seemingly had little time for such subtlety. The raccoon clamored to his hindpaws before the crow could answer, nearly tripping over his crossed leg in the process. “Awngaimene!” He shouted. It was at that moment that he realized that the alligator was expecting a bird instead of a mammal, and went to clarify. “So sorry, Mal probably didn’t shoot you the memo. She’s been absolutely wretched with texting all day.” The raccoon had hoped that he’d used enough normal English to throw a smokescreen over the esoteric greeting, and sure enough, the crow and rabbit went back to their mundane conversation after the alligator mumbled “Sorry,” and made his way over to the raccoon’s table.

“We handled that well-”

“Who the hell are you?” The alligator snapped in a stern, borderline angered voice. He was entirely devoid of patience.

“Well, my name’s Poet. I’m a friend of Malvina’s.”

That seemingly ended the conversation. The alligator got up to leave.

Without rising to the reptile’s level of theatrics, Poet called out while remaining seated, flashing a cheeky smile. “Absolutely stellar first impression. At least take this package with you, I’d hate for this drive to have been a complete waste of time.”

The alligator stopped in his tracks. He’d seemingly missed that a sizable cardboard parcel sat on the table. And then he saw the sun.

“I don’t trust you-”

“Please lower your voice, I’d rather not have the other patrons think we were engaging in an unwarranted improv scene.” Poet then continued in a whisper. “We are, after all, a part of a magical secret society that enjoys remaining secretive.” The raccoon leaned back, legs crossed under the diner table, allowing himself to relax. Begrudgingly, the alligator took the seat opposite of the raccoon, but he never once rested his full weight into the booth. He needed to be ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“So then where the hell is Malvina?”

The conversation didn’t linger in its whispered tones, but the two animals made sure to keep their voices at an indiscernible level. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that question. I was under the impression you’d know more than I-”

“Then why are you here instead of her?”

Poet cleared his throat. “Malvina and I are close friends from childhood. She invited me to the Teleraine Gala in Switzerland that took place two-” The raccoon counted the number of crossed time zones on his digits. “Yes; two days ago. Mal treated the event as her first public debut as a new member of the Pack of Cards; I believe there were a few other Pack members in attendance. The Gala was prematurely called to a close. There was a rumor that the Queen of Hearts had suffered an allergic reaction from walnuts, or what have you, and they wanted to sort the matter out before Tystwole emergency services arrived. Before Mal disappeared into the night, as the little rogue is often wont to do, she told me to meet you at this address on today's date and deliver this package.” The raccoon pushed the parcel towards the reptile with only two digits. “Have I earned your trust?”

The alligator neither relaxed his taut posture, nor motioned again to leave the table. “And you just decided to go all the way from Switzerland to Maine, just to deliver a package to a stranger?”

Poet chuckled at the alligator’s paranoia. “Whatever conspiracy theory you’ve got rattling on in your head, I guarantee that I am completely clueless as to…” The mammal waved a paw around idly, searching for words, “...this scenario as a whole. I am a professional author, however. It’s not the most outlandish short notice trip I’ve gone on.”

“You’re an author?”

“Yeah, though I write for the Tystwoles. My pseudonym is Vinny the Poet; I won’t get offended if you haven’t heard of me, I’m no Mark Twain.”

“I don’t read much.”

“Pity.” The brown-furred raccoon then leaned forward. “Entirely unrelated, but you haven’t told me your name. Am I correct in assuming that you’re the ‘Beau’ this package is-”

What little humor that had started to manifest in the alligator’s demeanor vanished suddenly. “My name’s Jack.”

But the procyon writer was dubious. “So- wait, you’re the Jack of- I don’t know, Hearts or something?”

“I’m the Jack of Clubs.”

“Right, right. But then aren’t there three other Jacks?”

“Yes, that’s how the Pack of Cards’ naming scheme works.”

“Then why do you get to be called ‘Jack?’”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m just Jack.”

The gray-furred equine waitress had just finished up her two-minute leave and returned to the table, delighted that she’d be able to finally take the two animals’ order. Poet scrambled to put his surgical mask back on as the donkey asked. “Welcome to The Saloon, sir.” The name didn’t really fit the decor. “Glad you were able to make it. Can I get you something to drink, or are you ready for me to take your order?”

The donkey stared at her notebook and the alligator stared out of the window. Eye contact wasn’t an important factor to this conversation. “I’m not planning on staying long-”

But Poet interrupted. “No, no. We’re planning on staying long. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Poet, we can’t stay long.”

An audible sigh escaped the waitress’s muzzle. Poet continued, undaunted. “I apologize, ma’am.” He fished for a twenty-dollar bill and handed it off to the waitress. “I wasn’t under the impression that we were under a time limit. I hope this covers both the milkshake and your service.”

The donkey took the bill. “No need to stress about it, hun. But thank you.” It was an entirely earnest sentiment, but the waitress had another table to check, and quickly left in order to do just that. The raccoon was glad that there wasn’t a view into the kitchen. He didn’t want to feel the prying gaze of idle cooks who were forced to spend an entire shift making orders for food delivery app drivers instead of actual patrons. Poet ignored the grumbling of his stomach, cursed to sustain itself on melted milkshake and a single cherry.

Jack somehow remained unembarrassed by the exchange. “So if you don’t mind-” The reptile was about to stand up. Poet took careful notice of the fact that he hadn’t touched the parcel once.

“Wait- If you were just going to leave, you could have at least let me know, so I could order-”

“You’re the one who decided to just pay for your milkshake right there! I don’t care what you do with the rest of your evening!”

Just then, flashing yellow lights penetrated into the burgeoning darkness outside of the window. A tow truck drove briskly down the otherwise quiet main street, and as soon as Jack noticed the vehicle getting towed, he practically pressed his scaled face against the glass of the window.

“God-” He stopped himself mid-thought, but continued swearing anyway. “fucking, bullshit-”

“Is that your truck?” asked Poet, without making an effort to hide his teasing tone.

“Of course it’s my-” Jack turned to stare daggers into the raccoon. “Yeah, that’s my truck.”

“So do you want me to fetch for the waitress after all, or-”

The alligator was practically shouting. “You don’t understand, raccoon. That’s not a normal-” He suddenly shifted into an intense whisper. “Someone is after me.”

At first, the raccoon’s white-furred muzzle was curled up in a doubtful smirk, but the more that the Jack of Clubs held his intense, hateful gaze, the more the Poet’s snideness started to melt into actual worry. “Wait, for real?”

“Yeah, and it’s pissing me off. I’ve had a tail since the border.”

The procyon author stared wide-eyed, and after a moment of silence, urged further. “Are you going to go on, or-”

“You looked like you were gonna say something.”

“I’m actively stopping myself from being snide. This sounds important.”

Jack stared out the window, towards the direction where his vehicle had been whisked away. Another awkward pause hung in the air, but Poet could tell; the reptile was stalling. He didn’t quite trust this furry stranger with the goings-on in his life.

But then, he spoke, slowly and deliberately. “I’ve been on a… sort of a treasure hunt. Started in Nova Scotia, and now I’ve got to head west. Someone’s been after me, but… well, the border’s closed, so they didn’t start coming after me until just now, but they knew I was coming.” The alligator turned his gaze towards the strange writer in the opposite booth. Ever-so-slightly, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny, and hung on his last syllable as though he had the intention to continue talking. The raccoon almost didn’t notice it.

Poet decided to break the tension anyway. “And how exactly did they let you across the border?”

“I don’t want to talk about it- I’m vaccinated, if that’s what you-”

“Oh, no, no. I mean, good that you’re vaccinated, but I wasn’t worried about that.” Poet slurped down the rest of his milkshake, the cutting noise of the blocked straw interrupting what would have been another awkward moment of silence. “So what? You collect this little parcel, and you’re on your way again?”

“I guess that’s the plan.”

“But now your truck’s been towed by nefarious conspirators posing as cops.”

The alligator’s narrowed eyes doubled their thinness. “How come you knew they were posing as cops-”

“Calm down, slim. Very few other occupations involve towing someone’s vehicle away against their will. I’m using deduction.” Poet slurped away at the nothingness in his milkshake glass while Jack continued to say nothing. “Are you going to open the package?”

“I don’t intend to right now.”

“Naturally, naturally.” Another slurping sound.

“There’s nothing left in there-”

“There’s still a little bit left in there.” Regardless of the authenticity of that claim, the raccoon slid the glass towards the middle of the table. “But I suppose I should get going, now that the tab’s paid. Do you need a ride?”

“I’m not going with-”

“You’ve got no vehicle at your disposal. We’re in the middle of nowhere, so trains and planes are out of the question. It’s a bit too late to swing by a place that does rentals.” And then, Poet stood up to lean across the table, his tone taking on a sudden serious color. “Plus, my best friend has disappeared, and you’re my only lead on finding her.”

Jack matched the raccoon’s murmured tones. “I thought you said Malvina went off on her own?”

“Well, I buried the lede. She hasn’t responded to my calls since we got to Switzerland, and… yeah, I’ll admit it; I’m worried.”

The Jack of Clubs’s scrutiny fell upon the raccoon once more. But in the end, it didn’t matter whether or not the alligator could trust the mammal who so suddenly waltzed into his tangled narrative. “I can’t help you. I’ve never met the robin-”

“At least let me help you get to- I don’t know, wherever you’re going.” The alligator simply stared, and the raccoon was forced to whimper an earnest, meek “Please.”

“I honestly don’t see where following me is going to help. But fine, I’ll let you get me out of here.”

“Thank you-”

“Listen- listen close; we’re going to walk to your car, slow and easy. If you see a cop, you bolt, but don’t go causing a scene if you can help it. If you’re being honest about not being a part of this mess, I assume whoever’s chasing me won’t hesitate to kill you, understood?”

“That’s sensible.”

Jack growled. “This isn’t a joke-”

“Sorry, it’s a reflex. You were saying?”

“Let’s just go. We don’t have time.”

The two animals made no mad dash as soon as they stood up to leave the Saloon, but a certain tension gripped at the raccoon’s body all the same. He could parse no specific detail about these strange conspirators, from what little clues the Pack member doled out, but any stalker can leave an uncomfortable feeling in one’s gut. And Malvina never left Poet on read. Only a fool could divorce the vanished robin from this particular little drama.

The night air was warm and humid, and the sweltering summer caused sweat to pour from the poor procyon’s furred body. Parked parallel to the street, an unassuming, black Toyota Corolla lit up and chirped as the raccoon fussed with his key fob. As a native New Yorker, Poet rarely took his little sedan out of the parking structure if the option to take a train or subway was available, and as such, the car was bereft of any eye-catching detail or blemish. Not a single personal item sat on the synthetic leather of the seats, save for a phone charger and a pack of disposable masks. Jack made his way towards the passenger seat, leaving Poet to correctly assume that he’d be tasked with driving his own car. The engine roared to life, and the raccoon asked, “Where to?”

“Just get us out of town.” They could take Highway 1 or Highway 9. It didn’t really matter; both roads led west. Poet opted for the more inland option, Highway 9, if only because it was a different stretch of road than the one he’d come up on. The intersection where the two highways met lay a few miles away. Anyone could stake out the village limits with ease.

A normal animal would keep their eyes peeled on the rearview mirror. Jack twisted his body completely to stare out of the back windshield directly. For a few minutes, the raccoon silently let his alligator companion fester in his paranoia, still not feeling completely compelled to match him at his level. Poet hadn’t noticed any car behind his own. No one else took to the roads. It didn’t take long to reach the city limits, where houses became more sparse, and the surrounding fields and swampland failed to convey any detail in the nighttime. Poet broke the silence.

“So I haven’t turned you into the nefarious shadow organization yet. Do I get to know who’s following us?”

The reptile didn’t untwist his body. “You really don’t stop talking, do you-”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Poet, please- I need to focus, it’s dark as shit.”

There weren’t any nearby cities large enough to cast any ambient light, and it seemed as though enough clouds had rolled in to obscure the moon and stars. But Poet was a raccoon.

“Well, do you want to drive? I’ve got better eyes for this sort of thing.” The nocturnal animal rubbed at the black fur of his mask. Jack wasn’t looking.

“I appreciate it, but I don’t think I’m gonna fail to notice fuckin’ headlights.”

“Naturally, naturally.” Poet only paused for three seconds. “Seriously, at this point, I might actively benefit from knowing who’s chasing us.”

“Fine!” snapped the alligator. “I don’t know who exactly is chasing us. What I do know is that they murdered the Queen of Hearts at the Teleraine Gala, and now they’re after me. I don’t know what they look like, or what they’re driving, so could you stop fucking asking me the same question over and over again? I don’t know!”

Poet lost the fight against his urge to be sarcastic. “...That’s far more dramatic than a nut allergy-”

Then, red-and-blue lights started flashing out on the left side of the road. A cop car had obscured itself behind a few trees on a modest patch of dirt. It gave chase, but not with any particular speed. “I’m going the speed limit,” remarked the raccoon naïvely, but the alligator knew better.

“Don’t pull over.”

“It’s a cop, Jack-” Poet started to realize. “Oh, shit. That’s them?”

“I don’t know.”

Poet reflexively started to slow down, ever so slightly. “I don’t want to get into a police chase if you’re not certain it’s them.”

“If they got a tow truck, I doubt it’d be hard for them to get a cop car- You’re the fucking animal who thought they were impersonating the cops in the first place!” The police vehicle started speeding up slightly.

“I wasn’t really critically thinking! Honestly, it seems difficult, and also illegal, to acquire a cop car-”

Jack turned to face the raccoon. “Don’t pull over, I swear to God.” Even without any of the interior lights being turned on, Poet could see burning fire in his eyes.

He started to speed up.

The cop car noticed right away. The driver seemingly slammed their paw into the gas pedal, and the thunderous roar of an engine being pushed to its limits shattered the silence in the countryside. Where at first, the vehicle opted to use its lights alone, the driver opted now to add sirens to the accompaniment, but not before first utilizing a loudspeaker.

“Sir, pull over! You are under arrest.” The voice wasn’t clear, but it wasn’t difficult to make out the words using context. Poet could at least discern that the beast was male. He thought it strange how the cop himself clocked the raccoon’s gender at such a distance.

Poet’s hindpaw lifted off of the gas pedal, once again subconsciously. “Jack, what-”

“Don’t pull over!”

There was another vehicle off in the distance, going well under the speed limit. Its glowing red eyes nearly paralyzed the procyon behind the wheel. The cop car sped up.

“Am I just supposed to pass this guy?”

“Yeah, do not let those guys catch up.”

An angry voice squealed from the cop car. “Sir, pull over!”

Poet put the pedal to the medal himself and swerved into the other lane, only to discover another car coming towards him, shining its oppressive lights down into the raccoon’s pupils as it passed a corner.

“Jack, we’re fucked!”

The alligator found himself stunned, and failed to find a response immediately. The cop car was barreling towards the two animals, but Poet couldn’t betray his driver’s instincts as he slammed on the brakes and swerved back into the correct lane. The sudden jolt brought Jack out of his stupor, and he spat venomously. “Just drive off the side of the road-”

“I’m gonna end up in a lake!”

That was when Poet noticed. Neither the slow-driving car in their lane, nor the second vehicle coming towards them, were drawing closer. Poet never once brought his sedan to a complete stop. The two vehicles should have been directly in front of him.

The cop car was seconds away from ramming the vehicle.

“Hold tight,” commanded the Jack of Clubs, gritting his teeth.

Poet held his breath, too shocked to flap his muzzle enough to respond. He was about to swerve out of the way, regardless of if he’d end up in a ditch or pond, but Jack slammed his scaly right arm into the smaller animal, preventing that from happening.

He aimed his left arm towards the cop car. He was casting a magic spell.

Poet braced for impact.

The cop car hit the raccoon’s sedan. And then it flipped onto its side. For a moment, the vehicle was thrust into the air, and twisted so that it was perpendicular to the road. The front end was now facing left of the road, and then it started to roll. Sounds of crunching metal shattered the raccoon’s psyche, as well as his eardrums, and stray sparks threatened to outshine the flashing siren on top of the car. Poet’s car was left completely unharmed.

That’s when he noticed that the two cars in front of him had disappeared. And as it turned out, so had everything else. An inky darkness swallowed up the dim horizon, far darker than normal nighttime could accomplish naturally.

Jack brought down his arm. A shudder rocked the sedan after all, pushing the vehicle suddenly forward. Poet had enough mental wherewithal to keep the steering wheel straight and prevent the car from flying off of the road, but the sudden return of force pummeled all parts of the mammal’s body. It felt as though he’d landed on his back and had the wind knocked out of him. His seatbelt held onto him tightly.

Poet pumped the brakes. “What was that?” demanded the mammal behind the wheel.

“I think they cast the spell The Void Creeps In.”

“And what does that do?”

“They’ve trapped us in a repeating pocket dimension by blending some- I don’t know, some other dimension into ours and holding us in the gap. And the spell is still active, so they’re still alive.”

The cop car didn’t catch on fire cinematically, but it wasn’t difficult to tell that the vehicle had flipped completely upside down when Poet saw that the lights were then flashing from under the vehicle. The totaled cop car was about twenty or so meters behind the raccoon’s.

“And what did you cast?”

“I can cast the Spell for the Moment by intuition. I nullified their inertia before they hit us.”

Poet knew enough about magic to know that Ouray’s Spell for the Moment was an extremely difficult spell to cast without reagents or components. But then again, the Pack of Cards only took on spellcasters of an unprecedented caliber.

The full weight of the situation was now crushing the once-cocky raccoon. “Jesus Christ-”

Jack responded angrily. “Just- shut up. I’m going to check out the crash. Gonna get them to stop casting The Void Creeps In, otherwise something worse might happen.”

“Something worse, like- like what?” Jack didn’t respond. He unbuckled his seatbelt, flung the car door open, and walked off towards the other car.

It didn’t take nocturnal vision to see that a figure had emerged from the wrecked cop car and started walking towards the alligator with a similar measure of menace.

She was a Silent Wolf, and it was her duty to kill the Jack of Clubs.

But Jack had never met the Wolf before, and knew not of her intention, or her affiliation, or even the magic she was capable of. So when the alligator noticed an animal walking from a demolished automobile, he assumed that the animal would be in no shape to fight. And on top of everything, Jack was a member of the Pack of Cards, and there were very few fights against fully uninjured animals that ended up in him losing.

The two animals approached each other, as though one were a sheriff, and the other an outlaw. The distance between them was around ten meters. Jack raised his pale, scaly arm to cast a spell.

But no spell had manifested, because the Wolf had cast the Magic of Silence.

It was a school of magic that nullified another animal’s capacity to cast spells, save for a few extraordinary circumstances. And as powerful as the alligator was, this was a Hard Counter that he couldn’t overwhelm.

The Silent Wolf had drawn a Beretta 9mm pistol and aimed it at the alligator with careful prejudice.

Poet was a raccoon, and with his nocturnal vision, he was able to see everything clearly. Everything except for a small black gun that blended into the shadows of the void in the background.

A bullet entered into Jack’s right shoulder, and then he heard the report of a gunshot. A gruff, yet ultimately pitiful groan escaped his snapjaw. Getting shot is never a painless experience, but if he couldn’t ignore the pain, he’d wind up dead. Jack threw himself towards the ditch to his left. He avoided another bullet. The Silent Wolf walked closer without quickening her pace.

Poet had certainly heard the gunshot, and he knew enough about the alligator to remember that he hadn’t brought a gun. His jacket lacked any gun-shaped bulges. The raccoon shifted gears, swung the car around, and prepared himself for what he was about to do.

The Silent Wolf shot once more. She was skilled enough to hit the reptile again, but unlucky enough to only inflict another shoulder wound. It wouldn’t be a problem. There were only five meters between the two animals, and the canine had more than enough time to close the gap. After all, the alligator was useless without the ability to perform magic.

She heard the revving of an engine and thought, maybe, that the coward in the driver’s seat was attempting to flee, even despite the fact that the spell performed by her companion would keep him in the void forever. And perhaps she was more single-minded and sure of herself than most animals, because she didn’t notice that the raccoon’s sedan was actually coming towards her until it was too late.

The Silent Wolf carefully aimed her pistol once more, and then she was hit by a car.

Poet managed to brake at the right time to cause the canine to fly backwards instead of simply having the entire vehicle run over her, for better or worse. The raccoon merely wanted to stop her from killing the alligator, he didn’t have it in him to kill someone if he could help it. He wasn’t going to claim that he’d thought completely rationally about the stressful situation.

The Silent Wolf’s bones were broken, and her head hit the asphalt hard. Poet flailed over towards the passenger seat and flung the door open. “Get in!”

Jack stumbled from the ditch, holding onto the two bullet wounds with his right claw. Blood leaked from his pale, watertight scales and dripped onto the pavement before it ended up staining the upholstery of the car instead. Jack said, “Thank you.” Poet switched to reverse, and put as much distance between his car and the Wolf as possible. He didn’t want to kill her, but he knew well enough to know that it’d be a moot point to check if she needed medical help as long as she had a gun.

Somewhere amongst the course of action, the pitch black void slowly softened into the normal darkness of natural nighttime. The other animal in the cop car must have passed out, or otherwise given up his control over the spell. The Wolf overestimated her companion. With a sloppy three-point turn, Poet took advantage of the situation and sped away from the scene. He was thankful that no other vehicle was present on the highway to watch the two animals return to reality.

Without saying as much, Poet started driving towards the next city, where he assumed the local hospital stood. The raccoon was adamant, especially considering how audible the alligator’s labored breathing was. But Jack simply pointed a claw at the bullet hole and closed it with magic. He was the Jack of Clubs, after all, and the ability to perform the Sutures spell by intuition was something that most witches could pull off with enough training. Poet watched as Jack checked his back shoulder to see if the bullets had passed through, and sure enough, both had exited the body. He’d lost a lot more blood as a result, but at least he wouldn’t have to awkwardly fish lead out of his shoulder. Poet was hypnotized by his one and only task of driving.

But Poet was still in shock, so he asked a naïve question. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’ll live. Just get us out of here.”

The raccoon took a few seconds before he responded. They didn’t need to go to a hospital anymore. “Where to?”

“As far away as possible.”

“I think I need to… I don’t know-”

“We can get a motel or something, just keep driving for a couple of hours, at least.”

A heavy exhale escaped the raccoon’s muzzle. “What the hell just happened?”

Jack cast another spell on his shoulder; a soft glowing light that indicated it as being Painkiller. “You’re telling me you couldn’t feel it?”

“Couldn’t feel what?”

“She was casting the Magic of Silence on us. Whoever she is, I’m not able to fight her.”

The raccoon, in fact, didn’t notice the Magic of Silence. “So she was able to stop you from casting the Spell for the Moment?”

Malicious sarcasm colored the reptile’s tone. “Yeah, that’s how that magic works. Notice how none of your spells were working?”

Poet gulped softly once. “I don’t know any spells, Jack.”

And somewhere in reality, a Bloodhound had crept in from the void, and picked up on the scent of the alligator’s blood.