"Pack Street has a public library?"

"Don't act so surprised, Cormo," Anneke says, helping herself to one of my honey mustard pretzels. "You've got this shocked look on your face like you just learned preds can read."

"Hey now. I'm not that big of an asshole," I mutter as I forcefully pull my pretzel bag out of her claws. "I've just never seen it, is all. I'm not a big reader or anything, but it'd be nice to know about in case I ever need a book on something. So where IS this library at?"

"Oh, it's right at the end of the street before you turn off onto Trip." She licks honey mustard powder from the ends of her paws, tail twitching. "Marty works there, actually."

While I didn't know that either, it comes as no surprise at all. The guy's apartment practically IS a library with all the bookshelves, so I guess it makes sense that he'd work someplace he would be surrounded by more books.

"Books are kind of like, an obsolete medium when you think about it," Wolt pipes up, tossing a pretzel in his mouth. I look down at my hoof and realize my bag's gone south again. Damn, these two are good. I instinctively feel around for my wallet to make sure that hasn't been clipped either.

"Yeah," Annie says, sticking her entire muzzle in the pretzel bag, thus eliminating any desire for me to reclaim it. "If there's anything you really need to know, Zoogle that shit. Books are nice and all if like, you forget to pay your light bill, but I'd rather watch a movie than read a novel."

Wolt scoffs, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "If your lights are out, how the hell are you gonna READ, genius?"

"Oh my god. You know what I mean, Wolt," Annie groans, "He can use a candle or something."

"HE can't!" Wolt insists, gesturing to me incredulously. "Look at that coat! Do you want him to fucking burn alive?"

"Oh my GOD, you are SOOOO fucking specist!" Anneke returns, raking her claws down her face in frustration before turning to me. "He's wearing wool, not fucking GUNPOWDER!"

"Pssshhhh."

Wolt pulls the bag away from her, dumping a handful of pretzels into his lap before holding out the almost depleted bag in my direction as if to offer me one.

"Pass. That's really useful to know, though. I want to be aware of all of the, uh, services Pack Street has to offer."

"Heh. I bet I can think of a few 'services' that you could use," Annie cracks. "You're obviously... tense."

"Yeah. Tense," Wolt echoes, eyebrow raised.

"Cute," I growl.

I can't really think of any situation in which I'd truly need to go to the library -- like Annie said, if there's anything you desperately need to know, the internet's faster and more reliable. Then again, I don't own a computer and if anything happened to my cell, I'd be up a creek. Might not be bad to familiarize myself with its location. Swilling down the last of my root beer, I pitch my empty bottle in the trash.

It's about six in the morning on my day off. I've been killing time lounging in the downstairs lobby, trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my morning. I don't really feel like heading to the gym, but I'm also kind of cooped up. Until I get my share of Charlie's firefly sauce deal tomorrow, funds are a little thin so my options are limited right now.

Fuck it, might as well go see what this library's all about.

I change into a fresh shirt and grab my personal effects from my room before turning around and heading back downstairs. "You said it was at the end of the street by Trip, right?"

"That's right," Wolt replies. "You gonna go check it out? Tell Marty I said hey."

"Gotcha."

I close the lobby door behind myself and step out into the early morning warmth. Pack Street's lively as ever, most of the nocturnal predators around having just gotten off of their work shifts for the day while the diurnal ones are starting fresh. I'm surprised at how many of them seem like they're in good moods -- I'm seeing a more smiles and getting fewer stares than usual. If I didn't know better, you could convince me this was actually Zootopia.

"Yarn ball," Betty drawls out to me lazily from her porch. She's stretched out on her back, basking in the sunlight. "Where the fuck are you off to?"

"Hi mom," I call back with a fake smile. "Is it okay if I go to the library? I promise I'll be back before curfew!"

She rolls her eyes, raising a cigarette to her muzzle with a smirk. "Get the hell outta here before I beat your stupid ass."

Snickering under my breath, I hurry along on the off chance she actually feels like making good on that promise.

A dull, tarnished plaque bearing the name "Pack Street Public Library" along with an establishment date beneath that's just a bit too faded to read hangs next to the door. While the building's notably old, it's in well-kept condition. I can tell that whoever's responsible for actually maintaining the place is devoted to their job. The gutters are clean, the porch is swept and the windows are polished.

Opening the door, I step inside and the musty smells of paper and lemon furniture polish instantly fill my nostrils. It's a weirdly familiar scent, one that dates all the way back to elementary school age. I can't say I really mind it, even if I do feel like I should be cramming for a test, or eating one of those little store-bought plastic lunch trays with crackers, apple slices, and peanut butter.

Adorning the walls are off-beat posters with cutesy, fun slogans, clearly to get children interested in reading books. The way kids today are more interested in their phones or computers than anything else, I doubt their effectiveness, but it's still nice to see someone putting forth the effort. Upon closer inspection, it seems that almost every single poster in here is handmade. The art quality's not professional grade, but it's better than almost anything a child could make. Interesting.

The library itself isn't particularly huge -- I can see clear from one end to the other, but the bookshelves that are here are packed floor-to-ceiling, overflowing into carts and bins and shelves. Obviously they're not hurting for books -- if anything, space is the more valuable commodity.

As I walk into the lobby proper, I overhear bits and pieces of two male voices arguing. I recognize Marty's voice instantly -- he's infuriated as ever -- but whoever he's talking with sounds almost as pissed-off as he is.

"I'm just saying you're not paying attention to the characters!" an otter leaned against the counter snaps, pushing the glasses at the end of his nose up further onto his face. "I can't believe you -- it's a great story!"

"Oh my god," Marty shouts back from the counter, leaned against the librarian's computer. "Listen to yourself, you sound like a fucking idiot. I'm not even sure JK Growling would shill that fucking hard for her books. She knew it was shit when she WROTE it. Fucking series never should have lasted more than one, two books tops."

"It's got a great -- a really good, great stooorryliiine!" the otter shrieks, yanking at the collar of his polo. Patrons all over the library are hissing at both of them to be quiet, but Marty clearly doesn't give a shit -- which is a great attitude for the librarian to have if the plaque on his desk informs me correctly.

"So you're a repetitive dipshit then too. Do you even understand what the word 'storyline' actually means?" Marty's beside himself, quivering. "You know there's more to writing than just the plot, right? Any fuckin' five-year-old can come up with an awesome plot but only legitimately talented writers can realize them, you colossal doorknob."

Holy shit. It's a nerd fight, and Marty's clearly winning because whoever his sparring partner is doesn't seem to be THAT well-read. Even I'm familiar with Hairy Porker; they made us read the first one for a class assignment. Never really was my thing, even though all the other kids seemed to love 'em. I remember the lines wrapped around the block whenever a new book would come out.

"Look, Filburt, I always appreciate our, uh, 'chats'," the stoat grunts dismissively. "But I got shit to do today. Come back when you got a real book to report on, like How Should a Mammal Be? or something. Oh, and you're two weeks behind on your LAST batch so you'd better fuckin' bring those back tomorrow or I'm fining your ass."

"Nnnngh. Fine, Marty. See you next week then." Filburt scoops his books into his bag before brushing past me, agitated.

"Tomorrow, Filburt," Marty gripes as the otter hastily waddles out the front door. "I mean it! Two bucks a week for every book you don't bring back! Fuckin' amateur."

Eyebrows raised, I wait to approach until Marty's flopped down on his pillow by the computer, taking a sip from his thermos.

"So, uh, this where I sign up for a library card?" I ask, leaning against the counter. He nearly chokes on his coffee, whirling to look at me.

"Oh, great," he groans, looking skyward as if pleading for patience. "The fuck are YOU doing here?"

I look around innocently as if I have every right to be here. Which, last I checked, it's a public building and I do. There wasn't any archaic segregationist "preds only" sign posted out front, anyway. Though now I'm wondering if those are even still around ANYWHERE anymore.

"How ill-mannered! I'm just here to ask for a library card, sir!" I clasp my hooves on the counter in a display of mock professionalism. "Being a new resident of Pack Street, I don't have one yet. I was hoping you'd be kind enough to hook your neighbor up with one. Please and thank you."

"You've got to be pulling my leg." Marty drags his tiny paw down his equally tiny face in exasperation. "The fuck is up with this shtick, Cormo?"

"Honestly, I just had a few hours to kill." I shrug as he pours himself a new cup of coffee. "I figured I had nothing better to do so I'd--"

"Come torment me, sure," he interrupts. "Like I don't have to put up with enough of your shit on a weekly basis that I also need you invading my private sanctum."

I lower my brows at him, leaning in slightly. "You mean your 'public' sanctum. Besides, you were the one who wouldn't get off my ass about locking myself up in an ivory tower or whatever. I'm just doing what you told me to and putting in a showing. Being friendly."

He walks across the counter to glare at me defiantly, taking a sip from his mug. I can tell he's trying to look menacing, but his cup's the size of like, a thimble. It's like being menaced by one of those googly-eyed sock puppets little kids make in sewing class.

"Not with some pretentious gesture. Comin' in here pretending like you read anything outside of comic books and Play-- uh, what're they called? Play-Doe."

"Female sheep are called ewes," I correct. "Also, the title is for the people reading it, not the content, so it'd be 'Play-Ram'."

The stoat groans in annoyance. "Man, I don't care what you're into, I'm just makin' a point."

"Play-Ram doesn't exist, by the way. I'd know."

Frustrated, he waves his mug around, angrily sloshing droplets of coffee all over the counter. "Shit, Cormo, it's like you exist for the sole purpose of pissing me off."

Honestly, I have no idea what the fuck he wants from me. It's like he's going to pitch a fit no matter what I tell him. "Are you going to give me a card or not?"

"Fine, you win. Here, fill this out and I'll get you a temporary card," he sighs, pulling a sheet of paper out of a folder on the desk. It's an old-fashioned application for a library card -- I figured for sure he'd use the computer next to him for it, but I guess this branch isn't that up-to-date with the modern world.

"You really can't fuckin' stand me, can you," I mutter, grabbing one of the pens chained to the counter to fill the form out.

"I just can't stand your attitude in general," Marty retorts as he grabs a tissue from a box to mop up the spilled coffee. "You come struttin' around like your shit don't stink and lookin' down your nose at everyone while still crying they're being big mean bullies to you. You can't have it both ways!"

What's he even talking about at this point? "Is this really about me, or is this some prey thing in general?"

"Oh my god, you wanna turn this into a 'not all sheep' thing? Cripes, what's it gonna take to get you out of my face?"

I glance up with a forced smile. "Well you could try the magic word."

He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and throws his arms to the side, then marches up to the edge of the counter until he's standing on my application and gets right in my face. "You want the fuckin' magic word?" he snarks in a mocking tone. "BAA-RAM-EWE, SHEEP BE TRUE, get the fuck out of my library!"

Baa-ram-ewe? I haven't heard that in a LONG time. Memories of old schoolyard games come to mind. I didn't think anyone else played stuff like that, I'd always assumed it was a game for sheep. For anyone else to know--

I stop mid-scrawl, looking up at Marty as a wicked idea quickly forms in my head. So it's some deep-seated thing with sheep in general, huh? Shoving the pen and paper aside, I suddenly grab him around his shirt's collar, dragging him close.

"What the hell did you just say?" I whisper.

He growls, and his fur bristles from crown to tail as he struggles against my hooves. "I said get the fuck out of--"

"Not THAT! The password! Where'd you hear it from?! Who gave YOU the fucking password?!"

"What, 'baa-ram--'"

Pressing a hoof to his face, I glance around the library in a panic. "You can't just SAY that out loud in public, man!" I hiss, releasing him but keeping my voice low while still trying to sound panicky. "That's not-- that's not for your people! That's a sheep-only code! Tell me where you fuckin' heard it! What the fuck could YOU have done to earn it?"

Marty stares at me for a brief second or two before his pupils shrink. Stumbling backwards, he lowers his voice to match mine.

"It's real?" he murmurs, blinks, then suddenly brings his paws to his mouth. "Holy shit, it's real."

"Yes, it's real! And the fact that you know it -- that a PREDATOR species knows our secret password -- means you must have done some serious shit for us! I never would have expected a jerk like YOU to be gifted the password. But if you have it, I guess I was wrong about you from the start." My tone switches from awed to accusatory. "Unless some stupid asshole blabbed it. Then they're in some serious shit. Who gave you the password?"

He stammers, his eyes darting all around the library as he searches for an answer, but after a long pause, he straightens up and shakes his head. "I can't tell you that. I promised I'd keep confidentiality."

I make a show of slowly relaxing, then nodding in response. "Good. Good thinking. Because if someone leaked the password to someone who didn't earn it, and they ever got found out, they had better PRAY that the Grand Mutton is in a good mood and only exiles them."

"E-exile?" Marty asks, eyes wide. "You guys actually EXILE people?!"

I give him a look like he's the one putting ME on, and inwardly it's all I can do to keep a straight face. "The really loyal ones who fuck up get exiled from Zootopia."

"From Zoot-- are you for serious?! You run them out of town?!"

"The ones who aren't so loyal, well..." I drag the tip of my hoof across my throat. "There's a reason he's called the Grand Mutton."

Marty collapses on the counter, jaw agape. "You're -- no, you're fucking with me."

I sigh, straightening my shirt, and collect myself. "If you want to invoke the sacred password just to get me outta here, that's fine, but it seems like a waste of your earned favor."

"No, no, hold on. You don't have to go. Do I only get one use of it, or how does this work?" He's practically running around on the counter, looking for something to write with. Finding a pad of paper, he scratches out a note to himself. "No, I was just joking around, I'm not using the password for that."

"The Society's not something to joke about, Marty," I respond in a low, even whisper. "Sheep control so much of Zootopia, you know. Dude, even YOU could be in trouble right now."

He scrabbles to his feet, backing away from me with a glare. "Remmy, you wouldn't snitch on me! I know we had our differences, but c'mon, man, I don't deserve-- I mean, not for just-- look, we can work this out!"

I reel in exaggerated horror, looking at him like he's just said something repulsive. "Marty, whatever else you think of me, I'm not a snitch."

"A-alright," Marty says, running his paws shakily through his messy headfur. "Sorry. I'm sorry, that wasn't -- that wasn't called for. I shouldn't -- wow. I'm still just kind of flipping the fuck out here. So it's real -- the Secret She--"

"Don't say it out loud!" I jerk my head over my shoulder at a leopard seated in one of the corner chairs at the end of the room, a reference book in his paws. Marty follows my gaze, nodding shakily. "We just -- we refer to it as 'the Society'. Plausible deniability, you get me?"

I can see the wheels spinning in his head. It's getting harder and harder to keep from busting a gut laughing. I can tell he wants to doubt -- the skeptic in him, the rational side wants to call BS and tell me I'm full of it. But on the other hand, his natural curiosity and total ignorance of what sheep are actually like is winning out. We don't meet in any fucking secret society, and I'm pretty sure sheep aren't trying to orchestrate the downfall of Zootopia right now. But he's buying it, hook, line, and sinker.

"So like, where do you guys meet?" he asks, finally collecting his thoughts. "I mean, if you're a real organization, you have to have a local chapter or something, right? Even the fuckin' Furmasons have places they hole up at."

Shit. I haven't thought that far into this joke -- I've been mostly winging it up until now, just kind of running with a wild idea. Uh, think, Remmy...

"Wh-where do we meet? Why, you trying to infiltrate the order or something?" I retort, raising a brow.

"Hey, you said yourself, I'm trusted enough to know the password," he smirks back. "I want to know where they meet."

I fold my arms, turning it back on him. "Use your head. Where do YOU think a bunch of sheep bent on controlling the city would meet at?"

"Flock Street," he responds instantly. "I mean, think about it -- it's one street over from Pack, but still on the nicer part of town. It's far enough from downtown it escapes scrutiny, but they wouldn't want to mix in with the riff-raff like us -- because god knows they can't get their fuckin' precious wool dirty slumming it. Just look at you, for fuck's sake. Flock's right on the border. Makes perfect sense. Nobody would look twice."

I'm flabbergasted at how much thought he's put into this. Sure as shit more than I have. Still, that gives me an idea on how to keep the gag going a little longer. I'll ignore the slight for now and work with what he's given me.

"Now you're starting to scare me," I mutter, backing away from him.

"I'm right? I'm right, aren't I!" He runs towards the edge of the counter, snagging me by my shirt collar. "Admit it! I was right about Flock Street! I've always fucking wondered and I was right the entire time! I knew it! I fuckin' knew it!"

I suppress a smile. "You want to see for yourself?"

"Hell yes! I'm blowing this wide open!" he jumps up.

"No!" I slam my hooves on the counter. Marty freezes in terror, realizing he's crossed a line. "This is for you only. I need your word, your solemn vow, that what happens stays between us."

He nods slowly, a serious expression on his face, and he hops up into a sort of standing salute, whispering. "Baa-ram-ewe, sheep be true! To your breed, your fleece, your clan be true!"

A giggle escapes my mouth but fortunately he doesn't catch it. I try to spin it into a relieved smile.

"Good. I'm not taking a traitor."

"Taking -- wait, wait, taking where?" he again scrambles to the edge of the counter, looking around to see if anyone's listening in.

"Do you have anyone who can watch the place for an hour or so?" I whisper, getting hold of myself. "Like an assistant or something?"

"Yeah, I can get someone," Marty says, eyes lighting up. "Oh fuck, are we going to go to a Society meeting?"

I sigh. "Obviously I can't walk you in the front door right as you are, but I can get you close. Be ready to leave in about five minutes." I brush away from him and quickly head out the exit, and all the repressed laughter comes bubbling out of me as soon as the door clicks shut. Oh my god, I can't believe he's taken the bait this fucking hard. It feels damn good to not be the one on the receiving end for a change.

"So the first thing you're going to need is a disguise," I explain once we're both out of the library. I point to a pharmacy a couple of doors down, motioning for him to follow me, which he does, his little feet working overtime beneath him. "Contrary to whatever you think, sheep aren't complete fucking idiots. I sheared, so I don't have any spare wool otherwise I'd lend you some of mine."

"Lend?" he chokes as he follows me inside.

"Yeah, it's detachable. Everyone knows that." At this point I can't resist throwing in more tidbits like this; it's too damn much fun. "But anyway, I've got just the idea."

Walking down the cosmetics aisle, I scan the shelves for a minute or two before I eventually find what I'm looking for next to the bottles of acne treatment and facial astringent. Pulling a bag of extra-large jumbo cotton balls from the shelf, I hold them out to him. "Perfect temporary wool replacement. Sheep have been using these to hide bald spots for years."

"Cotton balls?" Marty's face is incredulous, and it's right here that I realize the jig's probably up. "How the hell would a disguise that bad work?"

"Sheep have, uh--" I falter for a second, trying to think before spotting a rack full of cheap reading glasses. "...bad eyesight?"

He slaps the side of his head. "Of course. The pupils. That explains the pupils."

I glance at one of the makeup mirrors mounted on the rack overhead. What about the pupils? My pupils are fine. His pupils are weird. They're like, huge and round. Like someone jammed a glassy marble in his eye socket. My pupils aren't weird.

"...Anyway, we'll need some double-sided tape, white glue, and some rubber bands. Go grab them and let's get going or else we might miss our window of opportu--"

Marty's off like a shot, scampering towards the school supplies before I can even finish. I'd almost feel guilty if this wasn't so fucking funny.

After checking out with our selection, we quickly set to work on Marty's wool "coat" in the store's bathroom. I do my best trying to assemble a little vest with tape so he can strap it on, but that's when I notice he evidently has no problem just straight gluing cotton balls to his own fur. I feel a LITTLE bad here. I'd feel more bad, but it's Marty. Still, maybe this is going a little too far. I mean, is that going to come out okay? It wouldn't come out of wool very easy, but I don't know much about caring for fur. Actually, come to think of it, I've never even really had much experience with it at all, outside of the time me and Muriel Pilkington played Seven Minutes in Heaven back in high school. I wonder how she's doing.

The end result is lumpy and lopsided -- hooves aren't exactly made for arts and crafts -- but I assure him it's good enough to "fool at a glance" and he seems to buy off on it. We finish it off by affixing my tape-bound mat of "wool" to him with a pair of rubber bands, and then as an afterthought I strap one cotton ball to his head like a crash helmet for good measure. It looks fucking ridiculous.

"Good idea," he nods. "Looks just like yours."

"Wait, what?"

"How do I look?" he asks, completely straight-faced as he peers into the mirror over the sink. "Like if you were just walking down the street, I'd look like a small sheep, right? Like a kid?"

"I mean, it's not going to hold up under intense scrutiny, but I think you're good," I respond, tapping my chin in thought. "You'll get a few funny looks, but it's nothing I don't get on a regular basis, so don't think too much about it."

He nods vigorously. "Yeah, sure. Alright, we'd better hurry -- I can't leave the library unattended too long. Jeanine's too much of an airhead."

"Okay. We'll take the back route then."

"This is so fucking surreal," Marty whispers in awe as we observe a pair of elderly rams playing a game of chess in the Flock Street public park. Both of them have walkers and one of them's on an oxygen tank. And as far as Marty knows, they own the city. We're three or four tables down from them, near a sidewalk snack vendor. "You never would have convinced me that this is where it all goes down -- that we'd be staking out a SSS meeting in broad daylight."

"Eh, that's how consolidated our power is. We hide in plain sight." I toss a hoofful of kettle corn into my mouth. "You have no idea how many lives have been bought and sold by a pair of old rams playing a board game on a sunny afternoon."

"I'd fuckin' believe it." He eyes my kettle corn nervously, and I extend the bag towards him. "Thanks. My sister loves this stuff."

"Oh yeah? Don't worry about it." I'm probably going to owe him a hell of a lot more than a few pieces of kettle corn once he realizes he's been had. Especially if that glue doesn't come out. "You know it's true what they say, Marty. A handful of rams control ninety-five percent of Zootopia. You see that one right there? They call him Little Big Horn."

He chokes on his popcorn, turning to me with a horrified expression. "THAT'S 'Little Big Horn'?!"

I pause mid-bite, staring at him. I slowly respond with my mouth full. "...yes?"

"Oh my god, she was right -- that crazy fuckin' badger was right! She rants about that guy all the time, and how he's controlling the minds of everyone with his horns -- cripes, I bet the walker's just for fucking show!" He nervously clutches his head as a further realization dawns on him. "Ah, shit, and we've got a ewe for a mayor right now! Real talk here, Remmy -- how completely fucked are we?!"

"Eh, no more or less fucked than we usually are whenever a bipartisan politician takes over the city," I respond cynically. "I mean, if you're worried Bellwether's gonna run the city into the ground, I wouldn't be. She's probably not part of their cabal."

"She's not? How can you tell?"

I shrug. "Her eyes. She's got like, not-sheep eyes. It's how you can tell she's actually a half-breed. Can't be a full-bred sheep. And you gotta be full-bred if you want into the Society."

"Ohhhhh shit, you're right!" He breathes a sigh of relief, reaching for another pawful from my bag. At this point I'm going to be known as Remmy the Snack Guy. "Man, that's a fuckin' load off my mind."

At this point it's just getting sad -- I feel like I've got to end this sooner or later. Before I can say anything, though, Marty turns to look at me.

"What do you think they're talking about right now?"

"Grandkids? Pawn to E4? The end of modern civilization as we know it? Couldn't really tell you." I set the bag on the table, brushing crumbs off of my shirt and onto the ground.

For a long time, we just stand there watching, and suddenly I hear Marty sniffle. I look down to see him staring intently at the chess-players, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "It's just a matter of time till they bulldoze the block."

"What?"

"Pack Street. I get it now. They're cramming us all in one place so it'll be easier to get rid of us." He nods, stoically.

"...'us' who?"

He doesn't look up. "Us preds. I can see it. They hate us. Hell, YOU hate us, and you're willing to show me all this. God only knows what Little Big Horn over there would do."

"Man, it's not quite like--"

"You don't have to sugarcoat it, Remmy. Just know that when the time comes, we're not going down without a fight."

I don't really know how to respond, but the stoat's tone is so serious, even dire, that I feel I should step in. "Look, Marty, this isn't some... some genocide thing. Just because we don't--"

He looks up, his jaw set and his brows furrowed. "The password. I know what I want to use it on."

"What?" I blink.

"I wanna get protection. I'm cashing in the password for protection when the sheep machine comes down on us."

"Marty, listen, I promise you I'm not going to hurt you."

He sighs, rolling his eyes again, and for a second I think he's pulling my leg. Then he opens his mouth. "Not ME, you idiot. It's for Ozzy."

I'm as confused as before. "Ozzy?"

He nods, firmly, and starts listing on his fingers. "Charlie's sharp, the twins are quick, I know Al can handle himself. But you gotta promise to leave Ozzy out of it, whatever you're planning."

I kneel down, putting my hands on his shoulders. "Marty. Listen very carefully. I promise you, nobody on Pack Street is going to get hurt from the schemes of a sheep."

He looks up into my eyes, trying to read my expression, which is as serious as I think it's been since I said word one to him. Finally, his expression softens. "You mean it?"

"On my fucking life."

He squints. "Okay. Sheep-swear."

I raise my brows, smirking, but play along. "Baa-ram-ewe. Sheep be true."

He sighs in relief, dropping his shoulders. "God. That's a fuckin' load off. I-... yeah. Thanks."

I can't help but smile myself, standing up and dusting myself off.

...but seeing him smiling like that gives me an idea for one last push. "Yeah, no one's getting hurt. We're just gonna replace the meat market with salads is all."

He startles so suddenly he almost faceplants onto the ground. "Say WHAT?!"

I smile in spite of myself, hopping he doesn't read into it. "Yeah, I mean, I'll miss it myself, but you know me, I'm a real weirdo. Meat just gives predators too much energy. Gotta keep them dull and sleepy, so we're phasing meat off the free market. Give it five years and every Bug Burga in town will be a Grazing Garden."

"Fuck! No! I can't eat grass! I won't!"

"It's not up to me. But I mean, you could go ask THEM."

"What?! No way! The disguise is good but it's not THAT good," Marty croaks. "You don't think they'd see right fuckin' through me?"

"They're what, eighty? It's a miracle they can even see the chessboard in front of themselves."

I back off long enough to let him make the sale himself. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's obviously considering it. A cool breeze blows through, ruffling the baby-fine wool on my arms and knocking a few stray pieces of popcorn loose from the bag on the table.

"Fine," he says excitedly. "You talked me into it. I'm gonna go listen in. Oh man, oh fuck, this is too real!"

"Just try to think of the burgas," I smirk.

Climbing down off his seat, he brushes himself off, adjusts his cotton ball suit, and teeters across the sidewalk towards them.

I watch with bated breath as he clumsily makes his way right up to their table. He's there a solid five, six minutes -- long enough for me to finish off this bag of kettle corn and go back for a pair of cornbugs before one of the elderly rams FINALLY takes notice of him. Marty nearly jumps out of his disguise and blurts out the "password" right away in a panic, paws raised in surrender. I can't overhear his whole speech, but I can see some really dramatic physical emoting and a whole lot of pleading gestures, and I make out the words "burga" and "grass" coming up an awful lot. He finishes, panting in exhaustion, with his hands held plaintively at his sides.

"What a cute little costume," one of the "conspirators" smiles, patting Marty on the head like he's some little kid. "You look just like a little sheep!"

"Adorable," the other adds. "What a cute kid."

"This is for you," the first one responds, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a plastic-wrapped peppermint before handing it to the dumbfounded stoat.

"What about -- what about the grass?" he stammers in confusion.

"Looks nice today, must've just been trimmed. Thought I saw the groundskeeper earlier, in fact," one of them nods, sagely. "King me."

"This is chess, you old fool!" the other groans.

The rams return, with some bickering, to their game, leaving a mystified Marty to stare blankly. He turns around very slowly, craning his head over his shoulder, and his eyes are wide with sudden, dawning realization as he spots me with a cornbug in my hoof and a shit-eating grin on my face.

"Oh, you woolly bastard," he mouths.

Back at the apartments, with a washcloth in one hand and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the other, I'm still finding it hard to stop laughing.

Marty, to his credit (and my surprise), is still chuckling a bit, himself. He's sitting on the back of his couch while I stand behind it, because it turns out taking this stuff off is a lot harder than putting it on.

"I gotta admit, you got me good," he grumbles, scrubbing the wet washcloth under his arms, loosing a few more of the glued-on cotton balls. "That fucking part about Little Big Horn. Cripes."

"Well," I grin, "you sort of walked right into it. With the 'password' bit."

"Yeah, yeah. Well I'm gonna get you back for this shit, Cormo. When you least expect it I'm gonna--"

I pour a bit of rubbing alcohol down his back and he jumps. "GOD! Warn a guy!"

"Sorry," I smirk, helping him get some of the leftover cotton scraps off his back. "In fairness, gluing it straight to your fur was your idea."

He mutters something inaudible and rips off more of the disguise from his arms.

I sit up a little, putting more isopropyl on the cloth. "Hey."

"What?"

I pause, reflecting on the day's events. "That thing about using your one chance to save someone else, that was -- I mean, I dunno. That was pretty badass. I dunno if I'd be so selfless, in a life or death situation."

"I KNOW you wouldn't."

"Awright," I grumble in mock irritation, reaching over the sofa to rub his face with the gross towel. "See how much of a smartass you are when you're--"

A sudden silence falls over us simultaneously, both frozen in an awkward gesture across the back of the couch. Marty, still half-sheep in his deteriorating cotton disguise, and me, holding the alcohol-soaked rag against him.

And in his apartment's unlocked doorway, there stands a familiar jackal.

"Holy shit," Avo whispers, a huge grin growing across her face.