Moonlight and Mayhem
A Very Odd Romance
© 2010 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by :iconcherushi: and :iconamonomega:

Six

The next day the trio wandered into the teeming market known as the Thieves’ Bazaar. Despite its romantic name, the sellers were rapacious and nowhere near honest, and the buyers were just as bad. There were two knife fights and at least one shooting before lunch.
“I never get any fun,” Max said disgustedly as he munched on a skewer bearing some kind of roasted bird. 
“We don’t want to be discovered, Max.”
“YOU never let me have any fun, Sam.”
“Oh, you want fun, Max? We get out of here and I’ll give you all the fun you can take before your spine snaps.”
The fox batted his eyes at her. “Promises, promises, my sweet.” He was still eyeing her as he finished gulping down the last of his (grossly-overpriced) meal, and hence wasn’t looking where he was going.
“Oof!”
“Ow!”
Max staggered from the force of the collision, and glared balefully at the man he’d bumped into. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
The other fur snarled, “You watch where you’re going!”
Sam stood back and watched with some interest. Max was five inches shorter than she was, but this other fur – also a Catalina fox, like Max – stood an inch shorter. “Get outta my way, Shorty!” the stranger growled.
“Look who’s calling who Shorty,” Max sneered. “Who lets kids in this place?”
“Your mother.”
“YOUR mother.”
Shorty said, “Your mother’s so ugly the doctor slapped HER when you were born!”
“Hah,” said Max. “Your mother’s so ugly your father takes her with him to work so he won’t have to kiss her goodbye.”
Sam looked around as a crowd started to gather. Two started collecting bets and one began keeping score with a piece of chalk on the side of a stall.
“Your mother’s so fat she was on both sides of your family!” Shorty said.
“Your mother’s so stupid she tried to drown a goldfish,” Max said.
“Your mother’s so dumb she . . . “
“Your mother’s so ugly she . . . “
“Your mother’s so fat she . . . “
After perhaps thirty minutes of this, the crowd was cheering each sally as the two vulpines stood toe to toe. Fistfuls of money were changing paws and Sam had gone for a beer. The badgeress threaded her way through the crowd and saw Max and Shorty still facing off, now insulting each other’s fathers. “Max! Either throw a punch or kiss him!” she called out.
“What, Sam?” A concerted whoop went up from the crowd as Max half-turned, and Shorty saw an opening. The fist connected solidly with the left side of Max’s face and he spun almost completely around. The fight was on at that point, and the crowd started cheering more lustily as more bets were taken.
At one point Max went reeling from a well-placed punch to his muzzle and fetched up against Sam, who held him up. He looked up at her, both of his eyes starting to sport well-bruised areas visible through his fur. “How’m I doing, Sam?”
“Not bad, Max, but you need to keep your left up. Now, get back in there, Momma needs a new pair of boots!” And with that she practically hurled him at Shorty.
The fight degenerated into a wrestling match and the crowd lost interest as Shorty went down for the count. Max staggered to his feet and brushed himself off as Sam offered him a beer. “Good job, Max. What was that last little maneuver?”
“What maneuver, Sam?”
“That thing you did with your right paw, Max.”
“Oh, that. I just – “ and he stood on tiptoe and whispered in her ear.
“You’re a pervert, Max. I’m in love with a pervert.”
“Hah! You love me! You said so!”
“What the hell for?” asked their guide. He was busily cramming a fistful of cash – a welter of banknotes from nearly a dozen nations including China, Rain Island and Spontoon – into his pockets.
“Well, he’s very much a force of nature,” Sam explained. “He doesn’t let anything stand in his way.”
The shiba inu nodded, glancing back at Max. The glance turned into a double take and he yelped, “He’s deformed!”
“Hm?” Sam looked at the fox. “Max?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Take your mind off your bloody nose for a second and answer a question.”
“Don’t swear, Sam.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you ever wear underwear?”
“Huh?” Max glanced down at his pants and suddenly went into a passable imitation of the tarantella. “What the hell happened to my pants!?”
“That’s what you get for buying cheap, dear.” The badgeress sighed. “I suppose we need to find a pair of pants now.”
Finding a replacement for Max’s sadly abused trousers was simple.
Finding an affordable replacement proved more difficult. Sam found, much to her amusement, that there were several furs willing to buy Max.
In order to, as one put it, “Take him off your paws.”
“You hear that, Max?” Sam asked. “No offers for me, but I might be tempted to sell you.”
“Make sure you get a good price for me, Sam.”
“If I sell you, I might be able to afford to buy you a decent pair of pants, Max,” the badgeress remarked. She looked over another pile of castoff clothing and glanced up. “Max.” Her voice had lowered to a hiss.
“Yeah, Sam?”
“Battle Stations. My ten o’clock.”
The change that came over the fox was immediate. He immediately disregarded his rather dilapidated trousers and focused on the direction she indicated. “Got him,” he murmured as he caught sight of a chubby gray-furred feline dressed in a grubby shirt and pants, with a pistol slung in a holster under his arm. He fanned himself against the summer heat, and his shirt showed a succession of dried sweat stains at the armpits. “Looks like he’s fallen on hard times.”
“Might just be blending in. When in Rome, you know.”
“Maybe. I’ll be discreet.” Max started to move off to one side, avoiding one elderly fur’s grab at his exposed rear.
Sam moved to the other side in an effort to box the feline in, and the shiba inu advanced from a third direction.
Max walked up to the feline, who was mopping his brow with a rag. “Hey Louie!”
Morpion didn’t seem to recognize the fox at first. “Hein?”
“Got a magic trick to show you.” The fox displayed that there was, in fact, nothing up his sleeve, while the feline stared at the pantsless apparition. Then, with the air of a conjuror, Max clenched his fist and said, “Ta-da! It’s Mister Fisty!”
Louis Morpion finally recognized him, and before he could back away or draw his pistol Max socked him square in the nose. The larger feline staggered backward and fell on his tail, and Max followed it up with a hard kick to Morpion’s crotch.
“Great technique, Max.”
“Ahh, you always say that, Sam.”
“No, really. The only way you could do better would be to have brained him with a baseball bat.”
“Well put, Sam.” He and their canine guide lifted the semiconscious feline to his feet and started to carry him off. 
“Discreet, huh?” the canine asked, rolling his eyes. “You’re about as discreet as a brick through a window.”
“Thanks,” Max said cheerfully.
A passerby asked, “Is he okay?”
“Oh, never mind him,” Sam said, nodding toward Morpion. “He’s a hypochondriac.”
“Really,” said the man, eyeing Max’s decided lack of trousers. “I thought he was Reform.”
“Hey!” The fox tried to cover up, which turned into a rather comical dance as he tried to cover up and help hold Morpion up at the same time. He finally gave up the effort to shield himself from prying eyes and Sam led the group back to their guide’s shack.