[center][b]‘Round the World With Wee Mr. Winkle[/b]

By ScottyDM[/center]


Wee Mr. Winkle lived in a nice safe apartment, on a nice safe street, overlooking a nice safe park, in the nice safe country of the U. S. of A. “I’m bored,” he said to no one in particular. “I need an adventure! I should get out and see the world.”

So he went down to his local discount travel agent to book a world tour and before you know it he was winging his way across the Atlantic toward Holland.

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Wee Mr. Winkle was window shopping in Amsterdam, contemplating the wax-covered rounds of gouda, when he heard a female voice behind him.

“Hey, [i]weinig[/i] mens, are you some kind of mutant [i]varken[/i]?”

“What?” He turned around and leaning against a lamp post was a black cat in a red tube top, red miniskirt, and red fishnet stockings. The stockings looked ridiculous on her because her fur was poking out through the holes in random directions. He wasn’t quite sure what she asked, but he could guess. “I’m a naked mole rat-monkey hybrid.”

“I do not know [i]naakte molrat[/i].”

“It’s an African species. My father is African, my mother is an Asian macaque.”

“Oh, an [i]Afrikaan[/i] mens!” She leaned forward and the tip of her long black tail twitched back and forth. “Tell me, do you have a big…?” She made a motion with her right hand in front of her stomach, like strumming a guitar.

“A guitar? Oh yes. A big one. It’s a dreadnought!” He grinned at her. Dutch girls seemed very friendly.

“A dreadnought? You must be [i]Amerikaan[/i]. [i]Amerikaans[/i] have funny words.”

“Why yes I am. I’m vacationing.”

“Then you come with us. I will get my [i]zuster[/i] and we will have a party for you, [i]Amerikaan[/i] with a big dreadnought. Do you have money? We will buy some party things. Do you like the hookah?” The cat girl stepped out in the street and waved at someone down the block. She turned back to him. “I am Anke, and I am a Dutch pussy kat.”

[i]Of course you are,[/i] he thought.

A moment later they were joined by a second female black cat dressed identically to the first.

“This is my [i]zuster[/i] Edda,” Anke said.

“Pleased to meet you. My friends call me Wee Mr. Winkle.”

At this statement the two Dutch girls giggled. Edda said, “Well, [i]hij[/i] is cute, in a wrinkly hairless sort of way, but not very tall.”

“He is a [i]naakte molrat[/i] hybrid and he’s got a big dreadnought,” Anke told her sister.

“Oh? Is it as big as his teeth?” Edda licked the end of her nose.

“Bigger,” Mr. Winkle said.

Edda’s tail started twitching. “He must be [i]Amerikaan[/i]. We should have a party.”

And so, Wee Mr. Winkle, led by Anke and Edda, set off down the street to buy party things.

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The next day Wee Mr. Winkle was driving his rental car through the German countryside and contemplating Amsterdam, or more accurately Anke and Edda. He wasn’t quite sure what happened. The herbs in the hookah, which turned out to be more powerful than catnip, had muddled his brain and made the previous evening a fuzzy memory. And somehow he’d managed to spend a quarter of his money on party things. Dutch girls may be friendly, but his budget could only stand one night in Amsterdam. And he still smelled of cocoa butter.

Something was going on in the road up ahead and traffic was stopped. It looked like the entrance to a toll road. Off to the side some male macaques in green and white uniforms were checking over a Nissan race car. And a little further up the road three British hedgehogs, two with video cameras, were talking with a female wolf, in long blond braids, who was inspecting a van. It almost looked like there was to be an auto race, but all around him were Citroens, Volkswagens, BMWs, Porsches, a rusting Mini, and a handful of motorcycles. Above the toll gate a sign said, “[i]Nürburgring Nordschleife[/i]”.

He pulled up to the toll gate and stared at the sign. “Fifteen euros!” It sure was expensive driving in Europe. He dug the coins out of his pocket and fed them into the slot.

On the toll road he noticed there were no marked lanes and he was immediately passed by a ancient convertible Beetle full of wolves wearing crash helmets who gave him a thumbs up. Next a taxi roared past at breakneck speed, followed by a bus full of waving tourists, and then two motorcycles. There didn’t seem to be any speed limit so he sped up.

He’d been driving on the road a few minutes, and being passed by most of the other drivers, when he started thinking about lunch. A horn blared behind him, shocking him from his thoughts of [i]rächerkäse[/i], [i]plockwurst[/i], and [i]bier[/i].

The van rocketed past, leaving a wake of diesel fumes and the stench of burning brakes. Its driver leaned out the window and howled, “[i]Nein[/i]! [i]Nein[/i]! Get [i]ooowut[/i] of [i]meine[/i] way!” Her blond Teutonic braids flying. She was trailed by a trio of Porsches, who seemed to fall further behind when she tore through the next corner on two wheels. One of the Porsches spun out in a cloud of tire smoke and dust.

“Insane! Germans must be insane!” Mr. Winkle blurted out.

A few moments later the Nissan race car shot past, its uniformed and helmeted macaque driver shouting, “[i]Banzai[/i]!” Japan was his last stop before he returned to American soil and he hoped that all Japanese didn’t drive like that monkey.

Up ahead some orange traffic cones in the road led him to what he first thought was a detour. But when he got on the side road he recognized the toll gate where he came in. He’d gone in a big circle. Further proof that Germans were insane. He rolled down his window and shouted, “It’s a cheat! It just goes in a big circle.” But the drivers waiting in line at the toll gate only gave him blank looks, and he heard a few of them say, “[i]Schweinhund[/i]!”

[i]I know I look unusual, but I’m not some kind of mutant pig.[/i]

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France.

He had planed on staying two nights in France, but he had to leave the day he arrived. How was he to know that girl was only fifteen? She was a deer. And to him all French deer, from about age twelve until they started bearing young, looked the same—skinny, with big soulful eyes.

[i]At least I got free cheese from the ordeal,[/i] he thought, as he rubbed a bruised shoulder smelling of Cambert. The villagers had pelted him with cheeses as he ran for his car, and some landed inside before he slammed the door.

Well, he had French bruises to go with his Amsterdam rash. He’d probably have to see a doctor when he got to Italy. He suspected the cocoa butter wasn’t as fresh as the Dutch cat sisters claimed.

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Someone had said that it was impossible to get a bad meal in Italy and Wee Mr. Winkle wanted to test that theory. So he walked down to the plaza in Parma and soon found himself in a [i]caffè[/i]. He sat nibbling on a selection of [i]caciottas[/i] and eating fresh bread dipped in olive oil. Superb!

It was a glorious sun-soaked afternoon and the Italian girls pranced past, swishing their tails and softly nickering. At first he thought the attention was for him alone, but then he noticed they flirted with any male, irrespective of species or nationality. Their noses were a bit on the long side, but he realized that as a naked mole rat-monkey hybrid he hardly had room to think critically of another’s appearance. And besides, he decided, they looked good in their noses. Proper exotic Italian beauties. And, they looked like they could run very fast.

That evening when he returned to the inn, Mama Sancia, the innkeeper’s wife, had fixed a scrumptious meal and was urging Wee Mr. Winkle to eat more.

“You are so skinny. You should eat!”

“Umm, umm,” he said. Nodding as he shoveled more food into his mouth. He was only skinny on the ends, his middle was plenty round enough. He really shouldn’t eat so much, but this was Italy.

“Rosetta, she fixed the dinner,” Mama Sancia said, pointing her long nose in the direction of a pretty young filly sitting at the table. “You like?”

[i]The dinner or the filly?[/i] But she couldn’t be any older than that French girl. At least Italian girls looked their age. “The dinner is wonderful,” he managed to say, after swallowing.

The girl looked down at her plate and avoided his gaze.

“My Rosetta, she win the [i]concorso della ragazza[/i] for sewing, last month.”

Wee Mr. Winkle only nodded and helped himself to another spoonful of grated [i]parmigiano[/i], which he sprinkled on his pasta.

“My Rosetta, she make the [i]parmiginao[/i]. The best in all of Parma.”

The girl sunk a bit lower in her chair.

He wasn’t sure what Mama Sancia was trying to accomplish, but the [i]parmiginao[/i] was wonderful. Hopefully it was nothing more than a mother doting on her youngest daughter. Besides, his rash was itching and he really needed to see a doctor.

“My Rosetta, she sing in the choir, like an angel.”

“A doctor?” he said.

Mama Sancia stopped talking and looked confused.

“It’s for a prescription,” he lied. “I’m getting low.”

“Ahh.” She smiled. “My Rosetta, she take you to the [i]medico[/i] in the morning.”

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Wee Mr. Winkle settled back in his seat on Kuwait Airways. He had a chance to talk a bit with Rosetta while they walked to the doctor’s. When he asked the filly what she liked to do, the girl had mumbled, “Listen to hip-hop and gallop with friends.” A typical teenager.

The doctor had said his itch was caused by a fungal infection and had given him a prescription. So that should be clearing up soon, which was good. With his naked mole rat heritage, his skin was very sensitive. Besides, a dreadnought was an uncomfortable place for a rash.

Dubai was his next stop. “The jewel of the Middle East.” His travel agent had called it posh. There were only a few people on his flight, which seemed odd because judging by the number of flights, Dubai seemed like a popular destination. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but he had a growing suspicion about that gate agent in Rome. The stallion had his mind on a trio of fillies that were hanging out near his station and flirting with everyone, including the agent.

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When he landed, the airport looked anything but posh. The customs agent seemed distracted by the well-armed policemen in desert fatigues who strolled through the airport. Plywood covered several of the windows and some of the furniture had bullet holes. The agent hurriedly stamped his passport, muttered something, then scurried back into his office and shut the door.

Wee Mr. Winkle pulled his wheelie toward the outside doors. A huge sign hung above them and he stopped to stare at it: “Welcome to Baghdad, the Jewel of the Middle East.”

“Baghdad? No!” He spun around and ran to the escalators that took him up to the ticket counters. But when he got to the upper level, most of the ticket counters looked abandoned. Fortunately, there was a Bedouin manning the Kuwait Airways counter.

“Excuse me, but there’s been a terrible mistake,” Wee Mr. Winkle said.

“There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His messenger.”

“Ahh, yes, right. I was supposed to go do Dubai today, but the gate agent in Rome made a mistake.”

“Rome makes many mistakes.” The ticket agent looked up from his terminal.

…