The Packrat Affair

The Packrat Affair: Part I
(An actual mission.)

The sun was setting on its usual horizon. Chef and Tank were watching it platonically.

Tank liked sunsets because of the colors and the trite romanticism. Chef liked sunsets because it was the only time of day his real eye could challenge the sun to a staring contest and win.

"This place is gorgeous," Tank breathed. "I could see myself living here. There is absolutely nothing here i could get bored of."

"There is absolutely nothing here you could get bored of," said Chef, "because there's absolutely nothing here."

It was true. Barren wasteland stretched for miles, like a long cat.

Chef looked at his watch. "Packrat should have been here all of five minutes ago. Marshall's not going to be pleased." He frowned responsibly. "We're losing time." He hated losing.

The sun was now a shrunken tomato in a pink sauce, and the view was making Tank giddy with awe. "Do you really think they'll be expecting us back when we told them we would be back?" she murmured rhetorically.

"Yes," said Chef.

Suddenly, a black human-sized shape appeared against the tomato sun. Chef and Tank both stared. It moved closer.

"I remember him being fat," Tank said.

"I remember him being a 'him'," Chef said.

It was true. The shape was moving with a seductive limp that no male could reasonably pull off.

It moved closer to the hill. It was clearly not a man. It was not even a human, because of its tail. Chef and Tank could still not see its face, if it had one.

Chef swore creatively and said "Guns at the ready, kid." He wielded one.

Tank squinted. "Pretty sure I've seen that somewhere before." She stored it away for later.

The man-shaped thing was just out of firing range when it stopped moving. A pair of beady eyes stared out from behind a garish kerchief covering its face. It also had fur.

"Mr. Carson and Miss Greenstein?" came a professional-sounding wheeze that sounded like a cross between an accordion and an asthmatic Audrey Hepburn with mildly advanced laryngitis.

Tank stared. "Whom do we have the pleasure of being addressed by?" she said, ruining her attempt to sound formal by ending her sentence with a preposition.

The scarfed not-male furry be-tailed accordion-voiced thing said, "Packrat at your service, madam." It did something that resembled a bow. "I am most sincerely apologetic for the delay. Our party was unexpectedly accosted by solicitors in wigs. We dispatched them as swiftly as possible, but there was the small issue of presentation." As if to explain, it noticed and promptly licked a stray bloodstain from its foot.

"That's impossible," yelled Chef. "I met Packrat two years ago. I've never met you." He aimed his gun at the creature with a menacing look of danger.

The creature let out a gurgling sound, presumably laughter. "Mr. Carson, please. Were you not aware that in the tradition of the Hopa-folk, 'Packrat' is a name handed down across generations?"

"What kind of generation passes in two years?" Chef said coolly.

"The kind that ends in frequent unexpected assassinations, spontaneous combustions, or freak accidents in the cloth mines." Packrat jiggled an appendage in a gesture of nonchalance. "Ours is a treacherous line of work."