Chapter Text
"I am a worm. I am a worm. I am a worm. I am a worm," thought a two inch wiggler stretched out in the cool night air. The soil it lay on prickled a little and tasted terrible. "I am a worm. I am a w—"
Timothy C. Arduine, a crow of middling repute, moaned a peep upon swallowing a lively night crawler. It's texture was altered in the most delightful way by a layer of breadcrumbs the morsel'd had the opportunity to roll about in for the past few minutes. The bird let the feeling linger before chasing the bite with a bit of bubbly while taking a moment to consider the plate and all the other wriggling canapes (worms on breadcrumbs, ants in honey, Cheetos) being carried through the hall-cum-ballroom by a genial sloth. Then he took another moment, then another three before he decided to save room for dessert and let the sloth hurry along.
"Do you think he'll attend?" said the arm candy.
Timothy chuckled. "I'd give it 50/50, Mina. But I'm not a betting bird."
His companion nibbled on a bit of french fry sticking out the side of her beak like a cigarette. It was fresh from the kitchen of a high-end food truck that'd set up shop at the south end of the park. That Mr. Wayne was nothing short of amazing given the ends he went to for his guests. (The fry was delightfully salty.)
"I think he'll be here," she said.
"Like I said—"
"I mean look over there."
Tim followed her gaze to a peahen decked out in sequins with an impressive bass fishing lure dangling from her neck, and she moved with the signature elegance of her species. It was a wonder the Man of the Hour hadn't fallen for her yet—unless.
A slow, quiet, nasally voice piped up behind them. "Amazing."
Tim and his companion turned stiffly to see who (or what) had just startled their feathers out.
"Damn fine plumage, I must say," continued an unexpected prairie dog.
Tim backed up a step. It wasn't like the mammal intimidated him—some of his best friends were cats—but this one gave him the heebeegeebees. "Mr. Mumford?"
"You must have me confused with someone else."
But he did look a good deal like Mr. Mumford, down to a speck of white fur on the nose.
"I'm terribly sorry," said the prairie dog. "I don't mean to startle."
"That's alright." Tim hoped it would be.
"Do you know when the man of the hour might arrive?" the creature continued.
Mina seemed even more nonplussed than Tim, edging herself out of the sphere of conversation, leaving her date exposed to the newcomer's extroversions.
"I really would love to meet him." The creature's body was in that upright-lookout pose his species was known for, and his head pointed unerringly forward. The only thing animated about him was the olive.
Tim nurtured a chuckle. He coaxed it out his lungs and through his throat with meticulous care. And it came out his beak sounding like a masterclass in mildly amused IDGAF. (He did very much GAF.)
The prairie dog wouldn't stop fumbling with his olive, even when he got it to his face and and started making tiny chewing sounds.
"I'm sure he'll be around sooner or later," Tim said. "He is the Man of the Hour.
"Can you help me with something?" Mina, stiff as a scarecrow, turned toward the bird bath a few yards away.
"Certainly, Dearest."
"You'll have to forgive us," Tim said as neutral as he could get. "But we have to take care of some personal business." (And get the Heck out of Dodge.)
The prairie dog would have waved them off if his arms could go that high. Instead he stood alone and slightly bored and imagined twiddling his thumbs (if only his thumbs were twiddleable) until he grew a little too anxious for attention and ambled cautiously along toward the famous socialite those silly birds were gushing about before he'd crashed their gossip-fest. It would've been a lot easier if he could see through these damned eyeballs the taxidermist had unhelpfully stuck in the prairie dog suit's head. He'd have to have a word with her for this unsatisfactory work.
"Pardon me?"
He'd nearly bumped into her. "I'm so sorry Miss Madison." The prairie dog's mouth had a small hole that could be used to see through when walking, but the field of view was inadequate for even a simple stroll without causing a scene. This whole situation was bordering on fiasco.
The peahen turned and towered over him like like a disappointed parent. "Do see to it you're more careful—"
"Of course."
"Thank you, Mr . . ."
"Oh, Mumf . . ."
"Mr. Mum."
"Yes."
"How do you know Mr. Wayne?"
This smelled like an interrogation. "I'm . . . in the Lake Improvement Society." That's a thing, right?
"I take it that you know Mrs. Cowell then."
"Oh, yes. Lovely lady."
The bird cocked her head a moment.
"Well, she does get it done, right?"
"That's one way to put it," said the condescending socialite cocking her head even further.
The "prairie dog" was feeling well done—burnt at the edges, even—with the prairie dog shtick, and this supposed upper crust gentlebird was tempting him to stuff his olive up her beak. All in all, the evening was turning out less than what one in his particular position would desire.
"Are you interested in meeting Mr. Wayne?"
Wouldn't that be a treat. "Are you offering?"
"Perhaps I should arrange something."
"That would be an honor." And a trap, perhaps. This bird clearly didn't trust him to boil water. And she would probably love to march him in front of Mr. Wayne or Mrs. Cowell to expose him for the fraud he was. And while that would be quite the entertainment (And the society pages would be fantastically agog.) there wasn't time for silly games.
"Follow me."
(Is this how the plan unravels?) The prairie dog waddled forth behind his avian guide. The rest of the room spared a glance here and there for Ms. Madison, but no one cared to look at the bedraggled rodent following after.
"This is bound," he said, "to be a most interesting time." Or so goes the curse.
They paced the Grand Roost, toward an archway that stood unnoticed in the shadows. A faint smell of popcorn came from that direction.
"Are you sure he'll have time for the likes of me?" he said, mostly to delay his apparently inevitable, inconvenient unmasking.
Julie Madison ignored him. She was having too much fun stringing this party crasher along until the Commissioner arrived with Master Grayson's surprise.
Did he follow? She had to keep glancing over her shoulder to make sure—yes, but why did he look tipsy, and why did he insist on standing on his hind legs? It was weird. Not that it mattered. Either Bruce or Jim would set things right.
"I think," she finally said, "You'll find Mr. Wayne a delightful host and a gracious individual."
"Of course. I've been following his philanthropic exploits for many years."
Of course you have. "I'm sure Mr. Wayne will appreciate your interest in his charitable works." After you cool your heels out of everyone's way.
She'd just led him into a smallish, mostly empty room with a table, several chairs, and a large cupboard in the corner. She pointed toward one of the chairs. "Do sit down," she said.
"Thank you." He didn't sit down.
She pointed to a bowl of shelled sunflower seeds sitting on the table next to some stacked plates and cutlery. "Please help yourself. I'll let Mr. Wayne know you're here."