Cocky the Fox (3)
By:
May 13, 2010
HILOBROW is proud to present the third installment of James Parker’s The Ballad of Cocky the Fox, a serial tale in twenty fits, with illustrations by Kristin Parker.
The story so far: Cocky the fox, a handsome specimen of Vulpes vulpes living on the edge of an English town, is in trouble. His mentor Holiday Bob, top fox in the Borough, is dead. His family life has collapsed, and he’s moved in with his friend Champion, a distressed albino rabbit. His enemies are everywhere. And he’s been drinking a lot of aftershave.
In Fit the Second, Cocky employed his signature move, “the Cockinator,” to fight his way out of a tight spot; he descended into the rats’ lair and delivered macaroons to the rat-queen Mother Mercury; he was insulted by Otto, the Rottweiler who lives next door; and Minstrel the squirrel relayed the news that Cocky’s cousin, Billy Five Wives, is the new Borough boss.
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A gloom, a glowering. Heavy-legged with rancour I stalk the quiet streets. These are the wee hours, when the town can only think of one or two things at a time, its powers of concentration dwindled to the whine of a streetlight or some rain on the bosom of a speedbump. And me, here, sleuthing moodily by walls and closed gates.
My fuse is short. Some tit of a bicyclist goes by – out of nowhere, into nowhere, the amnesiac whizz of his wheels — and I go bananas. ‘Rats, foxes, fucking WHO-E-VER!’ I bawl at him. ‘Come at Cocky, you’re gonna LOOOOSE!’
What’s my problem? Politics.
‘It would be politic, Cocky the fox, for you to make a gesture of loyalty to your cousin.’
Thus Weasel Paul, two hours ago, establishing the theme of the evening. I was taking my rest in the hutch, and he spoke to me from beneath it, his voice poking at me through the plywood floor. ‘He is the new boss, duly elected, and nobody knows quite where you stand on that. You were close to Holiday Bob. Your intentions at this time are obscure.’
‘Who cares?’
‘It makes for uneasiness, a poor atmosphere. Beasts like clarity.’
‘Bloody hell. Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?’
‘Because, you lazy bastard! Lying up there in a heap. You’re making trouble for all of us!’
He was in an awful mood, Weasel Paul, a right huff, the result of an earlier thing. Apparently he’d tried one of his little trance dances on a couple of bored-looking mice, over in his spinney behind the all-night garage there, and it hadn’t gone well. Instead of being transfixed by his recitations and eerie motions, and offering themselves up as lunch, they shrugged and pissed off. The Weez was fuming!
‘Alright, alright,’ I said, quite mellow in my hutch-bed, thigh to thigh with a dozing Champion. Plus I was on half a bottle of nail polish and a puddle of Red Bull. ‘Listen. Those mice. Maybe you just did the wrong routine, eh.’
‘The wrong routine?’ Small sounds of rage from below: frettings and gnawings and tearings of grass-blades. ‘The wrong routine? Never in all their shivering mouse-hours had they seen something so sinister and enchanting!’
‘If you say so.’
‘Cocky, I invited them to awaken from this fool’s dream of a life! To discover truth on the point of my puncturing tooth! I squirmed, I was tricky!’
‘And they didn’t go for it?’
‘They heckled me.’
Oh dear. That was bad. ‘Small minds, Weez.’
‘The old charms of the wood, Cock — they’re losing their power.’ This spoken with sadness. I peered over the edge of the hutch and there he was: my friend the weasel, my consigliere, on his back in the grass, looking up at me with his weeny eyes that cross like two beams converging on a target.
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘You misread your audience. Big deal!’
‘I’m telling you, since Bob died it’s all been out of whack. Imbalances, insubordinations. Grudges renewed. Which is why…’
‘Why what?’
He leaped up, started bustling about and throwing weaselly shapes. ‘Why you have to get your arse over to the Yard and settle it with Billy! The Borough needs a boss. The lid’s been off too long.’
‘All for our amusement, the blackbird said.’ That was Champion, bizarrely. In an entranced and sacerdotal monotone, with his eyes still shut.
‘Wait — what?’ I said.
‘What did he say?’ said Weasel Paul.
Eyebrows raised, we scrutinized the Champ, who said nothing more but breathed deeply, blissfully.
‘He is odd, you know,’ said the Weez at last.
‘Tell me about it.’ Big sigh from me. ‘Alright look, I’m going to do this.’ What could it hurt? I should check in with Billy. He might have something for me. A position. ‘In fact,’ and I creaked to my feet, ‘I’ll do it right now.’
‘Good boy. Heed the word of the weasel.’
I gave Champion a kick in the ribs. ‘Back in a bit.’
‘Love you,’ he mumbled, in his own voice.
‘Need some back-up?’ said Weasel Paul. ‘Billy has his whole crew over there.’
‘What are you gonna do, shake your hips at them?’
‘Comedian. They’re not your friends, that lot.’
‘I’ll see you later.’
Actually the Weez is a fearsome fighter: I’d never bet against him. I’ve seen him back down cats, rat-squads, even a dog or two. And when he goes at it with another weasel, crikey, get out the way. Rolling and flipping and flying about, like two fireworks in a tangle… They go white-hot, an ecstasy of antagonism. Step anywhere near it and you’re liable to lose a toe. Weasels and foxes haven’t fought for a while. Officially, that is: there might have been a skirmish over a dead wood pigeon, a bit of hissing and bristling. But the late Holiday Bob was good pals with Mackie Viles, ‘King Of The Stoats’, and it seemed to trickle down, in the Bob style. Fox-weasel amity. These days, though, who knows?
It was Bob, too, who picked out the Yard for us. Perfect spot — snug inside the territory, but close enough to the edge that we can keep an eye on things. A car-place, a garage-scrapheap, full of wrecks and rebirths and zombie chunks of engine. We use it for meet-ups, and as a staging area for some of our capers. Or we used to — lately it’s just been more of a hangout for Borough types who don’t know what to do with themselves. I came by the other night and found an old-timer called Dorsey weeping into a Chinese. The state of him — he’d eaten half the polystyrene tray as well. I mean, really. Get it together, Dorsey!, I said, but he just blinked at me and ground his plum sauce jaws.
The way into the Yard is under the fence; one strip of corrugated iron is browning and twisted up at the bottom, with a scuff-hole in the earth beneath to widen the gap. I swarmed through and there, in the bonkers glare of the security light, was my cousin Billy Five Wives mounting his vixen Trixie. One of his vixens, I should say, because you know Billy. He staggered slightly on the stilts of his hind legs, inelegant, his paws on her shoulders, throwing desultory glances — the only time you’ll see a fox looking absent-minded is when he’s shagging — as she backed patiently into him.
‘She loves it,’ rumbled a phlegmy voice beside me.
‘Shut up, Tony Volpe.’ Tony Volpe is the Yard’s disgusting old watchdog, a collapsed mastiff with x-ray ribs and black stains on his face from years of eye-seep. Holiday had some arrangement with him, bribed him or threatened him into a state of snickering passivity. A very off-colour animal, he’s been getting noticeably worse in recent weeks. I put down the robbings I’d scored on the way over: the sachet of moisturizer, the almost uneaten kebab. ‘Touch that and I’ll have you.’
‘How can I touch it if I just died of fright?’ Wuffles of sour amusement.
Billy spotted me. ‘Cocky! Just a second mate. Ooh. Ooh yeah. Whew! Right — how are you?’
‘Popped by to pay my respects, Bill. To the new boss, like.’
He frowned, gave himself a shake. Billy’s a doing fox, always on the go. What’s next? might be his motto. ‘You remember Trixie?’
Did I remember Trixie. Trixie was looking very nice, very ripe, quite velvety and sated. Onto her side she flipped and then began idly to prettify herself, combing a foreleg with her teeth, her tail-tip teasing the air. Her parents were Ramble-Ons, low-born rustics, but still: what a vixen! Where she rolls there’s scorchmarks. I gave her a hooded covetous glare, whiskers like sparks, flaring my lewdness. Come on, come on, you bitch — you need a little rotter like me. You know you do.
‘Something wrong with your eyes, Cock?’ said Billy.
‘My eyes?’
‘They’re sort of bulging a bit, that’s all.’
‘Allergies,’ I said, but took a submissive step backwards. Billy’s a big proud fox, thick-bellied and sleek with muscle. Our last scuffle left me with my ears ringing.
‘And where have you been, Cocky?’ asked Trixie, soft and solicitous, from her warp of sexual heat. ‘Haven’t seen much of you lately.’
‘Oh you know,’ I muttered. ‘Here and there. Getting my scene together.’
‘How’s Nora?’
I flinched, goggled. Nora. Billy cleared his throat. ‘Step into my office, Joe Cocker.’ He nodded at the desecrated Volvo that had been Bob’s war room, entrance through the broken rear windscreen. ‘Let’s have a chat.’ Obediently I jumped in.
And almost landed on Robo. A large and aromatic fox of tremendous stupidity who was sitting there waiting for me. Whoops!
‘Alright Cocky.’ Staring at me like the lump that he is.
‘Robo! Shit! Er, paws or claws?’
No answer. ‘Good manners cost nothing, you know,’ I said, a bit tart. Who did he think he was? Billy joined us, rasping his bulk swiftly through the windscreen-hole. The two of them on the back seat, me opposite, wrapped tentatively around the gear stick. It crossed my mind: Was Paul right? Am I going to get mauled in here? But Billy seemed relaxed, settling back presidentially into the torn upholstery. Spurs of glass glinted in his dark coat.
‘You know this could be you sitting here, right?’ he said.
‘Eh?’
‘Borough boss. It could be you!’
‘Well,’ I coughed. ‘Naturally I —’
Leaning forward: ‘Listen to me, Cocky. I’m a game fox. I know that. I can flatten all the talent for miles. I can flatten you. And I’m quick, too, with my mind.’ He gave a fox-yawn. ‘I’m decisive. It’s why the vixens like me. I think of something, it happens. Bang! Am I right?’
I nodded.
‘And I can tell a beast what to do. Robo here would run into a brick wall for me.’ Robo continued to stare me down, fatuous with menace. One day, fuckface. ‘But acumen? Seeing through things, to the motives behind? Nah. You and Bob, that was your department. The pranks, the head trips. All that private laughter between you.’
‘True, true,’ I said. This was good stuff, very perspicacious of Billy. I hadn’t thought him so insightful. ‘They used to call us ‘The Academy’, didn’t they? Ha ha!’
‘Did they? Well anyway. You’re top level, Cock, in that respect. Leadership material. And still quite handy, yeah? I heard about your little rumpus at the bakery. That Hughes is no pushover.’
‘Past his best,’ I demurred. ‘Too many buns.’
‘So I would have spoken up for you at the round-up. I really would. Others too, probably.’
‘But..?’
‘BUT.’ He sighed. ‘You’re a wreck, aren’t you, since Bob went? I mean let’s face it, you’re all over the place. You’ve abandoned your vixen and cubs —’
‘She abandoned me! Nora, she -’
‘Ach!’ Now he looked disgusted. ‘Where’s your pride, fox? Pissed out with all the mouthwash. These wanker’s pursuits of yours.’
‘I’m self-medicating, Bill, if you must know. There’s a certain amount of stress in my life right now.’
‘Stress my arse. And the rabbit! Seriously, Cocky. Living in a hutch? It’s a bleedin’ embarrassment.’
‘Not your business, is it, Billy Five, where I lay my head.’
‘Oh no? I’m the boss now. Me. And I run a clean organisation. Foxes keep to their own, and we leave the chemicals for the toerags on the Northside, for Lost Johnny and his mob.’
‘All the lost johnnies,’ added Robo.
‘That’s right, Robo,’ said Billy. And then to me: ‘Cousin or no cousin, you’ll follow the code.’
‘Balls. I do what I want.’
‘Not in my Borough you don’t.’
‘Your Borough? Do me a favour.’
A taut grin from Billy. ‘I’ll be honest, Cocky. I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation. But now I’m starting to enjoy myself. You’re going back to your den tonight, and you’ll say whatever you have to say to Nora, and tomorrow night you report to Robo here, and he’ll have a little job for you. And if you’re not sober as an astronaut, I’ll hear about it.’
Robo was looking at me like I was about to make his night. But against those two? Inside a car? I’m not suicidal, not quite. So I gave Billy a very formal snarl, signalling Dissatisfaction and Protest, and made my exit.
Outside Trixie was on her feet, tensed for imminent aggro. And behind her, like a smirk on four legs, was that tosser Blandley. I might have known. This little rigmarole in the car – far too finely-tuned a piece of anti-Cockery for Billy. It had Blandley’s pawprints all over it!
‘You,’ I seethed.
‘Not to worry, Cocky-Locky,’ he said, all cream. ‘I’m sure you can work your way up again.’
‘Think I’ll forget this, Blandley? ‘Cause I won’t!’
‘I’d be rather hurt if you did.’ And he slid away, and Billy and Robo were leaving the Yard too. ‘Come on, Trixie,’ said Billy.
Trixie! Over the soft coil of her shoulder she gave me a humid look of pity, in parting. Now that really crushed me.
‘Rrrrrrr… I’ll take ’em ALL on! I’ll do them like THIS —’ I gave a feint with my head, to my left, a flycatcher, snapping at air. ‘And like THIS —’ To the right! Nyap! Nyap! ‘And then a little bit of THIS —’ A flurry of shadowboxing, and I fell over and scraped my nose.
‘Yep,’ said a voice. ‘That’s deadly stuff alright.’
‘Shut up, Tony Volpe,’ I said, and heard a soggy-muzzled chortle between walls of dead car.
I picked up my robbings and headed for ‘home.’
*******
And now, rolling grimly up the garden at the night’s end, I hear murmurings from the hutch. The door is open; there’s the smudge of paleness that is Champion, almost phosphorescent at this hour, and next to him the narrow form of the weasel. Are they talking about me? What else could they be talking about? Their voices in quiet communion, domed by the approaching dawn: the thin, confidential voice of Weasel Paul, the louder unmusical voice of the Champ. Outrageous, after the night I’ve had. Intolerable to me is this gentleness, this early-morning mutuality. I must destroy it!
‘Worst consigliere EVER!!’ I screech, loud enough to bring answering woofs and cackles from the surrounding gardens.
‘What happened?’ Paul’s shape rises in the dim hutch.
‘You and your analyses! Useless! They made a wanker out of me over there!’
‘Kebab?’ suggests Champion. Greedy rabbit: he can smell it.
‘Wait,’ says Paul. ‘Wait. I know what happened. Your cousin had a go at you and you lost your temper. You blew it.’
‘Call yourself a weasel? I’d get better advice from a fucking hamster!’
Two warning jolts of red from his eyes, like brake-lights. ‘Watch it, Cocky… We’re friends, but —’
‘I should have asked Champion what to do!’
The Weez’s head is weaving from side to side, his upper lip peeling back. ‘You don’t want to get on my mental side, fox.’ He clicks his teeth. ‘My dental side, know what I mean?’
‘Oh, give me some of that, then, go on,’ Kneading the ground with my forepaws. ‘Let me taste it. How bored I am with this chitty-chatter! For weeks you’ve been chitty-chattering at me. And you’re a crap dancer.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He’s bobbing about like Prince Nas now, snake-necked, all fluffed up with fury. ‘Oh yeah? Then fucking COME ON!!!!’
And he flies at me, full stretch, his little fanatic’s face zooming in from between the white V-sign of Champion’s ears. Gah! And then for a time I seem to be not so much ‘fighting’ as ‘catastrophically involved in a vortex of weasel-ness.’ Bites from everywhere, insults from everwhere, ‘Die, you foxy bastard!’ in both ears although he’s not trying to kill me, is he? I hope he isn’t. Vainly I swipe, I gnash, I got my teeth into something there but it might have been my own leg…? More than one of him in this attack, surely — some weaselly fission has occurred and there are several Pauls whizzing round and round, unfooting me, beating me. The vehemence is terrible, the speed. ‘Okay! Okay!’ I shout. So it ends: Cocky on his back, bemused and smarting and trussed in invisible wires.
Sparrows prattle around us. The air cools. I’m entering a state of serenity, all passion spent etc. But I think I’ve hurt Weasel Paul’s feelings. Look — there he goes, limping for the fence, his shoulders congested with sorrow. Oh dear!
‘Oi,’ I say. ‘Weez. Come back.’
But he doesn’t.
Will Cocky straighten out and follow the code?
Will he go crawling to Nora — and if so, will she take him back?
And what was that “blackbird” business Champion was talking about?
Find out in the next episode, on Thursday, May 27.
SAME FOX-TIME!
SAME FOX-CHANNEL!
Each installment of THE BALLAD OF COCKY THE FOX was complemented by an issue of THE SNIFFER, a COCKY THE FOX newsletter written and edited by Patrick Cates. Originally sent only to subscribers, they are now all freely available here.
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