HEY IM PUTTING STORIES UP HERE NOW #epic

It was a rather dreary drizzling Thursday, and Ernie was sitting on a bench outside the Hôtel.

A tall, gray-furred dog in rather expensive looking clothing eyed him.

She flashed a grin at the dog.

The dog didn’t grin back.

Scudder frowned and got up and decided to make it back to the Inn. She didn’t like the smell of this man; it was metallic and arcid.

And then he was yanked back by his tie and slipped on the wet cobblestone.

“What of Cani—”

“I’ve received a tip,” said the gray dog, towering over her and making no attempt to help him up, “I’m Beta Boucher and in 

charge of watching… this...hotel.” 

His snout wrinkled at the mention of ‘hotel’, teeth flashing threateningly.

“I’ve heard that you have engaged in criminal behaviour. I will be taking you to a Kennel for processing.”

Ernie, to put it in formal terms, freaked out.

Kennels were tall, and foreboding, and had no windows. They smelled of blood and tears and various other bodily fluids. 

They were places that led to gaol, or sometimes death.

Martha and Frank and Chanterby had all gone to Kennels, and Ernie hadn’t seen them since.

But she staggered up, and clutched a rather surprised Boucher’s hand, and followed him into the imposing concrete building.

“D’y’know what crimes I committed?” he asked a sneering Boucher.

“”What? No, no, you’ll have to tell me that. I simply know that you’ve done something.”

Ernie was a bit underwhelmed by that. He’d thought that the lawmen were sorta like gods: they knew things you did, and didn’t, and if you broke their rules (even if you couldn’t really read them) you’d be in for a rough time.

But, she thought, might as well make the most of it.

Hedgecreeping and Gross Indecency were two charges. He’d be worse off if he went honestly, than, say, telling Boucher he attacked someone.

So he scrunched up his snout and raised his eyebrows and howled out:

“I-I-I stole something an I’m ever so sorry Mister Boucher! I was planning to sell it so I could get money to s—support my wife an I’m ever so sorry I stole it. Stealing isn’t worth it and I know that now an—”

Boucher gritted his teeth and put a sharp-clawed hand on Ernie’s shoulder. 

“Now, now,” he said, snout curling, “There is a condition in the law for stealing. If you return the item, I’ll just have to charge you ten cents, unfortunately.”

“I stole the coat from—from—uhhhh…” 

Ernie blinked. 

“Lord R. Byron.”

“The famous and most certainly depraved poet?!” 

“Uh… yea. Him.”

“I’ll escort you to his house and watch you return it.” said Boucher, tail and snout held high.

Ernie thought for a second. He felt sure that an escort was another name for a rare tropical fish. 

It was probably one of those home’o’nims or whatever Charlie had told him about.

So he went with Boucher to R.Byron's house.

They stepped in together. Ernie thought that perhaps marching into Lord Byron’s house without a knock would lead to some awkward scene or such, but luckily Byron was simply sitting in a chair reading.

Upon sight of Ernie and the cop, Byrons’s eyes widened and his tail tucked in momentarily. But then he got up and stretched leisurely.

“Whatever are you here for?”

“To return a coat I um—I stole from you.”

said Ernie.

“I know things, Lord Byron. About...this coat.” he said, and held it gingerly out.

Byron stared and smiled smugly, and wrenched the hat from Ernie’s hands. 

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I have many stories about it, it was a gift from my father. And you stole it! Ah, such woe and terror had never filled my heart until the day you stole such a precious article of clothing! I, Robbie Byron, will treasure it forever more now that I have gained it back!”

“Right,” said Ernie, who was not sure if she should be pleased he now knew Byron’s first name, “you told me the story about it, the absinthe and the escort.”

Ernie did not think, prior to his words, a man could appear to go through the 5 stages of grief when talking about a tropical fish. Now he was fully convinced.

Boucher asked for the ten cents, and Ernie went through her pants pocket and found a grimy pair of nickels.

“Here,” he said. “and I can walk back to my quarters alone without stealing now, thank you very much!”

Boucher nodded dimly and rushed to get a carriage so he could terrorize some other hedgecreepers and thieves near the Hôtel.

Lord Byron grinned down at Ernie; he was twice the height of the streetdog.

“Whatever was that about?”

“I just saved you,” said Ernie. “from being charged for, what, three counts of gross indecency?”

“Ah,” said Byron, blinking, “about that. You free—?”

“Shut it, Roberts,” said Ernie, and slammed the door shut, scurrying back to the Inn.