The black spy meets the white spy ‘hind the screen o’ a sewer pipe in the tunnel ‘tween Parmesan Plain & Habanero Harbor. The white spy knew Habanero Harbor needed Parmesan Plains’s trademark melty cheese, & the black spy knew that Parmesan Plain needed Habanero Harbor’s tongue-torching habaneros fished freshly from the salt waters.

& they both knew that the price o’ each quadrupled since the war ‘tween Wasabi & Worcestershire Woods made travel ‘tween the 2 much mo’ treacherous.

But what neither knew was that there were 2 other spies hid ‘hind each–gray spies from Whisky Woods.

The butler stood o’er the nephew, the wrinkles on his face contorting with shadows.

“I highly recommend you eat your spinach, Madame,” the butler said in a strained voice.

The nephew’s own face was contorted–but with sadness.

“I-I don’t want to…” she said.

“¿Why not?” The butler put knuckles down on the table just ‘side her. “It’s good for you.”

The nephew gripped the edge o’ the table, her knees shaking below.

Meanwhile, kilometers ‘way, Orval was racing down a highway, shades burning in the thick sunlight & teeth gritting as tightly as his pale fingers on the steering wheel.

The problems that kept popping up–spreading like cancer–e’er since the sun fell, leaving half the world in infinite darkness–& worse, the rest in unrelenting light.

& Orval was tasked with putting the pieces back together.

& worse, the notorious Whiskey Woods knew. 1st 1 o’ his assistants develops trachoma, next he learns that his great-grandfather’s bed is flooded with thickly suede horse heads till they almost choke his lungs.

But Orval wouldn’t be cowed. Though the leukemia wouldn’t be stomachful, he had to endure the cure all the way. No choice.

But then 1 day ‘Course Not couldn’t race anymo’–not due to a busted hoof, but bacteria in its eyelids. ‘Cause o’ this, ‘Course not’s sponsor, Wasabi Woods, would lose many ₧–₧ that may be useful for buying weapons that could’ve ended the war ‘tween it & Worcestershire Woods promptly.

As soon as Orval had found out, he raced himself & his assistants to investigate.

But not only did they discover nothing a few days ‘pon returning to their lab, 1 o’ the assistants caught a terribly debilitating disease:

Trachoma.

Angelita gulped as she neared the solid rock wall that was the door to the boar’s cave. Ne’ertheless, she knocked all the same.

She held her breath during the 2 minutes it took for the door to slide open with the crusty grind o’ rock gainst rock.

& there was the boar, its pupil-less black eyes aimed straight @ her, its mouth emitting motor sounds.

She hesitated a second, but then pulled out the box o’ raisin cookies in red & white with cursive words that said, “No Boaredom Cookies.”

She cleared her throat, then said, “‘Scuse me, Sir, but I’m ‘fraid my husband made a mistake while buying these. ¿Could I trade them in for peanut butter cookies, ‘stead?”

The boar replied, “There’ll be a 500₧ restocking fee.”

Angelita’s fingers twitched.

She said half-cringing, “¿You couldn’t maybe lower that price?”

Master Tompkins peered into the glass, inside which was a rat scurrying ‘mong mounds o’ woodchips. She adjusted her glasses.

“¿This is your witness?”

“Yes, Master,” said Orval. “I’m ‘fraid it was the only one who saw the car right as ’twas hitting the fox. But don’t fret: watch & see.”

Orval opened the cage as 1 o’ his assistants set an alphabetical board on the counter. Then Orval set a sesame seed on the counter. All watched as the rat picked up the seed, scurried o’er to the board, & set the seed onto the letter “W.” Orval’s other assistant scribbled the letter onto his notepad.

They watched as this continued, Orval setting a seed down, followed by the rat gathering it back to the board, setting it on a different letter. Master Tompkins’s eyes flicked up to the gentleman writing down the letters & noticed his expression becoming increasingly perturbed after each letter.

Finally, ‘pon setting down a seed, the rat wouldn’t move. Tompkins heard the sound o’ a clearing throat & looked @ the assistant with the notepad to see him slowly flip the pad round toward the rest.

All quivered @ the words they saw: “Whisky Woods.”

“¿Is there any way it can be cured?”

They all stared down @ the highway where there lay a red fox, its limp fingers scarred with the black marks o’ tires. The flaps o’ their baby blue scrubs flapped in the sandy wind.

The leader, Orval, without looking ‘way from the fox, said, “Only 1 way. Call Ma’isah.”

Rigoberto bit his lips. “¿Is there nothing else we can use…?”

Orval shouted, “If you want it to live, ¡call her now!”

The sound o’ blowing wind was augmented by the tiny beeps o’ dialed buttons.

Despite Ma’isah’s thirst, she kept walking. She knew the cure was close.

Mixed with the scent o’ stale heat & the vanilla o’ a few scattered dry herbs was a certain tangy & sour aroma. She aimed herself directly toward this.

Then, finally, on the 3rd night, her eyes caught the white twinkling o’ reflected light.

The peninsula.

But this was no ordinary peninsula: this was the one made o’ pure, fermented Sherry, imported directly from Cádiz.

She rushed for it & began splashing some in her face & began drinking it. Then, glancing round herself to ensure that the sand cats weren’t spying on her, she pulled out a bottle & began filling it, followed by ‘nother, & then ‘nother.

Thus was the beginning o’ her multibillion-riyal empire.

Velvet knew how she’d find out…

@ Verlie’s birthday party, Velvet made sure Verlie was the 1st to eat from the black fairy cake & made sure that she was there to cut the slice. As she handed the plate ‘cross the table, Velvet watched the slice closely for signs o’ movement, oddity. But it looked like an ordinary cake.

Then she watched Verlie closely as she scarfed the slice down thoughtlessly, an opaque smile on Velvet’s face.

“Mmm, it’s good,” said Verlie.

Velvet’s smile tightened. “Yes. Very.”

But with drumming fingers, Velvet thought, Now we’ll see 100% where that last oatmeal cookie went & what a lying horse you are.

“I want everyone to look @ something.”

Like a sagging soufflé, the nightly party–@ this point involving a rattling game o’ “Roe Round the Stump”–fell to sobriety. The once-roudy rabbits compacted their bodies & followed their leader down the cobbled path.

They stopped @ a large white cedar–the largest tree in all Worcestershire Woods. Their leader pointed downward, where most noticed with cut breaths a short bump where its tail used to be. Then they all looked up @ the leader with eyes o’ fear.

“Now, look @ this hair I found nearby,” said the leader as he held up a gray hair. “¿D’you smell that sea-salt scent? That’s beaver.”

& that was when the rabbits’ wide eyes contorted into anger.