Lion Head Mesa Hear them mumblin' low

his black-eyed look was dull as a hood, yet inwardly he chewed on every word. he took the man for a babbler, scheming sort, and stuck a note to the inside of his skull not to treat this wolf as another drab guardsman. keep him far away from the house of gucci, too.

the neb feigned shock.



oh! why wasn't ah jes' sah bright? he exaggerated surprise, like his six nips got blown clean off by the implication. why wouldn't 'er toddlin', yearlin' majesty consider man who's elder tah her late pa 'n' ma combined? why, ahm such canine adonis!

he threw his head back and cawed a laugh, aware how his folds of bountifulness bunched beneath the fur of his ruff.

gucci looked again at sutekh, expression again dull.

mah-zoi. ye wonder what that alligator man's gon' do? ah wonder too. so, he leaned toward the dust-of-hiding-places and gold-of-potent-bribes man. do us each sahm good, an' keep cuss-ah-beck in sight. he try 'n' pull sahm bold move? white-glowed toes stuck at the narrow snout. ya tell me first. ah been 'ere longer'n ya. speakin' proportionally, mah ears're bigger; ah heard 'n' seen how th' mesa tics. sahm brawny redcoat o' queenslands waltzes in? 'nless someone twists 'is ankle, we're 'boutta dance a different tune.

gucci leaned back, recrossed his paws.

pulled a grin over his face.

n trust me, mazoi, ye ain't gon' like th' rhytm.