The Penny Reel wasn’t much to look at from the outside, at least during the middle of the day. Its box office lights were off, making the plain brick front all the more mundane. The glass booth out front was empty, so I went straight through the main doors. The dim, carpeted lobby smelled like stale popcorn, though I appreciated the subtle coolness in the air. A bandit-faced raccoon in an usher’s hat scrambled out of a side office on my approach, looking for all the world as if I caught him sleeping on the job.

“You probably did,” Mr. Narrator replied. “But I wouldn’t throw any stones if I were you.”

I won’t. Gotta start with them big boulders so you don’t need to worry about reciprocation.

The usher shook himself off. “May I—” he yawned deeply, his droopy whiskers bouncing a bit, “— help you?”

“Yeah. I’d like to see a show.” With a flourish, I held out my ticket.

He took it, pulled it closer to his eyes to take a gander, then squinted.

“This is only good for one short,” he said... shortly.

Mr. Narrator groaned a little.

Couldn’t help myself.

“But it’s still good for that much, yeah?” I asked, folding my arms. “Suits me fine!”

His ears flattened a bit, but then he shrugged as if getting into an argument with me would wear him down even more. “Go seat yourself; I’ll get it running.”

I had the whole house all to my own. With rows and rows of slightly worn red velvet seats, I chose one in the middle, though sitting on it turned out to be a bit of a project. See, it wasn’t built with a tail like mine in mind, and mine had a mind about being squished up underneath me. After a bit of consideration, I decided to sit on the seat’s back.

“Isn’t that a little undignified?” Mr. Narrator asked.

Yeah. I can’t be the only one who must suffer like this. They should have seats to accommodate us, no matter what size or shape we’re given.

He was quiet for a few moments. “I suppose you’re right.”

The lights fell, and immediately, a few gals off-screen started crooning about how wonderful Mr. Eagle was, starting with “earnest and kind.”

A title card lit up.

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

♦ Party Pandemonium ♦

Starring Mr. Eagle

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“A friend to all characters, how gracious and refined!” the chorus sang.

“Mr. Eagle, we all look up to you!”

I executed the wrong kind of gag at that one, and Mr. Narrator finally laughed in agreement.

When the orchestra finally outro’d, the short opened on a real swanky joint done up with marble columns and silver inlay. String lights were tethered high up between them, illuminating a whole regiment of sharply dressed partygoers. Then the shot opened on a grand staircase, where Mr. Eagle descended slowly, wings spread wide, welcoming his guests in customary tuxedo attire.

“Mr. Giraffe!” he called from halfway up, his head pointed up to the ceiling. “How’s everything looking from up there?”

The shot switched to him, his ears and knobs tangled up with bulbs. “Dazzling!” he replied, blinking his eyes at the bright lights.

After making small talk with a few other characters, Mr. Eagle picked up a nearby glass. “A toast. To everyone here! Take a swig back and then sling it back!”

And Mr. Eagle did just that, downing the drink, which was clearly labeled “juice”, before taking the empty Martini—er, juice glass and throwing it rather carelessly behind him.

Whoosh!

Before it hit the ground, and just as everyone else started to drink their own juice from similar stems, a giant, round whirlwind appeared, grabbing the glass midair. The other partygoers threw their own glasses behind their shoulders, and the tornado shot after them, gathering them up as it ruffled dresses and tailcoats alike.

“Heavens!” a fox lady declared, her own tail ending up like a stole around her neck. “What was that?”

The whirlwind slowed down, and out stepped a giant walrus, his head stiffly fixed upward. He was done up in tails, his tusks gleaming as his brush of a mustache rippled from one end to the other, with not one single hair out of place for all that spinning. Even more impressive was the fact that he had every single glass stacked into a pyramid along his right flipper, which he held quite level as he strode toward a swinging side door.

What a stunt!

“Now that gentleman, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Narrator declared, “is a professional!”

As soon as the walrus was through the swinging door, however—

Crash!

—we heard several glasses shatter.

“Squeak!”

Poor Mr. Walrus was on the ground, with a mouse skittering around him mockingly. A zoom-in to what had been his dazed gaze showed a man who had been dreadfully insulted. In an instant, he turned from professional butler to raging maniac, pulling out daggers, a giant mousetrap, and even a spiked flail.

“You again!” he thundered, charging and zig-zagging after the mouse while somehow wielding all three weapons. “I’ll get you this time, you miserable—” his mustache bristling as he dragged the words out “—mouse!”

The mouse made it out the door, and as soon as the walrus passed through into the party hall, he instantly went back to being the reserved butler he was supposed to be. Yet his leg flippers propelled him along just as fast as his angry strides had been when he was behind the scenes, making for quite the contrasting gag.

Unfortunately, the guests had needs, and they’d stop him to ask for a drink, a napkin, anything and everything from what time it was to where coat check was. The mouse paused from the chase each time too, tapping its foot as it waited for the walrus.

Then the final battle began. The mouse was headed for the buffet table, and Mr. Walrus did everything he could to capture him while ensuring no one else saw the pest. First, he made like he was about to scoop up the mouse with his flipper, only to switch gears and point at a large piece of ham while a young lady asked him what he recommended for dinner, hiding the mouse from her the entire time. The mouse escaped, only for the walrus to grab and scoop him away with an ice bucket.

The mouse disappeared, however, once the walrus peeked into it. When he turned, the mouse was on the table, swallowing a grape as big as its head. He grinned and started to roll toward a distinguished-looking lion near the corner.

Tumble, tumble, tumble—

Mr. Walrus jumped at that, then ran over before the mouse bowled into the lion’s hand. The walrus reached for him, only to shake hands with the confused lion.

“So very good to meet you, Mr. Lion!” the walrus warbled, making the situation even more awkward.

“Yes… Quite…” the lion said with a confused scowl, trying to pull his paw away.

With the absurdity escalating and his handshaking becoming more feverish, Mr. Walrus’s eyes shone with panic. “Would you… would you care to dance?”

Mr. Lion stared at him as if he had three heads. Then he pulled away without a word, marching straight toward Mr. Eagle, who was at the other end of the room.

With both flippers covering his mortified face, the walrus uttered a final prayer.

Mr. Eagle was on his way over after a brief, animated exchange with the lion, his brow furrowed. When he got there, however, Mr. Mouse jumped up onto Mr. Walrus’s shoulder, then bowed.

“Why, Mr. Mouse!” Mr. Eagle declared happily. “I was wondering where you were! Welcome to the party!”

Mr. Eagle held out his wing, and the mouse hopped into it. Just after he landed, he pulled a bowtie out of his invisible pocket, put it on his neck, then looked smugly at the walrus.

Mr. Walrus looked straight at the camera. His mustache twitched, just once on the right, before he fell straight on his back with a tympanic boom, out cold from the sheer indignity of it all. The short’s final iris then wound down to nothing as a slide whistle concluded the picture.

Then the house lights came up.

“Was that mouse… Melvin?” I gasped.

There was a long pause.

“Marvin,” Mr. Narrator corrected gently. “The system says he plays opposite Katey now.”

Oh. I guess a lot of mice wear bowties… Who’s the walrus, then?

It took him another few moments before he could answer.

“Wilford. Wilford Walrus.”

I leaned over like The Stinker—er,—The Thinker that I was, balancing on the top of the seat while tapping one fist into my forehead. “How comes they aren’t on the title card?”

“Well, Mr. Eagle was the star, Sally.”

No. He was the straight man. Marvin, but even more so, Wilford—they were the stars. Did you see their stunts? Masters of physical comedy, them two! But Mr. Eagle was just the hook. They coulda done the whole thing with a stand-in!

“Oh, thank the stars you’re only thinking this,” Mr. Narrator replied in relief. “It’s fine and dandy to mention it here, but please don’t go saying anything outside your skull about this. You’ll be blacklisted!”

Blacklisted?

“Everyone loves Mr. Eagle, Sally. Even you.”

It was a warning, and his ferocity behind the statement was a bit thin, what with the core being solid fear and all.

Right. I hear ya. Everyone. Even me.