Homefront

By

Matt Plotecher

	"Mail call!" Dale announced as he tromped into the kitchen, carrying 
a surprising amount of envelopes and miniature magazines in his arms. "Looks 
like we got a whole bunch o' stuff, too!"
	The rest of the Rangers glanced up from their lunch with interest. 
Usually the mail for rodents was fairly slow, but with the Yuletide season 
fully upon them, cards and year-end letters were starting to arrive from, 
literally, around the globe. Most of them were addressed to the Rangers as 
a whole, from groups and individuals that they had helped out through the 
years.
	Each of the Rangers had fully grown into the spirit of the season 
from these communications from friends, old and new, which reminded them that, 
despite whatever troubles they may have endured over the year (as extensive as 
they were, no less), it was all worth it. The mountain of cards in the living 
room were testament that the Rangers had managed to bring a little light into 
hundred's, maybe even thousand's, of peoples lives.
	True, all the cards of praise and thanks also inadvertently stroked 
their egos nicely, but it wasn't the source of the joy.
	"Chip, somethin' from McDugell... Gadget, your issue of Popular 
Mousecanics arrived... here's that Cheese-of-the-Month sampler for Monty...." 
Dale flipped the items out towards the table while still looking at the pile 
of mail remaining in his hands. As a result, his aim was less than perfect, 
and the seated Rangers found themselves forced to make athletic dives and 
leaps to grab their mail before it landed in the sink, their lunch, or sailed 
out the doorway on the other side of the room.
	"...the 'Zine 'W.T.A.B.,' that's mine..." Dale murmured as he tucked 
it under his arm.
	"W.T.A.B.?" Monterey asked, not familiar with the term.
	"Short for 'Where The Acorn Begins,'" Dale replied, a bit distracted 
as he flipped an envelope towards Zipper. "Here's something for you, Zip." 
Zipper was too stunned at the announcement that he had something personally 
addressed to him to react in time, which was unfortunate, as Dale's aim was 
right on target for once.
	The large, brown missive clobbered the small fly, flattening him to 
the floor with an impressive thud. Zipper, too ecstatic over getting something, 
however, couldn't have cared less. He crawled out from under it and flipped 
it over to read the label of the sender. His look of excitement soon flushed 
into one of scorn, directed at Dale.
	The envelope was addressed to "Resident."
	Dale grinned. "Hey, it could be important. Ed McMouse says you may 
have already won a million cheese wedges."
	Ha ha ha, Zipper grumbled mirthlessly as he flitted back to the table 
with the ammo of the direct-mail marketer. He took a healthy bite out of it, 
tasting it for acceptability. It was palatable, so he quickly devoured the 
rest. Being a walking garbage disposer had its advantages.
	"You shouldn't eat so much junk food, Zipper," Gadget said with a 
slight smile. "Or, junk mail, I guess. Whatever."
	Dale dumped most of the remaining items into a pile on the table, as 
they were clearly greeting cards addressed to the Rangers as a whole, rather 
than anyone in particular. He sat down as he sorted out the last few envelopes.
	"Couple of ads, coupons for free louse removal-oh, hey," he glanced up 
at Chip. "Your folks sent you a letter." He smiled as he carefully handed the 
aforementioned piece of correspondence over. Dale had left quite an impression 
on Chip's parents during their younger years, and Dale always feared it'd be a 
stain he'd never be able to remove from his life. Hence, he was very careful 
with whatever involved them.
	Chip took the letter from Dale with a smile, knowing exactly what 
his best friend was thinking. "Dale, mom doesn't hate you."
	Dale shrugged and started into his lunch. "Easy for you to say; you 
never broke that photo in the hallway."
	"Ease up, mate," Monterey slapped the smaller Ranger on the back, 
which really wasn't a wise move since Dale was taking a drink. "All kids are 
a bit on the wild side; lots of 'em break stuff by accident," he continued as 
Dale coughed out milk through his nose. Monterey was fortunate not to witness 
this as his attention was absorbed by the informational pamphlet that came 
with his cheese sampler.
	"Maybe," Dale said through a nasal track half-full of dairy product, 
"but the same week that they also broke a vase, a table, and the patio?"
	"Don't forget almost electrocuting dad," Chip helpfully added, trying 
hard not to grin.
	Dale leveled a gaze at the opposing chipmunk. "Oh, thank you so much 
for reminding me," he said in a voice dripping with so much sarcasm that 
they'd have to mop the kitchen floor later.
	Chip merely chuckled and proceeded to open the letter. He knew it was 
in response to the one he had sent his folks earlier that month, but hadn't 
expected so quick of a reply. Still, Chip's letter had been about when would 
be a good time to visit them, and he knew that his parents, his mother in 
particular, would be quick to reply with plenty of suggestions.
	"Where to start...?" Monterey mumbled to himself. "Cheddar 82', Swiss 
91', Limburger 64'--"
	"Not there," a unified response came.
	Gadget and Zipper had started into the pile of the cards on the 
table, opening each one and announcing who it was from. In some cases, 
pictures of the sender's family were passed around, while in others the 
small handwritten notes were read aloud to the group.
	"Huh," Chip said with a start as he reached a passage in his 
parent's letter.
	"What's up, Chipper?" Dale asked around his mouthful of sandwich.
	"My parents have invited us up to their place for a visit."
	"Where they at, again?" Monterey asked, setting his cheese sampler 
aside for later.
	"Wisconsin. In the outlying countryside around Milwaukee," he 
explained.
	"Er... were *all* of us invited?" Dale asked more tentatively than 
he had planned on.
	Chip looked over the letter, unable to hide his wide smile. "Well, 
it doesn't say anything about leaving you at home, Dale, if that's what 
you mean."
	Dale let out an unabashed sigh of relief.
	"Golly, you really *do* think Chip's mom hates you, don't you?" 
Gadget asked in wonder.
	"Well," Dale said a bit embarrassed, "they never invited me out to 
visit before."
	"Hello? McFly?" Chip replied, slightly exasperated. "You never 
asked."
	Dale thought about this. "Oh. Right."
	"Just stay away from the breakables this time," Chip advised as 
an afterthought.
	Dale nodded studiously. Don't have to tell me twice, he thought.
	Zipper made a few motions that said if he didn't know any 
better, he'd swear that Chip was actually entertaining the idea of 
a vacation.
	"Well... yeah," Chip admitted. "I had decided a little bit before 
the ordeal with Glyph that I'd like to see my folks again." He 
inadvertently caught Gadget's eye, and they both blushed suddenly as they 
recalled the circumstances around them when Chip had made that decision.
	The others all seemed to be curiously interested in their plates, 
for some reason, until the two's heart rates had settled back into normal.
	"Well, I think it's a bonzer idea, mate," Monterey said approvingly. 
"You've already met me own parents, after all. Now I can try and see which 
of yer folks' traits you've hung onto, eh?" he said with a laugh.
	"So is everyone up for it?" Chip asked, surprised at the excitement 
he felt over the upcoming trip.
	Everyone nodded readily, and then Chip decided to make sure this 
wasn't just some sort of false padding.
	"You'll realize, of course," he stated as meaningfully as he knew 
how, "that we won't be on the West Coast anymore. Temperatures actually 
do get down below 40."
	"Aw, c'mon Chipper," Dale grinned. "We've been to Alaska and the 
Artic Circle and the ice cream freezer on the corner of Main and 5th. We 
can handle the cold."
	"Ah," Chip said, seeming to enjoy this, "but those were on cases, 
when it was our duty to endure the cold. This will be of your own free 
will."
	Chip, Zipper buzzed, unless we'll be spending every single moment 
outside, I doubt you'll get any objections from us.
	"Unless," Gadget said, a playful tone creeping into her voice, 
"you really don't want your parents to meet us." She couldn't help but 
grin for some reason.
	"Ah," Monterey said, picking up on it, "ashamed of us, are ya 
Chipper? We're too low-class for the likes of yer folks?"
	"You think you know a guy," Dale chimed in, mock-seriously.
	"Okay, fine," Chip help up his hands in surrender, then relaxed 
and folded up his parents letter. "Let's plan on going next week, then." 
He paused to glance at Dale. "But won't Foxglove want to come along?"
	Dale, however, merely shook his head. "Nah, she's outta town 
for a while still."
	"Where at?" Gadget asked.
	"At a conference of some kind. Somethin' like 'Defending Your 
Image From Public Slander' or some jazz. She's presentanting a paper 
on surviving an assault from ghostwriting hacks."
	"Tell me about it...." Gadget chuckled. The others somberly nodded, 
also having lived through it.
	"Well," Chip continued, "we'll jaunt over to America's Dairyland, 
then. It'll be nice. I haven't seen them in a while, and I'm sure they'll be 
happy to see you guys. Yes," he said before Dale could say anything, "they'll 
even be happy to see *you,* Dale."
	"It's the spirit of the holidays," Dale said as he nervously smiled. 
"They'll have to."

	The vacation wasn't to be for long, merely a week, but since they 
planned to hitch a ride inside a jetliner there and back, their travel time 
would be minimal. Gadget was hoping to take the Ranger Plane, as it was far 
more spacious than the Ranger Wing, but the Plane might have troubles getting 
in and out of the jetliner's landing gear compartments, both quickly and 
safely. Besides, Chip pointed out, since they'd be staying at his parent's 
house, they wouldn't need to bring any extensive camping supplies. Just 
the emergency packs, which were of generous size to being with, given the 
annoying high number of unforeseen times that the Rangers had been forced 
to use them.
	Once on board the actual plane, the trip itself was made in relative 
quiet; Chip was reading an Animal Press Association book (known generally as 
an APA) about the animal's involvement during World War I, while Dale went 
over his latest batch of comics in the important labor of committing them 
all to memory for his theories about continuity plot holes. Monterey and 
Zipper played various card games, while Gadget took the opportunity to 
work on some preliminary designs for various vehicles and equipment, 
even though she was already scant of storage space at the tree.
	As the jetliner neared Milwaukee, they stowed their belongings 
securely away, wrapped themselves up in their parkas, scarves, and hats, 
and darted free from the housing compartment of the landing gear as it 
first opened. A strong gust of cold air greeted them to America's Dairyland.
	"Crikey!" Monterey said in a half-laugh, half-shiver. "That's 
some difference from home, eh?"
	Dale attempted a reply, but was cut short by his chattering teeth. 
He was glad that Foxglove wasn't currently with him, as she seemed to 
handle cold temperatures poorly, and would have been even worse off right 
now.
	"We'll get used to it soon enough," Gadget called out to them from 
the front seat, then, as another blast of wind practically froze her ears, 
added, "I hope."
	The winds did, at least, die down as they flew off from the General 
Mitchell International Airport, coasting high above the traffic on the 
freeways far below. Chip acted as their navigator, giving Gadget the 
directions as they left the city behind and headed northwest, deeper into 
the rural areas of the state.
	"How Laverne and Shirley lived in this weather is beyond me," Dale 
grumbled to himself as he warmed up enough to establish speech once more. 
"No wonder they moved to California."
	Zipper buzzed a reply that everyone seemed to move to California 
in those shows, most likely because they were actually filmed there.
	"Hey Chipper," Monterey asked, "yer folks are expectin' us, right?"
	Chip nodded. "I sent them a letter after I got theirs, on the 
same day, so they probably got it a couple of days ago."
	They spent the rest of the flight attempting to conserve their 
warmth, with Gadget's mind's eye starting to have visions of enclosed 
seats for the Wing. It wasn't before too long, though, that Chip 
directed her to bring them down towards one of the forests beyond a 
farmland.
	"That's it," he grinned as he pointed down to the trees. The 
branches were clear of snow, having no doubt been knocked free of the 
wind, but the pines naturally still had their needles about, giving a 
splash of green against the white, snow-laden ground.
	"There's a lot of trees there, Chip," Dale noted as he leaned 
over the edge to see better. "Which one are they at?"
	"In that section, somewhere," Chip answered. "Once we hover down 
I'll be able to recognize their tree. It's a fat pine, so it's easy to spot."
	"Well, paint me pink and call me Pepto-Bismol," Dale mumbled in 
awe as his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the far horizon. "Check 
it out, guys! A castle! Here in the states, even!"
	The rest looked off in the direction dale was motioning to see what 
appeared to be indeed a small castle, sitting majestically on top of a 
hill, overlooking the whole of land all around them.
	"Holy Hill," Chip said with a nod.
	"Wasn't that a B-horror flick?" Monterey asked.
	Dale rolled his eyes. "That was _The House on Haunted Hill_, Monty. 
Geez, it had Vincent Price in it -- how can you forget it when he's the 
star?"
	"Well, the name could be close," Chip commented. "That building 
could be in a film called _The Church on Holy Hill_. But I doubt it'd be 
wise to make it a horror film."
	"Yeah," Dale agreed. "I mean, I think after the Inquisition they 
stopped makin' churches with pools of acid in the basement."
	As Chip had predicted, Gadget had just brought the Wing hovering 
down through the thick copse when he spotted the large, full pine that was 
his parent's home.
	"There she be," Chip said, in salty seaman's voice, a fond look of 
homecoming clearly evident on his features.
	"Where should I park?" Gadget asked, not sure if there were any 
territorial lines that she might accidentally dispute by landing in the 
wrong place. Living in a city, after all, she was well aware of how 
jealously parking spaces were guarded.
	"Just under the branches will be fine," Chip replied.
	In actuality, parking under branches wasn't just fine; it was 
perfect. The thick needles overhead shielded them from the wind and any 
possible snow, and even acted, very slightly, as a insulator. It wasn't 
so much as warmer as just not as cold, boosted significantly by the 
absence of the wind, making for a greatly welcomed change for the five 
out-of-state visitors.
	"Garage parking and everything," Dale chuckled as he hopped out. 
"I'm likin' this vacation resort better and better."
	Zipper asked if they should bring up the luggage now or wait until 
after introductions were made.
	"Now's fine," Chip replied. "They'll be expecting us, so we can 
just put our stuff directly in our rooms."
	"Gee," Gadget asked as they started to gather up their small 
suitcases and belongings, "how many rooms do your parents have?"
	"Quite a few," Chip replied. "They sleep on the main level, and 
then there's a room across from theirs and another down the hall. The 
upper level has two more rooms, and the lower level one, as well. So 
one for each of us, actually."
	"Good," Dale said, in better spirits now that he was out of the 
wind chill. "That means I won't wake up early 'cause of you getting' up."
	"You're not going to sleep your days away, Dale," Chip said in a 
mock commanding tone as they started up the tree.
	"Why not?" Dale asked innocently. "Isn't that what vacations are 
for?"
	As they reached the midpoint of the tree, they spotted a small, 
wooden door set into the generous trunk, and even a small, weathered 
wooden sign hanging over the door. The protection of the outer layer 
of pine needles on the tree had allowed the humble sign to age relatively 
gracefully.
	It read in somewhat awkward lettering, "Home of the Justices, 
Gordon and Kathleen."
	"Wow," Dale said in surprise upon seeing it. "Your parents kept 
that project, too?"
	Chip glanced over to Dale with interest. "Wait, you mean I'm not 
the only one whose 8th grade wood shop project is still on public display?"
	Dale nodded. "My folks still have mine hanging over their door, 
too."
	Chip felt much better at hearing this, knowing that his best 
friend had been enduring the same embarrassment. Shared pain was 
lessened, as they said.
	They set their luggage down and politely waited as Chip stepped 
up to the door and hesitantly knocked. He was nervous, a bit, but still 
smiling nonetheless. Still, he felt a tad tense over the next few seconds 
until the doorknob rattled and opened to show an older female chipmunk, 
obviously Chip's mother by the way she joyfully said his name and embraced 
him.
	"Hi, mom," Chip managed as she tightly hugged him, and then she 
stepped back to smile at the rest of the Rangers. Dale, interestingly 
enough, had strategically placed himself behind Monterey at this point.
	"Hello," she said to them all. "Please, come inside; you must be 
freezing from the trip up."
	They expediently filed into the tree, Dale keeping his head down 
and shoulders hunched in his best attempt to remain inconspicuous for the 
time being.
	Kathleen shut the door behind her as the Rangers set their things 
down to the side and glanced about. The home was modest, and definitely 
more rustic in design than anything the Rangers had seen in some time. A 
short hallway led from the door to the living room of the main level, 
furnished with a couch, a couple of well-padded chairs, a polished coffee 
table, some end tables, and a couple of hutches on one wall. A good deal 
of wall space was devoted to built-in bookshelves, all packed full, while 
the remaining open space on the walls held various small photos, all of 
the expected Embarrassing Baby Picture variety that all parents 
purposefully dig out of storage and dot the house with whenever their 
offspring bring friends over.
	The only non-photo in this room was a large painting that hung on 
the wall over the couch, depicting a small forest of barren trees and the 
apparent ruins of a church. Some figures were down below, and the morning 
sun was just cresting over the distant horizon. It seemed familiar to a 
couple of the Rangers, but they couldn't place its name or who the artist 
was offhand. The most surprising part of the living room, however, was the 
fireplace on the far wall. It was solid stone, all carved from one piece. 
Gadget was mentally juggling spatial geometry computations at first to 
figure out how such a feature could have been added to the tree, but 
decided to investigate more fully after her fur thawed completely from 
the winter chill. Currently, she was far more interested in (and grateful 
for) the fire within the hearth which was warming the inside of the tree 
house.
	She also noticed that the tree, unlike their headquarters, was far 
more "standard" for most animals, as it lacked any direct power source. The 
lamps in the room were clearly battery-powered, and she suspected that most 
of the devices in the home were simple, hand-powered items. This wasn't 
surprising, as Chip's parents weren't exactly the type to be plugged 
directly into the digital age. The filled bookcases wrapping around the 
main room were a testament to how free time was mainly spent. Gadget 
doubted that there was even a single battery-powered television within 
the entire tree.
	Dale noticed this likelihood too, and sighed. It looked like he'd 
be missing his normal allotment of science-fiction shows.
	A doorway beyond showed the way into a kitchen, while a set of 
stairs directly opposite of the hearth led to both the upper and lower 
levels of the simple dwelling. Kathleen moved past them towards the kitchen, 
telling them set themselves down and relax for a minutes while she got 
something for them to drink.
	"Hey, that you, Firechips?" a voice called from below.
	"Firechips?" all the Rangers except for the chipmunks echoed. Chip 
slapped his hand to his forehead while Dale allowed himself a laugh of 
remembrance.
	The owner of the voice, Mr. Gordon Justice himself, trotted up the 
stairs from below, a wide smile plastered on his face as he spotted his son. 
He and Chip shook hands firmly as he spoke again. "I got your letter 
yesterday, so we already got everyone's rooms set." He turned and shook 
Dale's hand. "Dale! Good to see you again! Been a long time, hasn't it?"
	"Yes, Mr. Justice," Dale replied as he shared the smile.
	"Just Gordon, Dale. I'm not your scoutmaster anymore."
	"Dad, these are the rest of the Rangers," Chip said, taking the 
moment to make the introductions. "Monterey Jack, Zipper, and Gadget."
	"So we finally get to meet at last, huh?" Kathleen warmly said as 
she returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a pot of hot cocoa and 
cookies (home-baked, of course). It wasn't quite clear to Chip if his 
mother's line was directed towards the trio of Rangers or just to Gadget 
in particular. He suddenly felt rather tense again.
	"Why don't we all sit down?" he suggested briskly, and took his 
own advice without hesitation, setting down on the couch. Dale plopped 
down next to him, and Monterey Jack managed to squeeze into place on the 
remaining cushion. Gordon insisted that Gadget and Kathleen take the two 
recliners, while he went to grab another chair from the kitchen. Both 
females obliged, even though they each sat up on the front of the chair, 
rather than leaning back into it. Zipper landed on the top of the recliner 
Gadget was occupying just as Gordon returned with a simple wooden chair 
and took his seat next to his wife. Kathleen set the tray down on the 
coffee table, within reach of the entire group  -- with the exception 
of Zipper, but his wings were a splendid substitute for long arms -- and 
instructed the others to help themselves.
	The group passed the time quickly in discussion, mostly centering 
on the type of work that the Rangers did. Chip's parents had never had 
the opportunity to visit their son since they had moved out of California, 
and were interested in the tales that were being recounted, mostly by 
Monterey Jack; Dale mustered up enough courage to provide authentic voice 
recreations for the villains as well as background music.
	Gordon chuckled as he shook his head while Monterey capped 
off another yarn of daring-do and high adventure. Chip, and the others, 
had noticed a distinct difference in their Monterey's recounts of their 
past glories; he seemed to focus on the tales that were exciting, but 
held little serious danger. True, there were the tales about the times 
that Fat Cat or Nimnul had captured one or even all of them, and the 
various brushes with death that their line of work always bartered with, 
but even the darkest hours in Monterey's current batch of bravados 
seemed to be meant more to reassure Chip's parents that their son wasn't 
under the constant threat night and day. Most apparent to the Rangers 
was that Monterey was purposely skipping some of the worst times they 
endured -- the entire Swarm invasion, from their enslavement to the 
actual overthrow, was never even alluded to beyond some comments that 
they had, as the rumors which reached Wisconsin suggested, worked to 
help coordinate the escape of prisoners and a counterattack. So, too, 
did the topics of Chip's poisoning back in Japan and his spine nearly 
being snapped in half by Glyph never surface amid the tales.
	And Chip had to wonder, too, how much he, himself, would be 
able to tell his parents. He had a lot of fun as a Ranger. But he also 
had gone through some horrors that he would never wish upon another 
living creature. The rest of the Rangers lived the same experiences 
he had, and knew and accepted the risks, but his parents never really 
knew how dangerous his job could be at times, and the knowledge that 
their only child might be killed without warning every second of the 
day was probably not something that would keep their minds at ease.
	For now, however, they were all together for the first time 
in a while, and Chip was grateful for this island of peace in the 
turbulent waters of a Ranger's life.
	"Well," Gordon said, "I can't say as I can offer any tales 
to match yours. Closest I can come to is my missing accordion."
	Chip chuckled and somewhat hid his relief. "No impromptu 
performances this trip, I guess."
	Gordon smiled as he leaned back and took a sip of his cocoa. 
"Well, I'll just borrow Jim's; I probably just misplaced mine somewhere 
at the dance hall again. I'll find it after the dance."
	"Dance hall?" Gadget asked. Her most recent experience in any 
one of those that came close was at the Rat's Den, and somehow, she 
doubted that Gordon and Kathleen were the type to frequent such 
establishments.
	"Farsenio Hall -- small little place," Gordon replied. "But 
nice and homey. We have polkas and waltzes there all the time."
	Kathleen nodded. "They have an upcoming dance for the Holiday 
Festival in a few days."
	"You kids are more than welcome to come," Gordon added, although 
Monterey had to inwardly laugh at being called a "kid" by anyone these 
days.
	"They'll have some free food there?" Dale asked, then flinched 
a bit as he remembered that Chip's mom was still in the room, and that 
he was trying to be on his best possible behavior for this trip. 
Unabashed confessions of mooching was probably not a good way to go 
about it.
	But she just gave him an amused smile, and no hint of 
disapproval was in her reply; "Most assuredly, Dale. Actually, it's 
basically a potluck. Everyone who attends tries to bring a dish."
	Gordon glanced out the windows, and noticed that the sun had 
long since set. "Well, let's show you your rooms and all; you probably 
want to unwind a bit after the flight in, anyway. Feel free to freshen 
up and snack on whatever we have in the fridge. Not much, true, but 
we'll hit the market tomorrow and pick up a few more things."
	The Rangers were still running on West Coast time and thus 
were a few hours behind the local time, but the trip over had been 
long enough that a chance to wash up a bit and unpack was a welcomed 
suggestion. The home of Chip's parents was spacious, and as Chip had 
speculated, afforded each Ranger their own room -- it was something 
of a treat for Zipper, especially, as having an entire rodent-sized 
room to himself was the equivalent of the insect's Waldolf-Estoria.
	Chip took the room directly across from his parents' on the 
main floor, while Dale staked out the one down the hallway (and 
closest to the kitchen) as his new turf. Monterey and Zipper were 
downstairs, while Gadget settled into the guest room upstairs. The 
rooms were simple and succinct; a bed, nightstand with a small lamp, 
a modest dresser, and even a wash basin, although it was more for 
decorative purposes than anything else. Each of the three floors had 
its own bathroom, which was supplied with water through a system of 
"in-tree" tanks and hoses. The tanks had to be refilled every so often 
and properly insulated from the cold, but it was more than enough for 
all the occupants of the tree for the next couple of weeks, at least.
	Once unpacked and freshened up, the Rangers eventually gathered 
in the kitchen. Gordon was rummaging about for his accordion downstairs, 
while Kathleen was in the living room, working on a cross-stitch design. 
Although there was a lack of television, Kathleen had a small radio on, 
and from their place in the kitchen, the gathered Rangers could dimly 
hear the strands of "classic" country drifting in.
	"So what's for tomorrow?" Dale asked, as he munched on a 
small doughnut.
	"It'd be nice to take a look around the area," Monterey said 
with a smile. He was fully into "explore" mode now. Often when 
arriving in a new place, he relished the opportunity to look about the 
nearby area a bit, to find out the lay of the land and which way the 
wind blew.
	"We probably will," Chip mentioned. "Well, at least, I'll be 
going with dad down to Jim's. Jim is an old friend of the family and 
probably would be glad to see me."
	"Say," Dale said, perking up, "your folks got any sleds around? 
Or skis or anything? We could go out for some fun in the sun-- er, snow. 
I can't remember the last time we were surrounded by snow banks when 
we weren't about to be mauled by a polar bear or frozen in the waters 
or something crummy like that."
	Gadget grinned. "Good point, Dale. That actually does sound like 
a lot of fun."
	Zipper nodded and affirmed his agreement of the idea. After all, 
he pointed out, I brought along cold weather gear for fun, and I intend 
to use it.
	"Check with mom tomorrow. I think we have some sleds around here, 
still," Chip remarked. "I'll only be at Jim's for a bit, and will catch 
up with the rest of you tomorrow morning, then."
	Dale chuckled. "Ah, plenty of time to store up snowballs, then, 
eh?"
	"I'll come under the flag of truce," Chip replied.
	"If you think it'll help, sure," Dale countered.
	Chip dropped the subject and decided to be wary upon approach 
tomorrow.
	Gordon and Kathleen retired for the evening, and soon thereafter, 
the Rangers adjourned and made their way to their respective rooms. Chip 
caught a glance of Gadget as she headed up the stairs to her room, she 
glanced through the open railing at him, and smiled warmly.
	"Good night, Gadget," he said, his smile wide and eyes respectful.
	"Good night, Chip," she mouthed back, no louder than a breath. 
Chip would have to have been right next to her to hear. He thought about 
what her voice would sound like in such a subdued and intimate tone, and 
he shivered. Then he thought about what the circumstances would have to 
be for him to experience that whisper, and the flesh beneath his cheekfur 
began to grow warm.
	Shyly, Gadget climbed up the stairs and out of sight, a slight 
pink blossoming in her own cheeks all the way.
	"Night, Chipper!" Monterey stated from behind, making Chip jump. 
Not that it was loud by itself, but after Gadget's whisper, it jolted him 
back to reality like a thunderclap.
	"Oh! Uh, yeah-- night, Monty. Night Zipper," he replied shakily as 
he corralled his senses back into his mind's pen.
	Monty snorted good-naturedly and turned to Zipper, "How come he 
don't blush when *I* say goodnight to 'um, eh?"
	Zipper pretended to think about this, and then suggested that Monty 
start wearing coveralls more often.
	Enjoying Chip's embarrassment to its fullest, Monterey and Zipper 
descended to their rooms, and before the large mouse closed his door, Chip 
faintly heard Monterey's voice from below, in a nasal falsetto: "Good night, 
Chipper...."
	"Boy," Dale said as he slapped Chip on the back, "they got you 
pegged, huh?"
	"Laugh it up, Dale," Chip remarked, feeling that he should be angry 
but couldn't wipe the smile from his face.
	"Thanks, I will," Dale replied. "See ya in the morn', boyo."
	"You're actually going to bed?" Chip asked in amazement that Dale 
would be hitting the hay at a reasonable hour.
	"What?" Dale asked, a bit surprised at the stupidity of Chip's 
question. "I'm going to my room, yeah, but that's so I can start reading 
the new Kablammo Man graphic novel. I mean, come on -- for once I can read 
comics late at night without sweating under my blankets with a flashlight. 
Geez, I'm going to enjoy this vacation to it's fullest and be as 
irresponsible as chipmunkianally possible."
	Chip nodded for a few seconds as he tried to think of an appropriate 
response. He finally settled on, "Can't argue with that strength of a 
commitment."
	"Anyway, Chipper, I probably won't see you before you leave 
tomorrow, so have a good sleep and all. And be prepared to eat snowballs 
repeatedly during the afternoon."
	"You really got your heart set on this, don't you?"
	"Like you said, kemosabe, I have a strong commitment. Night!" And 
with that he strolled down the hallway to his room, all the while humming 
"Another One Bites the Dust." Chip shook his head to himself, switched out 
the lights, and entered his room. The lamp wasn't on, but Chip really 
didn't need any light, and prepared for bed in the surrounding darkness. 
His eyes took a while to adjust, and even then, they only reached a certain 
point. No nearby ambient light from a major city or town was nearby, and 
the overcast sky blocked out the moon and any starlight. Still, it was easy 
enough for him to crawl into bed and stretch out, just letting the rhythms 
of his own heart slowly lull him towards sleep.
	He listened to his own deep, somnolent breaths in the darkened 
room. It wasn't his own room back in Stones City, but still, it felt 
like "home" for some reason. He could faintly hear the cold winds 
blowing steadily outside, and the fact that he was currently curled up 
in a safe, warm bed gave a certain degree of security that reminded him 
of his childhood. He chuckled slightly to himself; reminiscing about his 
childhood while his parents were sleeping in the room across the hall. 
	Surely nothing coincidental about that, he thought.
	By this time, he had reached that gray area between wakefulness 
and slumber, when one can just feel the light tendrils of sleep beginning 
to settle in, but is still vaguely aware of changes taking place around 
the area. Thus, even though he was about to nod off, Chip could her the 
door to his room slowly creak open, and then close again. A hesitant, 
timid, pattering of tiny feet approached his bedside, and he could smell 
that familiar scent of cotton, and fur which had been bathed only a few 
hours ago.
	So, he wasn't surprised when he cracked an eyelid open to see a 
young female chipmunk, no more than three years old, standing there, 
eyeing him with that wide-eyed look of wonder that she had mastered ever 
since she was a baby, her light brunette hair currently braided up. She 
wore her sleepers, a turquoise-dyed cotton pair, and was hugging her teddy 
bear, who had been affectionately named Mr. Grizzly. Standing there, before 
him, Chip had to marvel as he always did at this little girl, and what he 
had done in his entire life to have been blessed with this marvelous child 
that he could call his own.
	"Daddy?" she asked quietly, eyeing him expectantly with her light 
blue eyes.
	"Mmm?" Chip replied, for all intents and purposes still asleep.
	"Can I sleep wit you?"
	"You scared?" he asked, guessing that the unfamiliarity of his 
parents house was having a field day within his daughter's mind.
	She confirmed this by nodding quickly, tightening her hug on 
Mr. Grizzly.
	Chip smiled. "Sure. Climb in, Snowflake."
	The little girl quickly clambered up into the bed, curling up close 
to her father and snuggling under the thick comforter which Chip tucked 
around them. He sighed in contentment as he felt his daughter safely nestled 
against him in the darkness, and lightly rubbed her head to completely 
banish any lingering fears she might have had of the dark.
	"G'night, daddy," she said, somewhat muffled against his chest. 
"I love you."
	"I love you too, Snowflake," he whispered back. Snowflake wasn't 
her actual name, of course, but was a nickname that she had acquired from 
somewhere that seemed to stick. Resting comfortingly with his eyes closed 
and a protective arm draped over his daughter, Chip tried to remember 
where she had gotten that nickname. Better yet, when. Even better, from 
whom.
	Better still, since when did he have a daughter?
	He snapped awake fully now, sitting upright with his eyes wide 
and staring straight ahead. He looked around, finding that the bed was 
empty save for himself, just as it had been when he first settled down 
for the evening. But still, the vividness of this little girl, whom he 
had no doubt was his daughter, lingered in his mind. He could still 
smell the traces of shampoo from her braided hair, and still feel the 
fuzzy cotton of her sleepers against his fur.
	He took a deep breath and shook his head. Apparently, his dream 
had been quite a potent one, and, he had to admit, a surprisingly pleasant 
one. He couldn't help but smile as he thought about this supposed daughter, 
who had somehow garnered the nickname of "Snowflake."
	It was with a warm expression, then, as he settled back against the 
bed and covered himself over for the night. Still, he found that he was 
having difficulty fully relaxing, until he took a pillow and tucked it 
against him where he his daughter had been.
	After that adjustment, he was soon asleep.

	When Gordon entered the kitchen the next morning, he was happy to 
see that his son was already up, drinking a cup of hot chocolate while he 
looked over the weekly newsletter run by the local animals. Gordon was 
particularly glad that his son had taken the time to come and visit; Chip 
seemed to be in far better spirits these days, as if some great weight had 
finally been lifted from his shoulders.
	"Morning," Gordon said as he grabbed a pot of coffee from the 
stove and filled himself a cup. "Sleep well?"
	"Uh, yeah, actually," Chip replied, deciding not to mention that 
rather odd dream he had about having a daughter. It had been on his mind 
for most of the morning, and he still wasn't entirely sure if he was 
hoping it was just a dream or some type of promotion. He had never thought 
about having kids before, and now suddenly found himself thrust into the 
idea. Still, he wasn't too concerned about it -- he wasn't even married 
yet.
	"How come you're not married yet?" Gordon asked, making Chip 
visibly jump. "Did I hit a nerve?"
	"No," Chip replied, taking a hefty swallow from his drink. "Just 
had one of those random twitch things, you know, from adjusting to the 
colder weather."
	"I'll bet."
	"When do you want to leave?" Chip said, ignoring his father's 
question that still hung in the air like a cat hair.
	"In a few minutes," Gordon replied. "Jim's going out later today, 
so we need to catch him early. Seriously, Chip," Gordon's voice turned 
parental again, "I didn't mean to make you nervous, but I was just 
wondering if you'd thought about settling down just yet."
	Chip sighed and decided to forget about side-stepping the issue. 
The sooner it was over with, the sooner he could enjoy the rest of his 
vacation. "I don't think it's something I'm currently interested in. 
Being a Ranger doesn't allow for a lot of free time for a wife, really."
	"You'd be surprised," Gordon answered. "Firemen also risk their 
lives everyday to help others, but that doesn't stop a lot of them from 
marriage."
	"Dad, I'm not interested in being a fireman anymore. I haven't 
since I was nine."
	"Considering what you do as a Ranger, it sounds about the same."
	Chip abandoned that track, as his father had soundly trounced him 
before he had even taken a step. He weighed his various options in terms 
of other ways to brush the subject away, but knew that it all of them were 
as flimsy of excuses as when Dale blamed intergalactic aliens for eating 
all of Monterey Jack's cookies.
	"I'm waiting," he finally settled on.
	"For a girl or a time?"
	Chip didn't like his dad's almost off-the-cuff reply, and was 
starting to suspect that Gordon had been rehearsing this entire conversion 
for a long time. He briefly envisioned his father mercilessly grilling an 
empty chair on the matters of marriage and producing grandkids.
	Then again, Chip knew he would as soon as be used as Fat Cat's 
toothpick as discuss his love life with anyone, let alone his father. 
Dale was the only one that Chip felt comfortable enough around to discuss 
the matter, but fortunately, Dale had never had cause to bring it up. 
Probably because he and Foxglove were secure in their relationship, and 
didn't have hordes of tiny little doubts plaguing their every thought.
	Gordon, who was still waiting for an answer, took a slice of bread 
and spread some of his wife's homemade strawberry jam across it, as patient 
as one would please. After all, Chip needed to voice an excuse before he 
could shoot it down instantly.
	"Both," Chip at last replied. "I don't want rush things, Dad."
	Gordon munched on his breakfast and nodded affably. "Fair enough, 
I guess. But don't be afraid to talk to me about this, Chip. I know it's 
not easy chatting it up about a personal matter with your old man, but 
that's what I'm here for. I won't press it, at any rate."
	Chip smiled. "Thanks Dad." Then, to make sure that conversation 
moved along, "How long are we going to be at Jim's, do you think?"
	"Not too long. I just want to see if I can borrow his accordion 
for the upcoming dance, although I'm certain that he'll want to visit 
with you for a few minutes."
	Nodding, Chip finished the rest of his hot chocolate as Gordon 
polished off the bread and jam. Then the father and son were off before 
the rest of the household, save for Kathleen, were even stirring. They 
quietly shut the door, and made their way down the tree to the pine 
needle covered ground, where Gordon took a minute to take a gander at 
the Ranger Wing, shake his head, and mutter something about technology.
	Jim lived a little ways off, but the morning was clear and the 
wind was miniscule, so Chip and Gordon enjoyed a bit of a leisurely 
stroll over the top of the settled snow. They mostly filled each other 
in on various family and friends that the other hadn't seen in a while, 
as well as much more general topics concerning the weather and recent 
news from the outlying neighbors.
	They arrived at the large barn where Jim made his home as the 
sun cleared the horizon and began its climb into the clear, crisp sky. 
The barn had been well-maintained over the years, and stood fast against 
the winter wind and snow. The two chipmunks made their way carefully 
around the corner of the barn. No cats, poison, or traps were known to 
be around here, but that was mainly because Jim and his visitors were 
very careful not to let their presence known. Nevertheless, it never 
hurt to always be watchful. Hawks and other predators were a constant 
concern in the country, regardless of human habitation.
	Once they were satisfied it was safe, Gordon led the way up the 
corner of the barn, to a small stone ledge about halfway up, shielded 
from the elements by a small wooden overhang. The elder chipmunk knocked 
briskly on a small, round door. A few moments of silence, then they 
heard some rustling from behind the door, getting louder and louder 
until eventually the door swung open and an aged field mouse poked 
his head out.
	His fur was a light brown, undoubtedly richer in his youth, but 
now more washed out, although some of his original color remained in 
fringes around his head. A small set of glasses perched at the end 
of his long snout, and he currently wore a tattered green sweater 
and a frayed gray felt vest. His face lightened up with energy, 
however, as he recognized his guests.
	"Gordon! Hey, glad you stopped by! And you," Jim looked to 
Chip, "you've sprouted up like a beanstalk since I came out to visit 
your folks when you all lived out in California, Firechips!"
	"Just 'Chip' Jim," Chip replied, glad the others Rangers 
weren't around to hear that nickname again. "I outgrew my Firechips 
phase long ago."
	"Peshaw," Jim waved it aside. "Not from what I hear tell. But 
hop in -- I just put a pot of coffee on the stove, and I got some 
sausage in the icebox we can cook up real quick."
	The trio quickly moved indoors into Jim's modest nest. It was 
just one room, really, but large and free of inner walls. Hay was 
stuffed in-between the cracks in the floorboards, and a few small 
windows further up the outside wall let in a generous amount of 
sunlight. The ceiling was fairly low - Monterey's head would have 
been brushing up against it - and also made from wood. Some sofas 
and chairs were about, as well as a small radio, but like Chip's 
parents, most of the recreational material was books and small 
rodent newspapers.
	The group gathered around the kitchen table as Jim brought over 
a steaming coffee pot and three tin mugs, filling each.
	"I was going to be stopping by your place later," Jim explained 
to Gordon as the three rodents relaxed.
	"Oh?"
	"Yeah," Jim took a sip of his coffee. "I wanted to ask you if I 
had left my accordion over at your place. Can't find it around here for 
the life of me."
	"Really?" Gordon blinked. "I was actually going to ask you if 
you'd let me borrow yours -- I can't find mine around anywhere either."
	Chip's interest in the conversation started to pick up.
	"Weird," Jim frowned. "Old Eli couldn't find his, as well. He was 
thinking that maybe he left his at Farsenio by accident."
	"That's what I'm hoping I did with mine," Gordon nodded.
	But Jim shook his head. "I was just there yesterday asking about 
Eli's. They don't have it. In fact," and Jim sounded a bit concerned over 
this part, "their own collected set seems to have been pinched."
	Gordon looked on in wonder. "What? Those were made over forty 
years ago! They're community treasures."
	Jim gravely nodded. "They're missing. Sad."
	"What about Hank and Frank?" Gordon asked. "Does the polka pair 
themselves still have any accordions?"
	"I don't know," Jim answered, a bit hopeful. "I was thinking 
about checking with them if I couldn't use yours."
	"Hank and Frank?" Chip asked, speaking up for the first time.
	"They own a small music shop in town," Jim answered. "Carry a 
lot of different equipment, but are known as the bastions of polka for 
the animals. They have all sorts of scaled accordions, and they've 
never been out as long as I've known 'em."
	Chip nodded, then momentarily started in surprise as he noticed 
that he was already jotting down notes in his notepad. He chuckled. 
There were worse habits to have.
	Gordon and Jim both just exchanged glances and shrugged. Kids.
	"Well," Gordon said, his voice having some added seriousness to 
it now, "let's head off to Hank and Frank's. I can't believe that they 
might be out of accordions, but I never would have believed that the 
Hall's collection would ever be swiped, either."
	"Where's the Hall at, dad?" Chip asked as he stood up with the 
rest. "I mean, I'd like to gather up the rest of the team and scout it 
out for clues. It's what we do," he added sheepishly. For some reason, 
it seemed odd to be taking charge of something that indirectly affected 
his parents.
	But Gordon offered a smile and nod. "Well, have your mother 
write out the directions with a map when you get back to the tree; 
it's a bit complicated if you don't know the area. Speaking of which, 
you *do* know how to get back, right?"
	"Dad, I'm not so city-fied that I've forgotten everything I 
ever learned in Scouts."
	"Should of figured. All right, son, we'll see you later tonight." 
The trio headed back outside and started to split up, but not before 
Gordon added, "And tell your mother where Jim and I are off to, so she 
doesn't have a fit."
	"Gotcha, Dad," Chip replied as he waved and slid down the side 
of the barn to the soft snow below, his footprints barely evident as he 
sprinted across the winter blanket before him.

	Every self-respecting neighborhood has its own locally renowned 
Dead Man's Hill. Many a tall tale were first planted and sprouted from 
its base by both children and parents alike. Numerous people lost arms, 
legs, heads, and whatever else the person relating the story felt made 
for good drama. Naturally, everyone knew that those tales of death and 
dismemberment were all but fabrications and hazy memories from yesteryear. 
No, the legends that truly endured and stirred up the real debates were 
over the events which people actually "lived" through.
	Did Wally really manage to build a snow ramp that allowed him to 
clear the old birch tree? Was Sally actually the one to first go down 
Dead Man's Hill's treacherous near-sheer faced north side wearing a 
blindfold and with one hand behind her back, or was it her brother, 
Teddy, who managed that awe-inspiring feat, as he always claimed (even 
in adulthood)? Could Mike's claims of prowess with his dates on the top 
of the hill under the pines be true, even though no self-respecting girl 
in town today would come within ten feet of the greasy little weasel?
	These were the modern legends that lived on in the townsfolk's 
hearts and minds. They were still traded over coffee in chilly November 
mornings and over the campfire of a summer cookout. Everyone who ever 
passed through the area heard of these tales sooner or later, and while 
they were fun to discuss, everyone also knew that no one would be so 
foolish as to ever risk life and limb to break these admittingly 
apocryphal records.
	"How's it lookin' Monty?" Dale asked eagerly, looking up at the 
somewhat hastily constructed snow ramp.
	"Right as joey in a pouch, mate!" Monterey replied, his laughter 
full of confidence. "We'll give this 'ere town sumpthin' to really gab 
about!"
	Gadget frowned as she checked over her blueprints; it had just 
hit her that she hadn't accounted for the wind. It was still at the moment, 
but any sudden gust arising in the middle of their jump/flight would 
severely knock them off course. Still, the snow was deep, and she doubted 
there were many rocks in the area of their projected landing, anyway. She 
glanced up as Zipper flew back from around the other side.
	"Report," she stated crisply, folding the blueprints up and 
standing at attention as Zipper saluted.
	He proceeded to explain that the water and snow mixture ratios on 
the west side were near solidification, and that no birds, squirrels, or 
any type of other animals were apparently living in the maple tree which 
they planned to clear. They had picked the maple for, as Dale pointed out, 
it was a good ten feet higher than that "puny" birch, and also easily 
twenty feet further back from the edge of the ramp, making the jump all 
that more challenging.
	"No challenge we can't handle!" Monterey had offered up in a 
boast of faith and ignorance.
	Gadget grinned as Zipper finished up, and she merrily skipped 
over to Monterey and Dale, who were overlooking the open expanse between 
the bottom of the hill and the maple.
	"I think we're all set, guys!" she cheerfully announced. "What 
about the sled?"
	"Taken care of with typical Dale Finnish," Dale stated proudly.
	"Finesse," Gadget corrected him sweetly.
	"Whatever." Dale grinned and motioned back up to the top of Dead 
Man's Hill. "I got the perfect piece of bark. Sturdy, light, and big 
enough for all of us. It'll make the perfect toboggan."
	Zipper questioned if they might need a steering system, but the 
rest shook their heads.
	"It's a straight shot, mate," Monterey explained. "We just hop on 
the sled, shoot down the hill, up the ramp, and over the maple."
	"And into local history forever," Dale said, eyes wide with 
excitement.
	Monterey nodded and grinned, then turned back to Zipper. "What 
could possibly go wrong?"
	Zipper smiled and shrugged. It wasn't a worry for him, after all -- 
he could fly.
	"All that's left," Gadget said, checking her list, "is to apply 
some water to the underside of the sled. When it freezes into ice, it'll 
practically negate any friction from the bark against the snow."
	"I'm a step ahead of ya, Gadget," Dale chuckled, then started 
leading the others up to the top of the hill. "I did that before I came 
down to check with Monty, so it should be frozen enough by now to use."
	"Great!" Gadget replied, and she and the rest of the present 
Rangers scrambled up the side of the hill, their energy levels rising 
to the occasion.
	The top of the snow ramp afforded them a spectacular view of 
the surrounding area. The ramp itself was build similar to a ski jump, 
allowing for a steep drop through a smoothed out and slightly curved 
trough that, according to Gadget's projections, would give them enough 
energy to place the apex of their trajectory directly over their chosen 
hurdle of botany.
	The other side of the ramp was much steeper, almost being a 
sheer drop. They had quickly carved in some steps that switched back 
upon themselves sharply as they went up. The group was excited about 
getting to the top and into the their Sled of Fortune, but nevertheless 
they proceeded with caution up the back side of the ramp. It did, after 
all, drop down the other side of the hill and funnel directly into a 
thicket of brambles, prickles, and burs.
	"Okay, folks," Dale announced as they reached the top and took 
a moment to look majestic against the sky. "The time is nigh."
	The sled awaited its passengers, its underside thickly coated 
with ice and ready to carry them off to either glory or a morgue. Or 
both. Monterey climbed in first, using his strong hands to keep the 
sled in place at the precipice of the ramp, being careful not to let 
it tip back, lest it go down the steps behind him. Dale hopped in 
front of the large Aussie, and Gadget settled herself down in front 
of Dale. Zipper gently alighted in the very front, and the crew was 
ready to launch.
	"Hey guys," Chip said as he popped up next to them eagerly.
	Monterey started, and the sled tipped back over the rear edge. 
The would-be famous crew shot down the steps and hill, rocketing through 
the thorny patch awaiting them at the bottom before anyone them had a 
chance to even utter a squeak of surprise.
	Chip stared on in amazement. "Whoa," he mumbled to himself. "They 
broke Jimmy's old record for distance traveled through the prickers...."

	"Excuse me?"
	Dan glanced up from the book he was reading at the desk of 
Farsenio Hall. Before him stood five guests, four of whom were busy 
picking burs and small thorns from their clothes.
	"Been to Dead Man's Hill?" he asked politely.
	Chip nodded. "They broke Jimmy's record."
	Dale mumbled something about having broken other things.
	"Impressive," Dan replied, nodding his understanding of the effort 
and lack of intelligence it must have taken. "How may I help you?"
	"We heard that you had some accordions stolen recently?" Chip 
asked.
	Dan nodded and sighed. "Yeah, just a few days ago. Hard to believe, 
really."
	"Can we see where they were held?"
	"Don't see any harm in it," Dan shrugged, and stood up. "Not like 
anything is left to be taken in the back room anymore."
	He led them out of the front lobby, and through the small dance 
hall -- it had a smooth, polished floor, and a small raised stage at one 
end, but nothing fancy. The group went through a pair of double doors on 
the other side, into a small hallway. Dan brought them to one of the doors 
furthest away from the dance hall, pushed it open, and gestured for them 
to head through.
	"This is the place," Dan explained. "We had about twenty of so 
different styles of accordions in here."
	"Geez, how come?" Dale asked, a bit curious is to way anyone 
would need that many.
	"Well, a lot of them are historical, in that they were made and 
played decades ago, when the Hall here first opened. Every now and them 
we bring them out for accordion conventions, polka retrospections, and 
the like."
	"Uh, yeah, fun," Monterey said, rather flatly.
	"Did the police find anything?" Chip asked.
	"Bob came out the day after, but no," Dan said sadly. "But it's 
not like the Hall here is really that heard to break into. I mean, this 
place is treasured by the folks 'round here."
	"Yeah, I can just tell this place had its finger on the pulse of 
modern nightlife," Dale remarked nonchalantly.
	Dan agreed. "Yeah, it's really pretty cool."
	Dale just smiled.
	"Where's the police station at?" Chip queried. His gaze had 
scanned the barren room with no luck, and Zipper, who had been buzzing 
around the ceiling's corners and rafters, signaled that no sign of 
anything that resembled a clue was about.
	"Out the front of the Hall, here, take a left, then down to the 
wooden birdfeeder, and hang a right. Straight on for a bit until you hit 
the row of mailboxes, and it'll be off to your left, in the floorboards 
of the human diner on the corner. Can't miss it."
	"Got it, thanks," Chip and led his team back out towards the 
brisk winter air.
	"Golly, Chip," Gadget wondered aloud, "why would someone be 
stealing accordions?"
	"Besides the obvious?" Dale chuckled.
	"I'm not sure, Gadget," Chip replied, stroking his chin. "My sole 
deduction right now is that it's not anyone in the local area."
	"What makes you say that, Mate?" Monterey asked.
	"Well, you heard Dan," Chip pointed out. "This place is full of 
accordion and polka enthusiasts. Dad and mom mentioned the same thing 
the other night. My initial guess is that whoever is going around and 
swiping the instruments is from out of town. It's possible that it just 
might be an accordion collector gone wild, but I can't see him being 
interested in the ones like dad had; it's a very common model. Besides, 
polka enthusiasts really wouldn't steal others' accordions, because that 
would just mean that it would be harder and harder to find live polka 
music."
	"I guess that makes sense," Dale concurred. "Although I have to 
admit it scares even me to think of what someone might do with all those 
accordions at their disposal."
	"Do a polka version of 'Lord of the Dance'?" Monterey suggested.
	"Precisely." Dale shuddered.

	"Officer Bob?"
	The small but slightly plump fieldmouse glanced over from the 
stack of matchboxes that served as a file cabinet at the newcomers who 
entered the station. "Yes?"
	"Hi," Chip smiled, shaking the other's paw, "my name's Chip, 
and these are my associates Dale, Gadget, Monterey Jack, and Zipper. 
We're helping out the folks at Farsenio Hall trying to track down their 
stolen accordions. Dan said that you were the guy to talk to."
	"Oh," Officer Bob said, immediately warming to the strangers who, 
showing such a keen interest in helping find the missing musical 
instruments of polkas, really weren't that strange to him at all. 
"Sure, glad you're aboard. The more the merrier."
	"We were wondering if you found anything at the scene of the 
crime?"
	Officer Bob nodded and motioned for them all to sit themselves 
down in the scattered chairs about the tiny mouse police room. "We did 
find something that was certainly out of place," he explained, as he 
headed over to a small pile of boxes, and taking one, brought it over 
to a central table.
	In the back of Gadget's mind, she couldn't help but notice how 
at ease and almost uncharacteristically friendly this officer was. She 
attributed this, though, to all the years the Rangers had spent around 
McDugell. That, or this town really wasn't a place that high-level 
crimes happened.
	Removing the lid of the box, Officer Bob pulled out what seemed 
to be a long, black eyelash.
	"Oh," Dale noted. "That is sorta odd to find in a polka dance 
hall."
	"Particularly when the place is wholly animal-made," Officer 
Bob added. "If it was a human dance hall that we used, no big deal, 
but I'll be a Blatz keg if any humans have been in Farsenio Hall lately."
	"It's an actual human eyelash?" Chip asked incredulously.
	But Officer Bob shook his head. "No, it's a false eyelash. Still, 
it's not something that should be there. And we've already ruled out the 
possibility that it somehow was blown in or tracked in or something."
	Chip frowned. "Well, if that's so, that it must have been left 
behind by the thief. Or thieves."
	"Maybe a calling card?" Gadget suggested. "Sort of a 'This place 
was robbed by me' note to sate the burglar's ego?"
	Monterey wasn't so sure. "Bloomin' whacko calling card to use...."
	"If it is," Officer Bob replied, "this is the first time that 
it's been used in all the accordion thefts."
	"*All* the accordion thefts?" the Rangers chorused.
	The policemouse nodded. "In the past week or so, reports of 
stolen and missing accordions have flooded in. Individuals, businesses, 
bands - all sorts of types have filed something here at the station. We 
don't get many out-of-the-ordinary crimes 'round these parts, but this 
kind of crime wave is really one for the books no matter what city you're 
from."
	"But that's the only time that something was left behind?" Dale 
asked.
	"Right. We're pretty sure this was an accident."
	Chip had to agree. It seemed unlikely that the eyelash was 
purposely left behind. Still, even if it was left by accident, it was 
hard to think of what purpose it served for the animal that dropped it.
	"Do we have a map of all the theft locations?" he asked 
hopefully.
	"Sure do," the officer chuckled. He pointed to the far wall that 
had a map of the local area spread over it, with various yellow and red 
dots over it. "The red spots mark where accordions were swiped from homes, 
while the yellow show businesses that had been hit."
	The others gathered around the map, but not much was evident at 
first glance. No discernable pattern could be spotted, and further 
elaboration by the officer explained that the areas that were marked off 
as possible central locations of a pattern had been checked but to no 
avail. Aside from that someone or some group seemed intent on grabbing 
all the accordions in the area, not much was to be gained from the map.
	Zipper flitted over and studied the map, hoping that a fresh set 
of eyes would reveal something new.
	Chip thoughtfully tapped his forehead, then asked, "Are there 
dates for these robberies anywhere?"
	Officer Bob blinked, then nodded. "Yes, I'm sure we have them on 
file. What of it?"
	"Well," Chip shrugged in thought, "maybe the dates can offer a 
clue as to what's going on. At least, they'll tell us how the string of 
robberies developed."
	The policemouse retrieved a stack of files from the matchbox 
cabinet and spread them out on a nearby desk, inviting the others to 
gather around. "Here they all are," he explained as he shuffled through 
the papers. "Earliest one was about three weeks ago. Down in the more 
urbanized section of the area."
	Dale glanced over the file before him, muttering the phrase "three 
weeks ago" as he dug through for some useful facts. "Ah!" he claimed 
triumphantly. "Here's another one, at about the same time."
	"And another," Gadget said as she dropped another report in the 
center with the others.
	The six investigators made short work of the rest of the paperwork, 
eventually narrowing down all the files to two cases that occurred within 
a day, and in close proximity. Apparently, there had been a lull of about 
a week after the first hits before the thefts started again.
	"Hmmm," Officer Bob thoughtfully tapped the desktop. "You know 
this reminds me of something...." he walked back to the file cabinets and 
routed through them for a few minutes until he found the file he was 
looking for. "I recognized the area that those two early thefts took place 
in; it reminded me that we had a report of some incident taking place there 
a little while ago, and if my memory serves me correctly, it's was about 
in the same timeframe... ah, here we go."
	He dropped the report on the desk, and Monterey was able to grab 
it first and read it. He looked up, not quite sure what it meant. "It's 
a report of disturbin' the peace."
	"Someone played their accordion too loud?" Dale ventured.
	Officer Bob shook his head. "A new club opened up. Some type of 
dance place. Plays a lot of heavy metal, industrial music, that kind of 
thing."
	"Really?" Dale's eyes lit up.
	"We had complaints of the noise level," the policemouse 
continued, "so we had to pay a visit to the club more than a few times 
to tell them to turn it down."
	Gadget checked the sheet. "Says here it's know as the Angst 
Factory."
	Officer Bob grimaced. "Tell me about it. It was full of goth 
rodents and the like, all wailing and crying about how black and dreary 
their lives were. They had more whining going on in there than all the 
vineyards in California."
	"According to this," Chip mentioned, going through the files a 
bit, "those two places that were hit first were close by to the club."
	"Crikey," Monterey mumbled. "You're thinkin' that the people at 
the dance club stole the accordions?"
	"Jeez, Chip," Dale chimed in, "that's pretty lame. I mean, goth 
music is utterly repulsed by accordions. It's like a law of nature or 
somethin'."
	"I'm not saying that they stole the accordions to play them, 
Dale," Chip explained, "but rather maybe out of revenge. Look at the 
map," he said as he gestured back towards the wall. "Those first two 
places to get hit were right near that dance club, and they were 
burglarized shortly after the complaints about the noise were filed. 
Maybe it was someone at the club who wanted tic for tact."
	"You shut off my music," Monterey grumbled in understanding, 
"I shut off yours, eh?"
	Officer Bob nodded. "That club hasn't been checked yet, either."
	"But what about the pattern?" Gadget asked. "I mean, lack of a 
pattern, which, itself, could be a pattern, I guess."
	"I'm not sure," Chip said. "There was a break shortly after 
the first two robberies, too, which might have something to do with it."
	Zipper pointed out, though, that this was still assuming that 
someone at the club was responsible; thus far they had no evidence of 
that.
	"Well then," Officer Bob stated cheerfully, putting on his jacket, 
"shall we go?"

	The Angst Factory didn't look so depressing from the outside in 
the late afternoon daylight. The club was placed in one of the side 
alleys of the human village. The human building looked to be an old one, 
build from stone, back in the late 30s or so. The masonry was impressive, 
however, even though time, weather, and life had slowly worn away various 
parts of it. Dale figured that this urban decay, modest as it was, was 
the deciding factor in building the club here.
	The club wasn't officially open yet, as the listed hours of 
operation stated that it did not accept customers until "the last of the 
suns' rays have been swallowed by the entire blackness of night that 
shrouds our souls."
	Even so, the doors were unlocked, as the staff of the place were 
already inside, preparing the place for the evening's business of wallowing 
in self-pity and despair.
	Officer Bob led the way in, with the Rangers following behind. 
They all took a moment to glance about as they passed through the a cramped 
and purposefully dirty tunnel into the open space of the club. Two 
obnoxiously large speakers were on either side of the dance floor, laying 
on their side, screens pointing to face each other over the area. A bar, 
made from fashionable crumbing pieces of a curb, stood at the end of the 
dance floor opposite them. Zipper was impressed to see that the refreshment 
list posted behind the bar listed apple cores.
	The décor of the place seemed an odd mix of Halloween decorations, 
funeral festoonery, and whatever trash they could fit through the tunnel 
from the alley. Fake cobwebs hung from the ceiling, while strobe lights 
and neon tubes running along the corners were currently visible (Dale had 
no doubts that when the club was actually "open," the house lights were 
dimmed to the point of a near-blackout).
	Gadget made a face at it all. "Ugh. Not exactly a cheerful place, 
is it?"
	Monterey grinned. "You mean you won't be dressing up with piercin's 
and halter-tops to come shake yer booty here?"
	Gadget's face burned a hot red, partially at the suggestion that 
she'd ever do anything like that, but more so from the fact that it was 
Monterey of all people, the mouse she considered the closest thing she had 
to a father,  who had suggested it. "Monty!"
	He laughed in reply. "Take it easy, luv. Remember, it's a parent's 
best friend's duty to embarrass the kids."
	Gadget smirked a bit, but the blush did not recede for quite some 
time.
	Zipper motioned that there were no obvious signs of accordions so 
far as he could see, and offered to discreetly snoop around while the others 
talked to the management.
	Chip nodded. "Good idea, Zipper. Just don't look like you're 
discreetly snooping."
	Oh? Zipper's arced eye ridge seemed to good-naturedly ask, And to 
so I assume you want me to blatantly look like I'm searching?
	Chip failed to hide his grin. "You know what I mean, Zip."
	Zip chuckled, saluted, and glided off.
	"Actually," Monterey said, "I think I'll mosey about a little, meself. 
I can't see as that we'll all need to be around to question some blokes. 
Might as well see if another pair of eyes besides Zip's can catch anything."
	Dale nodded. "Yeah, I'm with you."
	"Fair enough," Officer Bob said as they reached the center of the 
floor, and the other two started to split off. "I doubt there's any danger 
here, but just watch out, anyway."
	He, Chip, and Gadget continued their walk up to the bar, where 
the bartender, a dark gray mouse, had been watching them approach with 
obvious dislike. Whether that was because he recognized Officer Bob or 
because they weren't wearing black, Chip couldn't tell.
	"Whattaya want, Bob?" the bartender growled before the other had 
even reached the bar. "We've kept the music down since your last visit."
	Scratch one mystery, Chip thought.
	"This isn't about noise levels, Thadd," Bob replied. "We're doing 
some more investigation in the ring of accordion thefts."
	Thadd snorted. "Oh, those. Good riddance to 'em."
	"You happen to have any idea where they went? Heard any gossip 
from your patrons?" Bob asked genially.
	"No, and I couldn't care less."
	"Haven't seen or heard anything in the past few weeks?"
	"Even though the volume of the music is lower, it's still too loud 
to hear anything, and I'm not here during the day except for set-up time."
	"What about during then?"
	"Nothing."
	While Bob continued to feel Thadd out for some useful information, 
Chip and Gadget glanced about the club. Monterey was on one side, Dale on 
the other. Zipper was buzzing about near the ceiling. All three looked 
genuinely interested in studying the props and others aspects of the club, 
and it was probably because they really were interested. With the exception 
of Dale, the rest of the group had rarely been inside any type of club like 
this outside of the Rat's Den. For his own part, Dale had visited a few 
clubs during his time, but he usually preferred the swing and mambo ones 
to goth industrial. Especially now that he was usually going with Foxglove, 
whose ears didn't take well to the excess of decibels pumped out at these 
types of places.
	Gadget suddenly nudged Chip in the rips, her excitement clearly 
evident in her whisper, "Chip -- over on the stairwell; one of the workers!"
	Chip glanced about until he spotted the stairs Gadget had mentioned. 
A simple set of wooden ones -- painted black, of course -- led up from 
behind the bar towards what was likely a small kitchen of some sort. One of 
the waitresses (Chip assumed it was a girl, at any rate), was about to 
disappear through the door.
	Her walk was leisurely and unconcerned with the happened behind her, 
which really didn't give Gadget any reason to be suspicious. What did give 
her cause, however, was the same thing Chip noticed as the light from the 
kitchen beyond illuminated the waitresses' head briefly before she disappeared 
past the door: her hair was bizarre-looking, with glossy, black, small spikes 
sticking out in all directions. It was obviously a wig, and, what was more 
important, a wig very likely made from a collection of human false eyelashes.
	Chip nodded quickly to Gadget to show that he had seen it, as well. 
True, it may actually be the mouse's real hair (which would be really sick, 
but that was another matter), but even so, it was certainly worth 
investigating.
	"Should we go after her?" Gadget whispered.
	Chip glanced about for a moment, shaking his head. "Not *us*," he 
stated clearly, and glanced back up at the ceiling.
	Zipper was still causally looking around at the nooks and crannies 
in the ceiling;  not down in Chip's direction. Needing to attract the fly's 
gaze discreetly, Chip couldn't yell out and jump up and down and wave until 
Zipper finally turned his head. His mind raced for a moment, then he turned 
back to the bar.
	"Could I have an apple core?" he asked suddenly, cutting into 
the conversation between Bob and Thadd. The two mice stopped in the 
middle of their "discussion," caught off guard.
	"What?" Thadd finally asked.
	"An apple core," Chip asked again, trying to seem nonchalant. 
"I skipped lunch earlier today."
	"You want an apple core?" Thadd asked again, having a hard time 
believing his ears.
	"Yes, please. The more rotten the better."
	Thadd had been about to say that the bar was closed, but the last 
qualifying statement the chipmunk had made changed his mind. The Ranger 
didn't look like a type to go in for rotten apple cores, but Thadd had to 
admit that it wasn't the first time that a seemingly-regular individual 
had a dark and slimy underbelly. After all, Thadd himself worked in a Day 
Care during the day, reading fairy tales to the children.
	He shrugged finally and figured at least it might help get rid of 
these non-goths sooner if he seemed to cooperate. He walked down the bar 
a little ways, pulled out a nicely brown and odorous apple core, and lightly 
pitched it to Chip.
	The Ranger caught it deftly and tried not to grimace as the rotten 
fruit's leftover juices oozed over his paws and sunk into his fur.
	So much for Gadget wanting to hold hands later on, he thought 
dismally to himself.
	He nodded his thanks to Thadd and quickly walked over to the 
side of the dance floor to wait.
	He didn't have to wait very long.
	Picking up the smell as quickly as Monterey could pick up cheese, 
Zipper's head turned around in puzzlement and surprise as Chip sat at 
one of the side tables, apparently about to down an apple core.
	Then the fly noticed that Chip was slightly jerking his head to 
one of the chairs. Zipper first feared that it might be a sudden muscle 
spasm induced by the smell of the core, but then realized (with slight 
embarrassment on his part) that Chip was trying to signal him to join 
him at the table. As quickly as he could without looking like he was 
in a rush, Zipper glided down towards the table.
	What's up? Zipper's curious expression read.
	Chip swiftly filled in Zipper on the waitress they spotted 
with the (apparent) wig of false eyelashes.
	And you want me to follow her, then? Zipper signaled.
	Chip nodded. "See if you can slip into the kitchen while we keep 
the bartender's attention. Try to hurry -- she may be gone already out a 
back door or something."
	Zipper nodded his understanding, nonchalantly swallowing the 
apple core in one gulp. Chip, as always, was dumbfounded at the fly's 
ability to eat something that was four times his body mass, but chalked 
it up to a mystery of nature. Whatever the case, Zipper was obviously no 
worse the wear for it, aside a slight hiccup, as he circled out in the 
air up and behind the bar's overhang, vanishing into the shadows.
	Nobody seemed to noticed Zipper's sudden absence from what Chip 
could tell. He didn't spot any workers nearby, and Thadd was still in 
conversation with Bob. That seemed strained, though, and likely it 
wouldn't be very long before he tired of it all and just stopped 
cooperating until a search warrant or some other type of enforcement 
was brought to bear. With that thought in mind, Chip got up and walked 
back over to the trio of Officer Bob, Thadd, and Gadget.
	"--and if you want to know more," Thadd was saying a bit 
tersely, "then go get some sort of order or something actually accusing 
me of something criminal. Otherwise, kindly take you and your 
accusations outta here."
	Chip grimaced. Apparently, he was too late.
	"Hey, what kind of music do you play here?"
	Thadd glanced over in surprise past Chip at the person who had 
made the remark. Dale stepped up to the bar, looking at Thadd expectantly.
	Thadd was quiet for moment before deciding that this type of 
information was fine to ask for. "Just the best goth industrial music, 
chipmunk."
	Dale nodded. "Nine Inch Nails, Front 242, Siouxsie and the 
Banshees, Dead Can Dance, The Cure; stuff like that?"
	Thadd grumbled a bit. "Well, not the Cure. I mean, they're too 
mainstream."
	"Gimme a break," Dale waved the suggestion aside. "Are you 
trying to tell me that 'Lullaby,' is mainstream?"
	"I mean that if you've heard one of their songs, you've pretty 
much heard them all."
	"What kind of DJ are you?" Dale scoffed. "Any first year student 
out of music class can tell you that 'Friday I'm In Love' is nowhere near 
the same thing as 'More Than This.'"
	Chip merely stood back and gazed in wonderment at Dale as he and 
Thadd started into a heated debate that outgrew just one band and 
stretched into the trends of the gothic punk underground music over the 
past ten years. Officer Bob and Gadget also couldn't help but stare; while 
they weren't aware that Thadd needed to be stalled, the sight of a debate 
between to knowledgeable opponents had something of a hypnotic effect to it.
	Only Chip managed to surreptitiously glance behind him now and then, 
and always at the kitchen door that Zipper had passed through only moments 
earlier.

	The inside of the kitchen was almost the antipode of the 
dance floor; brightly lit, white tiles and stainless steel, and 
clean (Thadd wasn't concerned about health codes so much as his 
personal health, which might be in jeopardy if some large rats 
happened to get sick eating the food at his place).
	As far as Zipper could tell, nobody was nearby, so he carefully 
slid out of sight and along one of the walls. He had snuck through a 
great many kitchens in his time, but most of them were human-sized, 
and thus much easier to maneuver through undetected. On a rodent 
scale, unfortunately, that ease was just not going to be forthcoming.
	A pair of voices caught his attention, and he scooted further 
along the wall, until he was able to peek out from behind a largish 
water pipe to see the two speakers.
	One was a dusty gray male mouse who wore a slightly stained 
apron and was standing by a sink -- apparently, he was a dishwasher. 
The other was the waitress that Chip had mentioned. She had dark 
brown fur, and wore what Zipper hoped wasn't the uniform of the place, 
as it was a bizarre hybrid of duct tape and a "Police Line -- Do Not 
Cross" warning strip. Her "hair," Zipper could now clearly see, was 
indeed made from (or at least "enhanced by") human false eyelashes.
	"--don't know, but he's been out there talking to Thadd for a 
while now," the female was saying, her voice a bit guttural and raspy, 
as if she regularly gargled with gravel bits.
	"C'mon, Ankentha," the dishwasher said, "Wot could the cop 
possibly have on us, eh? Yous know that none of tha 'cords are stashed 
here."
	"I don't care, Deadbolt," Ankentha replied evenly.
	Zipper hoped that their names were taken on by the two during 
adolescence, rather than having to go through life with them as their 
actual birth names. Then again, he guessed, that would probably explain 
a lot of goth behavior.
	"If the cops are this close, I don't want to take any chances, 
understand?" Ankentha continued. "Let everyone in the group know that 
you see tonight to meet at the pit. I'll be there after my shift's over."
	Deadbolt nodded and shrugged, clearly not nearly as concerned 
over the situation as Ankentha was. She, in return, nodded, and then 
turned and strode back to the kitchen door. Zipper made sure that he 
stayed out of sight until she had exited, and then once Deadbolt had 
turned back to the sink, the oft-overlooked Ranger slinked back through 
the kitchen door.
	Looked like he, and the rest of the Rangers, had a date that night.

	Ankentha glanced over her shoulder as she scurried along a back 
alley that was a few miles from the Angst Factory. Some of her crew had 
been at there that night, and she was able to pass word along to them. 
They, in turn, left early to notify the rest of her little "Accordion 
Removal Task Force." She frowned slightly, nursing the displeasure she 
currently felt. There was no real reason to suspect that the cops knew 
anything, just yet. The cop at the club and his little band of followers 
hadn't actually charged Thadd with anything, or even searched the place, 
but nevertheless, she wasn't about to take any chances. All that 
happened of note was that oddly intense argument between one of them 
and Thadd over genres of music; it had ended peacefully enough, with 
that large Australian mouse dragging the red-nosed chipmunk out the 
door, who was still yelling something about the early punk movement 
selling out and heavy metal going glam. Still, if the police managed 
to track the thefts to the club, they might not be too far behind 
finding out she had been the organizer of the entire scheme. Before 
they could get close enough to prove that, however, she would have 
all of the evidence destroyed.
	Pity, really. She would have much preferred it if she had been 
able to remove all the accordions from the entire Milwaukee area, and 
as difficult as a task as that would have been, the importance of it 
could not possibly be understated in her mind. It had been a strong 
passion for her to follow, almost a calling from the silent yet screaming 
collective apathy of goths everywhere.
	She walked alongside the brick wall of an old and decrepit 
building, until she came to a place where one of the bricks was missing. 
She crawled through the slot, and dropped lightly to the cold and rough 
concrete floor of the dimly lit building. A low, asymmetrical chanting 
sound was coming from all around here, as if dozens of people were all 
talking aloud to themselves at once.
	The only source of lights were, of course, incense candles. Their 
aromas ranged from "Damp Graveyard" to "Decayed Spirits," but with all of 
them blended together in the air, the sole word that could describe the 
olfactory experience was "unpleasant." The flames of the candles 
themselves burned steadily in the still air of the cold and quiet 
building, and cast little more than a glow about their immediate 
surroundings.
	Near the back wall was a construction that looked to be 
something of a large and misshapen human furnace, but in fact had been 
constructed entirely by animal hands. To this large object Ankentha 
stalked over, and peered in through the open furnace door.
	"It's ready," Deadbolt's voice said to her left.
	Ankentha nodded. "Everyone's here, I take it?"
	"Yup."
	"Okay then, let's light this thing."
	Deadbolt struck a match on the rough floor of the building, 
the flare lighting his expressionless countenance up suddenly before he 
whipped the lit match into the furnace. Both he and Ankentha backed away 
as a fire sprang to life and started to grow alarmingly quick. Deadbolt 
allowed himself a smile. The gasoline-soaked paper and wood was working 
wonderfully.
	The two mice walked back out from the furnace as the fire 
continued to grow, its light slowly spreading out across the floor, 
revealing several dozen rodents in the building -- all practically 
dripping in black clothes, black make-up, and whatever other expressions 
of "gothness" that they were able to fit onto their bodies. Ankentha 
noticed that one had apparently just joined the goth movement, as the 
poor creature had combined elements of both "The Crow" and a mime. It 
was a bit pathetic, even by these goth's standards.
	They continued to talk to themselves in a deadpan and as 
emotionally-dead voice as they could muster. Not that they were trying 
to build a mood or even acknowledge Ankentha's arrival, though. Rather, 
each was reciting their own poetry of utter turmoil and hollow life of 
despair for their next performance at a coffeehouse.
	"Listen up!" Ankentha's voice snapped, effectively breaking 
the humdrum. She paused a moment as the silence grew, so that the 
crackle of flames behind her could be heard by all and add some more 
goth points to her spoken words. "The cops have started snooping 
around the area. I don't know how much they know, but whatever they 
do, it's too much. So tonight we'll be doing our little celebration 
early."
	Cheering and shouts of approval bounded out from the crowd, 
and even though she always said that it pained her face, she allowed 
herself a smile of satisfaction. Her followers knew the joy that this 
would be.
	"We are the only ones who truly understand life," she suddenly 
said, slipping back into the sober mode that she enjoyed so. "Only we 
know the dark emptiness that rattles about inside our worn and dreary 
souls. Others see the world as beautiful and full of life. But we know 
that beneath the sunny exterior lies a festering world of grief, pain, 
and unyielding inner torment."
	The rest of the crowd murmured in agreement.
	"And one day we shall fully shatter this idyllic illusion of 
happiness and contentment, exposing the ugly and bitter truth. Tonight, 
we finally strike the first blow for goths everywhere, by ridding 
ourselves of the bane of our existence -- that instrument by which the 
polka is intrinsically linked to, the accordion!"
	More cheers rippled through the building at this notion. All 
knew that polkas were a style of snappy, feel-good music that only 
served to lift the spirits. To the goths gathered here, this was 
completely unacceptable, and must be removed so that more might be drawn 
into the rage and depression of their own brand of music. Originally, it 
had just been a spiteful theft in response to the noise complaints, but 
afterwards, it came to Ankentha that this could have a greater meaning. 
Thus, after spending a week to gather her supporting goths, the complete 
removal of all accordions from her sphere of influence fully began in 
earnest.
	Ankentha and Deadbolt now reveled in the sacrifice they were 
about to make to appease the goth gods of the underworld, then sprang 
into action. The rest of the crowd joined in, each pulling out the 
various innocent and unassuming accordions that had been stashed about 
the building, and piling them all onto a skateboard, which had short, 
wooden sides added to it, enabling it to act as the wagon to carry the 
accursed instruments to their awaiting execution. The crowd quickly 
began pushing it towards the awaiting maw of the blazing furnace's 
portal.
	Chip turned to look at Dale hurriedly. "We can't wait any 
longer for Bob to get back with reinforcements."
	Dale nodded glumly, and signaled to the rest of the Rangers.
	He turned back to face Chip, who, despite the urgency of the 
situation couldn't help but note, "And that crow-mime outfit of yours 
is ridiculous."
	"Hey, they didn't try to stop me comin' in, did they?" Dale 
said defensively.
	"Probably out of pity," Chip replied, then yanked off his own 
costume of death and darkness as he leaped past the pushing crowd and 
the skateboard. A few pointed at the now "unblack" chipmunks and 
shrieked a warning, but shrieks from goth crowds are quiet common, and 
thus none of the rest of the crowd actually paid attention to the sound.
	Ankentha and Deadbolt, however, did, as the chipmunks were 
quickly joined by two mice and a fly. The five quickly gathered about 
a discarded 2x4 and hastily shoved it into the path of the skateboard. 
The impromptu barrier worked, slamming the skateboard's wheels to a 
halt, and causing quite a bit of discomfort to those pushing as they 
all piled into each other.
	The two gothic leaders tried to sound the alarm, but some at 
the back of the skateboard took the unexpected crushing of bodies as 
a sign that a mosh pit had started, and had without delay thrown 
themselves fully into it. Any attempt at pushing the skateboard was 
squelched as the goths were now more concerned with their spontaneous 
(and uncoordinated) dance.
	"Amateurs," Deadbolt muttered in disapproval of their moshing 
style.
	Ankentha, on the other hand, knew exactly how to rally her 
troops. "Polka shall live!" she screeched at the top of her lungs.
	Stunned silence dropped like a black, heavy curtain.
	"--unless," she continued, now having their full attention, 
"those who oppose us are stopped and removed from our way!"
	"Not good, Chip?" Dale whispered, suddenly aware that the 
Rangers were standing alone, in front of the skateboard, clearly in 
view of their enemies with the fire behind outlining them perfectly 
as targets.
	"Not good, Dale," Chip answered. Grimly, he wondered what 
might have happened to Bob -- the policemouse had been with the Rangers 
when they first tracked Deadbolt here from the Angst Factory. While 
the rest of the Rangers had been dressed in their undercover grab, Bob 
was just his plain clothes; he noticed the large crowd of die-hard 
goths, then explained to the Rangers to stall the "Delvers Of 
Depression" until he was able to return with back-up. That had been a 
while ago, and Chip was now worried that Bob might not return until it 
was too late.
	Monterey Jack, on the other hand, harbored no such concerns.
	"Aw, please," he sneered, stepping to the forefront and rolling 
up his sleeves. "Like any of you bleak blighters can do anythin' 
besides moan and whine."
	"Heh," Deadbolt said without much interest. "You ain't never 
been inna mosh pit, have ya?"
	Some rumbling rippled through the crowd as a number of bulky 
mice and rats maneuvered to the front ranks of the crowd and fearlessly 
began to approach. Monterey never thought that he'd ever be afraid of 
an opponent that wore mascara (with the possible exception of Desiree), 
but now he felt the sudden urge to back away from the painted faces of 
the unquestionably gruff animals heading for him.
	Being that he was also outnumbered ten to one, he decided that 
a slight shuffle backwards was perfectly allowed.
	"What now?" Dale grumbled as the Rangers were being slowly but 
surely corralled towards the open, roaring furnace.
	"I doubt we can make a break for it," Gadget announced, her 
eyes darting about in an attempt to process as much spatial information 
around them as possible. "The way back to the exit is blocked, and the 
added light from the furnace has reduced the darkness so much that 
there's really no cover, especially since they can just watch us as we 
try to hide."
	Split up? Zipper suggested.
	"I'd rather save that as a last resort," Chip remarked 
ruefully. "Things never work out the way we plan whenever we do that."
	"We can't just keep backin' up, mate," Monterey observed as 
the heat behind them was growing at a steady pace. They weren't more 
than a few feet away from the inferno.
	While the majority of the crowd had fallen into place behind 
the large group advancing on the Rangers, Ankentha and Deadbolt had 
the others shove the 2x4 clear of the skateboard, and resumed pushing 
it, and its precious cargo, towards the homemade incinerator.
	The Rangers felt a flicker of flame behind them, and froze. 
Glancing behind them, the flames were brightly beckoning them in to 
a painful and disfiguring of death. Turning back, they swallowed 
hard; the crowd was almost upon them.
	"So this," Chip moaned, "is what the voice of doom sounds like."
	"Doodle Lee Doo..." a loud, clear and powerful baritone sang out 
suddenly. Before anyone could even start to comprehend what it meant, 
let alone where it came from, the unmistaken rhythm of a mighty polka 
filled the room, its gaiety, brightly dancing chords, and upbeat tempo 
washing over the Rangers and, more importantly, the goths.
	"ARRGHHH!" they screamed in unison, writhing on the floor in 
agony, some even crying out "I'm melting! I'm melting!" Ankentha and 
Deadbolt themselves, while not convulsing as badly as the others, were 
still fully preoccupied trying to plug their ears (given the size of 
their mouse ears compared to their hands, however, it wasn't working 
too well). In the ensuing wailing confusion, a handful of police officers 
walked about, restraining the goths present. All the while they were 
cheerfully whistling along with the music.
	Later, Dale would state that he thought that the goths weren't 
really nearly as badly affected by the music as they appeared, but felt 
that they wouldn't be considered "true" goths unless such a melodramatic 
display was enacted. Skip would then confirm that there were, indeed, 
goths that pathetic.
	"But not all," he would hastily add.
	In the polka-saturated building, Chip was still trying to piece 
together what exactly had happened. Bob walked over and saved him the 
trouble.
	"Sorry about the delay," he said a bit loudly to be heard over 
the strains of the "Doodle Lee Doo Polka." Bob pointed over towards the 
back area. Squinting, the Rangers could see a portable CD player and a 
couple of mini-speakers hooked up to it. From these the polka music 
cascaded sweetly out onto the floor and over the occupants of the room.
	"We couldn't fit the speakers through the entrance that we first 
came through," Bob went on, "so we had to circle around until we got a 
spot that we could get all the equipment through."
	"But," Chip said, still somewhat in wonder over it all. "Polka 
music?! I mean, how did you make *that* connection?"
	Bob shrugged. "Comes from living in Wisconsin, I guess. We know 
the power it has, especially against those opposed to light and joy." He 
nodded to indicate the bemoaning goths scattered about the floor. 
"They'll be immobilized as long as the music is on, and that's a fresh 
battery in that CD player. By the time it runs out, we'll have already 
loaded 'em all onto their skateboard, push it out through the front of 
the building, and back to HQ were we can plop them in the holding cell."
	"Uhm," Gadget started, a bit unsure about what she was going 
to ask, "they aren't actually going to be... harmed from prolonged 
exposure to the polka, are they?"
	"Of course not," Bob chuckled. "As anyone with half a mind of 
music knowledge will tell you, the polka is incapable of doing any 
harm. Of course, the goths like it when they're harmed, because then 
they can claim more angst points, but in the end, all it'll do is 
inspire them to write more bad poetry about their experience with it."
	"That could be harmful to others," Monterey muttered.
	"So..." Dale started, "...that's it?"
	"That's it," Bob nodded.
	"No wild chase?" Gadget asked.
	"No knock-down, drag out brawl?" Monterey added.
	"No near-death experience?" Chip threw in.
	"No, no,  and nope," Bob replied amiably. "Statistics show that 
people living in this state are more happy and relaxed than most others 
for a reason, friends. Generally we only worry about cholesterol, and 
even then," he winked, "it doesn't stop us from enjoying a frozen 
custard."

	Gordon sat back and considered his son carefully. He cast a 
glance over to Gadget, who was busy learning how to dance the polka 
from Kathleen. The Rangers and Chip's parents, along with several dozen 
other animals, were in Farsenio Hall, enjoying the lively Holiday 
festival. It was in full swing (or full brouhaha, at any rate), with 
plenty of music, cheese, and beer. Dale, Zipper, and Monterey had been 
inducted into a game of Sheepshead in the back, leaving Chip and his 
dad alone at their small table.
	Between hands, Dale was busy bragging to the locals about the 
record he and the others had set in their sled run through the bur patch 
on the back side of Dead Man's Hill. He even chuckled merrily at how his 
head had nearly been slashed open like a peeled grape by a thorn.
	"Geez," one of the townsfolk mentioned, "I'm sorta surprised 
you're talking about it so nonchalantly. Don't you ever take yourself 
seriously?"
	"Heck, no!" Dale laughed. "Geez, if I ever start acting like a 
goth, whining and moaning and sprouting purple prose about my humor 
being dead, close the book and toss it in the fire so you can get at 
least a little warmth from it."
	Back at Chip's table, the leader of the Rangers waited patiently 
for his father's appraisal. Chip had managed to resist explaining his 
true feelings for Gadget to his dad, but he had finally buckled under 
his father's surprisingly proficient interrogation techniques in regards 
to just learning more about the apparently remarkable young woman.
	"I just want to make sure I have this straight," Gordon finally 
said, obviously finding Gadget's shining purity hard to believe. "She 
doesn't drink?"
	"No." Chip knew she had tried motor oil once, but that was just 
experimentation.
	"She doesn't smoke?"
	Discounting electrical mishaps? "No."
	"She hasn't used any illegal substances?"
	"Dad," Chip said, a bit annoyed. "Why don't you just strap her 
to a polygraph?"
	"Look son," Gordon explained, "don't get me wrong, but well, 
girls like the one you describe are more than slightly hard to find. 
They almost all have some sort of dark secret, or some mental instability."
	"Like what?" Chip asked, even though it was public knowledge to 
all that knew her that Gadget's brain certainly didn't always fire on 
all cylinders.
	"Well, I don't know" Gordon replied, "like a major depression 
or something. Something that would eat away at her soul until nothing 
but tears flowed." He glanced over again at Gadget, who was laughing, 
giggling, and dancing with her eyes brightly shining.
	He turned back to Chip. "On second thought, forget it. The 
more I think about it, the more stupid it sounds." He sighed and pulled 
a small book from his coat pocket.
	Chip blinked. "You're going to read? Here? Now?"
	Gordon looked up. "Yes, yes, and yes. Really, Chip, I'm done 
with the book already, and just am reading the author's notes. The 
party isn't going to be over for hours, still."
	Chip acquiesced, then noticed the title with surprise. "'Thyme 
& Season,' dad? I thought you never were one for high adventure tales 
like those."
	Gordon shrugged in response. "It's a bit overcooked for my 
tastes, but still digestible."
	Chip groaned and rubbed his forehead. "I walked right into that 
one."
	"I know," Gordon said with a smile. "I love it that you haven't 
changed a bit, son." He started to go back to his book, then glanced 
once more at Gadget. "Why don't you ask her for a dance?"
	"Uh...." Chip wasn't sure how to reply to that.
	Gordon nodded towards Gadget again. "Go on. If you don't, someone 
else will, and I think you'd like it more if she was dancing with you. 
Besides," here Gordon attempted to sound sagely, "if she dances the polka 
with you, she'll love you forever."
	"Yeah, I bet," Chip grumbled in less than total confidence, but 
nevertheless pulled himself up and walked over to the dance floor. Which, 
he noted pleasantly, was far more bright and cheerful than the one at the 
Angst Factory. Of course, an airport runway was far more bright and 
cheerful compared to the dance floor at the Angst Factory, but it was 
the thought that counted.
	Gadget was still dancing with his mom, and Chip couldn't help but 
smile at the sight. He adjusted his fedora with care, then tapped his mom 
on the shoulder lightly.
	"Beg your pardon," he said as he tipped his hat expertly to the 
ladies, "but I was wondering if I might have the honor of this dance?"
	"Golly, Chip," Gadget said, beaming. "Sure!"
	With that she politely stepped back to allow Kathleen to sweep her 
openly stunned son off into the crowd. Gadget watched them go for a few 
seconds, and didn't even bother to suppress her grin.
	"Such a nice young girl," Kathleen mentioned as she and Chip danced 
about, Chip more than slightly embarrassed at the turn of events. "And so 
full of surprises."
	"Yeah, tell me about it," he replied with a chuckle. The chuckle 
grew as he noted that the band had started up the next number, which 
happened to be the "Doodle Lee Doo Polka." Here was a song that would 
always bring back unique memories.
	Only a few moments into the song, though, and Kathleen was stopped 
by another tap on her shoulder.
	"Sorry, Kathleen," Gadget said as she smiled sweetly. "This is 
sorta a special song for your son and I." She deftly stepped in and took 
Chip's hands in hers as they danced off into the crowd.
	With the warmth from Gadget's paws in his, and the two of them 
locked in a deep gaze of affection, Chip decided to amend his previous 
thought; this song would always bring back one of his favorite memories.



End

This story and all original characters are copyrighted (c) 2002 by Matt 
Plotecher. The "Chip Noir Dale's Rescue Rangers" universe is copyrighted 
(c) 1997-2002 by Matt Plotecher (cripes, has it been five years already?). 
The Rescue Rangers and all characters from that series are copyrighted (c) 
by the Walt Disney Company, and are used without permission. This fanfic 
is written solely for entertainment purposes only, and no infringement on 
any copyrights should be inferred from it.

Suggested Polka Listenings while rereading include:

"Doodle Lee Doo Polka" by Lenny Gomulka
"Born Again Polka" by Sharon Shannon
"Do Something Different" by Brave Combo
"Blue Polka" by Rotoni
"Nichts Nein Frankenstein" by Das Furlines
"Polka Polka" by Mojo Nixon and Skid Roper
"Alice" by Jimmy Sturr

You might also want to eat some cheese while having a microbrew at Machine 
Shed while playing Sheepshead and riding a John Deere during a Friday night 
fish fry. If so, you might also want to have your head examined.