Bart and Fielding had not loafed at the Tiagra cottage.  By warning the locals of the plot of the Paedophile Polar Bears and Dutch, Bart and Fielding had stirred a hornet’s nest of restments.  The wolves were the first to join.  Wolves are militant heterosexualists.  They raved at the suggestion that perverted Paedophile Bears and Dutchmen would queer little wolf cubs.  They’d put a stop to that.  The Tiagra bears were easy.  Years ago they had sickened of Polar Bear pretensions of White Bear Supremacy. The Tiagra bears also lived in a conservative culture.  They even brought in a venerable ally of theirs from the beginning of time: the Baba Yagas.  The Baba Yagas promised the assistance of Baba Yagan cavalry.  Baba Yagan calvary is unmistakeable for its use of pigs as mounts. The Baba Yagans managed to persuade the Tiagra raptors to give air support.  

Sable volunteered to work as scouts.  Lynx agreed to be scouts too, provided wolf operations were limited in areas where Lynx were to work. Wherever Bart or Fielding had needed to grease a palm or cut a deal, they had done it. They planned to win this battle.

They made no secret of their belief that without them, Lucky and I were doomed. They cited as evidence a scalp pole covered with layers of scalps on the cottage porch.  Dutch scouts were no match for the Bart-Fielding teams.  They had already cleaned the area of 15 or so scouts.  Pre-execution-due-process leniency enhanced interrogations had revealed an outline of the Dutch plan.  A major thrust into Arkhangelsk would coincide with a flanking movement to the east.  If all went well, Arkhangelsk would be in the mouth of the bear-Dutch forces before the forces from the east arrived.   A few of the finking, perverted prisoners also had the impertinence to ask if they were to be molested after scalping but before execution.  

The query irritated Bart and Fielding.  They turned these perverts over to the wolves.  The wolves ate them alive.  To be accurate, the perverts were alive when the wolves got the feast going.  Fielding assured me you could tell weel it was going from the blood-drenched screams in Dutch.  By that, Fielding knew the wolves ate very well indeed.  Fielding told me she almost considered, following the example of Yabu in Shogun.  What better time to contemplate the transience of happiness than when these prisoners howled their pain?  Fielding smiled as she, like Yabu, meditated on the transience of life with screams as her piquant sauce.  Unlike Yabu, Fielding didn’t like baths.  She’d rather make do with her zazen on a zafu and zabuton.

Bart was indifferent to screams.  She was pleased to hear the doomed meeting their doom.  And She knew that more doom was approaching.  

Bart had recruited gangs of Paedophile-Polar-Bear-hating harp seals.  The seals of the White Sea have no use for Polar Bears of any kind.  So, the seals finked on the Dutch location.   A Dutch armada was making its way into the White Sea.  I was impressed.  Bart understood the need for good intelligence better than Fielding.  Fielding’s attitude was to ignore intelligence and just close with the foes wherever you find them.  

Bart complained Fielding’s attitude overlooked a source of advantage.  As Bart put it, “When I close with a foe, I prefer that I be the surprise, not the foe.”  Fielding glared at her.  I also knew that for Fielding, whether she was the surprise or was surprised had never made a difference.   She never bothered to surprise a rat to kill him.  She took her victims as they discovered themselves to her.

Meanwhile, Lord Caligula and his entourage had established their outpost in Arkhangelsk.   Lord Caligula chose a large house near the Cathedral–destroyed by Stalin and his stooges many years back, but recently rebuilt–where the Archangel Michael battled Satan.  The Archangel Michael emerged victorious, a good omen.

If you ask me, his Lordship should have thought more about who the Archangel might be in the coming battle. He was an implausible archangel, a man closer to one of Satan’s lieutenants.  

In the meantime, Constance had imitated Bart and Fielding by making forays into Arkhangelsk’s nature reserve.  For example, she made repeated visits to national forests to recruit more brown bears, sable, badgers, and wolves.  Lord Caligula did his part by giving sermons on local radio stations about the Paedophile menace.  “Were the good people of Arkhangelsk going to let Paedophile-Polar-Bears and their Dutch enablers turn the boys of Arkhangelsk into a race of pale, passive catamites? Never,” screamed his Lordship, “Never!  That is contrary to God’s ordinances!” For emphasis, he would step back from his pulpit, and then start bea it to splinters with his enormous silver-bound Bible.

By contrast,  Lucky soothed herself with her customary means.  She cleaned her weapons.  She worked on her marksmanship.  She would have an enemy scout set loose from time to time for her to hunt.  She accumulated a large collection of scrotums that she stitched together to make chamois.  Once she laundered the chamois to immaculateness, she liked to dry her hands with it, though sometimes she used this type of chamois to lube her guns.  

On a clear, bright Sunday, a badger arrived from east of Arkhangelsk at his Lord Caligula’s residence to tell him of a sighting of Paedophile-PolarBears and their various accomplices.  The villains had begun landing from the White Sea onto a stretch of beach.  It surprised his lordship.  He had figured the invaders would begin by marching on the frozen rivers inland before pivoting to attack Arkhangelsk’s eastern flank.  

About 3 hours after notification of the invasion, his Lordship got unequivocal evidence that the attack on Arkhangelsk had commenced.  As he stood on his porch drinking cognac, he noticed Russians dropping over stone-cold-dead as if frozen.  And these poor souls were frozen.  The Paedophile-Polar-Bears had released a huge dose of Ice-10.  Because of the Ice-10 antidote, his Lordship never gave the matter of Ice-10 further concern.  He did feel concerned when he spotted Woland and his entourage on the streets.  Hella and Azazello were picking the pockets of the dead.  Behemoth was drinking from a 4-litre bottle of Stoli.  From time to time, he chuckled as he stepped away from drink to relieve himself on a pretty corpse.  Woland asked Korovyev to perform a few magic tricks for the dead.  Resurrecting them was not among them.

The antics of Woland’s crew annoyed Lord Caligula, but he got distracted when from the east an enormous boom of an explosion rolled over the city.  I was at the cottage with Bart when I heard it.  Bart told me to relax. She had to coax me from a cupboard.   Long before the Dutch arrived, Bart arranged to have a daisy-chain of IEDs placed under an area her local experts told her was an especially good beach for invaders to land. Bart and Fielding had ordered the invaders be allowed to land unmolested.  As the buildup of Dutch and allies moved into full swing, Bart got word of it. A pair of muddy, wild-eyed lynx told her.   Bart then ordered the chains of IEDs to detonate simultaneously.  The explosion devastated the first wave invaders and their supplies.  Photos later showed mangled body parts strewn over the beach.  Dutch weapons systems and broken vehicles were everywhere.   Bart waited. as she ate mackerel, for secondary explosions to stop. She then communicated her advice to the front. “Lunch time.”

Swarms of Bart and Fielding’ allies occupied the beach.  I’ve seen videos of bears, badgers, wolves, and the like devouring the invaders.  The dead were fortunate indeed.  The survivors were just so many living raw roasts and steaks in waiting.     

The pleasure didn’t last long.  The Dutch deployed an attack helicopter to strafe the beach.  Terrified animals of the Bart-Fielding forces fled.  Many died.  

When the bad news reached Bart and Fielding, they headed to the beach.  They reached the landing site riki tik, squads of crazed Dutchmen had organized.  They shot any wounded animals–turnabout is fair play–they found and massed to start their drive to Arkhangelsk.  

Fielding strapped on her spiked helmet to arm herself and made ready for a frontal assault on the Dutch. Before Field could move forward, Bart put out her claws.  When they slashed across Fielding’s meaty thighs, Fielding knew to slow down.

I was peering out of Lucky bag. I worried my heart might explode. I was crying, begging to go back to the comfy cottage to no avail.   To my front, I saw the Dutch hordes and their lackeys. To my rear, I saw an unexpected sight.  I troop of Baba Yaga cavalry was arriving.  My eyes darted to Bart.  She looked murderous.  The Baba Yaga had arrived with winged pigs, but the faux attached to the pig bodies with harnesses.  

A sorceress in a coat of many colours trotted on her mount up to Bart.  Bart was glaring at her.  I head Bart raving above the battle noise, “What the fuck is this?”  The sorceress told her the Baba Yaga cavalry was at her service.  Bart’s patience ended.  

Snarling, Bart reminded the sorceress of a promise of flying pigs, winged pigs carrying murderous, veteran witches.  Instead, Bart surveyed a rag-tag crew of flabby pigs with wings on harnesses arriving.  As the sorceress rolled her eyes, then clapped her rouged cheeks, she gave straight talk to Bart.  “It’s the 21st century.  Flying pigs?  A myth, Bart, a myth.  The wings are for psychological effect, not to make obese critters fly.”  I’ll admit Bart did have a lot of schooling.

Undeterred, Bart screamed she paid for flying pigs and demanded flying pigs.  

Waving a chubby hand, the sorceress cooed, “But, darling, adjust.  You’ve been had.  Flying pigs are a Baba Yaga lie.  Take it as you get it,  your cavalry has arrived.  What do you want them to do.”

Bart spun round, pointed towards, and answered,  “Send them fo’ward at a twot.  When they weach a 100 yawds, chawge our foe.”  When pissed beyond reason, Bart had hte endearing habit of losing her “R’s”   She sounded a lot like Denisov in War and Peace.

It was a bad command.  The Baba Yaga did as asked.  It was sad that the Dutch helicopters spotted them, descending on the mounted porkers with the zeal of a Dutchman expecting a Ritsstafel dinner.  And if you ever met a hungry Dutchman with no taste for swine?  When it comes to pork, Dutch might as well be German.  

The helicopters began to chop the Baba Yaga and their pigs into pieces, shredding the line of oncoming cavalry.  Baba Yaga are quick studies and no fools. As the state of the battle became clear, they turned their porky mounts about or even, if young and fit, hopped off to run away fast.  The helicopter crews were having the time of their lives.  I could see their porcine faces licking their lips in anticipation of a roast pork feast.

Bart was running about killing any Baba Yaga she could lay hands on.  Fielding took the hint.  Soon she had her spiked helmet spearing anybody in her path.  She and Bart seemed invincible.  I was high in the air.  Lucky had made use of the chaos to climb high into a stand of pines.  She had slung on a Manpad.  From up in the tree, she fired it.  I felt the recoil.  I watched.  One the helicopter exploded.  Moments later, I saw one of Lucky’s chums fire his very own FN-6.  Voila.  Another helicopter exploded.  A shower of missiles devastated the Dutch air support. 

Lucky had dropped down with me to earth.  To my horror, she zigzagged at an angle that led to a fighting hole.  She dropped in.  A QJY-88 awaited her. If you’re no gun expert, It’s a bit like an American M249.  In a flash, Lucky began to spray 5.8×42 heavy rounds into the beach.  I had been so frightened I had not noticed the fighting hole had one of the Go sharks of London, a muscle-bound, clear fellow that tried to take advantage of my lack of skill at Go in London to get rich. He was in the hole with us.  As Lucky fired the machine gun, the Go shark assisted.

If the Dutch had moved on us, I don’t see that we’d have survived, but a brutish. Polar Bear was giving hand signals to the troop in his command.  The Dutch were moving quickly away from us, west towards Arkhangelsk.  

In the distance, I saw Bart and Fielding killing the wounded.  I recalled that Bart claimed WC Fields got right when he said, “Never give a sucker an even break.”  

Neither Lucky nor I knew what was happening in Arkhangelsk.  All of a sudden, a huge wolf arrived with a satchel.  In it was a message from Lord Caligula.  He wrote he saved ink by writing his message with the blood of the severed finger of a dead Russian.  “Situation very dicey.  Come fast.”  Lucky wiped the froth from the wolf’s mouth.  I noticed he had bleeding paws.  Lucky hugged him. She was smiling.  “The future is ours, Tovarisch.  You’ve done your duty.  Rest, sweetie.”  I’ll admit it.  Her making nice to a wolf revolted me. What next?  A dog?

After bidding the wolf adieu, she, the Go shark managed to have a few words with Bart and Fielding.  Lucky’s lackey, the Go shark, had harnassed a team of wolves to a sled.  He and another of the swindling Go sharks also had got themselves wolf-led sleds  As Lucky and I felt her sled lurch forward, she looked up.  Above her, raptors in great numbers flew.

“Ah,” she sighed, “the sharp-eyed raptors saw that the sky is now safe.  We have air cover.”  You, gentle reader, may wonder why the raptors did not arrive to assist the Baba Yaga.  Any cat not blind from rage could tell you  Those Baba Yagas (a) had come on mounts that didn’t fly (b) had got so fat from eating kids that they had the slows, and (c) had no chance in the fight they faced.  Like cats, raptors don’t join lost fights.  Having them above made them birds of good omen.  

We moved along and Lucky burst into the Surfin’ Bird song.

 A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird’s the word
A-well-a bird, surfing bird, brr, brr, ah, ah
Ah, bap-a-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pap

… Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-paMa-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa

Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa

Ma-ma-mow, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-ma-ma, ma-ma-mow
Ma-ma-ma-ma, ma-ma-mow
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow, pa-pa
Ma-ma-mow, pa-pa, ma-ma-mow

… A-well-a don’t you know about the bird?
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word

I never really liked it.  I’d have preferred “The Year of the Cat.”  We were off to the Big Tohubohu.  I cried and knew the worst was yet to come.–

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Specialisation is for insects.  Robert Heinlein, Time enough for love