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"Ah, Fox—just feel the power of that unbelief around us! There's enough ixhicoláha here to melt an illusion-shirt right off your back! Good thing we stole real human clothes to wear."
         "Yes, Coyote. Of course I feel it. What I don't understand is how you can enjoy the sensation. Stinking iron steam monsters! I hate railway stations. Can we leave now?"
         "Leave if you like; I'm going to talk to that man by the big stack of packing crates. Half the ixhicoláha in this station is coming from him! He looks so impatient, and so self-important. And take a gander at that hat he's wearing! It's all round on top, like a river boulder—and just the color of my ear fur! I wish I had a nice hat like that. Do you think he'll give it to me?"
         "I doubt that very much. But please—don't let me stand in your way! You talk to him, and I'll ditch these clothes and go hunt jackrabbits. Or maybe cats. Did you notice that fat tabby tom lurking behind Jason's Idle Argonaut Tavern?"
         "Yes, I did. You save some for me, you hear?"
         "Bring beer, and I'll consider it." Fox ran one hand through a shock of blatantly red hair and tested the air with a sunburned, liberally-freckled nose. "Or cat whiskey. I smell a moonshine still nearby." He pointed toward one of the clapboard warehouses sharing a railway siding across from their platform. "It's in that one," he proclaimed confidently.
         Coyote sampled the air with his own nose, and carefully scrutinized the structure in question. "Yes, that's the one," he agreed, turning back toward Fox.
         Fox was no longer in evidence. "Fluffy show off," Coyote muttered, and returned his attention to the round-hatted man.
. . . and tasty, too!
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Submitted on
April 1, 2012
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