Case of The Missing Gift

“Miller, my darling,” spoke an omnipresent voice. It was so gentle, soft, and sweet that one could almost taste it.

“Yes my dear?” responded a man without averting his gaze from the chopping board. He carefully and precisely cut up some greens.

“I have a request,” spoke the feminine voice.

Miller felt a gentle embrace as the goddess took form and materialized behind him. Her warmth and radiance enveloped him like a gentle, warm blanket. He leaned back against her, a smile forming on his face.

“Hopefully not a trip to the Egyptian underworld,” Miller groaned softly, finishing up the ingredient’s preparation.

“No my dear, although, that story was utmost delicious, but no. A friend of mine requested a cake for his lover’s birthday. There’s no better man in all of this wonder-verse to bake said cake,” she spoke softly.

“Will you do it for me?” she whispered into his ear. He let out a soft huff, a sigh of sorts, but one filled with a smile.

“Of course, my dear. Tell me more.”

The goddess pondered for a moment, then gulped audibly.

“Strawbs, wait, no. This isn’t a cake for me. Oh gods but do I crave some of those delicious, gotta go bye,” she suddenly disappeared. Leaving a bewildered chef alone in the godly kitchen as he prepared a meal for the god of knowledge and curiosity. However, he wasn’t sure which pantheon said god belonged to. The meal was served and the god was pleased, as always. Miller was now ready to begin work on the next task.

“Tsk, Canta. Didn’t even tell me whom this cake was for,” he sighed, rummaging through a chest of knowledge. This was a magical artifact of sorts that held memories of the being it belonged to. In this case, Canta, the goddess of taste. He pulled out a folder, conveniently labeled – THE BIRTHDAY CAKE, A PERFECT GIFT. He flipped it open, and there was but a single page in it, a picture of a tree, and a name.

“Treebeard.”

Miller sighed, ‘Treebeard, of course. He knows everything. He’s ancient, sees all and knows it all. Norse pantheon,’ he recalled. Though the name didn’t quite align, but he didn’t care enough. Away he went into the mountains, through the howling winds and raging blizzards. At last he found himself, confused.

There, on a cliffside, sat a man in what could best be described as a plastic lawn chair, except it was made of birch wood. The man certainly had something tree’ish about him. As the luck would have it, it was precisely his beard that was a tree. From the edge of his chin grew a magnificent tree, upside down. As if a miniaturized Yggdrasil itself. It was lush, branching indefinitely, and half as long as the man was tall.

“Treebeard?” Miller hesitated.

“What gave you that idea?” Treebeard responded, glancing to the side at a perplexed chef whose eyes were wider than a full moon in the night sky.

“I uh, I am here on behalf of Canta. She wants a gift made, a cake.”

Treebeard nodded, “You’re incredibly observant, young one.”

“Uh, sure,” Miller hesitated, opting not to play into the old man’s sass.

“Whom for is it? What shall it be made of?”

Treebeard scratched his tree, that was coincidentally also his beard, and shook his head a little. A tiny squirrel fell out of the tree. Another one hung on a branch for its dear life.

Miller gasped, but Treebeard seemed to not care for the small lives that were at stake.

“Hmmm yes, a gift indeed. Go down to the place with the otter and the buns. Search out his eggcellence and bake the bestest cake.”

Miller thought about it as he stepped through a portal, a swirling mess of matter that resembled the pancake dough when you first spill it onto the pan. Oddly shaped, questionable in its substance and full of mystery.

To a chef of gods, such a task proved hardly a challenge. This was more of a typical Tuesday evening kind of ordeal. He went about his next adventure. There was the usual explosions, fireworks, volcanoes, and angry gods. The result – a magnificent cake, so utterly divine that it sparkled in the sunlight like a vampire from some B-rated movie. Atop of it sat a single, perfect, pristine strawberry, gleaming like a precious ruby stolen from a dragon’s lair, which, it was.

The dough of the cake was a fluffy biscuit-esque. And the core ingredient? Why of course it was his eggcellence. Literally. It was perhaps considered a crime, and plunged the Eggnation into utter chaos, may his yolk rest in peace. He proved not to be as hardshelled as the legends told – Miller found out that he cracked just fine with a light tap of a knife. He was brave though, noble, as one would expect of the King of Eggnation. And he made a wonderfully fluffy, and just perfectly moist dough.

The cake was delivered and Miller was free to do his biddings once more. Shortly after, the Bunny Bureau of Investigation received a distressed call from one of the citizens.

“Alright listen up! You are the finest bunnies in the bureau. The elite! And this case, the case we dubbed,” the chief bunny, with long droopy ears made a dramatic pause, and then, slammed his fist against the board where a name was written in big, bold letters.

‘THE CASE OF MISSING GIFT’ the unnecessarily overly bold and triple underlined text read. The chief’s voice was stern, akin to that of a pissed off drill sergeant.

“This case is of utmost importance! In this city, our shining jewel, our perfect little barrow of peace and quiet! Prosperity! Glory! Delicious snacks and juicy carrots, ohh those carrots, soft, sweet, crunchy, AHEM! No distractions.”

The chief cleared his throat, “Such a vile crime will not go unpunished. A gift had vanished, a perfect cake. We must find this criminal scum.”

He slammed his paw dramatically on the table, but it didn’t quite make an audible enough thud as his hand landed on a folder filled with paperwork. He paused, glared down at the folder as if it owed him lunch money, then pushed it aside with a single finger and slammed his paw down again, with an audible thud, “Dismissed!”

As all the bunny agents saluted and hastily departed the room, a single one remind behind. He was smaller than most others, easily got lost in the crowd. Neither his posture nor stature stood out in any way. There he stood, a carrot in his mouth, quiet nibbling sounds echoing through the now empty room.

“Dorkothy? May I help you?”

The bunny’s ears perked up. He glanced up from his carrot, squinted hard as if trying to spot some important details off on the horizon, like a watchman in crows nest, spotting for contacts, ready to shout, ‘land ahoy,’ but instead he shouted.

“DID I MISS SOMETHING?”

The chief facepalmed, or rather face-pawed, letting out a pained groan, “Ughhhh, did you hear anything I said?”

Dorkothy shoved the carrot back in his mouth, as if a mafia boss putting a cigar in his mouth, making that doubtful, deep-thinking face while taking a long huff.

“Uhmmm,” he said, staring intently at the board with the overly bold and underlined text, ‘THE CASE OF MISSING GIFT’.

‘Dorkothy,’ the chief thought to himself, ‘absolutely did not stand out in any way during his training. Failed his stealth exam by chewing too loudly, dubbed the Nibblesworth by his colleagues for that, the most underqualified agent we have, but a son of someone important, or something.’.

Then, as if by the snap of invisible, magic hands – Dorkothy’s expression changed. He spat the carrot out and pulled a detective hat out from somewhere, it wasn’t quite obvious where it came from, perhaps from his ear? Or a different dimension? The chief couldn’t quite make out, it happened so fast. Like a magician pulling a bunny out of a hat, but in this case, it was a bunny pulling a hat out of a, something.

“Aha! A case of a missing gift I take it? Worry not Chief, I got this,” Dorkothy replied with a confident smug, taking notes in his notepad. ‘Where did that come from?’ the chief wondered, but dared not inquire. Dorkothy spun around confidently, taking a firm step toward the exit, oblivious to the support beam that he walked into with an audible thud. A clank echoed through the silent room, reverberating like an echo in a cavern, emphasizing the pain of the moment further.

The Chief sighed, rubbing his temple, likely thinking about what life choices led him to being here, in this very moment, and why he was being punished in such ways. Dorkothy at last made his way out the building and found himself leaning on the street-snacks cart, nibbling on a carrot while pondering where to begin his investigation.

He was squinting intently at something. The snacks stall owner followed his gaze and found nothing of interest there, absolutely nothing. Dorkothy was staring at the empty skies with the focus of a predator on a hunt, and intensity of a detective interrogating a suspect.

A loud crunch escaped his mouth as he bit into the carrot, “Foxes,” he began.

“Don’t forget to pay,” the snacks stall owner said.

“No yes you’re right my side kick but, it has to be foxes. They’re sly, cheeky. They’re criminals! Well, some of them anyways,” Dorkothy proceeded.

“I don’t care, just don’t forget to pay,” the concerned owner replied. He was a raccoon, and he wasn’t having another bunny investigator running off without paying.

“RIGHT!”

Dorkothy exclaimed, then turned excitedly toward the owner, tossed his half eaten carrot over his shoulder into a bin conveniently labeled ‘organic recycling, not for suspicious evidence or bodies,’ shook the raccoon’s hand, and then darted off with the kind of urgency of someone who got stung in the ass by a bee.

“My money,” cried out the raccoon, “I’LL BILL YOUR DEPARTMENT!” he shouted after the bunny, “I LOVE MY APARTMENT TOO,” Dorkothy shouted back, mishearing him.

The city bustled around him, bunnies zooming around in haste, delivery personnel, storks flying about, wolves discussing predatory business tactics, ducks. Speaking of ducks. Dorkothy ducked into the nearest, darkest alley he could find. Rolling around the corner with an overly dramatic tactical roll, and a sharp piercing gaze of a super cop on a mission. His gaze swept the shadowy alley, and there he saw it, shadiness.

A fox, a couple even. Though one looked kind of stuffed, and not with food kind of stuffed but rather like a stuffed animal. On the corner, with a passage down into the underground, shrouded by the shadows and a mystery of their dodgy deal, there stood a fox in sunglasses, leaning against the wall. In front of him stood the stuffed looking fox. It was shorter in height, about half the other one’s height. Its head wobbled unnaturally during their exchange.

Dorkothy squinted very very hard, so hard in fact that he almost closed his eyes. His focused gaze was well focused on the shady exchange taking place. He ducked behind a garbage can, then picked up a random garbage bag out of the can and hiding behind it, he began to creep ever closer to the foxes. As he got within hearing range, he leaned against a door, conveniently labeled ‘Totally Not A Secret Society, knock three times to enter, knock twice if you’re a cop.’.

But he heeded it no attention. He peeked over the garbage bag behind which he was hiding to peer at the conversing, scheming, conniving foxes. One of them looked normal, and the stuffed one looked raggedy. It was hardly a fox, it looked more like a build a teddy bear workshop plushie. The ears were too floppy, and the head was too heavy, bobbing side to side like a bubblehead.

The fox, the real fox, at least one that looked real, spoke calmly, cool and smooth, like a criminal would. He also had an accent, a stereotypical, criminal accent.

“The package? You got it?”

The stuffed fox nodded enthusiastically, like an old, worn-out puppet.

“Yes, I, the fox delivery man, have the, ahem – I have ze package yes, for the Foxia boss.”

The real fox gazed up and down, “Say, why is your tail backwards? Are you that happy to see me?”

The obviously fake fox seemingly pondered for a moment, “It is? Of course it is! It’s the new fashion trend, get with the times.”

The real fox scratched behind his ears, “Ugh, I know you’re a fake, hand over the package. I can see your otterly cute eyes peering at me through the gap in the suit.”

The fake fox rummage in his pouch and produced a black box, handing it over, “Ace delivery is always on time,” the fake fox winked. The puppet’s eye never quite reopened.

Just as Dorkothy leaned in closer, a perfect balance of stealthy, well, minus his ears perking up from behind the garbage bag, and being exposed, the door to the ‘Totally Not A Secret Society’ swung open violently, slamming right into his fuzzy behind and sending him tumbling from behind his perfect cover.

With a prideful, yet pained ‘umph,’ Dorkothy landed on the dirty street like a tossed piece of half rotten salad. Floppy, ungraceful, and unwanted. A goose, with a bloodied knife clenched in its beak, glanced at the bunny, “Owh, shucks. My apologies, do pardon me,” he said as he casually tossed a rolled up rug that was oozing something red that Dorkothy could only hope was spilled wine, into a pile of garbage.

The goose then gracefully turned, looked at the foxes who were now staring at the sprawled bunny, then blinked lazily at the bunny, and went back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

Dorkothy could’ve sworn he heard the goose humming a familiar melody of ‘stab me baby one more time,’ as he waddled off, but that didn’t matter. What mattered were the piercing, predatory gazes of the shady foxes. The real fox even lowered his sunglasses, shaking his head ever so slightly at the sprawled out bunny that more resembled a pancake than a bunny currently. The other ‘fox’ wobbled his head side to side like a disappointed parent, or rather – a disappointed bubblehead.

“Thanks for ze package,” spoke the real fox as he tapped the box, “but it looks like this is my cue to leave. Cheers,” he said, darting down into the underground. Dorkothy groaned, peeling himself off the pavement, shaking the shock off himself as he leapt up to his feet like a super cop, ready to chase the suspect to the depths of hell, which he hoped wouldn’t be actual depths of hell.

The not-so-fox glanced to the side at the running away fox, then at the intent-driven police bunny who stood there for a moment, tensing up his muscles like a parathion sprinter, preparing to dash off. Like a drag racer warming up his tires and engine before launching. Ace could almost hear the count down, ‘Takeoff in T minus, 3…2…1…’ the bunny dashed forth like a bullet.

A rocket set on its course, and nothing would stand in its way.

“GIVE ME BACK THE CAKE,” Dorkothy shouted as he dashed past Ace, slamming into the ‘fox’ and knocking his head clean off. He used the fake fox’s body to propel himself down the passage leading to the underground.

It was, in fact, a street named ‘underground’ that was indeed underground. That’s where most nocturnal animals of this city lived, and contrary to the popular belief based on the stereotype associated with the name, it had nothing to do with criminal activity.

“MY DISGUISE,” Ace, the otter, shouted, as he leapt for his head that got knocked off him by the rushing bunny. Dorkothy ignored the distressed otter, he was set on a target and he wasn’t going to let it get away. He shot like a rocket down the gloomy staircase leading down into the darkness of the underground. The fox had long disappeared into the shadows. The passage almost reeked of death, it was a strange mixture of mold, stale air, and potential regret.

Once his paws landed on the cobblestone path of the Underground Street, he stopped, skidding slightly like a drifter at an event. His nose twitched and ears swiveled like satellite dishes on a radar, searching for their target. As if a war machine set on a ‘search and destroy’ mode. The street was gloomy and bustling with nocturnal life. Street vendors selling glow-in-the-dark fruits, owls hooting around and going about their business, cats, lots and lots of feline folk on this street.

The target however, the shady fox, did not get far. He was just a corner ahead. Dorkothy heard his hastened steps and the thudding of the box.

“Gotcha now,” he smirked, leaping forth with the grace of a tossed meatball. A moment later he caught up, another moment later they were both tumbling down into a pile of discarded flyers.

The fox blinked, shaking the shock off himself as he tried to reach for the box that was a few paces away, “Ugh, what the hell?”

The bunny leapt up, slipped past the box, fell over, got back up, stumbled over a random rock, almost fell on top of the box, then caught his balance and victoriously posed, with his paw planted firmly on the fox.

“Hah! Got you now, you criminal scum.”

Dorkothy picked up the box, an excited grin decorated his face. He could picture the scene of being celebrated at the HQ. Being hailed as the greatest detective. He could picture the Mayor giving him a heroic badge of honor. He smiled, his eyes glistening with excitement, anticipation, and it all faded like leaves off a tree in Autumn, carried away by a gust of wind that decided it was time for a cleanup, the moment he opened the box.

Inside the box was a.

“Happy Birthday, boss,” card, and a small statuette. A humble carving of a fox. He picked the statuette up carefully, with the caution and intensity of a bomb diffuser who was making a life-or-death decision while handling a finnicky, home made explosive device. The statuette had an engraving and was wearing cool sunglasses.

“Boss of Foxia,” the engraving read. He flipped the card open.

“To the boss. Happy birthday from your loyal minions. We love you boss.”

It had about a dozen signatures.

“WHAT THE HELL?” the bunny exclaimed, disappointed.

The fox got up at last, dusting himself off as he approached, “That’s what I want to ask you. Why are you chasing innocent citizens you idiot?”

He still spoke with the most stereotypical criminal accent, but his words were sincere.

“This is no shady smuggling package, it’s a gift.”

He grabbed the box and stood impatiently in front of the bunny, hand outstretched, waiting for the return of the goods.

“Give it back, boss is awaiting me.”

Dorkothy, bewildered, returned the card and the statuette with a humble bow after, and an apologetic smile, “Uh, happy birthday to him.”

He said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. And so our heroic bunny, after an epic pursuit of what he had hoped was a criminal, was now slowly strolling back to the base, preparing to report on absolutely nothing of interest.

He sulked back through the gloomy Underground street, dismissingly waving away any discount offers and pigeon suit wearing creatures trying to bait him into the shops. Up the stairs, and through the bustling, lively streets of his city. With a heavy sigh he pressed his paw against the door to the Bunny Bureau of Investigations HQ, pushing it open.

His gaze glued to the floor as he stepped in, expecting a rant, a shout from the chief, and preparing to give a lengthy report of his failure of investigations, but instead he heard snapping of confetti and a rejoiced shouted, “SURPRISE!”

Champagne bottles exploded like fireworks, spraying all present in a sticky, regretful rain.

“HAPPY ANNIVERSRY,” shouted the chief as he approached Dorkothy, patting him on the shoulder.

“What’s up bun? Cheer up! We’re here to congratulate you.”

His fellow agents swiftly swarmed around, surrounding him, attaching tiny little ‘anniversary’ caps onto his ears, like little hats made for his ears. The mayor raised a glass, smiling warmly. The boss of Foxia sat in the shadow shrouded corner, scheming something evil, probably.

“So, wait, huh?” Dorkothy gasped.

“What about the, missing, cake?” he glanced around nervously.

“Oh, you mean THIS cake?”

The chief grinned, stepping aside and gesturing toward the center table, at the center of which, like a sun, stood a cake. The rest of the room seemingly orbited around this glistening, shimmering, divine deliciousness, awaiting to take a bite off of it.

“Your cake, we were awaiting its delivery, but we had to get you out of the office somehow to prepare this.”

“You did all this for me?” Dorkothy sobbed, his eyes welling up.

“Of course, son,” spoke a rough, raspy voice from behind him. Dorkothy turned to see his father, a renowned rabbit wearing silky, royal clothes, a crown, and a scepter in his hand.

“Happy anniversary, kiddo.”