Sir Huffington III has a minion!

Corporal Fancypants the Chicklet Puff

premade profile by Chen

Every duck has its day...

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"What do you mean admission is exclusive to humans?" The little mallarchy's jaw had dropped, a sight unbefitting of a self-proclaimed descendant of royalty.

The smaller of the two creatures wrung his wings, clearly in a panic. "That's what I've heard said, Sir Huff."

"Corporal Fancypants," exclaimed Sir Huffington in what would have been a roar could a mallarchy have roared. Instead it sounded something more akin to a pipsqueak. "I trusted I would not have to touch upon this subject again, but you have proven me wrong, Corporal. You have proven me wrong."

The mallarchy paused in his harangue and began to pace to and fro for a moment as he occasionally snuck side glances at Corporal Fancypants. He could see that the loaded silence was doing nothing to ease the Corporal's nerves. Good, thought Sir Huffington, Let him quiver in his boots. Well, not boots. We Animals do not wear boots. Too impractical.

"You are to address me as Sir Huffington III and Sir Huffington III only. Under no circumstances are you to address me as Sir Huff. I come from a long line of proud Sirs, Corporal Fancypants, who would balk at the idea of being addressed in such a half-hearted manner. And are we half-hearted, Corporal Fancypants?"

"No, sir, we are not half-hearted, sir," came the quavering reply followed by a feathery salute.

"I should think not, Corporal, I should think not."

In all actuality, Sir Huffington III was not really a Sir at all. Instead he was plain old Milton Mallarchy, son of Melba and Maxwell. But in Milton's reality -- which is to say, no reality to speak of -- he was Sir Huffington III, descendent of kings, progeny of power. He would show the world what he was made of or die trying. Well, maybe not die, as such. But he would surely put all he had into proving himself a force to be reckoned with. A very feathery, slightly ridiculous force with webbed feet and a second-hand monocle.

Sir Huffington puffed a breath of hot air onto his monocle and buffered it against his feathers. He viewed all monocles as esteemed symbols of good breeding. Why, all the gentlemen had one. Holding his prized monocle to the light, he sighed and said, half to himself, "Such a lovely monocle. A treasured family heirloom passed down from my great-great-great grandfather Sir Macmillan, Esquire. Look how it shines in the light."

Corporal Fancypants could not see what the big fuss was all about. Sir Huffington didn't even need a monocle. If you asked him, the whole affair was a bit silly. But no one ever asked Corporal Fancypants, so he was in no danger of having his opinion revealed. In fact, the Corporal collected opinions, storing them in his brain for future reference. Someone had to do it.

Sir Huffington cleared his throat and resumed discussion. "Exclusive to humans, eh?" His beak began to turn upward in resemblance of a small smirk. "Then mark my words, Corporal. This will no longer be an era of discrimination, for this will be the year when we Animals dance freely at the Atebus Masquerade. We shall not take 'no' for an answer."

The mallarchy began to gather up a faux-gilded mask from the top drawer of his bureau desk and tucked a cane underneath his wing as he waddled off with Corporal Fancypants in tow.

"Come, Corporal. It is time to dance."

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