and he knew that he could handle the farcical, melodramatic Spigot.

“Up, Dunder!” Spigot commanded.

Dunder lifted Spigot so that he could look into the Sea Duck’s window.

With a pronounced lisp, Spigot said, “I’m Colonel Spigot. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Sure, Spiggy, I’ve heard of ya. What’s up with the twenty-one gun salute?”

“We have orders from the High Marshall to search all of the vehicles coming in or going out of Thembria.” He flicked his riding crop in Baloo’s face. “Someone has been hijacking all of our Frigid-Air - the finest cold steam imported from the Geysers of Gesundheit located in Tundra City.”

“I think someone’s got steam comin’ outta his ears,” Baloo hissed in a rather loud aside to Kit, who stifled a wan snicker in the sleeve of his sweater.

As if it explained everything, Spigot mentioned, “Madam High Marshall loves to have a bowl of cold steam before retiring.”

“It settles her stomach,” Dunder added helpfully.

“Now that she can’t have it, the entire country is in an uproar!” Spigot said with a dramatic flourish of his riding crop. “Down, Dunder!”

Both bears looked out the window at the capital city. None of the warthog peasants listlessly standing the numerous interminable lines for food or emerging from the rows of identical houses seemed in the least concerned about missing cold steam.

Spigot ordered, “Get out of the plane while we inspect your cargoes!”

“Why would anyone steal cold steam?” Baloo mused as he and Kit hopped out of the Sea Duck.

“It’s a rare delicacy, because it’s hard to come by,” Spigot supplied; frantic irritation dripped from his voice. If he didn’t find that cold steam, he himself would be in front of a firing squad, squashed by a bathtub, or worse, be fed to polar bears.

“It’s just air. Don’t get so steamed ‘bout it, Spiggy.”

“Just air? Just air?” Spigot bristled in umbrage, drawing himself up to his full height; even so, he was still shorter than Kit.

“Well...yeah. You’ve got lotsa cold air just hangin’ ‘round in the air here in Thembria. Can’t ya just catch it,” Baloo made a motion as if he were capturing fireflies, “an’ bottle it up? No one’ll know the difference.”

Spigot fixed a cynical eye on Baloo. “I suppose next you’ll be saying that the Patriotic Flying Flounder is just a fish. It’s an insult to my glorious Mommyland! You’ll get the firing squad for that! Guards! Take them away!”

While they were being hauled away, each between two strong guards, Baloo wheedled, “C’mon, Spiggy, we’re only deliverin’ turnip peelers. Why doncha let us drop ‘em off - after we fill out all the correct forms, of course - an’ let us scoot outta here?”

Squinting, Spigot peered suspiciously up at Baloo. “You need to be locked up anyway, Baloo. Perhaps you’ve broken a law, and we don’t know about it. Better to be safe than sorry with dangerous criminals.”

“Look! We don’t have your steam.” Baloo did the Bear Scout salute. “Scout’s honor.”

Despite Baloo’s protests, the prison doors clanged behind them. Pilot and navigator were in a small cell, which was bare save for bunk beds in the corner of the room, a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and a Thembrian flag - a white semi-circle imposed on a black background - plastered across one wall.

“Aw, man!” Baloo tossed his cap to the floor in disgust and plopped down on the bottom, ancient-looking bunk. It nearly bowed down to the floor under his weight. “Becky’s gonna kill me if we’re late for her one o’clock pickup, an’ this time it ain’t my fault! But she won’t care. She’ll blast out my eardrums anyways. Cold steam? Who in their right mind eats cold steam? Where’s the nutritional value in that?”

Kit, sitting down beside the big bear, handed Baloo his cap. “This is Thembria after all, Papa Bear. Since it doesn’t make sense, it must be a sensible Thembrian law.”

Baloo cleaned out his ear with a finger. “Huh? Now yer talkin’ like them.”

“Sorry. It must be something in the air.”

Groaning, Baloo said, “Man, Kid, your jokes don’t get better with age.”

“What can I say, Papa Bear?” rejoined Kit with a big grin, lightly poking Baloo in the stomach with his elbow. “I learned from the best.”

Meanwhile at Pirate Island

Don Karnage strutted into the Iron Vulture’scockpit where Gibber, Will, and Ratchet were already assembled. “Are we all here? Good. I will check, double check, triple-decker check to make sure that everything goes as smooth as a baby kitten’s backside. The list, if I please, second mate Will.”

Will, a stocky, sandy-colored canine, drew out a list from his brown jacket and handed it to Karnage.

“Secret weapon loaded?”

“Loaded and ready,” answered Ratchet, the air pirates’ mechanic.

“Good. Doohickey planted on Sea Duck? That sneaky crook of a croc better have, or I’ll hunt him down and wring his scaly neck. Sea monster?”

Dumptruck and Mad Dog staggered into the cockpit; both were sopping wet and out of breath from their recent encounter with the sea monster.

“Der snakey is hooked up to the Iron Vulture and ready to roll, er...swim, Captain Karnage, sir,” said Dumptruck.

“Stupid snake.” Mad Dog wrung out his vest, leaving a puddle on the floor. “Why’d it have to thrash around so much? You’d think that it didn’t like being chained up.”

“Costume?”

Gibber whispered into Karnage’s ear.

“Excellamundo! All that is lacking is the bait. My personal personage will personally see to that.” He crammed the list into his pocket. His pleased smile turned into an impatient frown. “What are you all just standing here for? Get back to work!”

Thembria
Three Hours Later

By the time Spigot and Dunder returned, Kit was lounging on the top bunk while Baloo paced around the cramped cell, grumbling to himself under his breath. The big bear flew to the door and wrapped his fingers tightly around the bars. “Well? Well?” he asked in a tense, expectant manner.

Spigot, who had big-time short-man syndrome, said loftily, “I have good news and bad news, Baloo. The bad news is that we didn’t find the Frigid-Air in your aircraft.”

“I told ya that already,” Baloo said tersely. “What’s the good news, Colonel Nozzle?” He couldn’t help razzing Spigot about his unusual, and entirely forgettable, name. Call it payback for being wrongfully imprisoned for three hours.

“It’s Spigot! Colonel Spigot!” the short warthog screamed at the top of his lungs. It was the bane of his existence that no one, with the exception of Sergeant Dunder, remembered his name. “For the last time, it’s Spigot! Unfortunately, the good news is that you’re free to go. And it’s so sad, because I had my heart set on a nice firing squad execution. ‘This Was Your Life’ is my favorite radio show. I love the groveling, the weeping, the gnashing of teeth, the really big boom at the end.” Spigot giggled jubilantly. “It sends chills down my spine.”

“Mine, too,” Kit said, shivering from cold and from the idea of being before a firing squad consisting of full-sized panzers. He hopped down from the bunk.

Dunder unlocked the door, saying timidly, “No hard feelings, Baloo? We have to lock up everyone, even our friends.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Sergeant Dunder, we Thembrians have no friends!” Spigot lashed the sergeant across the knees with his riding crop. “We don’t need friends! We are above friends!”

“Sorry, sir,” Dunder apologized contritely. “It’s my fault that the steam is missing, sir?”

“Yes! That’s all your fault!”

“If you lock everyone up, it’s no wonder ya go no friends,” Baloo stated the obvious.

“Silence! Or I will throw you back in the clink for twenty years for insubordination to an officer of the People’s Glorious Air Force!”

“All right, we’re gettin’, we’re gettin’, Colonel Faucet.”

Kit and Baloo heard the short colonel’s voice echoing shrilly, “It’s Spigot!” through the hallways as they made their hasty retreat.

Meanwhile on the Iron Vulture
Don Karnage’s Bedroom

Turning this way and that, Don Karnage admired himself in the full-length mirror. He sported a full-body sheep costume, minus the head, which looked fairly believable, though hokey. Over the costume was a brown three-piece suit.

“Ha! Ha! I am now the handsome wolf in sheep’s clothes, yes-no? Every little teensy-tiny piece is coming into place just like the jiggity sawhorse puzzle. I only need one more thing to begin to set my genius plan into action.”

Gibber, who was holding up a small hand mirror so that the captain could see his backside, muttered a hasty comment into Karnage’s ear.

“Yes...I would like that, but none of the painter-type peoples can capture the gloriousness that is Don Karnage, scourge of the Seven Seas and beyond!” Karnage admired himself in the mirror once more. “I meant the last thing I need before we can take over Cape Suzette.”

“What’s that, Captain?” Mad Dog whined.

“Something to lure Bahloo into my trap.”

“Cheese?” Dumptruck ventured.

“Not cheese, you eediot!” Karnage snatched Dumptruck’s top hat from his head and smacked him across the face with it. “That’s for mouses. I am after something much bigger, so I need the bigger bait. With this disguise, I will trickity-trick one of Bahloo’s friends into coming with me back to the Iron Vulture. That will insurance that Bahloo will follow me like the Pied Pickle Piper-man into my brilliant trap.”

“How are you going to do that, Captain?” Mad Dog whined. “Kit Cloudkicker is a smart boy.”

“I am not going after that smart-alecky juvenile delinquitiwink,” Karnage growled, placing the sheep’s head over his own - putting it on