watched the plane become a smaller and smaller blue dot against the grey sky, feelings of helplessness and hopelessness crushed his spirit like a ton of bricks. “Swell.  Stuck without my Duck. What else can go wrong?”

 

A voice behind him yelled, “Freeze!”

 

“I had to ask,” Baloo muttered as he put his hands up.

 

End of part 1

 

All’s Bear in Love and War
Part 2

 

Outside A Thembrian Warehouse

 

Dunder’s rifle trembled almost as much as his voice as he commanded, “Turn around slowly, you trespassing trespasser.” When he saw who his prisoner was, he immediately shouldered his weapon. “Mr. Baloo?”

 

“Dunder, ol’ pal!”  Baloo exclaimed in relief, lowering his arms. “Man, am I glad to see you. For minute there, I thought I was in hot water.”

 

“Only the High Marshall has hot water. His hot water heater is behind the Iron Curtain.”  Sergeant Dunder pointed through the open warehouse door to the curtain of iron rings.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Dunder shrugged. “I filed the paperwork for it.” 

 

“Listen, Dundee, I think it’s missin’ this doohickey.”  Baloo showed him the little temperature control knob. “If we don’t put it back pronto, I’m bettin’ more people than me will be in hot water.”

 

Meanwhile...
The High Marshall’s Bathroom

 

The High Marshall, who was soaking in his steaming hot bath, sighed the sigh of the extremely exasperated. “I need a lock on that door.  What are you doing here, Nozzle?”

 

“Spigot, O Mighty Mucky-Muck,” the diminutive colonel corrected with a deferential bow. “Spigot.”

 

“Yah, yah, yah.”  Thembria’s behemoth leader emphasized each ‘yah’ with a quack from his rubber duck.  “I thought I told you never to interrupt me when I’m taking a bath.”  He leaned forward so his assistant could scrub his back with a brush.

 

Col. Spigot spun around to discreetly face the door. “But, sir, this is important! Tomorrow, we will be at war with Usland.  We need to discuss battle strategies.”

 

“The only thing I’m interested in is having you shot.”  From under heavily lidded eyes, the High Marshall cast a baleful look at the back of Spigot’s head.

 

“Ple-e-ease, sir!  Not before we discuss strategies.”

 

“All right,” the High Marshall grunted. “Keep it short.”

 

Quack, said the rubber duck, derisively.

 

“The way I see it, we should attack the Uslandian military from all directions. Completely surround them, especially in the air, of which I, as Head of the Glorious People’s Air Force, will be personally in charge.  As a matter of fact, we can use my secret weapon: Hanging a Spigot.  Those Uslandian swine will be left in the cold!”

 

Suddenly, the hot water coming out of the tap turned cold and in a matter of seconds the High Marshall became a warthog ice cube in his own bathtub.

 

“Spigot!” the High Marshall shouted, trying to wrench himself out of the bathtub with hands that were bluer than normal. “My water is cold!  Do you know what this means?”

 

Peeking over his shoulder, Spigot said shakily, “It-it turned to ice, s-sir?” He would have been furious at Sgt. Dunder for deserting his post if he wasn’t so afraid for his own life. 

 

“No, it means I will have to go to all the trouble of having you shot.” 

 

As if this was an ordinary, everyday occurrence, the High Marshall’s assistant leisurely traded the back brush for an ice pick and began chipping at the ice.

 

Over the steady blows of the ice pick, Spigot pleaded, “But your High Marshall-ness, who will run the Air Force if you have me shot?”

 

“Hmm...Boris, my nephew.”

 

“But he doesn’t know how to fly!” Spigot pointed out desperately.

 

The High Marshall roughly grabbed the ice pick from his assistant and tossed it aside. He was getting annoyed with the ice chips pelting his face. “Anyone can fly better than you, Schnozzle.”

 

Unexpectedly, the pipes popped and cracked to life. Hot water spewed out of the tap, the bathtub thawed, and so did the High Marshall’s temper.

 

“All right, Nozzle.  I won’t shoot you today.”

 

“Thank you!  Oh, thank you, your High Marshall-ness.” Spigot picked up a towel from a nearby chair and wiped the cold sweat off his brow. He hadn’t been so close to being executed since he had lost the Golden Sprocket of Friendship.

 

“But I might have you flogged for using my towel.”

 

Spigot put the towel down reverently and fled from the room as if his life depended on it – which it did.

 

Back at the Thembrian Warehouse

 

Baloo blew out the match he had used to relight the water heater’s pilot light. “That oughta do it, Dundee.  But there’s one thing I don’t get.  Why have a hot water heater big enough to supply the whole city when only the High Marshall  uses it?”

 

“Only enough pipes to route it to the High Marshall’s bathroom,” Dunder replied matter-of-factly. “I wish there was something I could do to thank you from keeping Col. Spigot and me from getting shot.”

 

“How’s ‘bout keepin’ me from getting shot?”

 

A Couple of Hours Later…
Outside the Water Heater Warehouse

 

Baloo, standing in a cone of light emanating from the fixture above the warehouse door, flipped through the official papers that declared him to be a Glorious Thembrian citizen. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he had asked Dunder to save him from being shot, but when the sergeant had pointed out that it was the only way, he had reluctantly agreed.

 

“You know, Mr. Baloo, you’re the first immigrant we’ve ever had in Thembria.”

 

“And I’m probably the last,” Baloo muttered as he carefully stowed the papers in his pocket.

 

“I’ve enrolled you in the Glorious People’s Air Force. We can always use a great pilot like you, especially with the war starting tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, yeah, the war,” the big bear echoed hollowly.  

 

“But for now, you can help me with guard duty.”  Sgt. Dunder handed him a rifle.

 

“Swell.” Baloo looked at the gun with distaste.  He tugged at the collar of the itchy woolen uniform that Dunder had lent him, slumped against the warehouse, and peered through the gathering gloom at the city.  The prospect wasn’t pretty - poverty and persecution in perpetuity.  It was evident from the rows of dilapidated houses to the defeated-looking people queued in front of the State-owned store to the many military men milling around. Even the large snowflakes that were softly falling failed to cover the bleakness.

 

As Baloo stood there, it slowly sank in. He had escaped the shackles of family, but, surprisingly, he didn’t have fun or freedom in return.  He didn’t even have his Sea Duck to fly. He shivered, not necessarily from the cold.  Now, he almost wished that he had just let them shoot him.

 

The big bear jumped when a city-wide alarm went off.

 

“What was that?”

 

“First shift dinner break for military personnel.”  Dunder pulled a paper sack from his pocket. “I’ll share my roast turnips with you.”

 

“Say, that’s real swell of ya, Dundee.”  Baloo grateful smile faded when he accepted the turnip.  “They’re cold.  Ice cold.”   He thumped it against the metal warehouse wall.  It clanged loudly.

 

“Not if you hold them under your armpit for a while.”

 

“You can have mine. I ain’t hungry anyway,” Baloo said dolefully.

 

Dunder carefully looked around. Seeing that no one but Baloo was within earshot, he took a small radio out of his pocket and began turning the knobs. “If the atmosphere is just right, we should be able to get K-CAPE.  But don’t tell anyone, especially Col. Spigot.  He’ll have me shot...or worse.”

 

A gruff, bored voice pushed its way through the radio’s static: “...Sunday - cold, cloudy, chance of snow.  Monday - cold, cloudy, chance of snow.  Tuesday...”

 

“... the latest mass trials were a huge success,” a second announcer said briskly. “There will be fewer but better Thembrians...”

 

“...on This Was Your Life,” said the game show host cheerfully, “a jaywalker will be tried to the fullest extent of the law and then shot...”

 

A voice, akin to the weatherman droned: “...in 17 hours 12 minutes and 37 seconds.  The High Marshall will declare war on Usland in 17 hours 12 minutes and 35 seconds.  The High Marshall will declare war on

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