Save the Tiger Novelization
screenplay by Steve Sustersic

TaleSpin and its characters are the property of Disney/Buena Vista Television and have been used without permission.

I decided to novelize this episode, because it is one of my all-time favorites. In other words, this is not an original story. Disney/Buena Vista Television own the copyrights. I took the liberty of adding a few scenes for flow purposes.

September 1937

A state-of-the-art plum and taupe airplane belonging to the richest man in Usland, Shere Khan - one could tell from the encircled ‘SK’ on the nose - cut through the clear azure skies over the Pacific Ocean. When the pilot increased the throttle, the starboard engine burst into flames.

“Engine number one is out, sir,” the grey panther pilot said over the intercom as one of the two co-pilots cut the fuel flow to that engine in an attempt to put out the fire.

Meanwhile, a few hundred feet below, the Sea Duck, an orange-trimmed yellow Conwing L-16 seaplane was cruising on its way to Cape Suzette with a load of cinnamon from the Far, Far East. Its pilot, a large grey bear named Baloo, lounged in the patched pilot’s seat. The plane was running on autopilot: a crowbar rested across the control yoke. In addition to sorely missing his navigator - twelve-year-old Kit Cloudkicker was in school - Baloo felt hotter than one of Louie’s fresh-out-of-the-oven pizzas. The broiling tropical sun turned the cockpit into a sauna. The hot wind blowing through the open windows did little but ruffle his fur and yellow, button-down shirt. Only a cold drink would hit the spot. Unfortunately, all he had was a case of room temperature strawberry soda - and no bottle opener.

“Aw, yuck. Warm soda pop,” the pilot grumbled to himself. “Why couldn’t she just buy me an icebox like I asked her?” The ‘she’ referred to his tight-fisted boss, Rebecca Cunningham.

Taking another bottle from the crate sitting on the navigator’s seat, he tried to open it using a small pry bar just above his head. He was rewarded with sticky pink liquid spewing in his face.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. The entire cockpit was sticky from his previous attempts to open a bottle. Sticky floor, sticky clothes, sticky console, even sticky control yoke.  The pile of empty bottles behind his seat and the frown on the big bear’s face attested to his repeated failures.

Rummaging through the glove box, he procured a blue handkerchief, which he used to wipe his face. “I mean, here I am on time an’ everythin’.”

In Khan’s plane, things were heating up. Literally. Without seeming provocation, the other engine caught on fire. The pilot announced over the intercom, “Things have gotten worse, sir. Engine number two’s out.”

Unaware of the plight of Khan’s plane, Baloo placed the handkerchief over the top of the bottle and twisted as hard as he could. The cap didn’t budge. Desperate, he banged the bottle against the control panel. More sticky soda everywhere. “Guy could die of thirst up here.” He tossed the empty bottle over his right shoulder in disgust.

“I can’t hold it, sir. We’re going down.” Khan’s plane began a sharp dive towards the blue ocean below, thick grey smoke billowing from its engines.

Finally, on the last bottle of soda, Baloo oh, so carefully lifted the cap, murmuring, “Easy does it, baby. Come to Papa,” and joyfully shouted, “Hallelujah!” as it came off in his hand without spraying all over.

But before one drop could touch his parched tongue, the Sea Duckjerked to port, causing soda to drench his face. Khan’s plane had grazed the wing. “Oh, no!” he spluttered, wiping soda from his face with the back of his hand. “Sunday flyer!”

“Mayday! Mayday!” shouted Khan’s pilot over the radio.

Baloo jammed his cap down over his head. “Don’t worry. Ol’ Baloo’ll save you.” He tossed both the empty bottle and ‘autopilot’ aside with a clatter.

Taking the control stick, he dove the seaplane, gauged the distance between Khan’s plane and the Sea Duck quickly, and propped up the other plane under the starboard wing, flashing a thumbs-up to Khan’s pilots. A small deserted island appeared through the cumulus clouds. He aimed for it. Upon landing, Khan’s nearly identical panther pilots immediately fell to repairing the engines.

Baloo rafted to shore, ready to offer his assistance or use of his tools. From the cargo hold of Khan’s aircraft, a door opened. A smallish tiger let down a folding stairway and brushed traces of dust from the three carpeted steps with a whisk broom. An imposing, barrel-chested tiger in an expensive navy three piece suit descended the stairs regally.

Catching sight of the well-known tiger businessman, Baloo hurried over to him, saying, “Hey, do you know who you are? You’re Khan!”

Shere Khan merely lifted an eyebrow. He was used to being revered by the poor people of the world. He’d seen this commoner before, but what was his name? It started with a ‘B’ and ended with an ‘oo’. A very odd name, indeed. “You saved my life, Mr. Buffaloo.”

“Uh, that’s Baloo,” the pilot corrected.

“Mmmm...yes.  I owe you everything.” He snapped his fingers and the yes-man opened a large platinum watch in front of Khan. “At this moment, Khan Industries is worth three point seven billion dollars.”

“My watch must be runnin’ a few thousand slow,” Baloo chuckled, holding up his own much smaller, tarnished pocket watch.

“You may have whatever you want. Simply name it.” Khan thought he was being exceptionally generous.

Baloo waved a dismissive paw. “Aw, you don’t owe me a thing.” He was just glad that he could help.

“Perhaps...but my motto is to always repay your debts and never break a deal.”

“Well, don’t want much,” Baloo considered, stroking his chin.

“Yes?”

Offhand, Baloo blurted out the thing that was foremost on his mind. “Maybe a refrigerator...”

“And?” Khan asked. A refrigerator seemed such a paltry item in exchange for his glorious life.

“I don’t know. Some sodas...an’ a bottle opener might be nice. I really can’t say.”

The small tiger toady named Owen wrote these items on a notepad. Per his employer’s instructions, he would order them and have them delivered.

“Take all the time you need. Drop by my office when you’ve decided.” Shere Khan ascended the stairs, turning around in the doorway of the cargo hold. “Only one stipulation: I’d like to keep our little arrangement a secret.” He flicked his menacing, sharp claws out. “I may be indebted, but I don’t want it known to everyone.”

Baloo watched as Owen folded the steps, pulled them back into the plane, and closed the door. “Man, now, there’s a guy who knows how to live!” he murmured to himself as he paddled the raft back to the Sea Duck. “Must be great to be rich an’ have everythin’ ya want with just a snap of the fingers.”

Higher for Hire
Thirty Minutes Later

The Sea Duck splashed down for a landing in the sparkling blue-green waters of the Cape Suzette harbor and taxied up to the dock. Kit, a small brown bear cub in an olive green sweater and red-billed blue baseball cap, ran down the dock to greet him. “Hi, Papa Bear! Good flight?”

Baloo fondly ruffled the boy’s hair, boasting, “Yep, an’ you’ll never guess in a million years who I ran into.”

“Who?” Kit asked as the duo strolled up the dock to an unpainted wooden building with an adjoining lighthouse-type structure reaching towards the cloud-dotted sky. The boy smiled. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was home.

Just in time, Baloo recalled his promise to Shere Khan to keep their arrangement a secret. “Uh...never mind. Tell ya later, L’il Britches.”

The two male bears stepped into the small, semi-messy office. The walls were unpainted; in fact, they weren’t even plastered. Wiring and pipes were visible. The furnishings were sparse: a patched maroon chair in one corner, a few mismatched rugs softened the glare of the bare hardwood floor, a few empty crates served as tables or chairs as needed, three filing cabinets under the stairwell, and a desk at the far end of the room. However, despite its shabbiness, the office had a certain homey quality, partly because of the mellow afternoon sunshine streaming in through two large windows, partly because the inhabitants cared for each other.

“There you are, Baloo! About time!” curtly remarked the owner of Higher for Hire. Rebecca Cunningham was a petite brown bearess in magenta sweater, white turtleneck, and purple slacks. Her six-year-old daughter Molly, a yellow cub in blue overalls and pink shirt, played with a doll on the floor beside her mother’s desk.

“Hey, Becky. Boy, if I could tell you what just happened to me,” Baloo chuckled, twirling his cap on one finger.

“No stories. Just tell me where that came from.” She pointed to a brilliant white, brand-new, top-of-the-line refrigerator sitting in one corner of the office.

“My icebox!” Baloo cried in surprise. He hadn’t actually expected to get a refrigerator. He opened it. It was filled with cold strawberry soda. A bottle opener lay on top of the refrigerator.

“Yours?” Rebecca queried suspiciously.

“Uh...I...I bought it,” answered Baloo uncertainly.

“With what?” Her pilot never had ten cents, let alone enough money to purchase a nice appliance like that.

“Uh, well, I...” Baloo squirmed under her shrewd, skeptical glare.

Molly to the rescue. She approached her mother and Baloo, dragging doll Lucy with her. “Did you find some money, Baloo? I found a quarter in the gutter once.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He popped the cap off a soda and sank into his favorite comfy maroon chair. “I found it in the, uh, gutter.”

“Which is probably where you were all day instead of delivering cargo,” Rebecca retorted sarcastically, arms folded across her chest.

“Hey, I was on time...before I got late.” He took a swig of soda.

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