Remnants of Old Montreal. Part V

(www.bears.co.nz)

Mr. Skirts stepped outside and noticed the same vagrant, holding the same sign, sitting on the stoop. He looked up, and this time didn’t see the clouds, didn’t feel overwhelmed by the unknown quality of the moving sky. This time Mr. Skirts saw his answer. He rushed back into the office building and began researching a train of thought that he knew would culminate in the solution of his task.

That same day Mr. Skirts lost his teddy-bear, his only friend. Men with square chins and dark suits entered the office at 7:04 p.m. Peanut was in his favourite place, on the windowsill, contemplating sunsets and tall buildings. The leader of the men put a gun to his fluffy little head while another cuffed his paws. He was led away as the sun disappeared behind thick grey walls. Mr. Skirts entered the office as the men were pushing Peanut through the door.

“You’ve been harbouring a terrorist suspect, Mr. Skirts. Were you aware of this?”

“He’s just a cuddly teddy-bear.”

“We’ve been monitoring Peanut for some time now, Mr. Skirts. You too in fact. Your little friend had some big explosions on his mind. He’d made some unsavoury contacts in the last few months. Some of them were French.”

“I was unaware.”

Peanut felt somehow betrayed, by Mr. Skirts and his vision of the world, by the night, by the last ten years. He cursed his paws for being so soft and clumsy, impossible to wire explosives with. If only he could have shown them his art, he thought.

Peanut refused to go quietly. He struggled, kicked, cursed.

“Sick little fucko, here’s a taste of what’s to come.” The man in charge struck Peanut with the butt of his gun. Before leaving, the last of the agents turned harsh eyes on Mr. Skirts. “Don’t leave town, boyo. We may have some questions.”

They continued kicking and smacking Peanut on their way to the elevator. The walls echoed malice all the way down the hall.

“Mais-la! Non! Arrete-toi! ...”

A teddy-bear sounds human if it's in enough pain, thought Mr. Skirts.

Mr. Skirts sat back down at his desk. He began to type his letter of proposal to the mayor, hoping that logical answers would somehow remove the taste of torture and lost friendship. It’s his own damn fault, he reasoned. He sat at his desk the remainder of the night. There was a half moon and two stars in the sky. One was faint and imperfect.