//------------------------------// // Eleven Moose // Story: The Great Moose Census of 1001 // by shortskirtsandexplosions //------------------------------// "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your moose unto me for the hooves of the unworthy must be baptized in syrup and smeared." Deep in the forest, far away from dense equine civilization, several dozen antler'd bodies huddled together in the dim interior of an abandoned temple. Rustic pews and altars stood around them while the dense group gathered in a loose circle, within the center of which was the effigy of a mint green unicorn covered in viscous brown fluids smelling of maple and cinnamon. Eerie crimson candles lit the scene while the dozens of creatures in attendance bowed their heads and continued their warbling mantra. "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your moose unto me for the hooves of the unworthy must be baptized in syrup and smeared. Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your moose unto me for the hooves of the unworthy must be baptized in syrup and smeared. Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your moose unto me for the hooves of the unworthy must be baptized in syrup and smeared. Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your moose unto me for the hooves of the unworthy must be baptized in syrup and smeared." Then, from the back, in a raspy feminine voice: “Ah-ah-ahem...” An equine figure trotted in, wearing a thick trenchcoat and leaning on an umbrella like it was a cane. “If you're all quite done, I'd kindly like a word with you.” Every moose looked up, nostrils flaring in indignance. “Keep it down there, hoser!” one spat. “No sense in turning this here summoning spell thingy into a kerfuffle, so why don'tcha go run a message somewhere else?” “Yah, and grab a two-four while you're at it!” “Ha ha ha ha!” Sweetie Drops glared back, blue eyes glinting. Then, with calmly trotting steps, she shuffled back to the temple entrance and shut the huge doors tight. Thuddd! Every moose blinked, then stood up one by one. “'Ey!” One trotted towards her, frowning. “Whadda'yat?” “Manners...” Sweetie Drops spoke, shutting one bolt. Schlunk! “Maketh...” She shut another. Sch-Schlunk! “Mare...” She fastened the last lever tight. Chting! With a hard glare, she looked over her shoulder. “Do you know what that means?” “No.” The closest moose began grinding his hoof against the temple floor. “But I'm gonna thrash ya all the same, don'tcha know?” Sweetie Drops calmly smiled to the shadows. “Then let me teach you a lesson.” Using the hook of her umbrella, she grabbed a nearby water basin and flung it—flipping—straight into the moose's forehead. CLANG! “Augh!” He fell back, his large girth smashing through several pews at once. The rest of the Capreoline crowd gawked in surprise. With a shrug, Sweetie Drops removed her trenchcoat, revealing a vast array of clipboards, abacuses, and pencils strapped tightly to her body. She twirled about, teeth gritting. “Are we gonna stand around here all day?” Her brow furrowed. “Or are we going to count?” The moose exchanged glances, then stampeded towards her all at once. The entire temple shook from hundreds upon hundreds of hooves. Sweetie Drops stood her place. She was more than ready. When the first moose came and swung his hoof, she dodge, ducked under his legs, then bucked him hard in the belly. As he staggered, she twirled out from underneath the creature and slammed her elbow hard into the back of his neck, shouting “Forty-Five Moose!.” Another came barreling in. She juked aside, dodged his antler swings, unholstered two clipboards, then dual-wielded the things, locking them with his horns and anchoring his skull in place. Then—grunting—she bicycle kicked backwards, uppercutting his skull with her rear legs (“Forty-Six Moose!”). Two more charged in, and she ducked low, swinging both clipboards at their skulls and grounding them before they came within spitting distance (“Forty-Eight Moose!”). A creature grabbed her from behind. She squirmed, struggled, then shook two pencils free from her belt. Using her lower legs, she kicked and stabbed both pencils flesh-deep into his bleeding fetlocks. He yelped and backed up—giving her room to buck him up the chin so that he plowed into two other moose, forcing the trio to collapse into a cold heap (“Fifty-One Moose!”). A pair came at her from opposite sides, screaming. She jumped straight up, grabbed a chandelier, and waited for the two to lock horns before slicing the chandelier from its support and slamming the whole thing down onto their skulls, grounding them (“Fifty-Three Moose!”). Out of nowhere, a hockey stick whizzed by, its hooked end slicing at her skull. She ducked it, unsheathed an abacus, then deflected the next two swings. She bucked off an attacker coming from the rear, jumped the next swing of the forward attacker's stick, then thrust her abacus forward so that the hooked end got stuck between the beads. Twisting her grip of the calculator, she yanked the hockey stick out of the one moose's grip with a sickening SNAP to his hooves—(“Augggh!”)—then swung it so that the handle knocked his teeth in (“Fifty-Four Moose!”). Less than a second later, she bent backwards, swinging the stick over her body to trip the rear attacker before he could approach her flank again. He went sailing through a collapsing pew (“Fifty-Five Moose!”) while two more came charging in. Sweetie Drops somersaulted backwards, re-gripped the hockey stick by the handle, then swung it savagely so that the abacus flew off the end and slammed into one charger's skull. The beads spilled all over the floor, tripping his partner and two other Capreoline miscreants (“Fifty-Eight Moose!”). Four moose came charging this time, antlers first. Sweetie Drops broke the hockey stick over her knee— (“Grggh!”)—SNAP!—and twirled both shattered ends in opposite hooves. Backing down the temple full of bodies, she deflected all four sets of antlers, filling the air with flying sparks. When at last she reached the effigy of Lyra, she scooped the bulk of the doll under one hoof and flung it forward so that the fake horn sunk bloodily into one moose's chest—(“OWWW!”)—and the took the staggering opportunity to spin around and launch both halves of the hockey stick up high. This forced the four moose to duck, and Sweetie Drops made a quick end to them with mercilessly flung clipboards—Th-Th-Th-Thack (“Sixty-Two Moose!”)! The rest of the crowd came charging, screaming. Sweetie Drops backflipped over a podium, grabbed the rest of her clipboards, assembled them together with mechanical finesse, and—in the end—she cocked a fully-loaded pencil gun, aimed over the structure, and let loose on the incoming wall of moose meet. RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! One by one, the pained creatures fell to the temple floor, their chests bleeding profusely from a merciless barrage of graphite. (“Sixty-Three Moose! Sixty-Four Moose! Sixty-Five Moose! Sixty-Six Moose! Sixty-Seven Moose! Sixty-Eight Moose! Sixty-Nine Moose!”) One managed to make it through, smashing the podium to bits with his antlers. Sweetie Drops slid underneath him, firing a barrage of pencils into his fuzzy belly. (“Seventy Moose!”) When she emerged beyond his collapsing figure, a pair of bulls were slamming their hooves down over her. She dodged with twisting motions of her sweaty equine body, locked hooves with one, then slammed the fetlock out from underneath the other with the empty pencil gun—WHACK (“Seventy-One Moose!”) Immediately afterwards, she somersaulted beneath the first moose, came out from behind him, grabbed a summoning candle from the floor, lifted his tail, and shoved the burning part where the sun didn't shine. (“AAAAAAAAUGH!”) The creature galloped in pained circles before leaping wildly out the nearest window with a shower of glass (“Seventy-Two Mo—!”). Sweetie Drops was barely done counting out loud when she had to duck the massive swing of a metal candle-stick holder from another Capreoline attacker. She backed up right into the strong grip of two other moose. Struggling, she ducked in time for the next swing of the pole to slam across the muzzles of her two wrestling opponents instead (“Seventy-Four Moose!”). At the end of her next roll, she galloped straight up the wall, backflipped, and flew straight over the moose with the candle-stick holder. The bull turned around stupidly. Meanwhile, Sweetie Drops landed on the far end of a pew, causing the other end to fly up and savagely uppercut the bludgeoner (“Seventy-Five Moose!”). More creatures sprung for her, but she jumped forward, grasped the candle-stick holder in both hooves, and spun it around like a bo-staff. Grunting and snarling, she slammed hooves in, bent limbs backwards, then knocked several skulls senseless (“Seventy-Eight... Eighty-Two... Eight-Six!”). The remaining mass of moose closed in from all sides. Holding her breath, Sweetie Drops stuck one end of the candle-stick holder into the ground then spun in a violent circle, rapidly kicking and propelling herself off every skull, antler, and muzzle that came within reach—WHAP!-WHAP!-WHAP!-WHAP!-WHAP!-WHAP!-WHAP!—until she was a veritable blur (“Grrrrr-raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!”). At last, she twirled up the top of the pole, flipped off, and went plunging with a massive downswing that sent the last moose toppling backwards, pinballing off a wall, and smashing straight through a baptismal fountain. CRASSSSH! Sweetie Drops struck a pose with the metal pole, heaving, sweating. She looked all around, seeing a temple strewn all over with groaning, squirming moose bodies. At last, after her hyperventilation had calmed down, she dropped the metal bludgeon like a bad habit. Clanggggg! The metallic reverberation hadn't settled yet by the time she swept up a partially crumpled clipboard, straightened the sheet on the top, and plucked an errant pencil-half from a pew. Licking the graphite edge, she made several dozen hash-marks, punctuating it with a dark, dark dot. “Ninety-Nine Moose.” Clakk! She dropped the pencil with finality, picked up her umbrella, then shuffled out the temple without another word. Outside, beyond a line of trees, Lyra huddled behind a parked wagon, shivering. She heard the crunch of Sweetie Drops' hooves against the grass and leaves. With a gasp, she took a peek, then exhaled with relief at the sight of her best friend. “Bon Bon! You're back!” She rushed over to the mare, panting. “Is it over? Have you counted every mmfmfrrmmfmmfff?!” Her eyes bulged. Sweetie Drops' muzzle was deeply clamped over the unicorn's. After a full minute of sweaty tongue-locking, she leaned back with a smack! “No time to waste. My work here is done. We're fleeing to Mexicolt.” “What...?!” Lyra stammered, draped limply in her grip, seeing stars. “Mex... M-Mexicolt?” “... … ...okay, we're finding a motel, making love like dolphins at Carnival, and then we're going to Mexicolt.” “But... but...” Lyra cooed, being dragged along after the secret agent. “The Moose Census! Is... is it really over?” “I'm not taking any chances,” Sweetie Drops grumbled, hitching herself up to the wagon. “I've done my duty for Princess and Country. What's left of it. We're getting out of here and starting a new life.” She motioned. “Now get in the damn wagon.” Lyra did so, shivering. “But... but Bon Bon.” She gulped. “What... wh-what if that wasn't all of them that needs to be counted?” “Heh...” Sweetie Drops smiled wickedly, pulling the wagon onto the Manesotan Freeway beyond the woods. “I've seen it all, Lyra. I mean... honestly... how much worse could it get?”