Gilda glided down to the street and landed easily, yet slightly unevenly, favoring her right arm. The toes and blunt talons of her right forefoot (or hand, as it were) curled into a fist, clutching a scrap of paper, which prevented her from putting much weight on the limb.
She sat back on her haunches and unconsciously swished her leonine tail as she looked around. Denizens of all species moved about the streets of Manehattan: ponies (of course!), donkeys, zebras, deer and antelope, griffins, and even some of the smaller and more civilized breeds of dragons. Here, though, on this particular street, the great majority were griffins and ponies — and many of those ponies were toting cameras, looking at pamphlets, or otherwise revealing themselves as tourists. They rubbernecked, gawking at the catnip parlors, the Fire Wings Temple, the theater, and the many shops with facades of exaggerated old griffin-ish architecture. Awkwardly tourists dodged the native griffins, who moved with speed and certainty, pushing carts or balancing bundles on their backs as they hurried about their business.
Gilda nodded. Griffintown, check! Where to now? She uncurled her talons and looked at the scrap of paper she’d been given. Then, getting her bearings, she sauntered down the street, still treading lightly upon her closed fist. Aromas of wood smoke and cooking food — including meat — wafted through the street, romancing her nares.
The instructions led her down a side street with less ostentatious buildings. After a short while she stopped, took one more look at the instructions she’d been given, then to the very plain white structure in front of her with a sign that read: LUPO’S MEATS. A few pieces of paper taped up in the window advertised prices of different cuts.
She pushed her way in through the door; a cowbell clanked overhead. The inside of the shop was no more fancy than the outside: a counter, a scale and cash register, a display case, and a sign written in large block letters:
THIS NO LIBARY
BUY OR GET OUT
“Friendly place…” Gilda muttered to herself. There was nobody at the counter, though. A noise from the back of the building sounded like a door slamming. She moved closer to the open doorway marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and listened. A strained grunt prompted her to peek, carefully, around the corner.
There she saw a stocky male griffin, with predominantly gray coloration, standing upright on his leonine hind legs and staggering while he lifted a large rack of ribs that completely obscured his face. He groaned as he staggered, wobbling to one side and then the other. Then he lurched forward and slammed the ribs down onto a butcher block, and Gilda got her first glimpse of his face: a chunky black beak and beady black eyes framed with salt-and-pepper patterned feathers.
Before she could say anything, he shook his head, fluffing out his feathers, and exclaimed loudly, “Sunnama-BEECH! Piece of scat job. I QUIT!” He belched, then grabbed a meat cleaver and waved it menacingly at the ribs. “Pluckin’ I dunno…” he muttered.
Then Lupo (or so Gilda assumed) placed his scaly hand on the meat to steady it, raised his cleaver, and chopped free a rib — which then bounced off the top of the butcher block and tumbled to the floor. He stared for a moment, beak hanging open, then leaned over and shouted at the rib that had dared defy his will: “PLUCK OFF YOU BUM I KILL YOU!”
Gilda sniggered, but she stayed back and watched while Lupo, still grumbling incoherently, picked up the rib and put it aside, then lifted his cleaver to cut again. Chop! Lupo’s eyes followed as the rib bounced off the block and onto the floor. “I don’t belieeeve…” Dropping the cleaver, he jumped back and jabbered at the rib, “Buncha the nerve… the caca…” He clutched at his apron with his talons and ripped it. He then made a rude gesture at the rib with a talon and tried to kick it with a hind foot. “Get outta… WAAAH!” His feline paw slipped and he tumbled backward onto the floor and landed with a whomp.
Gilda finally cracked up, laughing out loud. Lupo bounced back to his feet and his rage-filled eyes locked onto Gilda. “Hey! Watsa matta you? What you laughin’ at, chick?”
“Mmmmmph… Nothing!” She struggled to stifle her mirth, but the flexible corners of her beak remained locked into a grin.
Scowling, Lupo grabbed a rag and wiped his talons. “So… You wanna buy something or not?”
“What? No way, dude! I’m just lookin’ for a job.”
Now it was Lupo’s turn to laugh. “Ha! You kidding me? I got no job for you. Get outta here, you bum!”
Gilda glared back at him. “Oh yeah? Uncle Guido said you need an assistant. He said you’d hire me.”
“Guido’s your uncle? So, scat-for-brain thinks I can pay some chick to sit on her tail. Why not just cut open my veins and let the blood flow? Huh? Why didn’t Guido just come here and suck the marrow out of my bones while he’s at it, if that’s what he thinks?”
Gilda then opened up the scrap of paper and glanced at it. “He said… That I should remind you of that time in Las Pegasus. He said you’d know what that means.”
Lupo ground his beak, then muttered, “I don’t belieeve…” With talons clenched like a fist, he glanced around the room for a moment as if looking for an escape. Then he sighed and said, “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? What’s your name, chick?”
“Gilda.”
“Okay, okay… Gilda. You can work for me, but you see Guido you tell him we’re even. And if you mess up, you get outta here!”