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Watermelon Snow
By : pronker
Category: +M through R > Penguins of Madagascar
Views: 2672 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: I make no profit from this fanfiction using the Penguins of Madagascar characters owned by Dreamworks. -
Chapter List
- 1-Watermelon Snow
- 2-2/50
- 3-3/50
- 4-4/50
- 5-5/50
- 6-6/50
- 7-7/50
- 8-8/50
- 9-9/50
- 10-10/50
- 11-11/50
- 12-12/50
- 13-13/50
- 14-14/50
- 15-15/50
- 16-16/50
- 17-17/50
- 18-18/50
- 19-19/50
- 20-20/50
- 21-21/50
- 22-22/50
- 23-23/50
- 24-24/50
- 25-17-18/50 SLASH INTERLUDE BETWEEN CH. 17 AND 18. AU ON 'WATERMELON SNOW'
- 26-24A/50 SLASH VERSION OF CH. 24 FOR KICKS AND GIGGLES *** AU ***
- 27-25/50
- 28-26/50
- 29-27/50
- 30-28/50
- 31-29/50
- 32-30/50
- 33-31/50
- 34-32/50
- 35-33/50
- 36-34/50
- 37-35/50
- 38-36/50
- 39-37/50
- 40-38/50
- 41-39/50
- 42-40/50
- 43-41/50
- 44-42/50
- 45-43/50
- 46-44/50
- 47-45/50
- 48-46/50
- 49-47/50
- 50-48/50
- 51-49/50
- 52-50/51
- 53-51/51
For the crowd's entertainment on a sunny Monday afternoon, Rico decided that Åland was remote enough from their Central Park Zoo friends to employ the Bavarian slap dance routine that the North Wind had forced them to learn to distract minions of Dave The Octopus. Private had been a terrified prisoner at the time, but proved an apt dance pupil because he said the whole blinkin' Dave experience ought to come to some use and Skipper agreed. The commander and Kowalski improvised playing a pump organ as they tootled penguin equivalent sounds in all octaves. Kowalski did the deep bending required for the play while Skipper stayed upright to imitate pulling out stops along with appropriate keyboard flourishes.
Rico worked with Private to incorporate the thrilling jetpack hijinks of the episode's aftermath into the routine. After slapping Private's rump a final wallop for the dance, he thrust one flipper between his legs and hoisted him in a fireman's carry. He twirled and jumped while they both made very rude sounds to imitate the jetpack's engine. From the squeals of the crowd, the performance was a hit. Except for Skipper who settled down on the sunny bank of their moat, the team finished with spontaneous coordinated dives. Kowalski got out after a minute to pass along their new intel to Imelda.
IOIOIOIOIO
"Per, such much silliness!"
"Ja, Mummy! I hope our king sees this!"
"We come tomorrow and discover!"
One team of reporters stood by themselves far from the biggest gathering of techs and vendors prepping for the Lutfisk Festival's royal visit. Dozens of workers passed around them and even between them, but they swayed back together in a heartbeat and anyone could discern they were partners of long standing.
Bonnie Chang didn't know whether to scowl or wind her watch. "I had plans for the next few days. You finagled this assignment of ours, didn't you, Chuck." It wasn't a question.
"I told you I had connections." Newscaster Chuck Charles of Channel 1 New York City didn't dare run a hand through his coiffure. Styling product might be scarce up here in the Finnish or Swedish or whatever they were wilds. As much as he feared unicorns, he loved penguins, however, and had been delighted to pluck such a prestigious plum project from platitudinous presidents of networks. "Look, Bonnie! What does that remind you of?"
Bonnie's jeans were too tight to bend over far. "In the water? Where the two penguins are floating on their backs?"
"One looks sleepy. It's the littlest."
"What's the moulting one doing running back and forth on the bank? It sounds like it's honking out commands to the plump one swimming next to the littlest one. Why doesn't it come into the water?"
Bonnie put on her authoritative voice. "It can't until the new feathers come in completely. It could get sick from a chill. Now what's the plump one doing?"
Chuck leaned closer to the action aquatic. "It's using its flipper to guide the sleepy little one so it doesn't smack into the coaming around the drainage grate. Awwwww." He placed his hand over Bonnie's on the habitat railing. "That's sweet."
An unladylike belly laugh erupted from Bonnie and she jerked both hands up to cover her mouth. "Haw haw haw snort, no it's not! The plump one slapped the little one to wake it up!"
"Here comes the tall one waddling up to the beach. It's pushing the aquaphobic one onto its fluffy little butt! It's braying fit to beat the band."
"I recognize that one. It's the penguin who gets tattoos." Chuck pulled his turtleneck up higher in the stiff breeze.
"You and your delusions, Chuck." Bonnie pointed a perfectly manicured index finger. "Now the two are beaching themselves and the moulting one is belting all three of them."
"What did the tall one do?"
Bonnie leaned away from her co-anchor. "Probably talked too much. Come on, let's see the polar bears."
IOIOIOIOIO
The little penguins spread a twilight picnic on their habitat's beach for their evening meal. Water gurgled through the drainage grate of the moat, but the sound was a bajillion times more pleasant than the obnoxious plumbing noises of Roger's former domain. They sat in a row and were wise enough to take pleasure in the breezy but cloud-free day as the sun threw a last party for them before the night's shadows brought a round of duty. Even with Åland's unexpected complexities, there was time for camaraderie.
"Smashin' routine, Rico. I had fun."
Rico slapped Private's tail feathers one more time for good measure. "Ganz recht."
"Ha ha ... ha. I think." Private matched the blank stare of the final mackerel he was about to wolf down before he slurped it away. "So, wot's lutfisk?"
Kowalski waved his last bit of herring like a pointer as he assumed a mock professorial tone. "You'll grow big boy feathers, Private, when you sample lutfisk. Lutfisk is dried whitefish soaked in water for five days and then marinated another two in water and lye. It swells, the protein leaches right out of it and it tastes like soap if not soaked another five days in water. It's a monstrous mess of mucilaginous mush when served to the brave."
Skipper made a face. "It tastes worse than one of Julien's fruit smoothies mixed with Roy's hay topped with that yuck the Red Rhodesian Slasher eats. I would have no problemo giving it up for Lent."
"So the humans have been preparin' for two weeks?"
"The king timed his visit right, or wrong, however you want to look at it." Skipper fought off Kowalski's pushing him to eat just one more smelt. He got nostalgic. "Lutfisk falls under the soul food category, I guess. There was nothing like Mimsy's and Poppop's dinner table of half-digested Antarctic toothfish."
Private shifted the subject. "A sustainin' memory, I'm sure. Rico, I'm thinkin' a natural gig for us would be playin' like Siamese fightin' fish, wot do you think?"
"Ooawoawoawahhhfiiiish." Rico got dreamy-eyed. He smacked his own Skipper's butt in a fishy rapture induced bout of recklessness. The able-bodied penguins took him down with dual Routine Twelve maneuvers until he came to his senses. Skipper was equanimical about it.
"Back to the barracks, men."
IOIOIOIOIO
"Rico, time for you to shine some more."
Rico snapped to attention. "Aye."
"I want you to surveille Sasquatch tonight when Kowalski says it's good to go. One penguin has the best chance of not being noticed. When Blowhole contacts her, listen and report what goes on."
Rico studied the floor. "Meee? D'nt tlk gud --- "
"Anyone as artistic as you are will find a way to pass along what's important. I mean, I've watched you paint with watercolors. The rest of us will be getting our beauty sleep for meeting the king tomorrow and you, you knucklehead, look good for two days and more without rest. Don't say you don't, because I've seen you do it."
"Aye aye." Rico looked like he yearned for Miss Perky to confide in.
"I'll set my internal alarm for when Rico needs to leave." Kowalski said once the curtains of night were pinned back by the stars. He tapped his head. "It's all mental discipline."
"Good, because I'm pooped after our surveillance mission last night." Private giggled. "And so are you, Private."
"I'm not --- crikey, you're right, Skippa." He giggled again after a giant yawn. "Good luck, Rico."
"Rico, wake me when you get back if it's urgent. I trust your judgment, compadre." Skipper flung a flipper around Rico's neck and pulled him down for a noogie. "Vaya con Dios. Leave the set on for light."
Everyone dropped off to sleep shortly and when Kowalski poked him in the midst of a dream featuring Jackson Pollock and the color puce, Private leaned over Skipper's exhausted form to wave goodbye. Kowalski arose to offer a muffled high-one in farewell before returning to his lonely bunk.
Rico took a deep breath at the top of the ramp. It was only a few hours' solitary surveillance. Against a proven enemy. In the dark. He slipped out of the habitat to waddle purposefully past the polar bear habitat. He shushed Imelda's cub who tried to introduce himself.
"Whatcha doing, mister? I'm Marcus. My mom's asleep. I betcha you're top secret tonight, huh? Can I come along? I'm super quiet. I'm a Scout! I know Morse code! I can do semaphore!" The frantic motions that Rico used to communicate with his penguin brothers had no effect. "What's that mean? Lemme come, pleeeease?" Rico looked up at the wheeling stars where Kowalski had told him to look and groaned at the waning of his safety margin. The edge of the polar bear enclosure lay only twenty feet from the edge of the moose habitat. The cub needed quieting. He slithered through the fence, dove into their moat and met Marcus halfway. The cub rolled onto his back and Rico straddled him like a surfboard.
"You know semaphore? Cool!" Rico waggled his flippers and Marcus studied him in the bright moon that had just risen. "That doesn't spell anything." Rico switched to charades since the kid didn't seem to recognize universal penguin code for 'shut up.' He got to his feet on the thickly furred chest to mime tiptoeing, plastered a flipper to his beak to indicate zipping the cub's lips, and added a pleading look complete with begging clasped flippers. "I said I could be quiet, whyncha say so in the first place?"
"MARCUTH! Where ARE you, thon?"
Marcus stuck up a single claw to high-one Rico just like a penguin. "Mum's the word, bird." He butterfly-stroked his way back to his mother and Rico made like a torpedo for the moose habitat. Like a squirted watermelon seed, he shot through the fence and stopped short before he showed himself beyond the ornamental rye grass.
There was a ladder pointed nearly vertically up to the icy clear night sky. It had been secured somehow to the scaffolding and Sasquatch clung to the tiptoppiest rung with both large feet. From twenty feet over the ground, she offered her bared throat to the moon while her outspread arms wavered to keep her in perfect balance.
IOIOIOIOIO
TBC
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