Lay of the Land

BY : pronker
Category: +M through R > Penguins of Madagascar
Dragon prints: 76
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this fanfiction using Dreamworks' Penguins of Madagascar franchise and I do not own Dreamworks or the franchise.

The barkeep inclined his head toward the female end of the bar without looking there. "Take your pick. An Americano twenty on the bar top gets you beyond the beaded curtains with one of them with me looking the other way and then it's up to you and them. If you pay more than twenty for a blow or fifty dollars for a ride, you've been taken. And you should know —"

The whiskey soaked voice didn't finish that sentence as the herons at the front end of the bar had suddenly discovered a thirst that had to be serviced right now and that, after all, was what the bartender was here for.

While he was gone, Skipper and Kowalski took a look around, but the only free dollies were those four at the back end of the bar. Two of them were talking to each other across the two in the middle. One of the quiet ones caught Kowalski's eye, though, and rose off her stool and sauntered on up the bar to the two penguins.

"Two hunks like you shouldn't be in here all by your lonesomes," she said as she got to them. "Buy a girl a drink for some company? You two in some country's service? Let me guess ... the Ewe Ess of Ay?"

Kowalski rolled his eyes at the ashy-headed goose. They owned the swagger of the service in every glance and syllable. And they could almost see the vessels in dry-dock from where they were sitting. Of course they were in the service. But then his eyes were rolling for another reason. The female fluttered her remiges on his crotch.

"Sure, I'm Popeye One and he's Popeye Two," Skipper answered for them, moving over a stool so that she could perch between them.

"A drink for the lady. Another one of whatever she was drinking," Kowalski croaked to the bartender, who appeared with a frozen daiquiri within a few minutes. Both birds leaned into one elbow on the bar top and gave their full attention to the B-girl. Each of them had a flipper groping low on her hip on either side. She didn't bat an eyelash.

She had eyelashes to bat, too. She was a slurry of neutral beige tones, which on her had arrived at high cheek bones, a smooth bronze coat of feathers on her breast bordered by an ash gray head and legs, a lovely oval face, and a long, silky black crest of feathers on her crown, which Kowalski assumed to be an applied extension. Every now and then she would flounce the crest before patting it with her wing and when she did that, she exposed forest green shimmery feathers under her scapular feathers. Yes, she was perfect for this night because she was beautiful. Skipper would drown in her beauty and briefly forget the snakebit mission. The team needed him to forget because although Kowalski hadn't ambitions to be lieutenant, he wouldn't say no to a promotion, either; he simply didn't want to face the decision yet.

Most of all, he wanted Skipper to be himself again, because he had to lead and because Kowalski realized in his heart of hearts that he himself was a beta and not an alpha male.

After each flounce, the beauty kept her wings moving above the bar top and touched each of them here and there to make them hyperventilate despite commando training on how to be covert. Bright red adorned her wingtips that matched the color ringing her beak. Her eye shadow was a luminous deep violet with sparkles in it, which brought out the same color and quality of her eyes. She was a lovely bird, however you looked at it and whatever her species.

"You two stick together like glue?" she asked. It was evident to all three of them that she was fishing on whether this was leading up to something in sequence or a threesome.

"Usually," Skipper answered. "Do you mind?"

"Not really," she answered, "but maybe one's enough for starters."

When he delivered more drinks, the bartender said, "This here's Tracy. I think you should know—"

But whatever he might have said was cut off by Tracy cupping Kowalski's chin, lightly brushing her scarlet alula at the soft tissue of his throat while she came in for a kiss. A satisfied sound rumbled from the depths of his belly as his flipper went down to her plump butt cheek and squeezed. Skipper did the same with the other cheek when Tracy turned her head and gave him a kiss, dispensing equal time.

"Guess this is my lucky day," Tracy said when she came up for air. "Two hunks out on a drippy night like this."

"Speaking of weather and snow ..." Skipper said.

"The night's for partying," Kowalski continued bravely; he'd never gone this far down the drug route, although he didn't need to be Little Mister Truth Teller and confess all to his skipper. He was 99.9% sure Skipper never had traveled the road this far, either, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The pain they both felt after hellish loss needed something. "We're new in town. You know where we can get some? To share, of course."

"Of course," Tracy said, drawing their attention to three Australian swans sitting at a table in the back corner of the bar. "A couple of Franklins should get enough to give you two courage to handle little ole me. I can do the deal."

"Don't need no courage to take you on, girl," Kowalski said as he channeled Manfredi or Johnson, it didn't matter which.

"But snow would make it more fun," Skipper added. Kowalski disagreed, but he felt in his bones that Skipper needed all the comforting that life could hand him tonight. Returning from a failed mission except for one teensy scrap of intel that veterans Manfredi and Johnson scared up, the murder of Xochi when no evidence surfaced as to her killer, had to be a bear to report to the Big Boss when they got back to Central Park Zoo.

They watched as Tracy went to the back corner of the bar and came back with five packets of white powder.

Skipper and Kowalski each had already taken out an extra twenty over what would be needed for the drinks and a generous tip and laid the bills on the bar top.

"Who's first, or were you still thinking—?"

"Kowalski can be first," Skipper said, with his rare smile. "Rank takes privilege and smaller to larger. Just tickle her with your tackle, bud, to break her in for me."

"Braap you," Kowalski said. But he was smiling; they bantered like this often when Rico and young Private and the raunchy Manfredi and Johnson weren't within earhole shot and truth was truth anyway. He didn't turn down the offer to go first as he eagerly followed Tracy through the beaded curtains, a flipper cupping one of her butt cheeks.


Kowalski was sitting, feathers ruffled, on a vinyl loveseat in a small room behind the bar. There was a single bed against the other wall, in case they needed that. His legs were spread and Tracy had turned up his heat by dragging her scarlet wingtips over his chest and complimenting him on his hard-bodied torso. She knelt then between his legs, facing a coffee table. She lowered her head and sniffed up a line of the coke set out in rows on a sheet of white paper. One row already was gone, up Kowalski's nostrils. As a scientist, he prepared his mind for the rush. As a first timer with coke, it took him where he wasn't certain he wanted to go because he already could taste sound.

He leaned over and put his flippers around her, finding that her feathers were just as soft to the touch as they looked. She sighed as he rubbed her breastbone. Taking one flipper away briefly to brush the side of her face, he buried his tongue in the hollow of her neck before returning his flipper to squeeze and work her chest. As she turned her face to him, he eagerly infiltrated his beak into hers for a deep kiss. Perfume - was that a classy Chanel Number Five? - drenched his senses. An inner voice whispered that it was the coke that made her smell better than anyone else he had ever smelled.

Coming out of the kiss, Tracy put her wings over the flippers on her chest and moaned passionately before leaning over the coffee table and taking in another line of the coke. After sniffing it up and brushing her beak with long, scarlet-tipped appendages, she swiveled around, facing him, still kneeling between his thighs. Her face turned up and his turned down into another kiss as, slowly, methodically, she pulled his cock out of the feathers of his rippling abdomen.

He was big, erect, hard and that was all the sweeter to him because he had unselfishly, honestly, not cared if he got laid. She groaned to denote she respected the size of him, and his cock did a little lurch in appreciation for how she rubbed it, ran her pinions down the sides of it, and brushed it against her cheek before opening her red-rimmed beak over it. She took it to its root into her throat. It was Kowalski's turn to groan. She hummed with it in her throat, pulling a gasp out of him at the vibrations buzzing his dick.

If his banter with his buddy suggested that Kowalski was the smaller of the two, then she must know she was in for quite a ride later. He knew he himself owned enough to stretch her but good.

She supplied and applied the condom and said that she wanted it in the ass. Standing and leaning over the coffee table to snort another line, she lifted her tail and wiggled its retrices, encouraging Kowalski to bury his face between her butt cheeks.

Ten minutes later, she was riding his cock, facing away from him and crouched over his lap while taking him to the hilt in long strokes. To share the feels better, Kowalski reached down from her chest. He attacked her crotch with both flippers plunging between her legs.

He froze, ripped out a rare, serious curse and then jerked, making to rise. Tracy gripped his flippers hard and gasped, "No, might as well keep it up. We're almost done here, and you paid to get off."


Kowalski stumbled out from behind the beaded curtain and might have said something, but Skipper was right there, ready for his turn. Tracy's wing darted through the curtain, her grip lassoing Skipper and pulling him into the darkness beyond.

Kowalski shrugged and walked, none too straight, back to the bar.

"Here, you probably need this," the bartender said, plunking down a fresh beer, giving Kowalski a sharp "Are you going to make trouble?" look and then going to the window end of the bar to jaw with the blue herons there. Kowalski, still in a haze from the line he'd snorted and from what he'd discovered, showed he was subdued by plotzing onto a bar stool to stare at himself in the mirror.

Twenty minutes later, Skipper came out of the back room and waddled up to the bar. The two birds looked at each other in the mirror behind the bar, not facing off directly. The bartender came over and plopped a Bud Lite in front of Skipper.

"Well, hell," Skipper said, at length.

"Yupperdo," Kowalski answered. Both took several swigs from their beers before either spoke again.

"It was a he, not a she," Skipper said in a small voice and in such a way that maybe Kowalski didn't know and was just now getting the word.

"Yupperdo," Kowalski repeated. "A real good lay, though."

This time Skipper turned to look at Kowalski, face to face. "You knew and braaped him anyway—whatever they're called?"

"Yep. The scientific term is transvestite. Whatever. They've all got holes and can be fun. This one—Tracy—was great. Don't tell me you didn't know before you went back there with her."

Skipper gave him a confused look.

Kowalski laughed in a state of high nerves because he couldn't bear to let his commander know this was his first time with a tranny, with any male. "Well, braap."

"You braap males?" Skipper asked, his voice as ghastly as the expression on his face.

"Any port in the storm, good buddy," Kowalski said before taking a lengthy swig of his beer. "A hole is a hole and, as you knew when we came in here, I had a raging hard on to match yours." A coke-fueled lie, Kowalski? Have you lost all your filters?

"But -"

"Which wasn't being satisfied by anyone else." Kowalski hit Skipper with a meaningful look.

"I didn't know," Skipper said in a quiet voice. "If I had -"

"Hey, look, Skipper. Did you think I was hanging around you so close because you didn't say not to? And you did the same with me? Science says the probability of our getting together-together is high, like, like eighty-six percent." How in the world had he pulled this figure out of his fundament? It sounded good, though. It sounded true.

Skipper didn't answer. He looked down at his lap rather than directly at Kowalski or even at Kowalski in the mirror. Kowalski rested a flipper on Skipper's thigh and Skipper didn't shrug it off.

"Been waiting for you, bro," Kowalski whispered, daring to voice thoughts he meant to bury forever. "You gonna keep me waiting? I'm still, you know, way horny enough. Coke does that to me." He knew that now, of course.

"I ... I didn't know." Skipper played with his drink. "I got my rocks off. I'm surrounded by coffee beans and container ships showering coffee onto the world. Why isn't it enough? What's left?"

Kowalski had no answer for the anguished question that tasted black with despair.

''I wonder if there are any cheap hotels around here, or, or maybe an alley?" Skipper said, in almost a whisper. His pupils showed the smallest ring of blue that Kowalski had ever seen. He supposed his looked the same.

"There'd better be, good buddy. There braaping well better be." He'd dropped the braap bomb more times tonight than in his entire life.

"One thing, Kowalski," Skipper said. "This Tracy episode. I really don't want this ever mentioned again."

"Beaks are sealed, sir," Kowalski said, with a smile. "Let it never be mentioned again. Now come on out into the night and let's find us that small hotel."

"In a minute. Kowalski, Xochi was alive twelve hours ago."

"Yes, she was and we'll grieve for her eternally, I think. At least Rico will."

Kowalski sipped his Miller Lite. Skipper grabbed his Bud Lite, drew back his flipper and looked like he was about to fire the mug into the mirror. "I made the wrong decision! I deserve to be court martialed!"

Kowalski took the mug from a nerveless flipper and watched his commander fall apart. "She died, she made a wrong call, too, and got made. All of us will speak out at your hearing, sir."

"My fault! Mine! It happened on my watch!" A ragged sob ripped from Skipper's throat and the barkeep seemed to come from nowhere.

"Hey now!" He rapped sharply one two three on the bar with his steel flipper. Only a few heads in the bar turned.

Kowalski ignored the barkeeper. "Skipper, the false lead took us northeast from Panajachel to Tactic because it sounded plausible and we all agreed to split the team. Xochi played to her strength and kept up the charade of - "

"No. No. She was handicapped because she couldn't speak and I let her down. I let Rico down, too, because I ought to have put the kibosh on their love affair. Now he's no good."

This wouldn't stand. "You and I know that's incorrect. He's grieving more than we are, true, but he's made of strong stuff."

"So you think he'll pull through?"

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