Vote at Toad Hall

by Eddie Saint

  The information seemed to satisfy Vulpine. He sat comfortably in his seat and absorbed the timetable.

  ‘So: three days; three working lunches? Interesting…’

  Vulpine contemplated just how lazy and naïve Wild Wood politics was, when his own working day always began before the sun rose and his campaigning had started some years ago. They deserve everything that is coming to them, he mused to himself, already revelling in how the final stages of his plan would play out.

  ‘He offered to hold off campaigning until I got a team together. Little does he know I’m already a day ahead of him on that!’ Weasel laughed, as if sharing a joke with Vulpine.

  …and several years behind me! thought Vulpine.

  ‘Quite,’ said Vulpine. ‘You have certainly got a day’s start on him. Well done.’

  ‘Righty-ho. Well, it’s ‘Immigration’ today. Time marches on…’

  The conversation faltered, and Weasel wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. He didn’t have more information to pass on, but he also somehow felt he required permission to leave the car. Plus, he was developing a powerful thirst. He sat on his paws and rocked back and forth gently, smiling a big, toothy smile, and waited for the President to release him.

  Vulpine, on the other hand, was enjoying playing with his food too much to throw it away just yet.

  ‘I have an idea for you,’ said Vulpine. ‘How do you feel about playing the role of the ‘ordinary bloke’… ‘bloke’ – is that the word?... Yes, ‘the ordinary bloke in the pub’.

  Weasel raised an eyebrow.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Look, Oliver. Oh, may I call you that?’

  ‘Of course, President,’ said Weasel, not daring to ask that the favour be returned.

  ‘We both know that a private education and a career in finance does not make you a typical example of that ‘ordinary bloke in the pub’ but…’ Vulpine raised his left paw and extended his first finger as if to count, ‘…the first casualty of a good campaign is always ‘truth’, don’t you agree?’

  Weasel nodded, a bit too enthusiastically, as if in thrall to a great teacher.

  ‘So, play to your strengths. You seem at home in a pub, so make it your base. Call the news crews in and speak to your audience from there. They will like to be told that they are honest, hard working, long-suffering even. Tell them you will fight for them against rich, privileged, so-called experts. Tell your followers this Referendum is ‘honest bloke’ versus ‘the elite’, ‘pub’ versus ‘club’, ‘truth’ versus ‘deception’.’

  Weasel’s head began to spin.

  ‘Hold up, hold up,’ he said. ‘We are on a tight clock here. I’m not sure I’ve got time to work out all the facts and figures to back that up.’

  Vulpine just looked at him, smiling and waiting. Eventually the penny dropped.

  ‘Ah, I’ve got you now. Sorry, bit of a slow starter today’

  ‘Dear me, Oliver. That expensive education of yours almost let you down there.’

  ‘Yes, er…, I was overthinking it. Silly me.’

  ‘Toad will have facts. He will have experts. He could crush you in a battle of reason and logic so… you must first disarm his weapons. Take ‘facts’ and ‘experts’ and ‘reason’ and ‘logic’ and damn them all as weapons used by privileged Toads to oppress your ‘ordinary bloke’. Do you see?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I see alright! Not only is it genius, but it makes my life so much easier. I will see his weapons, and I will defeat them with the power of a ‘reckon’!’

  It was Vulpine’s turn, for the first time in their meeting, to feel a little confused.

  ‘A…‘reckon’?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right! Toad can say what experts think, and I’ll just come back with what I reckon, what an ordinary animal down the pub might reckon. The ‘Reckon’ will be the new ‘Fact’. Oh, it’s priceless. I love it!’

  ‘Well, quite. Yes indeed. You do seem to have grasped it,’ said Vulpine, with an avuncular nod of his long face. ‘So anyway, the clock is ticking. Best get out there and… start ‘reckoning’, eh?’ He laughed with Weasel and reached across him to open the Sedan door.

  Weasel half stood, ready to get out, but the Fox placed an iron paw on his elbow.

  ‘I want regular updates, but just CryptoChat from now on, if you don’t mind. It is quicker, safer, and I’m confident that you can pull off the public side of this campaign. You won’t need coaching. You are a natural!’

  He flashed a set of sharp, white teeth.

  ‘And when we win, you’ll be able to celebrate… without stealing Stoat’s wallet.’ He winked and pushed Weasel gently out of the door.

  As the car smoothly accelerated away Weasel stood on the pavement and watched it leave.

  How did Vulpine know about Stoat’s wallet? Has he got eyes everywhere?

  Sweating slightly from that thought, he got a grip on his mind again, and began rehearsing his first proper news interview as the candidate for the ‘ordinary bloke’.

  STUFF JUST GOT real.

  Within one day I had received a cryptic message from a Wild Wood Security Service Agent, who had then suddenly flat lined in the middle of the night, and I had an undercover Fox on my tail. Not a great balance sheet for someone trying to make a success of hiding.

  Until I discovered who Buck and ‘T’ were I knew there was no passive option for me.

  Putting a name to ‘T’ turned out to be easier than I expected. I hacked the payroll files and only one Agent kept ‘T’s hours: Antonio Mole.

  ‘So, Mr Mole,’ I said to my screen, ‘two questions: What did you want me for? And do I call you Tony?’

  A few months back, when I had tried to trace Dug’s final few days in the job, I’d hacked into the main server. That’s when I got this target on my back and all the demons of hell had come out to chase me off.

  The question was: did I dare go back in?

  The Security Service fortress keeps all the important information walled up on the inside, too deep for me to get at. Even if I had tried to scale the walls (and I’m not going to make that mistake again in a hurry) there are lookouts everywhere. So, despite all my searching skills, and everything Dug had taught me, I could see there was no realistic chance of me getting inside to track down Antonio ‘Tony’ Mole.

  So if I wasn’t going to be able to get in, I needed to find out where Mole went to when he came out.

  I rummaged through his e-mails. His work ones were wrapped up too tight, but there were personal ones that didn’t have the same level of security…

  It looked like Mole had a thing for science fiction and fantasy stuff. That would explain the C5ive attachment, I figured. He was always buying comic books or going to conventions. In fact, there were so many messages he even had an e-mail folder just for them. I looked inside.

  There was one e-mail to a journalist, an organised crime expert called Wolfgang Draxler, whose writing I actually quite respect. It didn’t look like a work email though. This was simple fan boy stuff, and it was only a couple of days old. Mr Mole had asked the reporter to get them both Comic Con tickets and the reporter replied that was no problem and he could send one over by courier. A fast reply had come back.

  ‘Not to office. You know where.’

  That sounded promising. If these two were Comic Con friends then the ‘where’ was probably Mr Mole’s home. The next move was simple. I hacked into Draxler’s press office secretarial profile.

  There was a folder marked ‘Accounts’.

  Inside there were various spread sheets, including one called ‘Couriers’.

  I scanned down to the date of the Comic Con message and saw the initials WD next to the single entry…

  Like I said, if you want something finding put me on your A team.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  Chapter Five

  ’HEY THERE STOATEY!’ said Weasel, slapping him on the back as he came up to the bar. ‘I’ve got ‘it-toobee’.’


  Stoat placed his whiskey back down on the bar, using a beer mat to soak up the spillage.

  ‘What’s ‘it-toobee’?’ he asked, and then immediately regretted it.

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, matey! I’ll have a Pint of Best.’

  Jeff, the landlord, stared at Stoat and shook his head gently.

  Some punters will never learn, he thought.

  ‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Stoat. ‘I was starting to fear the worst and you’d been picked up by Vulpine.’

  Stoat’s voice trailed off as he watched Weasel draw his finger across his throat rapidly several times, a look of mild panic on his face.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Weasel, in a slightly louder and considerably less genuine voice than normal, but with the panic still there in his eyes. ‘You do like to joke about President Vulpine, don’t you? I know it is only because YOU RESPECT HIM SO HIGHLY!’

  Weasel’s voice may have been saying one thing, but his eyebrows now began to make an altogether different point. He stared fiercely at Stoat, put a finger to his lips, then whipped out his phone and started typing.

  >> VULPINE IS WATCHING US IN HERE.

  >> HE KNOWS EVERYTHING.

  >> BE VERY CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. OK?

  He showed the phone to Stoat, then in a voice of slightly forced jollity, said,

  ‘Yes, the President did pick me up earlier, as it happens. An absolutely wonderful chap.’ He took out a tissue and wiped his whiskers carefully, and not for the first time that day wondered exactly how it was Vulpine knew so much of the goings on inside The Stump.

  Jeff walked over to him with his pint and asked, ‘What’s up, comrade? You look like you could do with this drink.’

  ‘I could murder one,’ Weasel replied, and instantly regretted it. And what had Jeff said? Comrade? Was he the spy?

  They moved back to the Snug and Stoat opened up the first binder while Weasel busied himself emptying food from his various pockets. Jeff had agreed to give them the Snug for their campaign HQ. It meant losing a few seats, but that was more than compensated for by the photogenic angle it gave of the pub’s interior. Two journalists had already been in to get a photo and story of the ‘Leave the LEAF’ campaign team, and there was a film crew just setting up to film for the afternoon news. Jeff could feel his till bracing itself for a busy day.

  Stoat was the first to burst Weasel’s bubble.

  ‘I just don’t see how we can convince voters. This all seems to make sense. Animals living here from outside Wild Wood put in way more than they take out. I mean…’ He thrust an open binder under Weasel’s nose. ‘… there is simply no way to make a good case to stop immigration with those numbers.’

  Weasel took what he hoped was the final piece of lunch out of his many pockets.

  ‘Princess! Princess! Calm yourself. Uncle Oliver has it all under control.’ He took a neatly cut triangular egg sandwich from the pile of food in front of him and placed it delicately on the open binder. ‘Have a bite to eat. It might help you think more clearly.’

  Stoat looked at the sandwich as it dripped some eggy mayonnaise onto the printed page. Then he looked at Weasel as if he were mad. Then he looked back at the sandwich. He was quite hungry…

  As Stoat tucked into the sandwich, Weasel picked up the binder and closed it. Stoat flinched as he imagined the drips of eggy mayonnaise sticking the pages together.

  ‘But…’ he began. The sandwich really was good. ‘Just… well, how are we supposed to get all this info to Pincer and Vulpine?’ He licked his fingers after the last crumb had disappeared. ‘Got any more food going spare?’

  Weasel slapped him, kindly, on the back.

  ‘That’s the spirit, princess. You tuck in and leave the brain work to me.’ He shoved the pile of food across the table and helped himself to another sandwich. ‘Do you know what this food tastes of?’

  ‘Eggs!’ replied Stoat, with his mouth full.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Cress?’

  ‘OK, getting warmer. But what can you taste running right the way through it?’

  ‘Mayo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Salt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Butt...?’

  Weasel held up a paw and stopped Stoat mid word.

  ‘No! No! No!’

  Stoat stopped chewing for a moment. He seldom saw his friend angry, and wondered if the strain of this job was already starting to get to him.

  ‘Are you…ok?’ he asked.

  ‘No, old friend. I’m not ok,’ said Weasel, slumping his shoulders as if the weight of the world was on them. ‘And do you want to know why I’m not ok? It’s because of this!’ He brandished another egg sandwich under Stoat’s nose.

  ‘Er… don’t you like egg? I… I think you brought cheese too. Somewhere…’

  Weasel fixed his timid friend with a patient, serious look.

  ‘This, my friend…is the taste…of Privilege!’

  Stoat closed his mouth. He knew he would never have guessed that.

  ‘That’s right: Privilege. Those Toads have been lording it over us for what seems like forever, telling us what to do, what not to do, what to believe, what taxes to pay. And I reckon it is time me and you and animals like us, the ordinary folk down the pub, stopped listening to those elite Toads and their ‘binders’ full of their so-called ‘facts’.’

  Stoat thought about Weasel’s words for a moment. He thought about their two big houses, their several cars, their tax avoidance schemes. It didn’t make him feel too ’ordinary’. On the other hand he did feel very ‘down the pub’.

  ‘What are you trying to say, Ollie?’

  Weasel picked up a binder in each hand, and held them under Stoat’s nose. ‘What I’m trying to say, princess, is that these,’ he thrust the binders right into Stoat’s whiskers, ‘these…are worthless. They are all lies told by ‘the elites’ to keep us in the dark.’

  The serious look on Weasel’s face had been there for almost a minute. He couldn’t hold it any longer. He cracked into a big grin.

  ‘You see how easy it is?’

  ‘Wha…aagh?’ ventured Stoat, now totally unsure of what he was supposed to think or say in response.

  ‘That’s our tactic, matey.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s simple. We don’t need to use facts to win voters over. We just have to make stuff up and blame everything bad on the Toads and their friends in the LEAF League.’

  ‘I…I’m still not with you’

  ‘Look, did you know that every animal that comes into Wild Wood from anywhere else gets a bonus if they put a Wild Wooder out of a job? And who do you think pays them the bonus? The LEAF League! And why have we never been told before? Because the Toads get a bonus too!’

  Stoat’s eyes were wide open with incredulity. His mouth, too, was so wide open Weasel could see his half finished sandwich. ‘Really? I’ve never heard that before.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you, because Toads, and their friends, own all the news sites. They like to keep that sort of news to themselves. Do you think that’s fair? Do you get it yet?’

  Stoat wasn’t sure if he was supposed to nod, or shake. Hedging his bets he sort of… jiggled.

  ‘It’s OK, wobble head,’ said Weasel sympathetically. ‘Don’t get in a twist. I made all that up.’

  Unsure quite what to do with himself Stoat folded his arms and sat still, hoping the world would all start to make sense again soon.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Weasel calmly. ‘Forget the binders. We put the message out that if, as a voter, you reckon your life isn’t as good as it could be, then it is not your fault. It is, in fact, the fault of immigrant animals and the Toads and the LEAF League, and if you never thought that before it’s because you have been getting your information from the wrong place.’

  Stoat sat still, staring into the middle distance, thinking of his happy place.

  ‘OK. I
n simple terms: we lie to get votes. By the time the lies catch up with us, if they ever do, the Vote and the LEAF League will be well and truly behind us and you, Stoatey, will be reaping rich rewards with yours truly.’

  With that he turned to the bar and said, ‘Alright, Jeff, I’m ready for the film crew now!’

  COMMANDER REYNARD CROSSED the corridor and entered the President’s office. The two Foxes had a tricky relationship. They were both currently stationed in a mansion deep in the heart of Wild Wood’s capital, but while the President made a show of being friendly to the great and the good of Wild Wood, Reynard kept a low profile, choosing instead to work in the basement where he marshalled his Alternative Army of digital mischief.

  A powerful army, hidden in the belly of Wild Wood.

  A small thrill would pass over his fur every time he thought of it, dampened only by the thought of Vulpine’s nephew: a useless recruit; a single, sad blemish in the otherwise purring operation of the Alternative Army.

  Vulpine was tending to his infernal insects again. Reynard knew better than to interrupt so he moved to the water cooler and poured himself a cup.

  Vulpine, without turning from the glass case he was examining, said, ‘Today I think these ones will lay their eggs. Very exciting. Very exciting indeed.’

  Reynard sat on the leather bench and waited. Eventually, Vulpine came and joined him.

  ‘We need the Alternative Army to fix this Wild Wood Referendum,’ the President said.

  ‘Sir, it will be my pleasure. My Army is primed and ready to take over social media, but do you have any specific moves in mind?’

  Vulpine considered The Map in his head, the territories waiting to be exploited, the pieces poised to be played.

  ‘I do have an interesting play,’ he said at last. ‘We will begin by entering the coop and frightening everyone.’

  ‘Indeed sir,’ said Reynard. ‘It is a tried and tested tactic. What… specifics did you have in mind?’

  Getting to his feet impatiently, Vulpine walked back over to the glass case and bent down to inspect its occupants again.

  ‘Two prongs, I think. On the one paw, we frighten the Dogs.’