Morticia + Morty

What good is there in any of us?

Before the Deerfoot Massacre, Morticia the swan could count on her beak the number of animals in Central Park who didn’t despise her. After the Deerfoot Massacre, that one animal had fled without a word. Morticia knew that her goose was as good as cooked. 

And so, she'd left Manhattan, hiring a motley crew of squirrels, pigeons and a stray dog to help transport her things to Prospect Park in Brooklyn. This was a park where the raccoons had less authority than the pigeons and where swans were allowed to bathe any time of the day so long as they stuck to the tourist zones. After getting a lay of the land, Morticia bribed a goat with one of the grass skirts that she'd worn for a resort wear shoot years ago for access to a deserted fountain in the Vale of Cashmere, deep within the Park.

For days, Morticia kept to herself. Making friends had only gotten her expelled from the only other park she’d ever known. She’d vowed to be more vigilant this time around. But then that day on the pond as Morticia was gliding along keeping a wide berth from the rocks where the turtles sunbathed and snapped at anyone who got too close, Harlot had looked at her with a kindness in her beady pigeon eyes that Morticia hadn't seen since her sister Pearl. Pearl had long gone over to the raccoon side of Central Park so Morticia didn't even dare send word that she was still alive. It would be too dangerous for Pearl.  

Harlot the pigeon had beautiful brown and white feathers that combined in such a way that when she was still, she looked like a miniature marble fountain. Morticia was a sucker for beauty, no matter the species. From that day on, Morticia vowed to do anything for Harlot. And for a time she did. It was Morticia who saved Harlot the first time. It would have been Morticia who saved Harlot the second time, if it hadn’t been for that rat Morty.

Morticia knew about Morty even before she caught a whiff of him her second day in the Vale. Morty worked for that fancy brownstone cat Altonio. Morticia had a dim view of rats. Sure, they kept the trash to manageable levels and some were pioneering the best cuisine in the can to table movement this side of Coney Island, but Morticia didn't trust them.  

Morticia might have been wrong to assume all rats were distrustful, but she wasn’t wrong when it came to Morty. He was in over his head.  He'd been working the early morning shift at Harlot's restaurant, Bitchy Objects, to make extra cash for the next midnight gourmet barge cruise heading out of Chelsea Piers. He knew he was playing with fire, working for one of Altonio's sworn enemies, but he just couldn't ask Altonio or his son, Morty Dos for help.

Morty was ashamed of how he'd made Joaquin, one of the barge operators, think he was a bigger player in Altonio's operation than he was. He'd been getting daily pigeon droppings sent from the guys on the barge asking when they could take a meeting with Altonio for the cat hotel's restaurant business.  

The last set of droppings had been violently splattered all over the side of his dumpster. Morty got the message. He didn’t have much time before Joaquin’s crew went over his head and straight to Altonio. She’d be pissed at Morty for bringing them to her fire escape. Altonio’s patience was thinner than ever. Morty shuddered to think about what his punishment would be. Would Altonio go so far as to feed him to Terence, that sociopathic dog from San Francisco, she had working security?

Morty knew on some level, he'd deserve it.  Altonio didn't ask for much beyond loyalty, smoked salmon bites and quiet on Thursday afternoons. Morty had broken his oath to go and bus tables at Harlot's for minimum wage. He was going to get out, he just needed one more shift.  

On the morning of Morty's last shift at Bitchy Objects, he came in through the brush on the south side, the way he always did.  He started to wash the flat rocks they used as plates when he heard voices. Harlot was soaking in the fountain behind the restaurant with Drew, another pigeon and her head waiter. 

"Drew, it's just so easy.  Morty doesn't even know that I'm in cahoots with Joaquin.  There's no way he'll be able to make enough to get on that barge to take the meeting he thinks he needs to take to keep them quiet.  And then once Altonio finds out, she'll fly into a murderous rage.  I've been getting Flossie to switch out those pills Pettigrew prescribed for placebos.  If Altonio doesn't take care of him herself than that bitch Terence will enjoy herself ripping into that juicy rat flesh. Once Morty's out of the picture, Altonio's entire perimeter defense goes as does her food supply. She'll need to do business with Joaquin who'll give me a cut of the profits.  Pretty genius, right?"

Morty didn't wait to hear Drew's cooing reply. He waddled out the kitchen as fast as he could and headed down the Park path.  The faster way to the Brownstone was through the Vale of Cashmere.  He'd taken the shortcut a few times, but didn't like to do it when that murderess Morticia might be around.  Today, he had no other choice.

Morticia was doing her morning meditation when she heard an inelegant skittering through her leaf bed. She cocked her beak up in the air and flapped her wings in annoyance. As she flapped, the skittering stopped and all that was left was the sound of her wings and some heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I’ve got business outside of the Park and your way is the fastest way out,” Morty wheezed and chewed his tail.

Morticia considered her options. She was hungry, but she was off rats and other small rodents. She had to make some other use of this opportunity, clearly sent to her as a result of her powers of manifestation. 

“What sort of business might you have outside of the Park?”

“Look, I can’t get into it. My boss doesn’t have much time and it’s on account of me. I’ve gotta go and make it right.”

“How did it go wrong in the first place?” Morticia found herself drawn into the drama.

“I fell in with the wrong crowd. I’m working it off at Bitchy Objects, but I’ll never actually be done. Harlot’s not a good pigeon.”

At the mention of her beloved Harlot, Morticia’s mood turned.

“What good is there in any of us? Why would you hold Harlot to such an unreasonable standard?”

“Look, Ms. Lady Swan, no judgment. I’m just not on the right side of things here. Unless you want to eat me or feed me to that goat you’ve got working your perimeter, could you let me get on with it? I’ve still got to make it through the joggers and I’m likely to get trampled if I’m not out of here soon.”

“What does Harlot want exactly?” Morticia perked up. Back in her Central Park days, before the modeling, Morticia had been one of the best fixers her side of the Carousel.

“She wants a cut of Altonio’s hotel business for the barge.”

“The barge that operates out of Chelsea Piers?”

“Yeah. I went on a midnight cruise and might’ve made some promises I shouldn’t have.”

“Joaquin still running things over there?”

“You know him?”

“He killed my sister’s youngest. Look, I think Harlot’s the most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen outside of my own reflection, but if she’s in league with that piece of garbage hauler, then I’ll wash my beak of her. How can I help?”

And so began the unholiest of Park alliances. It was only a matter of time before they put their plan into action. And once they did, Harlot would be dead; Morticia would be the new owner of Bitchy Objects and Morty would be serving not one, but two murderous broads.

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