“Will a flute collapse on top of the radical bat?” That was the question Inspector Vole asked himself, hopefully, as he watched the would be riot convene from the safety of his police balloon.
Woodwind wasn’t a nice neighbourhood, jammed next to the even worse String section and abutting the classier Brass District it was the place trouble seemed to flare. No mammal gave a pair of stink bugs what went on in Strings, the place was a hell hole, guitar towers full of rats, breeding in numbers, dying their fur, piercing their tails. Scum of the Earth. Half of Woodwind was just as rotten and if it did collapse that’d save him some trouble.
Arse, wasn’t happening.
Inspector Vole had a nice flat all to himself in French Horn, right on the edge of the Brass District. He got to see it all, the encroaching scum taking advantage of the well-meaning rabbits and squirrels living in Woodwind, trying to convince them it was about social activism and not stuffing all the money and drugs you could into your cheek pouches and fleeing back to the shithole they called home.
Rats were bad but bats? Bats were the worst. You couldn’t bust the bastards because they could fly. The moment they caught of a whiff of the police they were away into the sky. Rats you could catch and clap in irons, lock in the sewer prisons beneath Percussion. This… bat block were getting away with murder.
But, no more. Now they had a new weapon.
Inspector Vole twisted the trumpet to his mouth and preened his whiskers. “He’s in range,” he spoke into the tube. “Fire the dog whistle.”