Page 35 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

“I hope they concur with your plan, sire,” Aero says. “However, I cannot help but feel that it is… unbecoming to deal with those gollumpuses after our sixty-year schism.”

Of course my fisticuffs teacher would focus on the old rivalry between the Union-King and Union-Andrew Mischiefs. I twitch my whiskers in annoyance. “Why should we keep fighting for control of Union? It is an old, unnecessary battle. We have King and they have St. Andrew now.”

“That is not the reason for our tiff,” Aero says as he scurries along the top of the track as though it’s a tightrope. “Everyone knows it commenced when the Union-Andrews stole our delivery of a party-sized pizza. The bastards!”

“No, no, no,” Glosette shakes her small, furry head. “It began when they composed an insulting poem about our Mischief! Then we composed an insulting opera about theirs. Then they performed a play that called us flapdoodles. Of course, we responded with an interpretive dance about their ailments and—”

“Attention customers,” a robotic voice echoes through the subway, interrupting Glosette’s monologue. “Line 1, Yonge-University, has no service both ways between King Station and St. Andrew Station due to an electrical problem at track-level at Union Station. Shuttle buses are on the way…”

A cheer echoes through our delegation. Skor and Crunchie did a good job at chewing through electrical wires to shut down the station for the duration of our meeting. They were careful not to cut the lights though, since we’ll need to keep a close eye on the Union-Andrews.

I turn to face our delegation. “Regardless of how our feud began, it ends today. It is time, my rats, to convene with our sisters and brothers of Union-Andrew. Raise the flags!”

Glosette and three other rats rush ahead of us, carrying Starbucks stir sticks topped with brownish-yellow triangles. They were stained to match the walls at King Station and embroidered with a K sitting proudly atop a crown.

Behind Aero and myself, a dozen rats bang together cymbals made from bottle caps. They create an intricate symphony, a beat unique to our Mischief. It makes me puff out my chest and raise my chin in pride.

Across the tracks, the Union-Andrew rats advance. They carry their own stir sticks, with black and white flags that feature embroidered A’s sitting beneath angelic halos. It is difficult not to roll my eyes, as there is little angelic about the Andrews during our rare interactions.

My father would roll in his grave if he knew we were forming this alliance—but it is the only way I can protect my Mischief. I just hope I haven’t miscalculated and led my Mischief to our doom.

The queen of Union-Andrew leads her delegation toward us. A tiny cape embroidered with her Mischief’s A sits on her gray shoulders, and a halo made of yellow wire is perched on her head.

“King Rollo of King,” she says, her voice echoing through the empty station. She purposely leaves out Union from my title as though the station isn’t mine as well as hers. “’Tis been many moons since we laid our eyes on ye, has it not?”

I’d forgotten that Queen Lettuce has always spoken in the royal we. She sounds like she’s a century or so behind my Mischief and our allies on this side of the subway line. I debate if I should speak to her in the more formal language of our forebears, but I don’t wish to sound like a pompous back-biter.

“Queen Lettuce of St. Andrew,” and not Union, I silently add, “it has been some time. I’m grateful you have come this far to speak with me.”

“Twas no trouble for us. Tis only two steps from our kingdom.”

“And only one step from ours,” Aero says.

I shoot him a warning look.

“‘By virtue of your proximity to the exit.” She raises her nose higher in the air. “Why doth thou calleth this parley, King Rollo of King?”

“You’ve heard of the city’s anti-rat plans,” I tell her.

“How couldth we not? Those cursed banners sour the walls of our kingdom. Tis cruel to put photos of our dead cousins and parade them thus.”

“I wrote pro-rat poetry on one of them with a marker!” A young rat standing behind Queen Lettuce raises her little chin proudly.

“Hush, Princess Kale,” Queen Lettuce says. “Thou art here to learn statecraft, not converse in such shameful modern tongue.”

Kale’s ears press against her head. “My apologies, Mother.” She pouts and mutters, “It was a good poem, though.”

I try not to smile. I want to tell Kale that I’m sure her poem was inspired, but I need to stay on her mother’s good side.

I clear my throat. “The anti-rat plans pose a threat to both our Mischiefs. We have lost too many rats. In order to survive, we need to combine our strength as rats and fight back.”

“Doth thou wisheth to wage war against the City of Toronto?”

My whiskers twitch and I shake my head. “We already tried protests, to no avail. Have you not?”

“Of course we have. The human defenders of animals care not for subway ratkind.”

Around us, rats of Union-King and Union-Andrew nod in agreement, realize they’re agreeing with each other, and start scowling.