This story is a bit dark. It involves popping of the permanent variety. You may take that as a content warning or an endorsement, depending on your tastes.

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He had no idea where he was when he stepped off the train. He'd slept most of the trip, and he was still bleary and foggy, overwhelmed by the crowd. The air smelled funny. He could hear cows. Cows? Then he remembered where his ticket had taken him. Why did it have to be Texas? He would have rather gone anywhere else, but if he hadn't gotten on the very next train leaving town...
There was a lounge nearby, with food. The mustelid shuffled in and plopped himself in his wrinkled plaid coat into a chair, making a disheveled heap of himself. He thought about what he could have to eat. Carefully, as he was down to his last two dollars in the world. Someone had left a newspaper in the seat next to him. He picked it up.
"SMALL FARM MAKES IT BIG," a heading said. He scanned the short article and marveled at the accompanying picture. Three birds holding what looked like a squash the size of a canoe. Some little farm in a local backwater had discovered some secret for gigantic produce. They were overwhelmed by their rising fame and popularity. Simple farmers, who didn't know what to do with all the cash they were raking in... Suddenly, he felt far less uncertain of what he was going to do here. He stuffed the newspaper into his empty bag with a grin. He bought a club sandwich, with extra ham.

These bumpkins don't even have electricity, he thought as he twisted the handle on the mechanical doorbell. A small blue bird opened the door and poked his head out.
"Hi there, kid," the mustelid said, tipping his boater hat. "Is your pappy home?"
Rote narrowed his eyes. "Are you interested in some zucchini?" he replied.
"As a matter of fact, I'm interested in more than vegetables..." the furry visitor said in an accent Rote didn't entirely trust. "I want to present you with a business opportunity. Now, who's in charge of that around here?"
"I am," Rote said flatly.
"Oh..." The mustelid's sales pitch was wobbled off track a bit. "How old are you, kid?"
"Who is it, Rote?" a sweet, motherly voice asked from inside the house.
"Some salesman. I'm getting rid of him..." Rote answered, glowering into the mustelid's eyes.
"Hey, wait a minute, I'm not selling anything!" The mustelid stuck his foot in the door. "I have a mutually beneficial investment opportunity for you!" He said quickly, through the crack of the door Rote was trying to close.
"Rote honey, don't be rude..." The woman's voice said, approaching. The door swung open, and the mustelid forgot everything he had queued up to say. He just wheezed in shock at the gargantuan eagle looking down at him from the other side of the door.

"Oh yes, the stock market. I have heard that talked about lately," Mrs. Guilford said, setting a pitcher of cider on the kitchen table. The mustelid helped himself to a glass of it while Rote sat close by, still glaring.
"It's practically a sure thing," he said, sipping. "Everybody's making money hand over fist. Everybody who misses out will regret it."
"And you think we could?" she answered.
"Lady, I guarantee it." The mustelid choked on his cider a bit when another huge eagle walked into the kitchen.
"Guests?" Mr. Guilford asked tersely.
"This is Nick. He came all the way from Philadelphia just to offer us a chance to be a part of his investment company!" Mrs. Guilford said, with polite cheerfulness.
"I think a phone call would have done..." Mr. Guilford replied, sitting down and pouring some cider for himself.
"I prefer a personal touch," said Nick.
"Uh huh," Mr. Guilford muttered into his glass. "How much is it going to cost us to join your little company?"
"Oh, not a penny! Not one red cent!" Nick replied animatedly, as if he'd been waiting for that question. "I want to help you incorporate and turn this operation into a publicly traded company. All I require is a small percentage of the inevitable profits."
"Hmm..." Mr. Guilford set down his glass. "Sounds like a hassle. What do you think of all this?" he said to Rote.
"We're already incorporated," Rote replied. "Guilford Farms, Inc. I did it back in '24 for tax purposes."
"Well, there you have it," Mr. Guilford said. "We're already a company."
"You can still use my help," Nick said. "You need my expertise in the stock market to go public and start raking in money from investors!"
"Oh, the stock market. That's what this is about..." Mr. Guilford said skeptically. "Everybody wants to get rich quick these days..."
"Hey, what's wrong with that?" Nick implored. "Just think what you could do with all that money rolling in. And you don't even have to lift a feather. An operation like this, the stock would sell itself!"
"What would we do with more money?" Mrs. Guilford wondered aloud.
Mr. Guilford clasped his wings together on the table and leaned in. Nick felt himself wither slightly under the intensity of the eagle's gaze. "Just what exactly is a stock?" Mr. Guilford asked pointedly.
"Well it's ah..." Nick straightened his tie. "You get right to the point, don't you? I like that. Shows a natural business acumen... It's a piece of your company, basically. Whoever holds it owns a small fraction of your operation."
"And why would someone want to do that?"
"The more valuable your company is, the more money the stocks are worth."
"I see. So you buy them expecting their value to increase."
"Exactly!"
"What if it doesn't?"
"Er, well..."
"And if it does, what can you buy with them?"
"You can't buy things with them, but you can trade them."
"For?"
"More stocks."
Mr. Guilford looked extremely underwhelmed.
"Surely if they're worth money, you can sell them?" Mrs. Guilford ventured.
"Oh yes, naturally!" Nick responded, relieved.
Mr. Guilford furrowed his brow more than usual. "So a stock is just a piece of paper with a hypothetical and constantly fluctuating value attached to it, which doesn't do you any good until you get rid of it..."
"That's all money is," Nick retorted.
"No, it ain't," Mr. Guilford asserted. "The difference is where the value comes from. These stocks of yours are only worth something because people are willing to gamble they'll be worth more later. Do you know where the value of a dollar comes from?"
"The price of gold."
"No! It comes from out there!" The eagle pointed out the window to his field. "People like me grow corn, and make hats, and washing machines and what have you, and when we do we're turning our labor into valuable objects. We trade them for money, which takes on their worth. Money is a placeholder for the value of work. Money is made by people like me who did work to create it, so people like you can sit around and play games with it!"
Nick looked a little affronted. "The stock market isn't a game! It's made me plenty."
Mr. Guilford scoffed. "Stock market... Mark my words anywhere you like: The whole phony outfit will be in ruins by the end of the decade!"
Nick huffed. "Shows what you know..."
The kitchen got quiet.
"Well now, that's all just too bad," Mrs. Guilford said, wafting the tension away. "I hope your other business goes better, whatever it is. You can at least stay here until tomorrow, since you came all this way..." She silently shushed Mr. Guilford, who was about to object.

Dinner was a little quiet. It was no wonder that Nick decided to excuse himself early. Not before he finished two plates though, Rote noted. The little blue bird was leaving his room, and taking the unusual step of locking the door. He tucked the key into his wing, trusting a loop of string to keep it secure. At the bottom of the stairs, he encountered the mustelid.
"Is that your room up there?" Nick asked in a friendly, hollow way.
"Uh huh," Rote replied.
"I was just looking for one I can use. I think the lady said it was third on the right?"
"Yeah, that one's empty."
Rote kept walking, not wishing to make any more conversation than he had to. At the bottom of the stairs, he could hear the radio. A faraway-sounding male voice wafted down the hallway from the parlor.
...the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York City, the inaugural transmission of the National Broadcasting Company continues with...
When he walked into the parlor, Mr. and Mrs. Guilford were seated there. The curvy horn of the radio was emitting some droll routine between two lively actors. Rote didn't have much interest in Vaudevillian comedy. He kept walking. Through the kitchen, out the back door. The fall air was pleasant. It was nice having cool nights again. The hollow, metallic drone of the radio faded away behind the door, replaced by the chirping of insects. Not the deafening cacophony of summer, but still noisy, for now. He stared up at the Milky Way. Before he had a chance to become one with the cosmos, a giant wing brought him out of his reverie. He was scooped up in it and carried to the adjacent corner of the house, which until now had obscured a very large gull.
"Hi Nestor." Rote said flatly, lying in the giant bird's fanned-out wing.
"Hello," the gull replied, grinning. He was seated on the ground with his back against the house. His head was level with the second-story roof.
"Did you ever want to be rich, Nestor?"
The gull thought for a moment. "I guess I always thought it would be nice. But my career choices thus far would lead one to conclude that it's never been a priority."
"You mean people don't join the army to become millionaires?" Rote asked with mock incredulity.
"Believe it or not," Nestor chuckled, and set Rote on the bridge of his beak. The parrot straddled it like he was sitting on a sawhorse. He wasn't remotely afraid of falling. Below him was Nestor's belly, which was about the softest landing he could ask for.
"I wanted to be rich," Rote said. "I thought it was the highest goal to aim for, once. But that was back when I thought I never would be." Rote swung his feet. "Now it's starting to seem like wealth is just a new set of problems."
"You mean that weasel guy?"
"How many more people like him am I going to have to deal with?"
"Oh, he's not so bad. A little abrasive, but told off easy enough..."
"He's more than abrasive to me. I don't like people trying to steal from me. Nothing gets my hackles up more than that..."
"You think that's what he was up to?"
"Of course. You think he came here out of the goodness of his heart?"
"I was sort of wondering about that. Seems like an awful long way to go for a business trip. Do you think he really knows Clint Murchison?"
Rote rolled his eyes. "I guess the only people who get to enjoy wealth are the ones who are born into it. Or marry it."
"Another thing I've clearly made no strides towards..."
"Speaking of, where is Paco?"
Nestor tilted his eyes downwards. Rote followed his gaze, down to the grass flattened under the giant bird's haunches.
"Oh," the parrot said.
"What can I say? He loves it."

Rote made his way back through the house. There was a different voice in the parlor this time. It was Nick, talking on the phone. He was leaning against the wall where it hung, facing away from Rote with the earpiece clutched to his head in a close, secretive posture.
"Oh, were you looking for me?" Nick asked whoever he was talking to, sounding as if he wasn't actively fleeing. "That's too bad. sounds like your boys just missed me. I woulda loved to see ol' Meathooks McGurk again... Yeah, I had to take a little trip. My auntie, she... Listen, hey, you won't be so sore when I come back, see? I've got your thousand bucks in my pocket. Swear to God, first stop I make when I'm back in town is your office... ...That's not very nice. And anyway, I'm not a weasel, scum-sucking or otherwise. I'm a marten. ...Okay fine, you don't believe me. I can't wait to see the look on your face."
Rote kept walking, relieved when he heard the phone hand up behind him. The thought of the long-distance bill rankled him. He ascended to his room and walked through the door like he always did, but this made him pause. He looked in his wing, and found the key still on the string. The fact that he hadn't needed to use it rankled him much worse. He looked around for anything missing or moved, but nothing seemed out of place. There was a tightness in his stomach, a sick feeling manifested by his anger at being violated. But no matter how closely he looked, he couldn't find anything out of place. Eventually he gave up looking and tried to go to bed.

All Rote could do was lay there in bed and think about whatever Nick was up to. It ran through his mind furiously, giving him no chance to sleep. He thought about the same things over and over. "I got your thousand bucks in my pocket." What exactly was the stock market swindle? What was missing from his room? Maybe he ought to just confront him. Without knowing what was missing, it would be too easy to deny... Then he remembered something he'd said himself.
"We're already incorporated."
Rote sat up. That was what the swindle was. Nick wanted a company, any real company, to sell off in stock and pocket the money. Or more likely, pay off whoever was on the other end of that expensive phone call. It wouldn't matter if the price cratered later, it would be Guilford's holding the bag. He went to his desk and opened the file drawer. He honed in on the incorporation documents and pulled open the folder. Empty.
He went down the stairs, getting angrier as he went, and marched to the third door on the right. He opened the door and stood there on the threshold. Nick was startled, and jerked on the bed. He quickly became indignant.
"Nobody knocks out here in the sticks?" He asked, smirking in the light of a hurricane lamp.
"Give it back. Then get out," Rote said in an intense but steady voice.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Rote huffed through his nares, trying to keep his face blank. "I know what you took. If you give it back, you can go. But you ain't leaving here with it."
"I said I don't know what you're talking about." He still wouldn't admit it, but his steeled expression and tone of voice seemed to show that he could sense he was in a bit of trouble.
"I'm not going to give you another chance. I'm not going to bargain with you later." Rote was starting to show a sliver of the rage pounding through his head.
"Fuck off." Nick threw the alarm clock from the side of the bed and it hit the wall next to Rote's head with a ding. Rote shut the door.

Nick rolled over in the bed. He was mildly worried, but what was that puny little blue canary going to do? Then he remembered Mr. Guilford. That guy could probably wing him out like a towel... He waited a while. Exactly how long, he could no longer tell. He quietly put his shoes on and left the room, making for the stairs as stealthily as possible. No sense being here in the morning... When he got close to the stairs, there was a fuzzy blob at the top of them.
"Feeling restless?" the blob said.
"I was just, using the bathroom..." Nick said. His eyes adjusted better to the darkness, and the blob turned into the little blue parrot, sitting on the top of the stairs.
"I'm feeling restless," Rote said. "I like to sit here when I can't sleep. Sometimes I sit here all night..."
Nick ran through his options. He wondered what the little bird would do if he just pushed past. He wondered if he could silence him before he woke up the whole house... Probably not. He went back to his room.

"You were up early this morning, Rote," Mrs. Guilford said.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied, stirring the pot of grits on the stove for no evident purpose.
The early morning light in the kitchen seemed hazy. Hazier still through Rote's eyes. He was almost too tired to stand. He barely noticed Nestor and Paco come into the kitchen. He sat down at the table beside them.
"Where is that... interesting guest of ours?" Mrs. Guilford asked, scooping scrambled eggs onto plates.
"He's probably still asleep," Paco said. That was correct, Rote knew. At the very least, Nick was still in his room.
"City people do sleep late... I hope he gets up while the food is warm," Mrs. Guilford said.
"Shouldn't let him oversleep," Rote suggested. "It'd be our fault if he had to eat a cold breakfast. Wouldn't want that..."
Mrs. Guilford sighed. "You're right... Paco, would you be a dear and fetch our guest?"
"Okay, Mrs. G," Paco cheerfully responded, already trotting out of the kitchen for some other purpose.

"I guess some of them knock," Nick thought. He had just been awoken by a rapping on his door.
"Time for breakfast," the roadrunner on the other side said. Nick cursed himself for falling asleep. He'd missed his chance to slip away, if one had come.
The roadrunner knocked again. "Hey, you hear me?"
"Yeah, I heard ya..."

Nick looked around the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone was seemingly eating a normal breakfast. He was still a little wary, but he joined them. Nobody acted like they knew anything. Not even Rote.
"What were you out digging up this morning?" Mrs. Guilford asked, giving Nick his plate.
"Oh, I just got tired of looking at that stump," Rote said. "I'm gonna blast it out today."
"Do you really need to? It's been there for ages, never bothered anything."
Mr. Guilford interjected: "Let him blow it to the moon if he wants. We all need something to do around here."
"All right, all right," she said. "It's just a little unexpected. That's an awfully deep hole you dug..."

Breakfast had been pleasant enough, but just the same Nick was eager to get going. The only thing keeping him was his coat and hat were missing. More importantly, his bag was gone too.
"Have to be hitting the road now," Nick said. "You haven't seen any of my things, have you?"
"No, I can't say I have," Mrs. Guilford replied, rinsing out a pot.
"How 'bout you? You seen a carpet bag anywhere around here?" Nick asked Paco, getting slightly annoyed.
"No, not since the last time you was holding it."
So that was the game, Nick realized. He went back to hunting around the parlor, certain he wouldn't find anything. When Paco came out of the kitchen, he confronted him again, closely and angrily.
"Where is it, you little sp..." He froze when Nestor appeared. Jeeze, that guy was huge too...
"You think I stole it?" Paco asked indignantly. "I didn't steal nothing!"
The gull and the roadrunner went off together. Nick felt himself becoming sick with frustration. Or maybe he was just getting sick. That breakfast wasn't sitting right. His belly growled unhappily.

Mrs. Guilford happened upon Rote on her way out of the house.
"What's that you've got there?" She asked.
"Buckshot's bridle. Stitches ripped, gonna have to get a new one," he answered.
She looked closely at it. Indeed, it looked like someone had torn them right out.
"But you don't have to get a new one, do you?" she asked. "It's just a little sewing."
"Oh, I didn't want to trouble you over it. Sewing leather is such a job..."
"Nonsense, I'm happy to do it. George is right you know; we all need things to do around here."
"Thanks a lot, You're really doing me a favor."
"Of course! I'll get to work on it right now. I can't remember the last time I used that sewing machine."
Mrs. Guilford took the bridle inside and headed up the stairs. She'd be busy for a while.

Nick paced around on the second floor. He'd been in every room, looked in every closet, under every bed. It was a big bag, there were only so many places to stash it. He growled angrily. He could have been fifty miles away by now... He stepped into the bathroom for the third time, and scanned around again. Still nothing. He was just looking in the same places over and over out of agitation. Where did they put it!? He wanted to wring the skinny little neck on that parrot fai... He flung open the shower curtain. There it all was. His coat and hat and bag, piled up in the bathtub. What a stupid hiding place. He opened his bag and checked the lining. He could feel the faint crinkle of paper concealed inside. Everything else was in there too. He hastily put on his coat and hat and dragged the bag out of the bathroom double-time. He wasn't spending another second in this corny farmhouse.

Paco turned a corner going a little too fast, and ran right into Rote, who just happened to be standing in that particular spot.
"¡Ay! Sorry!" Paco said, staggering back.
Rote chuckled. "No harm done," he said, patting his middle. They were both very swollen in the belly, and had softly bounced off of each other.
Paco giggled, looking down at himself. His kaftan was stretched tight.
"After some of this, I bet." Rote handed Paco a dried twig. They had discovered, out of urgent necessity, that it counteracted acute inflation. They always kept some handy now.
"Yeah, you guessed it." Paco put it in his pocket. Rote started to chew one of his own. "Must've been something at breakfast, I guess."
"Must have been..." Rote answered.
"I gotta get back upstairs. Nestor can't fit through the door." Paco started to leave.
"Now, you give him that chicory right away," Rote chided. "Don't you tease him..."
Paco giggled devilishly at the idea. "I wouldn't do anything like that~" The roadrunner trotted up the stairs.
Rote smirked. They'd be indisposed for some time.

Nick waddled down the stairs, rather confused and horrified at the state of his middle. His belly appeared to be bloating bigger by the second. He was sure of it. He could feel his buttons getting tighter. By the time he reached the bottom, they'd started to pop open. He had an airy, gurgling balloon of a gut jutting out in front of him.
"Hey what gives!?" the mustelid said with alarm.
Rote just stood nearby and stared at him.
"I'm not kiddin'. You... Do something!"
Rote remained expressionless. The marten burbled and swelled violently, shearing off shirt buttons and ripping seams.
"Gonna give me the deadpan routine, huh Buster? Well I'm making tracks!" Nick lunged for the front door. His belly was so swollen that he almost couldn't reach the handle. By the time he got it open, he was too big to go through. And getting bigger, one creaking surge at a time...
Rote grabbed Nick's short tail and pulled him back from the door. The marten landed on his haunches with a hollow bwomp and a bounce. He started to drag him.
"Look, I'm sorry, all right?" Nick said, voice sounding tight from the rising pressure. "You taught me a lesson. I'll give you the papers back! Just lemme go!"
"I told you I wasn't going to make any deals with you later," Rote replied, and kept dragging.
"You can't be serious!" Nick said, and his whole body inflated rounder in a big sudden puff. At that point, Rote started to roll him.
"You should have listened to me when I was willing to be reasonable," Rote said flatly.
They reached the back door, and Rote had to ram his shoulder into the ballooned marten with all his weight to squeeze him through. Nick popped through the door frame and rolled on the grass.
"What difference does it make? If I give the papers back, why can't you let me go?!" Nick asked frantically, arms and legs starting to sink into his massively bloated body. He kept puffing bigger, hide creaking.
"You could have copied the signatures and everything by now."
"I didn't! I swear!"
"I'll never believe anything you say."
Nick started to panic. "Help! HELP!" He yelled. "Save me from this lunatic! HEY! WHERE IS EVERYBODY?!"
Nick's puffy cheeks were squeezed by the walls of the rising divot surrounding his head, silencing him. He got bigger, and tighter, creaking sounds reaching a terrifying pitch. He watched Rote cover his ears with his wings and shut his eyes tight...

Mr. Guilford was startled awake. He sat up in his bed and rubbed his head. Then he remembered what that sound must have been.
"All that digging, and he didn't bury the damn dynamite deep enough," the eagle muttered, rolled over, and went back to sleep.