A/N: There's something funny about fandom. Especially after being sick, and while you're busy recovering, that stupid writer's block decides to rear its freaking head at you. Then out of nowhere comes your YouTube recommendations, and right in front of your face is the trailer for the Lackadaisy short. Fast forward several months, and after watching it over and over again, you just fall in love with the whole storyline, animation, and all.

Well, that's been me lately, and as a result, this said fandom (Lackadaisy), got me hooked like a fish. And now, I just gotta do something about this burning passion for the series… in the form of writing words. I hope you like it. And one other thing; I really do hope that they bring us Lackadaisy fans out there more shorts in the near future. But for now, I need to get to the bottom of this and pour my love for it out via writing words, and all. Here I go, back at it!

Rex Bane was furious. His space black eyes stared ahead as he struggled against an urge to smash something. Preferably his boss. Or the miniature candle still stuck on the table a week after Christmas Day was history. Bane felt no holiday spirit, belated or otherwise, and the pathetic candle only added to his rotten mood. Despite being dressed up in warm coats, and lightweight scarfs, the two cats seated at the table in front of him—one being a orange tabby, and the other, a Russian blue shivered in the bitter cold of the winter season. And Bane's angry mood surely didn't make things any better.

"What do you mean you have a job for me in St. Louis?" He stormed.

Bane knew he was on sinking sand with his boss. Conrad Vaughn commanded fear and respect from all active members of the Black Sabre, and in his rage, Bane was dangerously close to going too far in questioning Vaughn's orders.

"I refuse to go to that lousy city, especially all the way there just to keep an eye out for your next contact?" He thundered.

The tabby remained silent.

Bane was still a follower of the ideas of the Black Sabre, which wanted nothing more than to do dark deeds from the black market on taking out speakeasy owners. But he didn't like the assignment Vaughn was giving him, and he didn't much like his superior or taking orders from him, either.

Bane and Vaughn had worked together on an assignment in the state of Kansas; it had not gone well. First, they failed to help break a fellow member out of prison. Then they were arrested in Wichita while trying to purchase train tickets to California. Then tensions only increased as Vaughn was transported to a different state by Federal mandate, while Bane was locked away at a prison in northern Nebraska. But most of all, Bane blamed a little tan tabby kitten who had spotted him out—a well-trained professional bounty hunter. He was determined that the child would pay for his year of misery in that stinking Nebraska prison. From the moment six months ago when he had been liberated by his Black Sabre mates while being transported to a maximum-security prison, Bane had only one goal: to find and get rid of Jehu Donehey.

Bane knew it had been dangerous even to go near the kitten, what with warrants for his arrest posted on every border crossing and police station in half a dozen different states. So he he had to be careful as he stalked his prey. Careful and successful. Getting the kid's address, apartment 202A, in downtown Wichita, Kansas, had been the tricky part. But once he found the corrupt mayor ready to sell that information, it was settled—over a story about an once booming speakeasy empire ran by an Atlas May.

The rest had been easy. Bane marveled at the fact that the kid's uncle was going to be a part of a high security magnate for the newly widowed spouse of Atlas May Mitzi May. Bane then remembered somewhere in the corrupt Wichita mayor's story about the Lackadaisy speakeasy, he had heard the current owner's name at least, a dozen times. Everyone had been hyped up by last year's events involving the rise of the Marigold gang, and the Lackadaisy falling on really hard times, of which had led to Atlas May being killed also. Then for the kid to cross paths with him made Bane crazy with rage to think about it.

And now—with his plan for revenge ready to be carried out—the Black Sabre was ordering Bane to St Louis, to some lousy riverfront city on the other side of Missouri.

"This is craziness," Bane yelled, bringing his thoughts back to Vaughn.

"St Louis is nearly 3 hours from here. It could take days just to get across the state. If the Feds are still out, I could be stranded at an unknown location for weeks. No way. I'm not going. Not till I've taken care of that stinking little brat who put us both in prison."

Vaughn remained silent, and Bane felt his temper build. A Model T drove by, going northbound towards Des Moines, Iowa. The southwestern town of Joplin, Missouri —practically a city that touched the Missouri-Oklahoma state line—was no better than St Louis, and Bane was eager to return to Wichita and exact his revenge.

When Vaughn finally spoke, it was in a gravelly voice filled with sarcasm and authority.

"Refuse? You refuse to carry out an order of the Black Sabre?" He drew out the single s, making it sound like a hiss.

"You dare to refuse an order from your superior when so recently your fellow teammates spent a vast amount of cash and risked their lives to get you out of prison? Remember that oath of loyalty you swore to the Black Sabre?"

Vaughn was standing now, his anger erupting in waves as he hammered away at Bane.

"Refuse the Black Sabre? I don't think so."

Bane held up his hands, as if to deflect the tirade, aware that he had gone too far.

"I didn't mean refuse… exactly," he tried to explain.

"I was upset. Of course I'm still one of the Sabres. It's… it's just the timing. Give me a week, just one week. Then I'll go to St Louis. I'll go anywhere you ask."

Another Model T rolled by. The orange tabby sat back down, his face a mask Bane was unable to read. After a few tense moments of silence, he began to hope his superior had changed his mind. But when Vaughn spoke, his words dropped like little exploding bombs into the already disturbed brain of Rex Bane.

"You will go where I say… and you will go tonight. And try," he said sarcastically.

"Not to make any more mistakes like you did in Wichita. Kidnapping that"—Cor was enjoying mocking the angry Russian blue—" kid who managed to outsmart a trained hitman like you."

"Enough!" Bane yelled.

"I will make up for any mistakes I might have made in the past. And let me remind you of all the successful jobs I did before that rotten child spotted me. Let me take care of him, and I will be more than ready to serve the cause—"

"The job will not wait," Vaughn interrupted. "Your personal problem will have to!"

The discussion was over; an ultimatum had been given. Vaughn laid a thick manila envelope on the rickety table.

"Tonight you go to St Louis and do as you are told, or I will see to it that the Feds find you long before you find Jehu Donehey."

Bane knew he was defeated. He picked up the bulging envelope marked with the head of a saber-toothed tiger in the upper left hand corner. His hands trembled, and the heat of that miserable restaurant began to make him sweat. He listened to his instructions without meeting the red herring's eyes.

"Inside you will find the name of your contact in St Louis, a false ID and birth certificate, and your first-class train ticket, which you will board onto at twelve-thirty midnight in Springfield. Timmins here, who has contacts with both local PD and the Feds, will get you over several counties and into Rolla, across this state, and into St Louis. Thanks to that child's Fed uncle helping his fellow cohorts three months ago, your face is all over the Internet and on posters all across states west of the Mississippi River from here to Seattle, so you will need Timmins' contacts just to board your flight, and get yourself to St Louis."

There was a long pause in Vaughn's instructions, then he continued on.

But the rest is up to you. And by the way, 'Scarface,' " Vaughn sneered.

"Don't get distracted by some little kid and mess this one up too."

Loud guffaws broke out from both anthros at the reminder of what Bane's young accuser had called him on the witness stand back in St. Louis.

The taunt worked; Bane's fist flew. The cheap Christmas candle smashed against the wall alongside a cheap glass, the cup shattering in a thousand pieces. He tucked the envelope under his arm and stormed out—heading for St Louis in a very bad mood…