“But Maaah-oooom! I told you I didn’t want to do an interview!” Steve yelled down the stairs, twirling the small wombat on his wrist to maximize the effectiveness of his comb. “Why couldn’t it at least be a radio interview and not a television interview?!”

“Steven, your publicist said that this was a big step in your career. Don’t you want to make something of yourself?!”

Steve grimaced into the mirror at the proloooonged Minnesotan ‘O’ in don’t. Even after years in New York, his mom had still not lost some of the most pronounced linguistic characteristics ingrained in her from ‘da Range. “Yah sure,” he called down, distracted by that one curl that wanted to stick straight out.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed.

“Alrighty guys,” he gathered as much authority into his voice as he could. “Ditch the comb and make use of those little claws!”

His hair in semi-decent order, Steve decided this would be a great time to enact The Plan. “Colonel, would you please get the new Wombat treats that Mom got?” He inclined his head towards the plastic bag on the counter next to the sink.

A few moments of rustling later, the bottle was open- though how the Colonel had managed to teach himself to open child-proof tops was something that Steve had always admired and never quite understood. “Just one now,” he instructed, as the Colonel doled out the little white “treats”, dutifully handing one to each hand wombat.

As his mom helped him into his beloved trench coat, he noticed the wombats were a little more subdued than normal. He smiled, ‘Maybe this interview won’t be so bad after all...’

He wasn't the ugliest man Maxine had ever seen; his face was decent enough, his teeth pretty much straight, eyes about the right distance apart, nose in the proper location. He wasn't ugly; he was simply repulsive.

The redhead met him at the reception desk, with a warm smile. "Welcome to Fox News, Mr. Brown—I'm Maxine Ralls. Your mother and I spoke on the phone." Lovely lady. Probably had chinchillas for feet. "Do we shake hands?" She asked, with a good-natured crinkle around her eyes and an outstretched hand.

She'd shake, all right, if that's what he wanted: however that worked, with Australian rodents wiggling were a real man had real hands. At least he was still jail bait; she'd hate to meet him when he was old enough to really make her man-senses tingle.

"If you'll come with me, we've got an interview room set up on the ninth floor." She said, with and absolutely cordial air. The things a girl did to make the news.

The girl was formal with him, yet managed to both mention his mother and mock his mutation in the same breath. "I'll pass on the handshake," he answered the offered hand with a curt nod and shoved his wombats back into his pockets. They didn't put up their normal fuss and he was pleased that his plan to drug them into submission was working out rather well thus far.

The Colonel offered his paw to the red head from over Steve's right shoulder.

"Yeah, don't be cute," he muttered.

"Lead the way," Steve said, trying to regain- or attain for the first time- control of this interview.

The large guinea pig on his shoulder offered a hand. Now that was cute. She reached out her own hand with a more honest grin than usual...

>> "Yeah, don't be cute."

...But retracted it, in deference to Stevie.

"Right this way," the redhead said. At the elevator, she pressed in their floor—of course she did. She wouldn't make the guy mash his hand-faces into the button pad. Or...whatever it was he did. Somehow he'd managed to get a book typed out and mailed to a publisher. How did that work? For once, Maxine actually had questions for her interviewee. Ones she didn't know the answers to already. It was a strange new feeling, really.

The elevator dinged open on the ninth floor. She led them down the hall, and to a room—which she considerately opened for him, of course.

"We've just got to get you set up with a microphone, and we'll be good to start taping. Do you... want any help getting it clipped on?"

Steve followed the interview lady to the elevator, feeling slightly more vindicated when she snatched her mitt back. He might not respect her floofy job and hair, but he could respect that she gracefully backed down when he made it clear a furry handshake would not happen. And whenever a girl turned down the opportunity to pet a cute furry creature, she deserved a few props.

His newly discovered modicum of respect for her allowed him to let her take the lead. That, and the fact that she knew where she was going and he didn't. Opening the door to the interview room; it was like she was akin to a butler. But the next thing she said...

>> "We've just got to get you set up with a microphone, and we'll be good to start taping. Do you... want any help getting it clipped on?"

That he couldn't abide. He shook his head definitively and adopted a pronounced southern accent. "No ma'am. Mah Mama alwaays told me I wahs handy capable." He smiled and savored his little joke. He nodded at her, but this time in mock politeness. And with that he reached for the tiny microphone with all four wombat-paws. He had no doubt that he'd be able to get them to clip it on, but he doubted very much that the cord would survive their little meeting without any noming.

Let the interview begin!

She didn't touch his hands when she handed over the little microphone. None of them. Not one of four. Should she... even refer to them as 'his' hands? Or was there a different possessive nomenclature at work for his unique situation?

Maxine got her own microphone in place, and spent a little extra time adjusting it out of politeness. Was he... done yet? She got up to check the camera, despite the fact it needed no checking. How about now? Returned to her own seat, ran a discrete hand around the side of the cushion to tuck Rex' tentacle back out of sight, and smiled. Ready?

Ready.

So. First question. Asked with a straight face, even.

"So tell me, Steve: why wombats?"

Referring to his books, of course.

Those dang pincher clips really were the hardest to maneuver for the smaller wombat paws. It was not the amount of force required that was the challenging bit. It was how far apart the two levers were, not quite close enough to paw-mipulate with only one paw.

They managed, the Sergeant looking especially smug after this latest accomplishment. Like he should win a floopity-blooping blue ribbon for completing menial tasks. Noticing that the interviewer was waiting, with an exaggeratedly patient expression, Steve shifted in his chair as though wearing his shape into the back of his chair was essential for him to continue with the interview. When in doubt, make them wait longer what what he always said.

>>"So tell me, Steve: why wombats?"

Ah, proof that some questions really were dumb questions. But, for the sake of his 'image' and in case the adage that 'any publicity was good publicity' was also disproved in the end, he removed as much sarcasm from his reply as possible.

"You might say that I've always had an special interest in wombats, and, well, I guess they kind of stuck." And he smiled an innocent smile that really, truly did reach all the way to his eyes. Next Question...

Well would you look at that. The marsupial had some chest fuzz. If he was a few years older and a little less... well endowed, maybe they'd be continuing this conversation over Italian. Too bad his fuzzy shoulder friend could balance a glass of wine better than he could.

Maxine crossed her legs, her hands settling neatly on her lap as she leaned just the slightest bit forward in her seat, with such interest.

"Now before we talk about your book..." The redhead asked, an answering smile warming her lips. "How about introducing our viewers to your co-authors?"