Buddy Fairchild

Proudly stitched by the penguins "Fluffy Duke," "Scarlet Titan," and "Brother Jake" themselves—an honorary medal from the interviewee.

An antique brass compass with a weathered finish. Allegedly rescued from a fire at the Southern Outlaws Saloon, a place where only nimble rodents could sneak into at the time.

In the long and bushy tale that followed, the interviewee put great emphasis on his heroic deed—but conveniently forgot to explain just how he got this antique compass in the first place.

Sometimes we forget that even if a talking squirrel can, well, talk ... he probably hasn't mastered the written language.

Which suggests that the pager might've been, in a sense, completely useless. The interviewee immediately objected, insisting he did use it to send squad-only codes to his penguin teammates.

"Our liberty depends on the freedom of the press, and that cannot be limited without being lost." —Thomas Jefferson

In some places, data is buried so deep it's like it never existed. Thanks to the First Amendment, the Florida government's like a fish tank—every citizen can stick their head in and take a peek, then loudly voice their opinions on the decor.

Annual education budget, public trash disposal costs, number of people bitten by alligators annually, and alligators bitten by people ... This ain't satire—it's real life, happening around you and me! Anyone can join the cast, but we strongly advise writing your script within the bounds of the law, and absolutely no trespassing on private property.

Even if you're a squirrel!

"Is it just me, or is the title of this meeting way too long? There's practically no space left to write on the white board." —Staffer Robert, exasperated.

"Stop avoiding work! I get it, you love animals, but you can't just hide him in a closet! That thing's an arcanist, not some squeaky toy you picked up at Dadeland Mall!" —Staffer Harland, taking a deep breath.

"And that voice—doesn't sound like a toy at all. He sounds like a grown man!" —Harland, raising his voice further.

"I gotta correct you there, Harland. He isn't actually speaking at all—his waveform output still matches rodent vocalization." —Robert, matter-of-factly.

"So ... should we report him to HQ's research division?" —Harland, backing down a little.

"What? Of course not! You really wanna turn a clever lil' creature like this into one of us?" —Robert, borderline shrieking.

"Well, he's a rodent arcanist that can talk to literally any animal. Here's a thought—let's get HR to send him a job offer. Have him scout other animal arcanists around the Miami area." —Harland, now fully retreating, proposing a compromise.

"Skipping HQ channels?" —Robert, raising a brow.

"Skipping HQ channels." —Harland, firmly.

"Just to give him something to do, so he stops trying to liberate the zoo. Their manager's been camped outside our office for three days."

Pandora Wilson: When did you first realize you were an arcanist?

Buddy Fairchild: Hmm, let me stew on that a second ... I'd say it was 'round the time I was negotiatin' with them woodpeckers on behalf of my family.

Pandora Wilson: So, the woodpeckers told you you're an arcanist?

Buddy Fairchild: Huh? No, ma'am. They weren't nuttin' but a couple o' hungry birds. I felt for 'em too. See, the park rangers had gone hog-wild with the pesticides that year—they hadn't seen so much as an aphid for days.

Pandora Wilson: I believe that reckless misuse of pesticides ended up in local papers around Miami.

Buddy Fairchild: Sure did, thanks to that fella from the Foundation! Heck of a fella, too—he took my complaint letter straight to the papers. Even offered me a job!

Pandora Wilson: A job?

Buddy Fairchild: Sure as shootin', a job at the Foundation! He's the one who told me just what an "arcanist" was.

Buddy Fairchild: Looked grayer 'n the driftwood in the Keys from exhaustion, but he sure was kind to animals. Said he hoped I might be able to help him out.

Pandora Wilson: I see ... Could I take a look at your Foundation employee ID card?

Buddy Fairchild: Whaddya mean ID card?