Barnaby’s hesitation was a confession in itself. He slowly raised his paws in a gesture of pure surrender. I leaned in, closing my eyes for a moment to focus my entire being on a single sense. My nose could track a goblin through a swamp in a rainstorm. Tracking a confectionery treat on a nervous rabbit was an insult to my skills.
I took a slow, deep breath, filtering the information. First, the surface layer: sweat, the byproduct of fear, and the dusty, dry scent of his own fur. This was expected, and irrelevant.
I pushed past it, searching for the anomaly. Then I found it: rich, dark, and utterly damning, layered underneath. The heavy aroma of warm butter and roasted beans. The stink of dietary ruin.
“You reek of cocoa.”
Barnaby stiffened, his ears standing straight up like antennae. “It’s my body wash! It’s, uh, ‘Chocolate Thunder.’ Very popular this season. Musky, yet playful.”
Chocolate Thunder.I’d almost respect the creativity if the execution weren’t so poor. “You don’t use body wash.” I stepped in front of him, blocking the escape route he’d been eyeing earlier. “You use a dirt bath. You told me three days ago that soap strips the natural oils from your pelt and disrupts your ‘earth energy’.”
“I changed my routine!” His protest hit a panic-stricken falsetto, cracking under the pressure. “I’m trying new things! Stop sniffing me, Brok, it’s invasive!”
His panic was a beacon, pointing me directly to the source. I followed the trail, ignoring his pleas and leaning closer to his midsection. The cocoa stench was overwhelming here, a cloying, sugary cloud that made the fillings in my tusks ache. My focus locked onto his stomach, specifically the little pouch of extra skin and fur near his waistline. A gift from Santa himself, it was supposed to be sacred storage for the magic dust he used to squeeze down chimneys.
Magic dust didn’t come in suspicious, bulbous lumps.
“Open the pouch.”
Barnaby gasped, clutching his stomach as if I’d demanded a vital organ. “Brok! That is private! That is a personal storage area! Would I ask you to empty your pockets?”
I almost laughed. “I don’t have pockets.” I slapped my spandex thighs, the sound cracking through the quiet grove. “I am aerodynamic. Open the pouch.”
“No.” He took a half-step back, nearly tripping over an exposed root.
“I am going to count to three.”
“It’s just emergency supplies!” he squeaked again.
“One.” My patience, already worn thin, began to fray.
“Bandages! In case I pull a hammy! Or… or ointments!” He was babbling now, his eyes darting around as if a better excuse might be hiding behind an oak tree.
“Two.” I didn’t move. I simply waited, knowing he’d eventually break. Everyone did, in the end.
He must have seen that the game was up, because he finally abandoned his facade. “Okay, fine! Fine!” Barnaby threw his hands up, his ears flopping down in total defeat. “You want to shame me? Go ahead! This is my shame!”
He moved his paws aside, revealing the bulge in his pouch.
I didn’t wait for an invitation. I reached into the pouch. My fingers brushed past something soft and immediately found the telltale crinkle of foil. It was a solid, round object that had no business being within a five-mile radius of a legitimate fitness regimen.
I pulled out the contraband and held it up in a sunbeam.
A truffle sat in my palm, a flawless sphere of dark chocolate dusted with edible gold flakes. It rested in a crinkled gold wrapper, a tiny, perfectly engineered bomb aimed straight at my client.
All the log presses. All the forced marches. All the lectures on proper form. And he was carrying this?
This was like spending weeks coaching the Gingerbread Man on his sprint times, only to find out he’d been secretly snacking on his own gumdrop buttons. It was a fundamental betrayal of the process.
Caloric deficits. Muscle-tear recovery times. The immutable laws of physiology. My entire world was built on a foundation of cold, hard science. And none of it, not a single theorem, could account for the sheer, glittering audacity of this thing. I had to summon every ounce of will to keep my tone level. “A truffle. We are doing burpees. We are sweating. We are fighting for your life. And you are carrying… a dessert?”
“It’s fuel!” Barnaby launched himself upwards in a jump that had all the grace of a sack of wet laundry. I didn’t even have to move my arm. He flailed, his paws batting at the air a good foot below the target. “Quick energy! Power for the brain!”
“Power for the brain? It is a sugar bomb!” I roared. “There is gold on it, Barnaby! You are eating gold! Do you know how many burpees it takes to burn off a gold-plated truffle? Hundreds! Thousands!”
“It’s worth it!” Barnaby yelled, finally snapping, his voice ringing with the passion of a true believer. “You don’t understand, Brok! You eat rocks and raw meat! You don’t know what this tastes like! It’s… It’s a hug for your mouth!”
Looking at the truffle again, I squeezed it between my thumb and forefinger. The chocolate shell cracked with a sharp snap. The sphere’s soft, creamy interior oozed out over my knuckle.
