Weasels.

Weasels

Ana came down the stairs having removed her sodden pants after another futile Taigil search in the damp and dreary day.

I closed my laptop, replaced my glasses on my nose, and turned to her.

"Weasels," I said.

She cocked her head to the side. "What?"

"Having too many weasels. Nine weasels!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Nine weasels! A surplus of weasels. It's not like they're even good for anything. I mean, sometimes you can fight them, but, you only need one."

"What. Are. You. Talking. About?!"

"Weasels! Knocking some weasel-seller unconscious and running into the shadows laughing gleefully with a weasel in either hand."

She paused a moment. "What game are you talking about?" I gave her a look, and she got it. "Oh, the Bazaar?"

"Mm-hm." I stood up and said, "Seriously, imagine it. You're walking down the street, you see someone selling weasels--I mean they're popular right now as pets, right?--and what possesses you to knock the guy unconscious and steal his weasels? Can you imagine this? Running into the shadows with a weasel in each hand?" I extended my hands as I pantomimed the action. "They're not even good for anything! You can take them to the weasel fights, and I just sold my eight surplus ones for 20 pence a piece, but still, you only need one weasel for the fights!"

Ana followed me to the coat closet where I put away a grocery bag. "What's a weasel?"

"They're like ferrets, or Taigil. You know, Lucky Weasel."

She said, "Oh! Right! I was thinking hedgehogs."