The Last One

"Next?" said the bank teller. 

A large man approached the counter and, without a word, slid a withdrawal slip over to her. He was dressed in feathers, skins and furs of various animals, and an alarm clock dangled from his golden neck chain. His beard was braided, beaded and dyed in competing hues. Atop his headdress sat a stern, ornately saddled great horned owl, and on that saddle sat a mouse in a fez.

"I am Nangtar, last of the Omniscients!" announced the mouse in a commanding if high-pitched voice. "Fulfill the requirements of this scroll, gold keeper!"

Transfixed on the strange trio, she picked up the withdrawal slip, her eyes darting over the account numbers only long enough to tap them out. The account checked out, and she began counting out the money.

The mouse cleared his throat. "I'm not fond of the new polymers on Canadian tender," he said. "Is it possible to have that in ducats?"

"Uh, no," said the teller, realizing only then that her mouth was still hanging open. "We don't have ducats."

"Also the new artwork is all weird now. Laurier looks more like Trudeau or something."

"I could give this to you in old paper twenties...?" she suggested.

"Yes," said the mouse, as if it had been his own idea. "I wish to have the funds in paper!"

She pulled out a stack of older twenties and began counting.

"Ogmire is also quick with numbers," said the mouse. "Ogmire, quickly! Five minus three?" The owl sternly stamped his foot as he hooted out the correct answer, once, then twice. The mouse held his arms aloft grandiosely. The man applauded exactly four times.

"Four hundred," said the teller, handing over the cash. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" As the man put the funds into a tin cookie box, the mouse cleared his throat again.

"Yes," said the mouse. "I find you comely. Have you any, uh... plans for this evening?"

"Oh, uh..." she said. There was an awkward pause. "Last of the Omniscients..." said the mouse, awkwardly now. "As I said... from before..."

"Yes. I... think I have plans."

"Of course," mumbled the mouse, the cheeks under his fur glowing red. "Presumptuous of me."

Later, in his Yorkville penthouse, Nangtar excused his manservant and owl earlier than usual, preferring to quietly finish his Swiss Chalet quarter-chicken take-out dinner alone. "Keeper of Time, Watcher Of The Threshold, Last of the Omniscients," he chided himself. "And yet here I am again, alone on New Year's Eve."

He retired to his study to resume work on his memoirs. Then, shortly before midnight, he poured himself a thimble-full of thousand-year-old port and opened the window, that he might hear the celebrations far below. He toasted the new year and then fell asleep fitfully in his chair, blissfully unaware when, hours later, a doting Ogmire would alight beside him, shielding him from the cold breeze with a warm, weathered wing.