1: Gunshots In Prague

Fritz, the eighth in a long line of Prussian weasels, exploded next to me in a hail of blood and bones. I tumbled under the table and a flash of fur followed me. Maurice looked at me and then at his life companion, now nothing more than a red and white splotch on the street outside of the Old Town Square Hotel. A cigarette dangled out of his mouth, and he nervously struggled to light it with his paws.

“No opposable thumbs, you stupid little bastard,” I said, snatching the green lighter away. “Knock it off and pay attention. Use your famous sense of smell.”

Maurice sniffed the air, and tapped the ground twice.

“Two?”

He nodded. I handed him the lighter back.

“Two Vatican assassins. Great. And I need a new weasel. This is turning out to be a fantastic day, isn’t it?” I wiped the remaining bits of Fritz the Eighth off my fur coat, and began to walk carefully down the cobbled streets, Maurice trotting behind with three burning butts in his mouth.

“This is one murder the Pope just isn’t going to get away with,” I said. Maurice squeaked in agreement. We were off to Rome.