Tom was on edge.
It was the Wednesday after he'd broken a certain fennec fox's winning streak. Interestingly enough, he hadn't seen him since then, nor had anyone else on the red team; he seemed to have hung up his team colors in shame... or something.
Nevertheless, the orange wolf was ready for trouble, his red bandanna tied tightly around his left arm to signal that he was ready for blue-teamers to come and get some. It was a little odd that nobody seemed to be taking the bait, though.
As Tom continued his patrol route, a mouth-watering scent reached his canine nose at the town square.
Turning his head, he noticed a cart with a built-in frier set up not far from the main fountain. The side of the cart read "FEELIN' CHIPPY / FRESH COOKED FISH 'N' CHIPS".
In a second, Tom was in front of the cart, salivating like Pavlov's dog. The proprietor was a male falcon with cobalt blue feathers; his beak and taloned feet were black, his underbelly was a slightly lighter shade of blue, and he didn't appear to be wearing anything.
"Hey there! My name's Fisher. The menu's right there."
Tom placed his order, and within minutes he was sitting on the fountain's edge with a paper plate filled with perfectly battered fish and fried chips (or "fries" as they're called in America).
He dug in.
It was the most delicious serving of fish and chips he'd had in his life. He savored every bite, making sure he got every bit of its taste on its way down the hatch.
Bizarrely, he seemed to get a little slimmer with every bite. He didn't notice, though; his attention was on his meal.
Finally, the wolf's plate was empty. He leaned in to lick up the crumbs... only for his head to drop down onto the plate face-first.
Tom quickly grew aware of his current situation. His entire body was as flat and limp as a towel, and he couldn't move. It was just like when he was flattened, only this was somehow different.
I haven't been flattened. Flattening happens all at once. Whatever this was, it was gradual. I've been... I've deflated!
At that moment, he felt someone pick him up. It was none other than Fisher, the falcon who'd served him. Now that he was closer, Tom noticed a blue bandanna tied around Fisher's left wing; he hadn't seen it before because it was so well camouflaged against his feathers, but it was definitely visible to someone who was looking for it.
The falcon grinned. "Did you like the fish and chips? I added a little of my 'special sauce' to your serving. It's nothing personal; you were just the first red-teamer to turn up."
Tom tried to form words, but couldn't think of a thing to say. Fisher proceeded back to his cart, politely dropping the spent paper plate in a trash can on the way.
Back at the cart, Fisher gently held the deflated wolf to his chest, then tied his (Tom's) arms around his (Fisher's) neck like straps. In this position, he made a perfect apron.
"Your orange makes a fine contrast with my blue, if I may say so myself."
"Grr... I'm going to get you back for this tomorrow!"
Fisher used Tom as his apron for the rest of the day. Tom didn't mind his conversion into an accessory, or even the fact that yet another blue-teamer had gotten the better of him.
What he DID mind was the constant smell of fish and chips literally right under his nose, when he knew he wouldn't get a bite of it.