Yeti of the Year
The first mistake was letting Mayor Llama name an award.
The second mistake was giving him a podium.
By sunset, Cobblestone Square had been decorated with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested no one had asked a follow-up question until it was too late. Blue and white streamers spiraled up the lampposts. Folding chairs had been arranged in crooked rows. A small stage stood in front of the fountain, flanked by two banners that read:
YETI OF THE YEAR CEREMONY
and, beneath that:
CELEBRATING EXCELLENCE IN YETI-BASED CIVIC CONTRIBUTION
No one knew who had approved the subtitle.
The crowd gathered in good spirits. Brenda and Philip sat near the front. Spike leaned against the fountain, arms crossed, pretending he had not come early to get a good spot. Ramses stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves, looking serene in the way only a mummy could look serene at an award ceremony with balloon arches. Barnaby Blackbeard had brought a flask and was insisting to everyone within earshot that it was “ceremonial cider.” Pierre stood by the aisle, silently miming paparazzi taking photographs of the empty stage.
Elara sat in the front row with David nestled beside her feet, the little blue balloon dog squeaking softly every time someone clapped during the band warm-up. She looked amused, affectionate, and slightly dangerous in the way she often did when she knew Yorn was about to be publicly embarrassed for a technically nice reason.
Yorn stood off to the side of the stage with the expression of a man awaiting a medical procedure.
“This is too much,” he muttered.
Elara looked over her shoulder. “It’s a folding-chair ceremony in a town square.”
“There are banners.”
“There are usually banners.”
“One of them says ‘yeti-based civic contribution.’”
Elara smiled. “It’s specific.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Before he could continue, the marching band struck up a triumphant tune that sounded almost normal until the sousaphone player got emotionally involved and held one note several seconds longer than society required.
Mayor Llama stepped onto the podium.
He wore his official sash, a velvet cape, golden spats, and a top hat that was both too tall and too confident. In his hooves, he held a trophy shaped like Yorn, except the sculptor had taken several liberties. The trophy version of Yorn had heroic shoulders, a raised quill, and an expression somewhere between noble journalist and man spotting a sandwich across a room.
The trophy also hummed faintly.
Yorn leaned toward Elara. “Why is it humming?”
“Maybe it’s proud.”
“That doesn’t help.”
Mayor Llama raised one hoof.
“Good citizens of Snowdrift Bay!”
The square quieted.
“Tonight,” he proclaimed, “we gather to honor one of our finest residents. A towering figure of integrity. A champion of truth. A shaggy sentinel of ethical reporting. A man who asks hard questions, writes clear sentences, and has never once let his enormous paws prevent him from proper punctuation.”
The crowd applauded.
Yorn closed his eyes.
Mayor Llama continued.
“Snowdrift Bay has many treasures. Our bay. Our cobblestones. Our butterscotch heritage. Our alarming number of businesses that should not legally have fog machines. But tonight, we celebrate something rarer.”
He paused dramatically.
“Our yeti.”
The crowd erupted.
David bounced in place, squeaking with joy.
Mayor Llama lifted the trophy.
“So it is my great honor to present the annual Yeti of the Year Award to our one and only—literally, geographically, and currently—Yorn!”
The applause was sincere.
That was what made it hard.
Yorn climbed the steps to the stage to cheers, whistles, and one emotional “SPELLCHECK KING!” from Brenda. He smiled awkwardly, accepted the humming trophy, and leaned toward the microphone.
“Thank you,” he said. “Really. This is very kind. I just want to point out that I am the only yeti in Snowdrift Bay.”
Mayor Llama nodded vigorously.
“Exactly. Undefeated.”
The crowd cheered again.
Yorn glanced down at the trophy. It hummed louder in his hands, possibly in agreement.
“I’m grateful,” he continued. “But I’m not sure this required a ceremony.”
A gasp moved through the crowd.
Fabian Flamingo, seated three rows back in a pale blue scarf and ceremonial sunglasses, whispered loudly, “He’s humble. Devastating.”
Yorn pressed on.
“I’m just glad to be part of this town. It’s strange, obviously. Loud. Sometimes legally puzzling. But it’s home. And I’m honored.”
That should have been the end of it.
A sweet moment.
A little applause.
Maybe a few photos, then everyone could go home.
Instead, Mayor Llama stepped back to the microphone.
“And now,” he said, “the tribute portion.”
Yorn’s head turned slowly. “The what.”
The tribute portion began with a children’s choir singing an original song called “Big Furry Truth Man.” The lyrics were mostly complimentary but structurally alarming. Then Pierre performed a silent reenactment of Yorn uncovering corruption, except the corruption appeared to be represented by an invisible goose wearing a crown. Then Barnaby gave a toast in which he compared Yorn to a ship’s mast, a lighthouse, and “a large honest rug that learned to type.”
By the time Spike took the stage, Yorn had reached a level of public discomfort usually reserved for surprise dental surgery.
Spike cleared his throat.
“Yorn,” he said, “you’re one of my best friends. You’re loyal. You’re decent. You’ve got great instincts. And if anyone messes with this town, you’re usually the first guy I’d trust to throw them through a cloud.”
The crowd murmured warmly.
Spike pointed at him.
“Also, you’re enormous, which makes the award feel visually justified.”
Yorn nodded. “Thank you, Spike.”
“I’m not done.”
“Oh no.”
Spike unfolded a piece of paper.
Yorn looked alarmed. “Did you write a speech?”
“I wrote three and chose the least vulnerable one.”
The ceremony lasted another forty minutes.
At the end, Clyde hoisted Yorn onto his back because Mayor Llama announced an “informal victory procession” and everyone accepted that wording too quickly. Yorn protested, but not strongly enough to overcome the momentum of a crowd chanting his name. David bounced along beside them, squeaking madly. Elara walked nearby, laughing into one gloved hand.
Yorn leaned down toward her as Clyde carried him through the square.
“You could help.”
“I am helping by remembering this.”
“That’s not help.”
“It will be later.”
For one evening, it was embarrassing but sweet.
Then Snowdrift Bay did what Snowdrift Bay always did.
It overdeveloped the premise.
The next morning, Yorn opened his front door and found twelve boxes of cupcakes on the porch. Each was frosted blue and white, with tiny fondant notebooks, little candy eyeglasses, or miniature edible beards. One cupcake had a frosting speech bubble that read JOURNALISM!
Yorn stared down at them.
Elara appeared behind him in a robe, holding tea.
“Tribute?”
“Cupcakes.”
“How many?”
“I’m afraid to count.”
David bounced forward, sniffed one, and gave a squeak of approval.
At the Gazette, things were worse.
Someone had hung a banner over Yorn’s desk reading CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR AWARD-WINNING YETI. His chair had been decorated with streamers. A stack of congratulatory letters sat on his blotter, including one from a woman who claimed his reporting had “improved local fur morale.” The paper had run a special insert.
Twelve pages.
On him.
Page one was a feature on his career.
Page two covered his “impact on civic trust.”
Page three was an interview with Elara titled LIVING WITH GREATNESS: A SPOUSE SPEAKS.
Page four was a photo essay on his favorite pens.
Yorn stared at that one longest.
Mr. Henderson passed by, paused, and looked at the spread.
“They misspelled ‘gel ink’ in the caption,” Yorn said faintly.
Mr. Henderson’s mustache seemed to deepen with concern.
“That may be the worst part.”
“It isn’t.”
“No,” Mr. Henderson agreed. “But it is the part we can fix.”
By noon, people were stopping Yorn on the street.
A woman asked him to sign a notebook.
A child asked if yetis were “born with journalism inside.”
A man from a local café wanted permission to name a seasonal chili after him.
“What kind of chili?” Yorn asked, because exhaustion had damaged his judgment.
“White bean, blue corn, and butterscotch.”
“No.”
“We can workshop.”
“No.”
Fabian caught him outside the café with a rolled blueprint under one wing and the glowing eyes of a man who had slept badly because inspiration would not release him.
“Darling,” Fabian said, “I have solved the parade.”
Yorn stopped walking. “There is no parade.”
Fabian laughed as if Yorn had made a charming sound.
“Emotionally, there must be.”
He unfurled the blueprint against the café window. It showed a forty-foot float shaped like Yorn’s head emerging from sculpted snow mousse, surrounded by dancers dressed as notebooks. At the rear of the float, a mechanical quill appeared to dip repeatedly into an enormous inkpot while fireworks spelled YORN over the bay.
Yorn stared.
“Why are there dancers dressed as notebooks?”
Fabian looked offended.
“To represent the written word.”
“One of them is doing a split.”
“The written word is flexible.”
Yorn rubbed his temples. “Fabian, I appreciate the effort, but I do not want a parade.”
Fabian froze.
“No parade.”
“No.”
“Not even a modest processional?”
“No.”
“A tasteful mobile homage?”
“Fabian.”
“A brief yet emotionally complete street-length experience?”
“No.”
Fabian slowly rolled the blueprint back up, wounded but not defeated.
“I understand,” he said. “You fear scale.”
“I fear being thirty feet tall and made of mousse.”
“That’s scale.”
Yorn fled.
By afternoon, things had spread beyond food and parade concepts.
A kiosk appeared in Cobblestone Square selling YETI OF THE YEAR COMMEMORATIVE BUTTONS. Someone produced a line of notebooks with Yorn’s face on the cover and the phrase ASK HARD QUESTIONS, THEN NAP. The gift shop near Whimsy Park began offering little plush Yorns with removable press badges. One had a pull-string that said, “Can I quote you on that?” in a voice that sounded nothing like him and somehow a little like Barnaby.
Yorn found one in a window display and stared at it in horror.
“Why does it wink?”
The shopkeeper shrugged. “Focus groups liked warmth.”
“What focus groups?”
“Spike and two tourists.”
Elara found him fifteen minutes later hiding behind a sack of potatoes in the marketplace.
She stood over him, amused.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Yorn peered up. “Did they send you?”
“No.”
“Are you wearing a wire?”
“Yorn.”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Elara crouched gracefully beside the potatoes.
“They’ve named a chili after you.”
“I said no.”
“Technically, they changed it to stew.”
“That’s not better.”
“And I just saw a woman crocheting something she called a Yorn beard cozy.”
Yorn looked stricken. “For who?”
“I was afraid to ask.”
The final straw came the next morning.
Mayor Llama summoned Yorn to Town Hall “for a modest follow-up discussion,” which was already a lie because there was a scale model in the conference room.
Yorn entered cautiously.
Mayor Llama stood beside a large foam-board presentation labeled:
YORNWORLD™
A CELEBRATION OF YETI EXCELLENCE, JOURNALISTIC COURAGE, AND SNACKABLE TOURISM
Yorn stopped in the doorway.
“No.”
Mayor Llama smiled. “Just hear me out.”
“No.”
“There will be rides.”
“No.”
Mayor Llama pointed to the model.
“Here we have Snowstorm Spiral, a family-friendly coaster through simulated blizzard conditions. Over there, Yorn’s Ethical Reporting Simulator, where guests must distinguish between credible sources and a man yelling near a fountain. And here—my favorite—The Cold Shoulder, an immersive haunted house where townsfolk pretend not to care about your anecdotes.”
Yorn stared at him.
“That’s not about me.”
“It’s inspired by you.”
“It sounds like a party where everyone is mean.”
“Exactly. Chilling.”
Yorn sat down heavily.
Mayor Llama continued, gaining speed.
“There will be food carts. A newsroom play area. A gift shop. A small but dignified Hall of Fur. Possibly a water ride called Squirting the Source, though Legal has concerns on that one.”
“Mayor Llama.”
“Yes?”
“This is too much.”
The mayor blinked.
Yorn chose his words carefully.
“I appreciate the award. I really do. But I’m not a theme. I’m not a brand. I’m not a snackable tourism pillar. I’m a guy who writes articles and occasionally gets dragged into town nonsense because I live here and have shoulders.”
Mayor Llama looked down at the model.
For a moment, he seemed genuinely chastened.
Then he sighed.
“You’re right.”
Yorn relaxed.
“We did move too fast.”
“Yes.”
“We should have started with a smaller activation.”
“No.”
Mayor Llama winced. “Sorry. Habit.”
Yorn leaned forward.
“I’m honored. But I need this to stop.”
Mayor Llama nodded slowly.
“You’re right. The town got carried away.” He hesitated. “We started selling souvenir eyebrows.”
Yorn closed his eyes.
“Of course you did.”
“They were ethically sourced.”
“I don’t want to know what that means.”
That evening, Mayor Llama called a second public gathering in Cobblestone Square.
The crowd assembled reluctantly, many wearing Yorn buttons, Yorn scarves, or, in one alarming case, a full fake beard over a normal beard. Fabian stood near the front clutching the parade blueprint, visibly grieving. Spike had a commemorative plush tucked under one arm, though when Yorn saw it he immediately said, “Evidence.”
Mayor Llama climbed onto the podium.
“My friends,” he began, “it appears our enthusiasm has once again become municipal nonsense.”
The crowd murmured.
“Yorn has expressed, with great kindness and absolutely no threat of litigation, that he would prefer not to be converted into an entertainment district.”
Several people lowered their heads.
A child whispered, “But I wanted to ride the journalism coaster.”
“So did I,” Mayor Llama said softly. Then he straightened. “But friendship means restraint.”
Elara, standing beside Yorn, murmured, “That’s new.”
Yorn whispered back, “Let’s encourage it.”
Mayor Llama lifted a hoof.
“Therefore, effective immediately, all Yorn-related commercial expansions shall cease. The Yeti of the Year honor shall remain an honor, not a franchise. Cupcakes may continue only while supplies last. Souvenir eyebrows are recalled. The YornWorld™ model will be dismantled, except for The Cold Shoulder, which may be reused for next year’s haunted civic engagement festival.”
“That seems fair,” Brenda said.
“It does not,” Yorn said. “But I’ll take it.”
The town accepted the ruling with surprising grace.
Mostly.
Fabian did fire one glitter cannon in mourning, but it malfunctioned and shot the glitter backward into his own face, which everyone agreed brought closure.
Over the next few days, the fever broke.
The cupcakes were eaten. The buttons disappeared into drawers. The plush Yorns became ordinary household objects, except for the one Spike kept and insisted was “for mockery purposes only.” The chili-slash-stew project was abandoned after the butterscotch test batch caused what Dr. Moosington officially described as “a flavor-related evacuation.”
Life returned to its usual speed.
One evening, Yorn sat on the porch with Elara and David while the stars came out over the bay. The air was cold enough to make the mugs of cocoa steam. David had somehow maneuvered himself into a mug full of whipped cream and was sitting there contentedly, squeaking whenever the cream shifted.
Yorn leaned back with a tired sigh.
“Being Yeti of the Year is exhausting.”
Elara rested her shoulder against his.
“You handled it well.”
“I hid behind potatoes.”
“With dignity.”
“They tried to build me a theme park.”
“They did.”
“One of the rides was going to teach ethics to children using simulated weather.”
“That part was almost admirable.”
Yorn looked at her.
She smiled.
He chuckled despite himself.
For a while they sat quietly, listening to the distant hum of Snowdrift Bay settling into night. Somewhere far below, someone shouted about leftover cupcakes. Somewhere else, Mayor Llama was almost certainly thinking of a new award and being insufficiently supervised.
Yorn looked out over the town, exhausted, over-celebrated, and finally left in peace.
For the most part.
A few days later, he found the humming trophy on his desk at the Gazette. Someone had attached a tiny plaque beneath the original engraving.
YETI OF THE YEAR
PLEASE DO NOT COMMERCIALIZE
Yorn read it twice.
Then he smiled, set it beside his pen cup, and got back to work.